Chapter 18
DELPHINE
Our rooms were across from each other on the third floor. Dorian handed me the second key card to Annie’s and my room and stepped back. “I’ll give you both time to settle. Text when you’re ready to do whatever comes next.”
“Swim,” Annie said. “And lunch.”
“Poolside?” I asked, surprising myself.
“Yes, yes, yes!” Annie said. “Please.”
“Consider it done,” Dorian said. “I’ll meet you down there in fifteen minutes?”
We agreed before Annie and I went inside to our room.
“I should take a quick shower so I don’t stink up the pool,” Annie said.
Annie pushed past me and immediately gasped. “Mom. Robes.”
“I love robes,” I said.
Annie darted around the room. “There’s a balcony. And tiny soap.”
She had already thrown open the balcony doors, letting in a rush of ocean air that lifted the curtains and brought with it the cry of gulls. The room was lovely, all white bedding and pale wood, with two queen beds, a sitting area, and a vase of flowers on the dresser.
Annie stepped onto the balcony and leaned over the railing. “This is amazing.”
I came to stand beside her. Below us, the resort terrace spread toward the cliff’s edge, where white umbrellas shaded tables. The pool flashed turquoise to the left, dotted with people.
“It’s pretty,” I said.
“Pretty? Mom, this is where people in movies come to recover from scandals.”
I laughed. “You think?”
She grinned, and for a moment all I could see was the child she’d been before grief laid its hand on her.
The round-cheeked little girl who once wore rain boots with everything and believed pancakes tasted better if they were shaped like animals.
She was taller now, sharper at the edges, her watchfulness a little too practiced.
But today she looked young and happy and loose.
While she showered, I unpacked and changed into a black swimsuit with a white linen cover-up, then put my hair up.
When she was ready, we went downstairs to the pool, which was tucked below the main terrace with a low wall overlooking the Pacific.
The afternoon light scattered across the water, turning every ripple white at the edges.
Families occupied most of the chairs, a few couples dozed beneath striped umbrellas, and a pair of little boys were engaged in a splash war.
Annie dropped her towel on a chair and was in the pool within thirty seconds. Dorian and I sat under an umbrella. He wore swim trunks and a navy T-shirt I couldn’t wait for him to take off.
“She’s going to sleep for twelve hours tonight,” I said as Annie floated on her back, eyes closed.
“She earned it.”
“She did.” I watched her drift, one hand trailing through the water. “This means a lot. To both of us. Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do.”
“Then you’re welcome,” Dorian said.
Annie suddenly flipped upright and pointed at him. “Dorian, you have to come in. It’s so nice.”
“Should we?” Dorian asked me.
“You first.”
Grinning, he stripped off his T-shirt and set it on the chair. Hoping my sunglasses hid the direction of my gaze, I took a good, long look. He was even better than I’d thought. Lean but muscular, shoulders wide in the right places, a tapered torso with a six-pack. Good lord.
He jumped into the deep end of the pool.
“Wanna race?” Annie asked when he emerged from below the surface,
“Prepare to lose,” Dorian said.
They raced one length of the pool. Annie won by just a tad. I suspected Dorian hadn’t given his full effort. He surfaced at the end, silver hair darkened and slicked back, one hand on the wall. He wasn’t even breathing deeply.
“That was close,” he said.
“You let me win,” Annie said.
“No way.”
She challenged him to another race, then to a floating contest, then to something involving holding their breath. Finally, they’d had enough, and we ordered lunch from one of the attendants.
For the next hour, we ate our sandwiches under the umbrella.
Dorian insisted we get a fruity adult beverage.
Annie had a Shirley Temple. After that, Annie alternated between swimming and lying on a lounge chair.
Dorian read a novel. I laid back and closed my eyes, letting the sounds of the pool settle around me.
Laughter. Water. The distant call of gulls. Ice clinking in glasses.
It occurred to me then that there had been so few days like this.
Not because Annie had lacked joy. I had made certain she had joy.
I had driven her to practices, hosted sleepovers, baked birthday cakes, taken her school shopping and to movies and all the fun dinners with our friends.
Our life had not been bleak. But it had had an absence.
Even on good days, I had felt the empty chair at the table, the missing voice in the car, the lack of someone beside me who loved Annie simply because she was Annie.
Dare I hope that Dorian could be that person?
Later, after we’d all had enough sun, we went up to our rooms to shower and change for dinner.
Dorian had made a reservation at the hotel restaurant.
We reached the terrace just as the first lights came on around the restaurant.
The hostess led us to a table near the railing, where the ocean moved below in darkening bands and heat lamps stood ready, but unlit, in the mild evening air.
Dinner felt like something stolen from a life I had not known I wanted. Annie ordered pasta she declared was the best thing she’d ever eaten in her life. I had fish with lemon and herbs. Dorian ordered steak and a bottle of red for us to share.
We chatted and laughed throughout the wonderful meal.
Dorian told us stories about his time in the Navy.
Of adventures that took him all over the world but ultimately led him back to Willet Cove.
Annie answered his questions about school and where she hoped to go to college.
I mostly listened, enjoying every moment.
After dinner, Annie insisted we needed a photograph.
A server took the photo near the terrace railing.
Annie stood between us, one arm around my waist and the other looped through Dorian’s arm at the last second.
I felt him still slightly, not pulling away but receiving the gesture with a care that made my chest ache.
The server counted down. Annie grinned. I laughed because the wind blew hair into my mouth at the exact wrong second.
Dorian wasn’t looking at the camera but at us.
By the time we headed upstairs, Annie’s energy had begun to fade.
She leaned against me in the elevator, her head almost on my shoulder, though she would never admit it.
In the hallway, Dorian walked beside us without speaking, and I had the sense that all three of us wished the day would never end.
At our door, we stopped to say goodnight.
Annie threw herself against Dorian, hugging him tight. “Thanks for doing this for us. I’ll never forget it.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, hugging her back.
Annie pulled away and looked at the carpet. “Night.”
“Good night, Annie,” Dorian said. “Well done today.”
She turned back. “You too.”
She disappeared into our room, leaving the door open behind her. Dorian and I stood in the hallway facing each other. His silver hair was mussed from the wind and his face just slightly sunburned. He looked tired and happy and dangerously handsome.
“This was a good day,” I said. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I stepped closer, and he met me halfway.
The kiss was quiet, soft enough for the hallway and deep enough to make me forget where we were.
It tasted of wine, salt air, and the day we had spent together, of sun-warmed grass and Annie’s laughter and something like hope.
When I drew back, I rested my hand briefly against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm.
“Good night.”
“Good night, beautiful Delphine,” he said.
I went into the room and closed the door gently behind me. Annie was in the bathroom; humming to herself, she got ready for bed. When she came out, she dove into one of the queen beds, limbs moving like she was making a snow angel. “Oh my gosh, it’s so soft.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Good night, sweet girl.”
“Mom?” Annie asked sleepily.
“Yes?”
“This was the best.”
“It was.”
She was asleep within minutes, worn out by sun and soccer and the kind of happiness that asks a body to surrender. I turned off the lamp, then stood for a while at the balcony doors, looking out at the moonlit water.
My phone buzzed from the dresser with a text, and I turned to pick it up.
Dorian
I forgot to tell you how gorgeous you looked in your swimsuit.
Delphine
You looked pretty good yourself.
Dorian
I don’t want to go home. Like ever.
Delphine
Same. But real life continues.
Dorian
Have a good sleep. I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.
Delphine
See you then.
I set the phone aside and lay down on the bed, smiling into the darkness, thankful for the day and my daughter and the man who had gone out of his way to make it special for both of us.
I could get used to this. And that was a very frightening thought indeed.