He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that
Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The
note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he
hurried back. Probably.
That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring
around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls.
It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a
few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up
early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back
with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them
to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season.
There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements.
He and Francesca might never have been there.
A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides.
He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing
a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her
eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became
tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean.
Pages:
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215