Simon lived on Indian Creek Island, a posh address. An armed guard stopped Sylvie before she was allowed to drive past the imposing gatehouse, making sure she was on his list. (There she was—Sylvie Peacock.) Following Simon’s directions, she drove past enormous modern mansions, then reached a metal gate. Simon had told her about the gate; she punched in a code and drove down a dirt road. Every inch of this land was worth a fortune.
She was unnerved, trying to reconcile Simon’s home address with the man she’d come to know—a man who loved to sleep outside, nestled in the “Cat’s Meow” sleeping bag he’d bought himself as a UMiami undergrad, after moving from an area so far north it was almost Scotland.
Sylvie drove for ten or so minutes, turning a bend and reaching a vast expanse of waterfront property. There was a small dock with a canoe, a hammock slung between two live oak trees, and a smallish ranch home. Simon came outside as she parked. “Sylvie,” he said.
She ran toward him. (Later, she would reflect and think,Did I really jump out of my car and run toward Simon? Yes, I did!It was so unlike her that Sylvie felt proud of herself.)
Her attraction was immediate. As someone who spent much of her time alone or in stories, Sylvie was unnerved by the pulsing of her blood. She reached him and her breath caught in her throat. His arms went around her for the first time and he drew her close. She felt his broad chest, her own body responding, a heat, a thawing.
Simon kissed her. His lips were warm, hungry. His smell was just right: It made her want to press closer. Sylvie felt dizzy with desire, but this pleasure was immediately cut with guilt.
Alexander!
She stepped back.
Simon composed himself. He was, like Sylvie, thirty-five years old. He was taller than she’d expected. Due to his bookishness and birding, she’d assumed he would be skinny, a nerd. But Simon was broad and strong. Sylvie had never even dated a man who looked like this—she’d always chosen intellectuals, and they, like Sylvie, tended to ignore their physicality, choosing an afternoon reading over a visit to the gym.
But Simon was clearly an athlete: His body was present, vibrating, reminding Sylvie of her own. Even as she stood apart, Simon’s kiss shot through Sylvie. She wanted more. Sylvie had not thought about her body in a long time. It was fine, she went for walks, but this—this! She felt alive.
Would he kiss her again? Would she kiss him? Sylvie realized she was staring at his mouth. She moved her gaze down, quickly noting the way his soft T-shirt fell over his wide chest, and his fitted pants (oh my God, she was thinking about what his pants were hiding,did he wear boxers or briefs,could she have sex with him right here in the driveway, but the oyster shells looked rough…). She made her eyes move to his feet, clad in Havaianas flip-flops.
OK. She could stare at his toes. But even his toes were sexy—tanned, the hairs on them golden from the sun.
“Can I show you around?” said Simon, breaking the sexy silence.
“Yes!” she said, overly enthusiastic, though all she wanted was to lie down on the oyster shell driveway and sayTake me.
Sylvie did not lie down on the oyster shell driveway and sayTake me.Overwhelmed, she reached out and grabbed Simon’s hand. He hesitated and she felt desire, hot and strong between them. It was real: This was a real thing. Sylvie’s skin ached for his touch. “Show me around,” she managed.
(“You should have saidTake me!” said Florence later. “Though I agree, those shells might have scratched a bit.”)
Simon led her inside his rancher: whitewashed walls, terracotta floors, and a wooden table covered with a simple yellow cloth. Large windows framed a rose-colored sky. Sylvie inhaled, smelling cumin, garlic, and chicken.
“Are you hungry?” said Simon.
Sylvie nodded, locking her eyes with his. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to be underneath Simon, to be open to him. She wanted to feel him inside her—Sylvie ached, on fire. She tried to breathe. He stepped close. Sylvie waited until he was three inches, one inch away, and then she moved her mouth to his mouth. Simon kissed her back, lightly and then less so. She circled his neck with her arms and they couldn’t stop (and Sylvie didn’t want to stop, not ever). By the time Simon lifted Sylvie and she wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to his room to get a condom, Sylvie was naked, her dress abandoned on his kitchen floor tiles.
(“Whoa,” said Florence later. “Much better than the driveway.”)
—
Later, they returned to the kitchen. “My housekeeper made these enchiladas. She was worried I’d disappoint you with spaghetti and tinned Bolognese sauce,” said Simon.
Housekeeper?Sylvie had once hired Merry Maids but felt so guilty afterward that she’d overpaid them and never called again. She cleaned one room of her house every weekend day, watching HGTV as she scrubbed and swept.
Sylvie explored as Simon tossed a green salad with sliced pears, cherries, and goat cheese. All four walls of the living room were lined with shelves crammed with books: paperbacks, hardcovers, new, old, faded, and bright. Sylvie knew many of the books but hadn’t seen some. The books were alphabetized by author. Sylvie peered at the spines, eyes widening.
Did Simon shelve all of his books together? It seemed so.
Simon alphabetized the nonfiction, which Sylvie disliked intensely.
(“Sheesh,” said Florence, shaking her head. “Good thing Simon got you in the bedroom before you saw his library.”)
Sylvie sorted her books by theme, author, and geographic area, a way of being a rebellious librarian. She often drank wine and rearranged her books or just looked at them and thought about things like where she wanted to go, stories she’d like to live inside, or alternate means of categorization.
Not that she thought the Dewey decimal system should change—no!—she just liked to move ideas around in her mind, considering ways that books could be grouped together, inspired by an exhibit she’d seen by the artist Ai Weiwei. Sylvie loved how he created new narratives by rearranging formerly discrete objects, like making giant snakes out of children’s life vests.
In Simon’s living room, Sylvie spotted an Eames chair—she’d long coveted an Eames—even on Craigslist, they sold for thousands. On the mantel was a framed quote from Beatrix Potter’s children’s bookThe Tale of Johnny Town-Mouse:
