Her back was to him. A tall man stood
next to her, his arm around her shoulders. Beyond them, Maria and Elena
were kicking a soccer ball. They looked older and bigger. Francesca and
the guy were comfortable together, familiar. Oliver was shocked,
although he shouldn't have been. Francesca was a beautiful woman.
He turned slowly and walked away, trying to get out of sight and catch
his breath at the same time. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the
stomach. Francesca! He'd been counting on her in the back of his mind
and deep in his heart. He turned the Jeep around and drove toward the
water until he reached a street that was lined with art galleries and
bars. He saw a parking spot and stopped.
Oliver got out of the Jeep and walked into the nearest bar. Two pints
of local ale later, he was able to stretch his legs and try to face the
situation. There wasn't much to it, really. He had driven five thousand
miles to get away from Maine, and he'd discovered a happy Francesca.
That, at least, was good. But he was in trouble. He kept drinking.
When the bar closed, Oliver walked out and swayed on the sidewalk. He
went to the Jeep and thought about rearranging things so that he could
put the back seat down and sleep inside.
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