I have the entire day ahead of me though. I decide to spend it on the beach, getting a last dose of Vitamin D before returning to the New York winter and the fact that my skin won’t see the sun until May.
I head for the beach and my designated chair at nine. I skip breakfast, my appetite for the large buffet this morning non-existent. The friendly beach attendant gets me set up and brings me an icy bucket with a bottle of water in it. I pull the novel I’d started reading days ago from my bag and attempt to lose myself in it.
After a half-hour, I’m sweating and decide to take a dip in the ocean. I walk across the warm, white sand, my feet sinking in until I reach the packed edge. I stand for a moment and take in the beauty around me, realizing how much I will miss this place. It feels as if I have found a spot in the world where I would love to wake up every day, retire all my winter clothes, figure out a new plan for my life. But I know that isn’t reality. And that I made my choices long ago.
I wade out farther and dive in headfirst, swimming under water until I’m far enough out that I can’t reach the bottom. I paddle for a bit and float face up, squinting against the sun and I close my eyes, letting it bathe my face with its heat.
I stay that way, floating. In these moments, I realize that I have grown to love this place. Love its color and warmth, the cheerful disposition of the people and the birds.
My eyes start to tear in the corners just as something touches my shoulder. I yelp and topple forward, looking for the bottom with my feet.
An arm goes around my waist and stops my struggles.
I know instantly that it is Anders.
Despite the water I am submerged in, I’m infused with heat.
He’s wearing dark glasses, his eyes hidden behind them. His dark blonde hair is a little wild, as if the ocean breeze has had its way with it, and he hasn’t bothered to argue.
He’s shirtless, his bare chest shimmering tan in the sunlight. His skin is smooth, nearly hairless. The sight of him, the nearness of him, triggers vivid memories of what had almost happened between us, and I plant a hand at the center of his chest, pushing away from him.
He lets me go. My chin drops beneath the surface, and I inhale a gulp of salty sea-water, adding more mortification to my already too long list with Anders.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says in a quiet voice.
I kick back a yard or so, needing the distance to scramble for composure. “What are you doing out here?” I ask, making every effort to sound as if I am staring at any other stranger on the beach.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
I raise a hand. “There really is absolutely no need.”
“I think the way we ended things last night said everything that needed to be said.”
He reaches for my hand, pulls me toward the shore until we’re both standing in water to my waist. It is only then that he says, “No. I didn’t say what I needed to say.”
“Anders. I get it. There’s a whole list of credible reasons why last night would have been a stupid thing to do. Would you like to hear a few? Let’s see. Everyone I know will accuse me of robbing the cradle when they see your young, gorgeous self. You’ll think I have to have a commitment because I’m at the age of desperation. In ten years, I’ll look like your―”
“Stop,” he says, holding up a palm. He looks at me for several long moments before he finally says, “As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one reason it would be a bad idea.”
“So your reason is valid, but mine isn’t.”
“Four years ago, I was dying of cancer.”
The words drop into the air between us, heavy with the weight of boulders launched from an airplane flying overhead. I feel as if I will drown in the tsunami wave they create. “What?” I say, barely able to hear my question.
“I’ve been okay for two years, but there are no guarantees.”
“But. . .you look so. . .”
“I’ve learned how to take care of myself. If there’s a rainbow in my experience, it’s that.”
“I’m sorry. I―”
“I’m not telling you this because I want your pity. I needed you to know that I’m not living my life like there’s a definite tomorrow. There’s today. For most people, that’s not enough.”
“Anders. I―”
He backs away. “I just needed you to know it wasn’t you.”
I watch him turn and walk out of the water, back up the beach and up the stairs to the hotel, and then he’s out of sight, gone.
Chapter Thirty
“You cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore.”
― William Faulkner
Catherine
I WALK BACK to my chair and sit for a long time, staring out at the placid ocean before me while I wonder how Anders lived the life he’s described to me.
He is the picture of health. His body a testament to self-care and wellness. I think of the night in his kitchen when we had talked about diet and juicing and the importance of good food and nutrition. I had felt then that there was more beneath the surface of our conversation but brushed it off. And now I know the why.
Cancer.
The word itself is terrifying.
I think of the people I’ve known who have battled this horrible disease. Sadly, there have been several. The last was a young woman named Samantha who worked in our online sales department. She was young too, early thirties. She woke up one morning with excruciating abdominal pain. She ended up in the ER only to find out she had stage four colon cancer. She went with the doctors’ recommendation to use the most aggressive protocol available to her, chemo and radiation. And after three months of treatment, we thought she would be okay. She lost her hair and was so thin it was painful to see her, but she had the will to fight. I would take her soups and juices, anything I thought there was a chance of her eating. The last night I saw her, she talked of how much she wanted to get back to work, of how much she missed her old life. I wanted the same for her and believed she would have it again, eventually.
But the next morning, I received a call at the office from a mutual friend who said Samantha was in the hospital with pneumonia. I planned to go see her after work that evening, but she died an hour before I got there.
For a long time after that, I felt bitter about her death. It seemed so unfair. She wanted to live. She had so many plans. Had done so little of what she hoped to do in life.
I realized then that cancer is ruthless. That once it gets a victory in the body, it is reluctant to retreat. Temporarily, maybe. But like a rogue general in a dictator-led country, it will attempt another assault at the slightest sign of weakness.
I think of Anders now and find it almost impossible to believe that he could have been dying. The same vibrant, strong, beautiful man who held me in his arms.
Suddenly, I am so afraid for him.
What if it comes back?
What if it has, and he doesn’t know it yet?
I can’t sit here any longer, torturing myself with these questions. I get up from the chair, somehow needing to outrun my own thoughts. I gather my things, walk back to the room and let myself inside the cool interior. I stand on the marble floor, letting the heat drain from my body. And then without giving myself time to change my mind, I pull on shorts and a t-shirt, grab my phone and wallet and head for the front of the hotel.
*
THE TAXI DROPS me at Needham’s Point Beach. I walk the short distance to the curve of sand where we had released the hatchlings. I sit down on the sand, pulling my knees to my chest and staring out at the ocean, wondering how many of them survived. I remember what I felt watching those precious souls strike out against all odds. The way my heart hurt with hope for them as I watched them struggle with every step forward.
Had Anders’ journey been like theirs, seeking out a new life for himself with all the odds stacked against him?
I somehow know that it has been. I cannot imagine the days of struggle h
e must have endured.
But he has survived. He’s made it.
And I know that in turning me away last night, he was trying to protect me. My heart swells with hope and gratitude. But I don’t want protection. I want Anders.
Chapter Thirty-one
“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O, that I were a glove upon that hand
That I might touch that cheek!”
― William Shakespeare
Anders
I’M SITTING IN the living room, my gaze on the pages of a book I have not been able to focus on when I hear the doorbell ring.
The lamp on the table next to my chair is the only light on. I close the novel and consider not answering. I have no doubt that it is Catherine. I knew she would come. She has a heart. There is no question that she will try to convince me it doesn’t matter.
I shouldn’t let her. I know this, even as I stand and walk to the door, my hand on the wrought iron knob. I imagine her on the other side, her hand wrapped around the matching handle, and I swear I can feel the pull of her though it.
Slowly, I turn the knob, ease the door open until there is nothing between us but air.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“No, you weren’t.”
She smiles a little and shrugs. “Okay. So I wasn’t.”
“Catherine―”
“May I come in?”
It’s clear she isn’t taking no for an answer. I step back, wave her past me. She walks in, her hands wringing nervously in front of her. There is a fine sheen of perspiration above her lip.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask.
“A sparkling water would be nice if you have it.”
“I do. Would you like lemon with it?”
“Yes, please.”
I lead the way to the kitchen and busy myself with finding the bottle of San Pellegrino, pulling a lemon from the drawer in the refrigerator and slicing it on a cutting board by the sink. I feel her eyes on me the entire time, but I don’t let my gaze meet hers. It’s as if to do so would be like touching a live electrical wire.
An entire book’s worth of words hang between us, but I can’t bring myself to open the first page.
She is the one to speak first. “I want to thank you for telling me what you told me this morning. It must not have been easy.”
“I guess the truth often isn’t.”
“No.”
Her voice is soft and low. I keep one hand on the knife and one on the lemon, not looking up as I absorb what she has said. “Does that mean you’re thanking me for letting you off the hook?”
I hear her move forward, and then her hand is on my arm. My body instantly remembers her touch, reminds me too, that I still want her.
“No,” she says. “I don’t mean that at all.”
I put the knife down, turn to her. I fold my arms across my chest, self-defense, I guess, and say, “The last thing I want from you, Catherine, is pity.”
She exhales a sigh. “Good. Because that’s the last thing I have to give you.”
She steps forward, presses first one hand to my chest, then the other. She keeps them there, flat, unmoving, as if she is searching for the connection we had found last night, patient in waiting for it to reestablish itself. She closes her eyes for a moment, pulls her lower lip in between her teeth and with a small sigh, looks at me directly. “If it’s all we have, if you can’t give me anything beyond here and now, tonight will be enough for me.”
My breath collapses beneath the words, and I reach for her, hauling her in with one arm around her waist, my other hand guiding her face to mine. I kiss her with all the hunger that’s been building inside me for her since the first moment I saw her. And she kisses me back as if she feels every single thing I’m feeling. Every nuance. Every heartbeat.
Her arms slide around my neck. I slip an arm under her legs, lift her up and on to the counter where she opens her legs and pulls me in.
We’re both still fully clothed, but I can feel every curve of her, every line, every soft spot. An involuntary sigh of longing falls out of me, and she smiles against my mouth, putting her hand to my face. “Do you have any idea what an incredibly beautiful man you are?” she asks in a voice so low I wonder if I have imagined the question.
“Not how I see myself,” I say.
“That’s how I see you.”
I run my hand through her wavy blonde hair, wind its length through my fingers. “I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you.”
She stares at me for a moment, as if she isn’t sure she should believe this. I can see that she wants to. She closes her eyes. Leans in and kisses me softly at first, and then with a deepening intensity until we are nearly wild with the need for more than just kissing, with the desire to lose the clothes that separate us.
She begins to unbutton my shirt, her fingertips grazing my skin as she goes, heightening my awareness of her with every touch. When she reaches the last button, she runs the back of her hand up the center of my chest and turns it over to place her palm over my heart. “Please, Anders.”
I hear the plea beneath my name, and for a moment, a single heart-wringing moment, I ask myself if I am doing the right thing. At the same time, I realize I don’t have it in me to walk away from her again. And so I put my arms around her, pick her up and walk us both straight to the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind us.
Chapter Thirty-two
“One day someone will walk into your life and make you see why it never worked out with anyone else.”
― Unknown
Catherine
ANDERS IS SLEEPING.
I am exhausted. Pleasurably exhausted. Sated. Unimaginably so.
I want to sleep, but I can’t. Though my body is heavy with a tiredness that needs no explanation, my mind is wide awake.
Anders is on his back. I am tucked into the curve of his arm. Our clothes are long since missing. I rest my palm on the center of his chest, absorbing the slow thud of his heart. His resting pulse is incredibly slow, but then given his level of fitness, it isn’t surprising.
The curtains to the room are open just wide enough to allow a swath of moonlight to drape the top half of the bed. I raise my head to study his face, his enviably long lashes, the slash of cheekbone that is perhaps the most notable fact of his beauty.
And he is beautiful. There’s not a more appropriate word that applies. I want to touch him, but I don’t want to wake him. I would rather hold on to this opportunity to watch him, drink him in until I’ve had my fill.
But then I’m not sure I could ever tire of watching him.
As if he has felt my thoughts, his eyes open. I see his momentary confusion, and then the flare of recognition and the reality of me in his bed.
He turns onto his side, runs his hand through my hair. “Can’t sleep?”
I shake my head.
“Hm.” He pauses, as if thinking. “It would be rude to let you lie here with nothing to do. Don’t you agree?”
“Maybe a little,” I say, hearing the teasing note in his voice and injecting it in mine. “And you are, after all, a very hospitable man.”
“Sooo the polite thing would be for me to find some way to entertain you, I suppose so?”
“Can’t argue with your logic.”
With one finger, he reaches out to trace a path along my cheek, down the center of my throat, around the curve of my breast.
I try to say something but have no air for words.
With two hands then, he spans my waist and lifts me up, as if he’s doing a bench press in the gym, and slowly, slowly, lowers me on top of him. His biceps and chest get all the credit, tight and hard. I sit straight, shocked by how instantly my body comes alive with need for him. A small sound of want escapes my lips, and I lean down to kiss him, aware of every pounding pulse beneath my skin.
“I like entertaining,” he says in a low, d
esire-roughened voice.
“I can see why,” I say softly. “You’re really, really good at it.”
He laughs near my ear, and his hands rove my back before settling on my bottom. He presses me to him, and then neither of us wants to talk anymore. Our bodies write their own language.
*
I HEAR ANDERS get up at an hour that feels undoable given that I feel as if I haven’t slept all night. Which isn’t far from true.
When I open my eyes, he’s fully dressed in workout clothes. He sits on the side of the bed, leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’m going to teach. You go back to sleep. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Really?” I ask. “You don’t mind?”
“To the contrary. I’ll spend the class picturing you waiting for me here. I’ll pedal faster.”
I laugh, pull the sheet up to my chin. “Okay, then. If you insist.”
He brushes a hand across my hair, and then he is gone.
*
AMAZINGLY, I DO go back to sleep.
I wake to the sound of someone in the room. I raise up on one elbow and see Anders in the doorway.
“Come back to bed,” I say.
“I’m a little sweaty,” he says and starts to peel off his shirt. “I better get a shower first.”
“One condition,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Take me with you.”
The look that crosses his face fills me with a power I have never in my life known. I see the effect I have on him, and I don’t know that anything has ever made me happier.
He walks over to the bed, leans down and scoops me up. “No point in wasting good water,” he says.
Chapter Thirty-three
“There is no instinct like that of the heart.”
― Lord Byron
Anders
WE SPEND EVERY available minute of the next few days together. Along with the time we spend alone in my house, cooking, swimming and making love, I resolve to find something new to show her every day, a hike on the rugged East Coast with incredible views, a visit to the Wildlife Reserve in St. Peter to see the Green Monkeys during feeding time.
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