I became aware that Lucy’s fingers were threaded with mine when she squeezed and pulled me some steps closer to the edge of the bluff. I had no idea who had reached for the other, only that we were now touching and her hand was cool and soft.
“See?” I whispered. “I told you it was nice.”
Lucy turned a disbelieving face toward me. Though she smiled, the way her nose wrinkled told me she thought I was mad. “Nice? This isn’t nice. This is fucking gorgeous.”
I chuckled at the dichotomy of her exuberance. “You’re right, Lucy. Please forgive me. It’s fucking gorgeous. Well said.”
She nodded, her smile wide and impish. “I never get tired of hearing those words.”
“It’s fucking gorgeous?”
“No. You’re right, Lucy.”
Now I did laugh. She joined me as she released my hand, making a grab for the basket. “I’m starving. What’s in here? Steak? Beef jerky? Veal?”
“No. No meat.” I shook my head, watching her as she pulled out the blanket, let it fall to the ground, and rummaged through the basket. The truth was, I couldn’t find any meat at the retreat, so I had to settle for strawberries, kale salad, and feta bites . . . whatever the hell those were.
Lucy extracted the champagne and examined the label, then gave a low whistle. “Cripes, Sean. This is no way to detox.”
“If detoxing doesn’t include a steady diet of alcohol and steak, then I guess I’ll always be somewhat toxic.”
“Hmm,” she replied noncommittally, not looking up from the bottle. Placing the basket on the ground next to the blanket, she peeled the foil away from the cork. “So why do you like dogs?”
I grabbed the champagne from her. “Give me that. That’s my job.”
She lifted an eyebrow at me. “Why is that your job? I’m quite good at opening champagne bottles. I used to wait tables at a posh restaurant.”
“It’s my job because I’m rubbish at everything else.”
This statement earned me a smile. “Okay, fine then. I’ll spread the blanket and set the food out. Let me know if you need help popping it open or if you’d like a lesson in picnicking from a professional.”
I untwisted the wire holding the cork in place. “You’re a picnicking professional?”
“Yes. I’m quite accomplished at eating outdoors.”
“Really?” I was curious.
“In New York, in the spring, everyone picnics in Central Park. It’s gorgeous and green and patchworks of blankets cover the ground. I love going just to people watch, but I also feel like food tastes better outside.” Lucy talked as she worked, her movements relaxed and unhurried. I stepped away from the blanket she’d just spread and watched her, fascinated by her easy chatter.
“Do you go by yourself?” I didn’t know what compelled me to ask the question, but I suddenly needed to know.
“Sometimes.” She shrugged, then laughed lightly. “Actually, most of the time. But I don’t mind.”
Relief. I was relieved. But I said nothing, happy to have her continue speaking of her picnics, finding I was greedy for the details.
“And there’s every kind of food you could want in the city. I have a special picnicking blanket, a thrift store find, a quilt of metallic-colored fabric—silver, gold, and copper. Basically, it’s outrageous, but I love it. I love spreading it on the ground and sitting on it, like it’s a throne and I’m the queen, a five-by-five porthole to an alternate dimension.”
Finished setting out the cups, plates, and napkins, Lucy glanced up at me. Her eyes were bright and undesigning, as was her smile. She reached out to me with one hand.
I stared at her dumbly, uncertain what to do.
Her smile slipped as she lifted her eyebrows. “Sean?”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to sit?”
I glanced at her, then the blanket, then the food, then back to her. “Yes. Of course.”
I sat.
“Sean?”
“Yes?” I looked to her again.
“Do you want me to finish up with the champagne?”
I examined the bottle in my hands, discovered it was still corked. “Ah, no. I can finish.”
“Okay.” She gave me a smile, it looked a bit nervous.
I gave her a smile, feeling a bit nervous.
I filled the glasses to the brim, offered one to her first, then gulped mine. We sat in a silence that was both tense and sacred while I had the distinct impression of being lost.
Born out of a desire to break the thickening tension, I announced, “I’ve brought strawberries.”
“Oh,” she said, the soft exclamation tinged with regret.
“What?”
“I’m allergic to strawberries,” Lucy confessed, her expression apologetic as she finished her first glass of champagne. “I take one bite and I swell up into a red mess.”
“So, you become that which you fear.” I refilled her glass.
“What?”
“You turn into a strawberry.”
She choked on a surprised laugh mid-sip, but recovered with adorable self-deprecation. “Exactly, but not nearly as tasty.”