“Outside sounds perfect.” Suddenly everything was near perfect. On the way to the car, I had the urge to shout this out. To let her know that this minute, here, with her was—well, not perfect, perfect would be another reality that was lost forever—but this was close, as close as it had been in months. I had changed, I wanted to tell her. And there, standing on that lawn, I really believed that was true. I believed I could be what she needed me to be. I believed by some miracle that summer, my anger and raging need for revenge had begun to dissipate, the grenade disarmed. But when I turned to tell her this, she had already disappeared into the house. As I retrieved my bag and the portfolio of drawings, I was aware of the quintessential sounds of summer in a way I hadn’t been back in Port Fortune, as if with each mile traveled north, my senses had been sharpened. I heard the distant hollow slapping of a screen door against a doorjamb, the echo of voices across the cove, a chorus of birdsong from the grove of trees, and from somewhere not too far away the metallic clanging of horseshoes hitting a post followed by jubilant shouts.
The house was as I had imagined it. Summer cottage casual, a style Sophie once called shabby chic. Rag rugs thrown on worn pine floors. Furniture that had borne generations of use. A vase of wildflowers Sophie had gathered. The bookcase and the musty collection of Reader’s Digest books. There were ashes in the fireplace, and on one of the chairs I saw a thin cotton shawl I recognized as Sophie’s. I could picture her curled by a fire on a cool evening swathed in the lilac wrap. Again, as I had on arrival, I glanced around for a sign of Joan Laurant, but there was nothing I could see that suggested anyone else was staying here. From the kitchen, there was the clink of pottery and flatware. “Where do you want me to put my stuff?” I called.
“At the top of the stairs, the room on the right. But just leave it for now. Let’s eat first.”
I helped her carry out the trays. A green salad, cold poached salmon, and sliced cucumbers in a sour cream and chive dressing. The picnic bench where we sat was a repurposed kitchen table painted the same French blue as the farmhouse shutters, and it reminded me of a time we had spent one late August in Provence. A blue umbrella, its fabric faded nearly white from years of summer sun, threw a disc of shade. Sophie poured two glasses of limeade and handed one to me.
“This looks great,” I said. And then, after a moment, “You look great.”
“Thanks, Will. This time here has been good for me.”
“I can see that. I’m glad.” The limeade tasted faintly of mint.
She raised a questioning eyebrow.
“No, really. I am.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re glad.” She reached across the table and laid her hand on me. “I know this hasn’t been easy. I know you would rather I were home. With you.”
“Yes.” When are you coming back? Are you coming back?
“How are things at home?”
“Sweltering. It’s been in the nineties for days.” I didn’t want to talk about the weather.
“And the work? How’s that going?”
“It’s going well. If you discount what a pain in the ass the bishop is.”
She laughed. “I know you’ve told me a bit about who you’ve asked to pose, but I’d like to know more. How many models have you drawn so far?”
“Fourteen. I’ve completed the working sketches for the first two panels.” I thought of the portfolio, waiting in the house. “In fact, I brought several of the sketches to show you.”
“I’d like that, Will.”
“And what about your project? How’s that going?”
“I’m deep in it,” she said. She paused, as if to add something, but then stopped. She held out the platter of salmon. “More, or are you saving room for pie?”
“There’s pie, too?”
“Blueberry. I picked the berries myself.”
“Keep this up and you’ll have a permanent houseguest.”
She started to answer but settled for a smile. We ate in a companionable silence. After a while she rose and headed for the house, turning at the steps to ask, “à la mode or straight?”
“You have to ask?”
“Two scoops?”
“Absolutely.”
“Speaking of houseguests,” I said when she returned. “Where’s Joan off to today?”
She set the wedge of pie in front of me. The spheres of ice cream were already beginning to melt. “Technically, I’m the houseguest. Joan holds the rental lease. But to answer your question, she’s away for a couple of weeks. Visiting friends up in Bar Harbor.”
“So we’re alone here. Just us.”
“Just us.” She didn’t meet my eyes. “It’s been great to be here with her though. We split up the cooking and chores. And we’ve been taking the kayaks out every afternoon at dusk. Almost like being in summer camp. She’s trying to decide what the next chapter of her life holds.”
“How’s that?”
“She gave her notice at school and is leaving after this year, but she hasn’t any definite plans beyond that.”
“Hmmm.” I didn’t pursue the subject of Joan or her plans. We fell into a silence but again not an uncomfortable one.
“Can I get you another piece of pie?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
“Then I’ll just clear things up.”
I started to rise, but she waved away my help. “I’ve got it. You just relax.” She pointed to the hammock strung between two pines. “I think that’s calling your name.”
I wasn’t really wanting to laze in the hammock, but I wanted to please her and so let myself fall into it without a murmur and waited for her to come back, wondering as I stared up at the sky if the woven sling would hold both of us. When she returned, she had changed into a bathing suit, and at the sight of her my cock swelled.
“I’m going to take a swim. Want to join me?”
What I wanted was her. Then. “I don’t think so.”
“You sure? It might feel good after your drive.”
“Maybe in a bit,” I said. I followed her progress as she descended the worn path through the grass down to the narrow pier that stretched out into the cove. Her shape was still girlish. She hadn’t thickened through the middle as many did in midlife, and I felt an irrational pride at this. She walked to the end of the dock and executed a perfect jackknife, then surfaced and called up to me.
“It’s feels fabulous. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
“Later. I’m feeling pretty lazy right now. I’ll enjoy it vicariously.” She had always been a good swimmer, and I took pleasure in watching her as she cut through the water, her strokes strong and rhythmic, hair wet and slicked close to her scalp. Otter-mother of our otter-child. Selkie woman.
I woke to a spray of salt water. Sophie stood over me, flicking drops on me and laughing. “You should have come in with me. It was delicious.”
“Delicious.” I stared at her, letting my eyes trail over her body. “Yes.”
She blushed and avoided my eyes. “I’m going to change and then I’ll bring us some wine.”
“Why don’t I get it while you change?”
“You look too comfortable to move. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Long minutes passed, and when she didn’t return, I rolled from the hammock. I found her in the living room, still in her swimsuit, a circle of water at her feet. She was holding the portfolio, and when she looked up her eyes were wet with tears.
“Oh, Will,” she whispered. “These are—I can’t find the words.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Don’t joke, Will.” Her gaze was steady and serious. “These are stunning. Truly, Will, they’re the best work you’ve ever done. I don’t know how you’ve done it. They are remarkable.” She lifted the sheet with Saint Brendan. “Take this one of Leon Newell. It’s Leon, but it’s Leon elevated to something higher. And look what you’ve done with Duane.” She indicated the drawing of Saint Sebastian. “You’ve captured something broken in him, something wounded, but he shines, Will. Do you know what I’m saying?”