Getting
closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his
feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back.
She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped
apart, it was like waking up in the morning.
"Hi," he said, stupidly.
"Oliver . . ."
"You look like you've had a hard time. I brought coffee." He pointed
back to the log.
"The worst is over," she said. "I've left him. I'm still at the
house--but only for a little while. Conor's staying with a friend."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm taking the girls to the West Coast. Seattle, I think. I need a
clean break. If I stay here, Conor will keep hanging around and using
the girls to keep me down."
"Oh," Oliver said. "Seattle is supposed to be a good place. I like the
Northwest. Shit." They sat on the log, and Oliver handed her a cup.
"From Mr. Bagel," he said. "There have been changes in my life, too."
He paused. "I got married," he blurted out. "I have a daughter, five
weeks old." Francesca put her cup down on the sand and took two steps
toward the water. She stood with her fingers to her lips in a prayer
position. Oliver explained what had happened.
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