My chef is far superior to anything they have here, he texted with a winking face a few hours ago.
If you had told me at fifteen that, decades later, my hands would still get clammy before a first date, I would have given up right then and there. It’s exhausting how nervous I still feel each and every time: It’s exhausting to continually hope and lose.
And yet, perhaps it is even more exhausting to think about the people I apparently cannot lose. Because if you had told me thatTommy Wentworth would be spending the summer in my cottage, I would have thought it a cruel, cosmic joke.
He looks nearly the same as he did when we were eighteen. He looks… perfect. The years between us have been kind to him, far kinder than they were to me. Besides some strands of gray in his hair and some lines around his eyes, he is much the same as ever. I used to think he was the most alive person I had ever met, every atom of his body tuned to his surroundings like some sort of human barometer. He had the same stoic expression, the same masculine build: impossible to read but somehow still sensitive.
It infuriated me.
Before today, I had not laid eyes on him in more than thirty years. Now we will be sharing a breezeway, a garden, a parking spot.
What sick twist of fate is that? How had he not recognized the cottage when his sister sent him the rental information? How had his sister, Rachel, been so clueless? She visited the house once. Sure, she was only a teen when I met her, but she was a precocious kid, smart even back then, always trailing behind her big brother.
Because my own older sister and I weren’t close, the idea of a little sister had been thrilling. The Elliots presented well in public, but behind closed doors, we were like strangers, roommates whom I just happened to be cohabitating with. Tommy’s family was the opposite. The summer I met him, his parents and sister came over to visit him for a weekend. He invited me to join them for dinner at a popular dive spot downtown, and everyone fought to be heard over loud recounts of inside jokes and old stories repeated a hundred times with the same relish.
Afterward, I was almost drunk off the fun. “Do you guys ever fight?” I asked.
He said, “Of course we do. Every family fights.”
But the difference was that the Wentworths fought because theyknew each other. I didn’t know my dad or sister well enough to fight with them.
“You look beautiful tonight.” I turn to see William approaching.
He’s standing in front of the bench, wearing white pants and a starchy tan button-down. His silver hair looks almost orange in the refraction of the sunset. He’s objectively good-looking, but the more I stare at him, the more his features seem to grow and warp. Everything distorted now that it’s been compared to Tommy.
He offers me a hand to stand up and I take it.
“Thank you!” I say. “You look very handsome, as well. I’m so happy we’re doing this.”
“Shall we walk to the ye ol’ vessel?” says William.
“We shall,” I imitate him in a mockingly formal tone, hoping to break the tension. He doesn’t laugh, but instead leads us to the farthest pier.
When we arrive at his boat, it is, predictably, ostentatious. Calling it a boat is like calling Buckingham Palace a house. It is three stories high and equipped with a staff of fifteen. On the top deck, William has had dinner prepared for the two of us, complete with a white tablecloth and a bottle of champagne sweating in a silver bucket filled with ice. He leads me up the front staircase and pulls the chair out.
“So, Rose,” he says, clearing his throat. “I hope you don’t mind my forwardness, but I must admit you caught my attention the other night.”
I smile again, placing the napkin on my lap and discreetly wiping my palms on it. It seems a little early for a romantic declaration.
“Thank you. That’s very flattering, but I must assure you that I don’t always wear my slippers to the bar. It’s a long story.” I force a laugh.
I hate how formal and high-pitched my voice sounds. William speaks in crisp, complete sentences, as if there is a screenwriter in theroom hiding behind the captain’s seat, eavesdropping for material. I can’t help but unconsciously imitate his tone.
I expect him to ask a follow-up question, but he doesn’t. Rather, he says, “Well, you certainly clean up nice. Even better than expected.”
“Thank you,” I repeat, although I’m not sure if it’s a compliment. “This is such a lovely setup. Thank you so much for inviting me.”
Lottie once said I am so polite that if I got hit by a car, I would apologize to the driver for the mess and offer to clean his vehicle. Lily once, in a rare fit of teenage rage, called me a pushover. Both comments stuck with me, but I can’t help myself. I was raised to be polite.
“So,” William says, taking the champagne from the container and pouring it into two flutes. “You have a daughter, right? She was with you at the bar when we met. Tell me about her.”
It has continuously surprised me, as a single mother, how many men are scared off by the fact that I have a daughter. Lily is living proof that they will forever be doomed to come in second. Lily is my first priority, always. Hearing William’s warm curiosity melts some protective edge in me. I relax immediately.
“She’s great,” I say, smiling for real now. “Lily is headstrong and creative. She’s nothing like me in that sense. I wish I had her independence and her unapologetic nature.”
Maybe somewhere Lottie is looking down on us. It was Lottie who comforted me when I first received the letter from my father demanding I end the engagement with Tommy. Tommy was too young, too poor to care for me, he said.
“An Elliot is worth more than a cadet,” my father wrote.
