She said, in the most caring, nonconfrontational voice she could muster, “Have you thought about why June insisted you do this project?”
He sighed, battle-weary. “What are you on about now?”
“I don’t think she was just giving you a way to make some money. Is it possible she was giving you a road map?”
Now he looked at her.
“You said this series was a revisionist take on her own story. And maybe that’s true, I didn’t know her that well. But she wrote it for you. Did you ever ask yourself why? Why she might write about a sex god who sacrifices himself for his profession and ultimately finds a way to integrate the performer with the person?”
He took out the cigarette pack again. Opened it. Glanced at his watch. Closed it and put it back. “Right.” He moved off the stone banister, and Sewanee’s impulse was to move, too, to reach for him. She straightened expectantly, but he didn’t go to her. He went to his jacket on the steps between them and said, while putting it on, “I might say the same to you. She did insist that you play the heroine, after all. The woman who needs to get over her past and get on with her life.”
He turned and started down the steps.
“Don’t just walk away, Nick.” She was mortified to hear the need in her voice.
Nick rolled his eyes and came back toward her. “I’m not walking away, fart-head.” Then, gently, “We’re walking away.” He looked at her and she saw that though he’d been worn thin, there was a tenderness there. Some residual hurt and lingering frustration, but mostly tenderness. He was a bruise still sensitive to touch, but healing. Which relieved her.
And in her relief, she reheard what he had just said about her. About June.
This fight had begun because she’d pointed out a separation in him, and he retaliated by pointing out a similar divide in her. But the defensive heat went out of the argument when they had–as Henry might have said–brought in textual evidence to support their claims. By highlighting what June had done, they were now looking at themselves instead of each other.
She was still mulling this over when Nick said, “We have dinner with your mum and Stu, remember?”
She’d forgotten. She went toward him on the stairs, pulled out her phone, and looked at the time. “We still have forty-five minutes.”
He shook his head. “It’s best we get going.” So they walked side by side across the piazza as he murmured, “We should clean up. And change.”
Chapter Seventeen
“The Proposal”
THEY DOCKED AT THE ISLAND FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER LEAVING ST. Mark’s, disembarked, and walked toward an outbuilding to the right of the sprawling hotel. Stu led their small group like a puppy that may have been trained to heel, but was incapable of obeying when excited. “I promised Marilyn I wouldn’t spoil this by telling you anything about it. But, come on, can you believe this is a Marriott? Okay, I’m shutting up now, here comes the hostess.”
As if conjured by Stu, an elegant woman appeared in the warm glow of the pathway’s lights. She called them forward and Sewanee let Marilyn and Stu take the lead, hanging back with Nick.
They had wordlessly gone to their separate hotels to get ready and by the time they’d each arrived at the pier, Stu and Marilyn were waiting. They’d all climbed aboard the boat and Stu had sequestered Nick at the bow to talk about dolphins, so she hadn’t been able to check in with him.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
He nodded, but said, “I wish we’d had a few moments at the dock before–”
“Me too. But can we put everything aside for tonight and–”
“Of course.” He gave her a small grin. “We can fight later.” Sewanee matched his grin and felt her shoulders loosen.
Stu teasingly yelled, “You two coming or do we have to get you a room?”
“I only stay at Hiltons,” Nick yelled back and they picked up their pace, joining a laughing Stu at the open door of a terra-cotta brick structure that might have once been a barn. It had floor-to-ceiling windows banded with black iron every six feet or so. Once inside, the soft illumination of candlelight and chandeliers off to the right beckoned them into the dining room.
But the hostess instead ushered them to the left, bringing them into a lushly understated bar. “Ooh, a cocktail, yes please,” Sewanee murmured.
“Oh, Swanners,” Stu enthused, “you’re about to–”
“Stuuuu,” Marilyn warned.