“Any calls?” Sarah asked.
“No calls, madame,” Yolande said. “Shall I leave this on?”
“No, thanks.”
Yolande rose, snapped off the radio, said, “Alors, à demain. Bonne nuit, madame.”
“Good night, Yolande.”
Yolande picked up her newspaper from the table and went into her room just off the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Sarah went upstairs to where Mollie was already in bed, waiting for her goodnight kiss.
“He’s cool,” she said.
“Yes,” Sarah said. “Good night, honey.”
“Good night, Mom.”
Sarah kissed her on the cheek, tucked the sheet up under her chin, and turned off the light. As she was starting out of the room, Mollie asked, “Do you think he liked me?”
“I think you were adorable,” Sarah said.
“Yeah, but did he think so?”
“How could he not?” she said, and smiled. “Good night,” she said again.
“He really is cool,” Mollie murmured, beginning to drift off.
Downstairs, Yolande was already snoring gently. Sarah turned off the kitchen lights, opened the French doors in the living room, and stood looking silently at the ocean for several moments.
The scent of angel’s-trumpet was overpowering.
She poured herself a somewhat hefty cognac, stepped out onto the deck, and wondered if she should call Michael. Her watch read eleven-fifteen, he was probably asleep by now. She took off her sandals and went down the steps onto the beach.
The waves whispered in against the sand.
The water was warm where it touched her naked feet.
This was a scene from a movie, she forgot which one, the woman in white standing at the water’s edge with a brandy snifter in her right hand, the mild breeze riffling her blond hair, what was the name of that movie?
Out on the water, a cruise ship ablaze with light moved slowly through the darkness. She heard the distant sound of the ship’s orchestra, visualized beautiful women in gossamer gowns drifting over a polished parquet floor. She wondered where the ship was headed, wondered why they always moved at night. A woman’s lilting laughter rose to the stars, faded, vanished. The beach was utterly still. She watched the ship a moment longer, and then she finished the cognac, and looked up at the moon one last time, and went back into the house.
She was on the beach again at seven the next morning, eager for a long fast walk, wearing a brief lime-green bikini, her hair held with a matching band. She walked with her head bent, skirting the edge of the water like a sandpiper, the wavelets nudging the shore, the soft wind gently touching her hair. Last night had been a revelation in many respects, and she wanted nothing more than to be alone with her thoughts this morning.
She hadn’t believed, before last night, that she could ever possibly be attracted to any man but her husband. Then again, before last night she’d never met a man like Andrew Farrell, whom she’d found altogether charming and delightful, and who’d been wonderful with Mollie, besides. There were times, in fact, when Sarah felt she was serving primarily as interlocutor-chaperone for Hero and Smitten Daughter. But whenever the spotlight veered to her, she’d... well... she’d actually basked in it, feeling, well, flattered by his attention and, well, complimented and... interested, actually.
She still didn’t know whether he’d been deliberately reluctant to reveal anything about himself, or whether he was simply inordinately shy. She’d detected that whenever the conversation drifted toward the personal, he diverted it either to Mollie or to herself, seemingly fascinated by her daughter’s prepubescent chatter or the everyday details of her own life. She guessed his age had contributed somewhat to these several awkward moments. He was, after all, only twenty-eight — one of the few facts he’d readily revealed about himself — but he seemed younger still, truly closer in spirit to Mollie than to a woman just this side of forty. Well, only thirty-four, sister, let’s not exaggerate. Well, going on thirty-five, sister.
Twenty-eight was so very young.
In fact...
In fact, somewhere along around ten, ten-thirty last night, she’d begun wondering what possibly could have possessed her, asking a boy... well, actually an attractive young man... but nonetheless someone she didn’t know at all, a man she didn’t know at all, asking him to have dinner with her and her daughter, when a cocktail might have suff—
“Sarah?”
She turned sharply, startled by the voice behind her.
Andrew.
Here.
As if materializing, from her thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to...”
“That’s all right,” she said. But her heart was pounding, startling her that way. “You surprised me is all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no.”
“I should’ve coughed or something, let you know I was coming up behind...”
“That’s okay, really.”
He fell into step beside her. Barefooted, his trouser cuffs rolled up, he matched his strides to her smaller ones and began walking silently along with her. His hulking silence beside her magnified the sense of intrusion she felt, even though — and she realized this with an odd sense of surprise — she’d been thinking exclusively about him when he’d come up so suddenly behind her.
“I’m sorry I was so tongue-tied at dinner,” he said.
She turned to look at him.
“Last night,” he said.
“But you weren’t,” she said.
His eyes would not meet hers. His head was lowered, his gaze directed at the sand ahead of them. Up the beach, the wreck of a small dinghy on the sand gleamed blue in the sunshine.
“It’s just...” he said, and hesitated, and then said, “Well, it doesn’t matter. I just hope I didn’t spoil your evening. Or Mollie’s.”
“Nothing could have spoiled Mollie’s evening,” she said.
“And yours?”
“I had a lovely time,” she said.
“Well, I hope so,” he said dubiously.
They were almost to the dinghy now. It lay skeletal and bleached, the sunlight tinting tattered gunwales and thwarts, the ocean gently lapping the damaged prow. The boat was just a mile from the house. She always clocked her morning walks on it. She turned back now, as she did every morning.
“It’s exactly a mile,” she said. “The boat.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“From the house,” she said.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Do you like champagne?”
“Not particularly.”
“Oh.”
End of conversation.
“I left some on your doorstep,” he said. “To make up for last night.”
“You didn’t have to...”
“I didn’t know you hated champagne.”
“Well, I don’t hate it, I’m just not particularly fond of it.”
“I’m on my way to the airport,” he said, “I thought I’d just drop it off, I didn’t expect to see you, it’s so early. Then I spotted you walking, so I thought I’d... just say goodbye.”
She said nothing. She could see the house up ahead, Yolande setting breakfast on the terrace.
“The reason I was so quiet last night...” he said.
“You weren’t quiet at all,” she said, and turned to look at him. His eyes were very blue in the sun.
“It’s just... I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you in my life.”
“Well... thank you,” she said. “That’s very ki—” and suddenly he pulled her into his arms.
She thought Hey, stop it, and said out loud, “What the hell do you...?” but never got the rest of the sentence past her lips because all at once his mouth was on hers. She pushed out against him, struggling in his embrace, his arms tight around her, his mouth on hers, trying to twist away from him, wondering if they could be seen from the house, the beach empty in the early morning sunlight. His tongue was in her mouth now, insinuating its presence, tangling her silenced words, Please don’t do this, his cock hard against her, please, she could feel him through the flimsy bikini, his arms binding her to him, his mouth relentless, please, please...