Ezra
So he’d used the day to recover from the inn.
The burn on his hand was still bandaged; the blister was less angry now, but it still smarted.
His limbs ached from hauling pots of water for the lobster.
And his back was acting up from standing on the ladder in the library to paint the sailboats. Oh, but he felt alive!
That was how he ended up on the patio with the good bottle of Barolo, which took two glasses for him to remember that he and Rachel had gotten it on a trip to Italy with his brother and sister-in-law, years ago. Why did people save joy? he wondered as he took a long sip.
As he sat outside that evening he’d listened to the muted chatter and thin trail of music wafting up over the trees from the inn.
Surprisingly, it was enjoyable. He hoped the big dinner was going well.
As a thank-you for all his help the night before, Greta had sent him home with so much leftover food that he’d held his own little dinner party for one there on the patio.
In doing so, he’d almost felt part of the festivities.
On she went, leaving him behind. A whirl of pale limbs and fabric gliding through darkness until she merged with it and faded from sight.
Across the way voices lifted, distant and indiscernible. There came the muffled thud of a car door, then another. The moon burned overhead, and the wood went quiet again.