“I know I’m really early. Jim came in early to cover the evening, so I hightailed it out of there,” Greg says as I swing open the door. “I did text, but I didn’t hear back and I got little worried.” “I’m sorry, I got lost in work.” He sets a grocery bag on the counter. “No apologies. I’m glad you’re safe and sound,” he says, turning towards me. “Besides, I know you get drawn into your writing sometimes.” His arms were around my waist, pulling me close, a kiss planted on my lips. “If you have things you need to finish up, I’m happy to start prepping.” “No, I need a break.” I look around the kitchen, an unorganized mess with boxes and cans still out on the table, dishes in the sink, and a half drunk cup of coffee sitting on the table - I must have gotten distracted and just poured another cup. I open the cabinet and fished through ingredients for margaritas. Tequila I knew I had - Nan was a margarita fanatic and had made sure to get “provisions” when she helped me move. Limes, lemons, sugar. I must have ice cubes in the trays in the freezer.
I turn to Greg, shoulders shrugged. He’s the bartender, I really should leave this to him, I reason. “You’re fine, we have everything we need. I don’t like using mixes anyways. Way too sugary.” We divide the cooking tasks, me chopping up vegetables and him browning the meats, homemade margaritas in hand. I look over at Greg and see him staring at me. My eyebrows raise, a silent “What are you looking at?” I imagine I’ve done something offensive, or at best, embarrassing. “I just haven’t enjoyed a night like this in a long time. I forgot how comforting it can be.” I nod. I know exactly what he means. I enjoy our meals out and my drinks with Grace at the pub, but this just feels natural. “I wasn’t sure, after everything that happened two years ago, that I’d ever feel my whole self again…” he trails off. I can tell there were things he still needs to bring to the surface, but I’ve gotten to know him well enough to understand that I have to let him do so on his own terms. “God, I’m sorry, I sound like a character in a Meg Ryan movie.” I laugh. He’s right, in a way, but I find I like him all the more for it.
It occurs to me that with Greg, there was no guessing what he means, no over analyzation of some secret past that he refuses to talk about. He is open and honest and has no trouble expressing his feelings. We’ve just kind of fallen into a rhythm with each other, and it is refreshing. I hope he stays that way, I think sadly. I’d once felt so certain of someone else. But I won’t let that ruin my mood. “How’s this?” He brings over a spoonful of seasoned taco meat. “Delicious!” “Great, that’s all set. How’s the guac coming along?” I offer him a spoonful in return. “Wow, much better than I make it.”
As we gather our plates together, it occurs to me that my kitchen table isn’t exactly suited for a dinner that doesn’t involve take-out boxes. “Table, or coffee table by the fireplace?” The fireplace, I discovered on my first afternoon here, has been converted to an electric one. It makes sense. Linda and her daughter lived here alone, and I don’t picture a 60-something woman halling branches in from the yard to start a fire. “Fireplace sounds perfect actually.” On the Massachusetts coast, I’m learning, the nights can get chilly even on the warmest of days. Greg tops off our margaritas and we situate ourselves on the couch.
We dive into our tacos, quiet for a few moments as we enjoy the fruits of our not-so-intensive labor. “How’s the novel coming along?” he breaks the silence. It’s the first time he’s asked me about it, and I’m taken by surprise. When together, we focus so much on our task at hand that we haven’t talked much about my actual work. “It’s going well. Better than expected. I’ve been in a great writing zone the past few days. Today I wrote for over four hours straight.” “I can’t imagine how you do that. It must take so much discipline.” I explain my timer system and the tricks I’ve learned to keep focused without burning out. He listened intently, or at least it seems. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever asked you, what’s your book about?” He looks sheepish, and I can tell he feels a bit guilty that he hasn’t asked sooner. I describe it as best I can,trying to give a thorough enough description without boring him. I don’t even know if, historical matters aside, he is much of a reader.
“You’d better let me know the minute it hits the shelves. I want to be the first person to buy a copy.” I don’t know if he is flattering me because he cares about me, or truly finds it interesting. Either way, it’s a welcome change from Brett’s continual negativity (he called it being realistic) every time I got my hopes up that someday I might be a published novelist. “Do you read a lot? For pleasure I mean?” “Absolutely, about a book a week. Next time you’re over, I’ll show you the study. It’s filled with books - some from my grandfather that I’ve kept, the rest that I’ve collected over the years.” He pauses. “I’m sorry, I should have shown you before. That was dumb of me, you being a writer and all. It’s just, we’ve been so involved in everything else, sometimes I forget we have real careers.” He shrugs. I lean over and give him a kiss. He looks so cute, worried that he’s hurt my feelings. “It’s completely ok. I’ll see it next time.”
“I’m serious about the book though. Do I get a sneak preview?” “Absolutely not! It’s bad luck,” I grin. “Ok, but I’d better get a signed copy, hot off the press.” I hesitate, debating how to say what I need to say next. “You know it’s going to be quite a while before it’s published.” “I know, but you said you’re a third of the way through already, right?” “Yes, but this is the draft. I send it to Samantha, my editor, and she edits and sends it back. I adjust, lather, rinse, repeat, until we are both satisfied. Then it’s off to the publisher. That’s the part of the process I’m nervous about. More or less, all of my work could be for nothing.” He shakes his head. “Not for nothing. It brought you up here and you met me.” I look down at my lap, realizing how my words sounded. Greg is still grinning. “I’m teasing, I know what you mean. But I think you’ll be fine. In my inexperienced opinion, you’re a phenomenal writer.” “Thank you.” I reply, sipping my margarita. “Wait, how do you know that?” “Know what?” “That, as you say, I’m a phenomenal writer.” “Oh, I googled you. I wanted to learn more about you and your work, but you don’t like to talk much about yourself.” He looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Occupational hazard,” I shrug and smile. “I figured. So anyway, I looked you up and found some articles and short stories you’d done.” “Really?” I’m impressed that he’d made such an effort. “I’m sorry if that’s creepy?” It’s a question. “Not at all. How many did you read?” “A few.” It’s a non-committal answer, and I wonder if he briefly skimmed one or two. “Fifteen, twenty maybe.” “Fifteen or twenty!” I’m in disbelief. This man sat there scrolling through twenty of my works, just to read them. “Yeah, I was up until about one in the morning a couple of nights ago. The workings of the brain fascinate me, and you really are a very good writer.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Well, I’m impressed. I can’t say I’ve ever known a guy to sit up late into the night reading psychological digest articles, or whatever they were, just to learn more about me.” “Well, then those guys weren’t worthy of you.” He leans towards me, giving me a gentle kiss on the lips. Then he pulls my face closer to his, tucking a strand of unruly hair behind my ear, and kisses me deeper than he ever has. When he finally pulls back gently, reluctantly, I feel my face flush. I look into his eyes, not saying a word, trying to understand exactly what he’s feeling. It’s a moment too intense for words. Finally Greg looks away, his head down. “What’s wrong,” I gently put a hand on his arm, my stomach flip flopping. In the couple of seconds it took him to put his thoughts into words, my mind put together all sorts of scenarios. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just scared to death, Hen. The things I’m feeling, the thoughts I’m having… I haven’t experienced anything like this. Ever.” Another pause. “Listen to me, I’m talking about after your book is published and everything, like you’re going to be here permanently. But for all I know, as soon as you’r
e done writing, as soon as you no longer need the peace and quiet of small town life, the cottage, all that, you could be on your way back to your family and friends five states away. And when I think that way, I think, that’s ok, I could go anywhere that I could teach. But maybe that’s not what you want at all. Oh god… I’m babbling, I’m sorry.”
He stands up and walks to stare out the front window, probably trying to collect his thoughts. I walk over to him, putting my arm around him. “Greg, it’s ok. I’m not running away from here the minute my book is done. I have no deadline to go back, and my lease with Billy is month to month. Yes, I miss my family sometimes, but Nan is horribly busy and Cat’s in England. Other than my best friend and Samantha, my friends in Maryland were all couple friends. I more or less gave them up eight months ago. I didn’t have a post-novel plan when I came here. That’s part of the beauty of it really. I came to see what life here held, to feel free, to start over. And I have. And as you said, no matter what comes of my novel, or anything else up here, I’ve met you.
Greg kisses me on the forehead. “I’m sorry I got worked up.” “Trust me, I understand.” I don’t want to make him self-conscious, but I don’t want to make him talk about it any further if he doesn’t want to. I finish the last sip of my margarita, while Greg puts the final bits of guacamole on a chip, giving ourselves time to collect our thoughts under the guise of finishing the meal. “I’d say we did pretty well at our first attempt of cooking dinner together.” He says finally, changing the subject. “Not bad at all,” I agree. “What does your day look like tomorrow?” “Nothing particular scheduled. I’m ahead on all of my work and I wrote for hours today, so I can’t think of anything I need to get done immediately.” I am more digesting the information out loud than answering his question. “Why?” “Well, I was just wondering if you had a busy day lined up and were preparing to kick me out soon,” he grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Stay as long as you’d like.” I’d say it as a nicety, but I realize I mean it. I’ve used to his company and I don’t like the thought of him leaving anytime soon. “Be careful, that’s a dangerous invitation.”
Greg picks up our plates and walks into the kitchen, with me following closely behind carrying our glasses. He splits the remaining margarita between us. “If you don’t have anything you have to be up for, want to watch a movie?” I nod, happy for the opportunity to relax on the couch next to him . I realize this is the first time we, as Greg said, have not talked about the “case”. Up until tonight, it has been a focal point of our conversations, even when we intended it not to be, and I occasionally wondered what would happen if we either gave up on it or discovered the truth. Tonight, I understand that all of our work on the mystery is a shared interest, but not the primary interest between us. In the beginning, it served as a common ground and an easy way of spending time together. By now, it is simply another part of our relationship. Some couples have tennis or antiquing. We have sleuthing. Still, this evening, it’s nice to just feel like the average couple, just Hennie and Greg, two thirty-somethings who had met and enjoyed each other’s’ company.
“Can I ask you something?” he interrupts my thoughts. “Do people know about me?” “What do you mean?” I know, in fact, but I’m stalling for time and trying to formulate my answer. “I know Grace knows that we spend a lot of time together, and I’m sure she has her suspicions….” “She does,” I jump in. “But have you told your family and friends about me?” he asks. I take a deep breath. I know how it will sound if I say no. He’ll think I’m hiding him or not committed. How can I explain? I choose my words carefully. “I’ve mentioned you to Nan. Not in detail, because she’ll hound me. Samantha, my editor, also has a good idea, though I haven’t mentioned your name. She can be a bit… interrogating.” “And your parents, Cat, your other friends?” “Not yet. I just… I don’t know how to explain. I guess I’m enjoying it being just us for a bit. You see how easy it is to find information on me. As a writer, I constantly feel exposed. I don’t want to expose you, or us, to that yet.” He thinks for a moment and then nods. “I can see that. But when they come to visit…” “I won’t hide anything. How about you? Have you told anyone?” “Oh just my parents. And my brother. And my best friend Jake. And the town crier, and the baker, and the owner of the market..” he laughs. “I’m serious about my family and Jake. I just had to tell someone. And apparently I mentioned your name so much that people started rolling their eyes and finally told me to just come out with it, ” he laughs.
I smile. I understand, and I felt bad for what appears to be my lack of enthusiasm. In actuality, it’s partly my fear of jumping the gun in telling everyone, and partly exactly as I explained to him. My life as a writer and psychologist is easily accessible, or has been for so long. I’d rather quietly slipped away to Massachusetts, trying to fly below the radar, and I am enjoying the anonymity, if only temporarily.
We watch the movie for a little while longer, his hand placed gently but decidedly on top of mine. Thirty minutes or so into the movie, he turns back to me. He doesn’t say anything at first, but I can feel his eyes on me. When I finally turn to face him, sure that he wants my attention, he immediately kisses. At first, it is a sweet, soft kiss, but I felt it quickly turns into something else entirely. Itis the same longing and desire I’d felt when he kissed me earlier. This time, though, he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t tell me that he needed to take it slow no matter how difficult it is. This time, he just keeps kissing me needily.
I know that we were quickly approaching a point in our relationship, both physical and emotional, that we have so far managed to avoid, or at least refrain from. I decide to let him take the lead. Our first date notwithstanding, he has been the more cautious one, and I want to respect his boundaries. I care about him too much already to risk messing things up by being unnecessarily pushy. Finally, slowly, he takes his lips from mine, still not saying anything. Instead, he takes my hand, standing up as he does so and pulling me up beside him. He looks at me briefly, and then, still holding my hands, walks towards the staircase. My stomach flip-flopped with each step we ascend. It had been, or at least it feels, like an eternity since I’ve done anything more than kiss a man. In reality, it has been eight months, but my life was so different then that I have trouble placing myself in it. Even at the end of my relationship with Brent, we’d been more or less like especially close friends. We slept next to each other comfortably, but there hadn’t been much passion. Many nights, he’d fall asleep on the living room couch watching TV (his night owl habits contrary to my early bird ones) or I’d doze off in my “reading room” in the attic, curled comfortably in the yellow-gold double arm chair, book fallen to the floor next to me.
My feelings for Greg are growing by the day - too fast for my comfort, in fact. I trust him on all the basic levels, but I know there are plenty of guys who aren’t above getting what they want and disappearing. The fact that he has insisted on taking things slowly tells me that logically, I have nothing to worry about. Still, I’m concerned about things turning awkward and him distancing himself. He closes my bedroom door and sits down on my bed, quietly pulling me down next to him. Finally, after what seems like hours but must have been a few moments, he speaks. “I know that I’ve told you all along that I need to take this slowly, and so far, I think we’ve done a pretty good job. I just can’t anymore. I need to say something before this goes any further, and I need to say it now because if I don’t, I’ll lose my nerve.” I wait while he takes a deep breath. “I’m falling in love with you.” Another pause. I sit completely still. Whatever I expected to happen up here, this isn’t it. Instinct, and years of observing people’s body language on a daily basis, tells me he has more to say, so I wait. “I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I understand that my feelings are moving fast. Much faster than I anticipated. To be honest, it’s terrifying, but I’m prepared to deal with that. So I don’t want you to feel that if you’re not at this point, that I’m
going to pressure you, or walk away. But I need you to know how serious I am about this, and about you.” He doesn’t give me a chance to reply before kissing me again, for which I was grateful. I’m not sure what I would have said.
The sun glaring through my window wakes me the next morning, and it takes me a moment to realize why I, such a creature of habit, am sleeping on the “wrong” side of the bed - until I felt Greg’s arm wrap around me protectively, the muscles of his chest pressed against my back. Man he’s in good shape, is my first admiring thought. Amused at myself, I chuckle, apparently loud enough to make him stir. “What are you laughing at, at….” he glances at the clock on my nightstand, “7 AM?”. “That my first thought when I wake up is how good you look with your shirt off.” He laughs and kissed the top of my head. “I love you.” “I love you too,” I whisper, audible but barely, and pull his arm more tightly around me.
An hour and a half later I wake again, this time for good. Greg is still sleeping, and I know he has nowhere to be - he’d made that clear last night - so I slide out of my side of the bed, or rather, the side I happened to be occupying this morning, as quietly as I can. Grabbing my sweat pants and tank top from the chair in the corner, where they sit discarded from yesterday morning, I close the door as gently as I can and tiptoed down the stairs, wincing as each step creaks under foot. He looks so peaceful sleeping there that it feels wrong to disturb him. Besides, I like the idea of him curled up in my bed, and this time alone gives me the chance to brew some coffee and straighten out my thoughts - the aroma itself was often enough to unfog my brain slightly.
I inspect the contents of the fridge, wondering if Greg might want some breakfast. Suddenly, my stomach jumps. A wave of anxiety washed over me. What if Greg thinks last night was a mistake? What if he regrets everything he said? Yet he told me again this morning that he loves me. My mind still tries to play devil’s advocate. What if he wasn’t really awake yet this morning? Or worse, what if he thought I was someone else? “Oh shut up,” I tell myself, more loudly than I intended. I had been so proud of myself for not over-analyzing things last night. I can’t start now. The truth is, I don’t think Greg has any regrets with me, and I believe that he means exactly what he says. He’s been so careful up until this point that I can’t imagine him throwing out something as big as “I love you”, twice no less, unless he is sure.
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