Paul slid one hand along Bea’s waist and pulled her closer, ran a finger along the line of her jaw and then cupped her face with his hand; right there, right in that moment, Leo watched Bea surrender. Exhale. He watched her knees collapse a bit and her elbows bend as she leaned into Paul and then they were kissing—as if they were alone, as if they were in love, as if for all time.
AFTER THE LONG AND HEADY KISS (Bea hadn’t ever expected to be kissed like that again in her entire life, not after Tucker died), she and Paul stood quietly for a minute in a close embrace. Everyone was boarding the ferry now. Her eyes were still closed and she could feel how neatly her body aligned with Paul’s—how her tidy breasts matched up with his narrow chest, how his slight potbelly fit perfectly into her slender middle, and how her chin fit just so into the crook of his shoulder. She drew back, wanting to see his face, but as she lifted her gaze, a familiar profile caught her eye. A stream of people temporarily blocked her line of sight, but when they passed, she could see the figure walking toward her. The lowering, late-afternoon sun shone straight into her eyes and the glare made everything hazy, including the man, who was nearly a shadow. She froze. It couldn’t be.
WHEN LEO STARTED TOWARD BEA, he had no plan, no idea what he was going to say, he’d just impulsively moved in her direction. When she raised her head and saw him, he stopped. As he hesitated, he watched everything about her change. She stiffened. Her face went dark with worry and confusion. She closed her eyes and lowered her chin.
BREATHE, BEA TOLD HERSELF, JUST BREATHE. She remained perfectly still, afraid to move or look up, waiting to hear his voice calling her name. Afraid to hear his voice calling her name. Paul held her a little tighter. He smelled like shampoo and sunscreen and faintly of jerk chicken. A nearby seagull squawked, sounding as if it were laughing. The ferry horn blared three times. Final boarding.
“Ready?” Paul said. She lifted her head and blinked a little. The figure was gone. She looked again, shielding her eyes. No one.
She thought she’d seen Leo a thousand times on this trip, a million times, every day, sometimes every hour. She thought she’d seen him dancing to a calypso band at their hotel, serving fish to a nearby table at a restaurant, and buying mangoes at the side of the road. She thought she’d seen him walking down the beach flip-flops in hand, in the backseat of a taxi weaving through traffic, playing pool through an open door, on countless barstools and down countless sun-drenched alleys under the swaying palms. But it had never been him. It had never been Leo.
“I’m ready,” she said, retrieving her hat from the bench, placing her straw bag on her shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
The day of the baby’s first birthday was every bit as muggy and miserable as the day of her birth. That’s what everyone said to Stephanie when they arrived at the celebratory lunch. Remember? It was a day exactly like this! As if it had happened decades or centuries ago, not fifty-two measly weeks and their meteorological recall was something magical and marvelous.
“Oh, I remember,” Stephanie said. How could she forget? The heat, the ice cream melting down her arm, the onset of a labor so sudden and fierce that it had a name: precipitate labor.
Lillian Plumb Palmer, called “Lila” for short (her first name was a sweet secret to Stephanie, just between her and her mantel), was born in her mother’s living room exactly forty-two minutes after Stephanie’s water broke. She slid into Tommy’s hands as the paramedics were ringing the front doorbell. “It’s a girl! It’s a girl!” Tommy said over and over, forgetting that Stephanie knew she was having a girl but remembering all three times the doctor had delivered the same joyful news to him as he clutched Ronnie’s hand after the final agonizing push.
And today Lila was one!