In mid-July, Sarah visited for a week.
“Good god,” she complained. “I forgot about the humidity!”
The five of us rattled around in the house, bumping into each other, hot and bored, until I loaded everyone into the van and drove the two hours out to Brigantine. Borrowing the Arnolds’ beach house while they were in Mexico, we lazily spent our days at the beach or the pool, and the evenings on the patio, drinking and talking. The girls stayed up later than I would have liked, watching fireworks or running up and down in the surf. We cooked dinners of seafood and salads, rich, buttery lobster we ate with our hands outside while wearing bathing suits. The time was idyllic.
Drew tried his hand at cooking, and while the first two meals were only so-so, his patience and good humor won out. On the third night, he made a shrimp and crab ravioli with sherry cream sauce. We ate until our clothes were stretched tight across our bellies, and I worried that the girls would get sick. At twilight, we trekked lawn chairs and blankets down the block to the beach and lay like beached whales, watching fireworks until late in the evening.
I asked Sarah to keep an eye on the kids while Drew and I walked hand in hand in the surf. I leaned my head on his shoulder, sighing happily.
“I want this forever,” Drew said, pulling me to him, our hips bumping as we walked. “The girls, you, vacations, us being a family.”
I nodded sleepily, a tad drunk on the bottle of wine we polished off back at the blanket. He stopped and turned me to face him. His face was so serious, an expression I’d rarely seen.
“I mean it, Claire. I want…” He looked toward the black void of the water. “I want to marry you. Someday.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say, except the truth. “I want that, too, Drew. But how? Greg won’t be declared deceased for another five years. The only way I could get married again would be to divorce him.” I took his hand and kissed his palm. “Can I divorce Greg if I don’t know where he is? I have no idea how that works. And to be honest, I’m not sure I could do it. I have to think about it.”
He pulled me into a hug and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be patient, Claire. I will. Think about it, okay?”
I nodded and promised that I would. We stayed like that for a while, breathing together. We walked back toward the blanket in comfortable silence, lost in our own, surely similar, thoughts.
As we approached, Sarah waved. “I thought you guys sailed away,” she whispered.
The girls were each sleeping soundly. Drew carried Hannah, I carried Leah, and we made our way back to the house. After we tucked them in, Drew retired to bed, while Sarah and I sat out on the patio, talking and catching up.
“I’ve never seen you so relaxed. So happy,” Sarah observed.
“Oh, love, you should try it sometime. It really is the best drug.” I laughed.
“I guess so! You’re not the Claire I know, worried or anxious. You’re fun now,” she joked.
“Hey, I’m fun. Remember San Diego?” I pouted.
“I do. I still talk to Owen sometimes. And Will asks about you all the time.”
“Really? He was gawgeous!” I giggled. Will held a special place in my heart, my first and only foray into living single.
She nodded. “Yes, but you should see yourself now. You come alive when Drew’s around.” She swirled her wine glass. “I’m jealous.”
I looked up in surprise. Sarah, the self-proclaimed perpetual bachelorette, was jealous of me?
“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “Make fun of me. Go ahead. But you make me think about my life. I’m not getting younger. I won’t always have a date on Friday and Saturday nights. Right now, I make no more than three phone calls, and I’ve got a man to hang out with, and later, to keep me warm. I don’t want to go through life alone. So what happens when all my ‘Guy Fridays’ find wives?”
“So you want this? Marriage, kids, the works?”
She shrugged. “You make it look so easy.”