by Grace Palmer
She almost always dances with Nicolas. Each time they dance together, they get better—a little flourish added here, a twirl there—until they have begun to anticipate each other perfectly. By now, all it takes is a raise of the eyebrows or a flash of the eyes to communicate what comes next. In no time at all, Toni has become confident on the dance floor.
Sometimes, though, Nicolas tells her to go dance with someone else. He takes a seat on the edge of the circle for a tanda and watches her with laughing eyes.
“Don’t you get jealous?” she asks him every now and then when he suggests the idea. “Watching me in the arms of another man?”
He shakes his head, chuckles, and says the same thing every time: “It is a gift to watch you at all, bella. Art can be admired from a distance.”
It is, as she has come to learn, a classically Nicolas answer—a little mysterious, a little haughty, a lot to love in it. She relishes those moments when he tosses off something so effortlessly poetic. It makes her shiver and smile at the same time.
He means what he says about the art, too. For all that he gives off the appearance of a gruff, no-nonsense businessman, Toni has seen him countless times plant himself in front of a painting at one of Buenos Aires’s many astounding art museums for long, unblinking stretches. Just looking, chin in hand, contemplating, observing, letting it all soak in.
Or so he claims. Toni thinks that sometimes he’s maybe jerking her chain a little bit and he’s really just daydreaming about the errands he has yet to run.
“You don’t have to pretend to be so deep, you know,” she teases him today. He’s standing in front of a massive, grim-looking oil by Francisco Goya, his feet planted wide like a sailor on a ship being tossed by the waves.
This early in the afternoon on a weekday, they pretty much have the place to themselves. Nicolas is playing hooky from work for an hour so they can walk around the museum unencumbered by gawking tourists.
“Deep?” he says, putting a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Me? I am as shallow as the Mississippi, I’m afraid.”
“Have you ever even seen the Mississippi?”
“It is an idiom, Toni Benson.”
“Mhmm. Whatever you say, you artista.” She pirouettes away before he can reach out and grab her. He growls in pretend frustration as she giggles and leaves him behind to move into the next room.
There’s no one else in here, either. She wanders idly between sculptures carved from black marble, each set on a pedestal and encased in glass. The silence in here is warm and comfortable, a refuge from the bustling, chattering city that surges outside these walls.
She senses rather than hears Nicolas step through the archway to join her in this room.
“Do you think the art ever gets lonely?” she calls to him without looking back over her shoulder.
“Lonely?”
“Yeah. Like at night, you know? It’s all quiet, a little boring. They don’t get to see much of the world anymore.”
She’s only joking, of course, but—and this is another thing she loves about Nicolas—sometimes her sarcasm slips beneath his radar. Or maybe he just chooses to weigh her silly thoughts seriously.
Either way, when she glances up, she sees him holding his chin in his hand again, brows furrowed in deep concentration.
Toni laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re actually sitting here considering the lonely plight of the sculptures, Nicolas.” She walks up to him and places a hand on his chest. “It was just a little joke, that’s all.”
“I was just thinking about how we could break them out of here, actually,” he says as his face splits into a wide smile. “You could tuck this little guy here in your purse, right? We’ll take him out dancing, maybe.”
Toni turns to look at the sculpture in question. It’s of a warrior bearing a shield and spear, with rough-hewn facial features that communicate a harsh, stoic seriousness—the same kind she often sees in Nicolas, as a matter of fact.
“I’m not so sure he’d like to tango,” she says. She places her chin in her hand, just like Nicolas is doing. “He looks like he has stiff hips, don’t you think?”
Nicolas chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that is as welcome as it is rare. “You might be right about that. Besides,” he says, turning to face Toni and pulling towards him by her hips, “I think I want you all to myself tonight.”
“Is that so?”
“It is very so,” Nicolas responds. “And in fact, it is so very so that I want you all to myself this weekend, too. Take a trip with me.”
“A trip?”
“Just a short one. We’ll go to Tigre, down the river in Uruguay. It’s a beautiful little town. You’ll love it.”
“Oh, so now I’m the one being sprung out of this museum and taken to see the world, hm?”
Nicolas laughs again. “If that is how you choose to see things, who am I to tell you differently?”
“Nobody special, that’s for sure,” Toni says. She can only hold her faux-serious scowl for a second before she bursts out laughing and touches Nicolas on the chest again. “Kidding, kidding.”
“And here I was getting ready to start crying.”
“Oh God, let’s not. I don’t think I’m ready for that. Big hairy man tears would terrify me.”
“Am I not allowed to cry, Toni?”
“What would you be crying about?”
“Well, you haven’t said yes to my trip proposal yet.”
Toni rolls her eyes and extricates herself from Nicolas’s embrace. “For crying out loud, yes, of course! You are such a drama queen, I swear.” But she’s laughing as she spins away and moves into the next room.
They spend the next half hour holding hands, not saying much of anything aside from “Look at this one” or “Did you see…?” It is as perfect an afternoon as Toni can remember. When they reemerge from the museum, the three o’clock sun is bright and hot.
“Having summer in November will never stop being weird,” Toni grumbles as she fans herself. “It’s backward.”
Nicolas grins wickedly. He knows well that life in the southern hemisphere throws Toni for a loop every now and then, and he relishes making her confront it. “Nothing like a Christmastime suntan, right?” he says.
She thwacks him on the shoulder. “Leave me be, you pest.”
“Never.” He swoops in and kisses her. “But this is your life now, no?”
“What do you mean?”
“You live here,” he says, spreading a hand to encompass the whole city. “Heat in November is how things are.”
“Sure,” she laughs. “For now.”
“What do you mean?”
She shrugs. “Well, whenever I go back home, things will be right again.”
To her surprise, Nicolas frowns. She hadn’t meant anything by the comment, but it seems to have landed awkwardly. “Right,” he says under his breath.
She’s sorely tempted to ask what is going on inside his big handsome head. But they’d been having such a nice afternoon until now, and it feels like they might be angling towards a fight if she pursues it.
So, instead, she rises up to her tiptoes and kisses him again. “Cheer up, Grinch,” she says.
“Grinch?”
“Like the movie?”
“I don’t…”
She shakes her head in disbelief. “Ah, jeez, never mind. We have a lot of work to do with you.”
He is still smiling as he checks his watch. “Perhaps we do. Unfortunately, duty calls for now.”
Toni kisses him lightly on the cheek. “Better get to it then.”
“How can I go look at shipping invoices when I know that a pretty woman waits for me?”
“Who said I’m waiting for you?” It’s her turn to grin wickedly.
“A man can hope, I suppose. All right then, off I go.” He kisses her on the cheek, squeezes her hand once, and then saunters off to find the nearest subway station to convey him back to his offices.
Toni stands on the steps of the museum
and watches him go. He cuts a handsome figure among the crowd. Half a head taller and twice as good looking as all the others, or so it seems to her. And that pride in his step—it used to irk her. That’s a funny memory. Nowadays, it just makes her laugh.
When he descends down the steps into the station, she sighs, readjusts her purse strap on her shoulder, and sets off to find a café for a little snack and some reading. She doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon.
TWO DAYS LATER
The wind in Toni’s face is salty and refreshing. She keeps a tight grip on the handrail as she looks out over the surface of the water. Nicolas’s hand rests gently on her lower back, too. She looks up at him.
“Worried I’m going to fall overboard?” she inquires with a twinkle in her eye.
“I’d dive in after you,” he says immediately and earnestly.
“Would you tread water in the Arctic for me?”
He turns to look at her with a quizzical slant to his eyebrows. “Hm?”
“Be the Jack to my Rose?”
“You’re doing it again,” he comments dryly.
Toni gasps. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Titanic!”
“Like the ship?”
She claps her hands to her cheeks in mock horror. “This is a sin. We need to rectify that immediately, for the sake of your mortal soul.”
“Ah well, that’s a lost cause anyway, so let’s not worry about it.”
Toni’s laugh turns into a squeal as the ferry boat conveying them from Buenos Aires down the Luján River to the cozy village of Tigre hits a patch of turbulence in the water and nearly throws her overboard.
“I told you to keep a hand on the rail,” Nicolas warns when she’s found her balance again.
“Oh hush. I was fine. Who needs a Jack anyway?”
In response, Nicolas pulls her close and plants a kiss on top of her head. It’s a perfect answer.
They pull into the docks an hour later. The sun is setting over the land behind them as they disembark, suitcases in hand, and find a car waiting for them. It’s a short ride to the woodsy cabin that Nicolas has rented for the weekend.
The driver helps them shepherd their suitcases indoors, then leaves them alone. Toni wanders around to check the place out.
It’s a wooden cabin set on stilts to elevate it above the low waters of the river that flow beneath the home. Everything inside is done up in well-crafted blond wood that gleams with varnish. The walls are festooned with tapestries and the homey patina of years’ and years’ worth of collectibles—family heirlooms, bits of jewelry, pots and pans and pieces of art.
Toni is about to turn to tell Nicolas how warm and fuzzy it makes her feel, when a sudden thought hits her with a lurch in the stomach.
A cabin on the water. Why does that feel so familiar?
And then she remembers.
Jared.
How many years ago was it that she thought a cabin on the water would be her salvation, the resurrection of her love, the savior of her marriage?
That was another Toni. But life has brought her back here. And, as much as she tries to quell the sensation, she begins to feel a head-pounding nausea and a ringing in her ears. It’s a budding panic attack, completely unwanted and yet insistent on making itself felt.
Breathe, Toni tries to tell herself, but since when has that ever worked? She says it again and again as the ringing grows louder and her head pounds harder.
Maybe there was no escaping what fate or God or whatever has always had in mind for her. One way or another, she’s spent a lifetime trying to escape the gravitational pull of the sorrow that seems to keep following her. She thought that, with Nicolas, she’d finally achieved that. She’d broken free of all that grief, all that sadness.
And then she found herself here, and she realized that maybe she hadn’t broken free of anything. She’d just been deluding herself all along. It’s a stupid, irrational thought, but that’s the stuff that her panic attacks have always been made of. A cabin is just a cabin, right?
Wrong. Tell that to her trembling body, her racing brain.
Her head is pounding, her palms are sweating, her heart is racing, and she’s just about to turn and tell Nicolas that she’s sorry, but she has to leave, she needs to get out of this cabin and this country and go back home, because what was she even thinking of doing here, with him? How dare she hope?
Then a gentle hand caresses her neck.
When it does, it’s as if Nicolas’s touch is a syringe withdrawing poison from her veins. It’s magic, and it would seem borderline ridiculous if it weren’t actually happening right here and right now. If she read this in a book or saw it in a movie—He touched her, and everything was perfect, and they lived happily ever after—she would’ve certainly rolled her eyes and gone looking for a different story altogether.
This isn’t quite that. But it is closer than she ever dared dream was possible. Because she realizes something when Nicolas touches her: She is safe here. She is loved here. Nicolas isn’t Jared, and Jared isn’t Nicolas, and she is no longer the Toni she once was.
She’s been through things. Tragedies and triumphs, heartbreaks and hopes. To be here at all is a victory.
All she has to do is open her eyes and see that.
She turns to Nicolas. Before he can say anything, she throws herself at him and kisses him hard on the lips.
Lord, does it feel good.
The sun filtering through the blinds the next morning is softer than it has any right to be, not that Toni is complaining. She’s slept deeply, and even now, she is in no particular hurry to wake up.
Nicolas’s side of the bed is empty, though when she reaches over and feels it, she notices that it is still warm. Just as she is frowning, wondering where he’s gone, he darkens the doorway.
She looks up. He is smiling at her with a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. Shirtless, too, she notices with a flirtatious smile. His insistence on doing one hundred push-ups and one hundred sit-ups every single morning, no matter the time or place or how much Toni begs him to just stay in bed and pillow-talk with her, serves him well.
“Looking for me?” he asks.
“Never,” she denies. “I was just eyeing your side of the bed. Feels softer. Did you manipulate me into taking the thinner pillows, too?”
“You wound me with your suspicion, señorita,” he says as he paces over and hands Toni her cup of coffee.
She takes it gratefully. “I never know with you,” she says as she eyes him over the rim of the mug. “Always up to something.”
“Funny you should say that.” He sinks back into bed. “I actually need to stay here for a bit today and make a few calls. You should go into town and explore for a while.”
“Make a few calls? Very vague, very suspicious. What’re you up to?”
He gives her a pleasant grin. “Don’t be so paranoid. Just business. The details would bore you.”
“Oh, I dunno about that,” Toni muses. “I love details.”
“Not these, I promise.”
“Fine,” she pouts. “You’re kicking me out of the house so you can do something mysterious. I’ll allow it, but I’m onto you, mister.”
“I’d certainly hope so.” With a sudden flash of movement, he sets his coffee down and bears down on Toni’s neck with a flurry of kisses, tickling her at the same time.
An hour later, she finds herself wandering through a cute bohemian district downtown, still feeling the lingering ghost of those kisses on her neck and cheek and smiling at the memory.
Nicolas gave her a few suggestions on things to check out. So, after securing a quick bite to eat at a charming little coffee shop, she goes to check out the art district.
The day passes by easily. She is in no rush to be anywhere in particular, so she takes her time in each of the shops, chatting with the owners and perusing all the paintings they have on display. She ends up with three or four pieces of art tucked into cardboard tubes under her arm.
She thinks of her beloved inn, of Mae and the kids, and wonders how they are doing. She ought to call again soon and check in. It’s been a little while since she last spoke to her sister-in-law.
Eventually, four o’clock rolls around. Nicolas texts her that he will be finishing up momentarily, so she has the all-clear to come back to the cabin.
After navigating her way back to the cabin, she smells something strange as she walks up the steps. It’s oddly familiar. But she can’t place it until she opens the door and sees everything inside.
“Surprise!” Nicolas greets.
Toni’s jaw drops. “Oh. My. Lord.”
Spread out on the kitchen table is a Thanksgiving feast for two. A big, brined turkey, mashed potatoes, slices of cranberry sauce…it looks like something right off the cover of Bon Appetit magazine. She almost wonders whether the food is fake. But when she drops the cardboard tubes and runs her finger around the rim of the bowl of mashed potatoes, she feels the heat. She sticks her finger in her mouth and relishes the taste.
“Oh my Lord,” she repeats.
“You said that already.”
“I’ll say it again, too! Nico, what did you do?”
He smiles, the thousand-megawatt smile she loves seeing on him. “I know you have missed home. And it is Thanksgiving, or so I hear. So I whipped a little something up.”
She gazes again at the full spread. “‘A little something’? Who taught you how to make turkey, for crying out loud?”
He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I may have consulted one or two YouTube videos.”
“Nico, it’s…it’s…” She looks up at him. Her eyes and heart are both full. “It’s amazing.”
She didn’t know she’d been missing home quite as badly as the pang in her chest would suggest. The sight of this food in this place makes her heart twinge with affection for Nantucket, for November snow flurries out the window and a house bursting with family and rich smells. Those are good things, yes, and she misses them terribly.