32
Sue’s, the only restaurant on island, is not called EAT. It’s actually called Sue’s Home-Cooked Delicacies Made-to-Order for You to Eat. It’s a mouthful, which I think is why Sue decided to paint the word “EAT” on the chipboard sign tacked above the front door and leave it at that.
I clasp the handwritten menu and the grease-stained paper crinkles in my hand. There are three options for the main: fried catch of the day, baked catch of the day, and grilled catch of the day. Two appetizers: mango salad or crab mango salad. And three desserts: banana cake, coconut rum cake, or chocolate cake. However, the chocolate cake is scratched out with pencil.
I remember from the anniversary party that we had the last chocolate cake on the island.
Or the chickens had the last chocolate cake on the island.
I smile across the little wooden café table at Aaron. We’re outside, in the back garden behind Sue’s. Her generator isn’t running. Instead of lights, we’re surrounded by the yellow flames of a dozen pillar candles. They’re set in buckets of sand, and the soft glow bounces off the garden, highlighting the white pom-pom flowers blooming in the bushes. They let off a soft jasmine scent, mixing with the crickets that started singing at the first hint of dusk.
Aaron hasn’t looked at the menu. Maybe he knows something I don’t. Instead he’s been watching the leaves flip and turn in the cooling breeze and the ribbons of sunlight that prismed through the garden as the sun dipped to the ocean.
He was quiet on the walk over, deep in thought. He was even quiet when Sue, a gregarious woman in her fifties with gray hair and a warm, motherly air, pulled him in for a quick peck on the cheek and thanked him profusely for fixing her fryer.
He’s quiet. Not looking at me.
But just like Amy, I can see the thoughts swirling through him, his mind moving a million miles a minute. And even though he hasn’t looked at me except to give quick smiles, I can feel his attention.
He’s focused on me completely.
It’s as if his hands are stroking over my bare skin, his fingers whispering over my breasts and my thighs, his mouth whispering over my pulse. It’s all there in the thick, humid air perfumed with jasmine and flickering with candlelight.
Robert said Aaron had never looked at me this way before. That he’d never felt this way before.
But the truth is, I’ve never felt this way either.
Before, with Joel, when I thought it was love, I was in a desert and he was the only drop of water. That single drop was a mirage.
But this?
This feeling?
Aaron looks at me then and the feeling expands, a warm wave rolling through me, washing over me like the turquoise sea gently sweeping over golden sand. My body grows heavy as a languid heat engulfs me, heady and dizzying.
The heat, the flowers, the seclusion of this back garden are doing funny things to my heart.
Aaron’s lips tug upward and his dark brown eyes shine in the candlelight. He sets his hand on the table between us, resting it palm-up. When I reach forward and lay my fingers in his, his smile widens and his eyes warm.
I run my fingers through his, tangling our hands together. The whisper of my skin over his sends sparks shivering through me. They lodge deep in my middle, a glow brighter than all the candles combined.
In the tree nearby the blackbirds end their evening song.
Aaron runs his thumb over the sensitive part of my palm. “I can never decide,” he says into the sudden quiet, “what I like better. The blackbirds singing or the moment right after.”
I think about it. There’s the chatter, the song, the piping notes, and then there’s the silence when the music is still echoing but you know it’s gone.
“While they’re singing,” I say.
“After,” he decides at the same time.
His eyes crinkle and he leans forward, coming closer so I catch the fresh scent of the soap he used in the shower. We’re in a little bubble, a private fairy-tale garden.
“Why?” he asks.
“I like being in the moment,” I say, gesturing to the garden and the candlelight. “I like the moment, not the memory.”
He nods, considering my words. Then he says, “I think, for me, the fact that it ends is what makes it . . .” He shrugs.
“Ah. You only appreciate something when it’s gone.”
“No. Not exactly. I’ve known too many things that have ended not to appreciate something while it’s here. It’s more . . .”
“Like the moment right after we kissed?”
His eyes fly to mine. A buzzy, heady heat arches between us. He rubs his fingers over my palm, tracing the delicate skin of the underside of my wrist. His thumb rests on the galloping of my pulse.
“Right,” he says, his voice low.
Suddenly I know just what he means. It’s the moment when you’re in your love’s arms, limp and falling, right after an earth-shattering orgasm. When you’re mindless and euphoric. Held close and loved.
Above us the sky has turned to a deep plum, speckled with the first golden stars.
“Thank you for the date,” I say, scooting forward in my chair, trying to get as close to him as possible. “I know you worked all day preparing for the storm.”
“Is it wrong to say I wanted to spend an evening alone with you?”
I shake my head. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. I’m here to . . .” I look at his shadowed jaw, the glow of his eyes, and consider how much to tell him. How much can a person in a dream understand? “Love,” I finally say. “I want to love.” And then, in case he doesn’t understand, I add in a quiet voice. “I want to love you.”
He reaches up, dragging his fingers across my cheek. “I’d ask why now,” he says, “but I can’t. I feel it too. It feels different. It feels like a rip current pulling me along—I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to. I used to want you to be happy. Now I want to be happy with you.”
I swallow down the fluttering in my throat, the fear mixed with longing. I close my eyes, turn my mouth into his palm, and press a kiss to his warm skin.
He lets out a harsh exhale. “I’m afraid this isn’t real.”
It’s not, I want to tell him. It’s not real.
But I can’t. Because it feels real.
“I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you won’t be you anymore, you’ll be . . .” He shrugs. “Becca. You’ll be the Becca I’ve always known.”
“We could live in the moment,” I say. “And if it ends, we can savor the ending.”
He smiles at me then, a bittersweet smile, and pulls his hand from my cheek. “All right. Fair enough.”
He scoots his chair closer to mine, scraping it over the gravel. Our shoulders touch as we dip our heads together and debate the menu options. When Sue takes our order, though, we find there are no options. It’s mango salad, grilled snapper, and coconut rum cake for dinner.
She sets the plates in front of us, filling the table with food. The snapper is charred and flaky, and I refuse to think about the fish market or the fact this snapper may be the one I gutted. Instead I take in the scent of ripe mango, charcoal, and lime. Sue sets two glasses in front of us filled with rum, simple syrup, and freshly squeezed lime.
“Bon appétit,” she says, smiling at me with motherly approval. “I expect you to clean your plates, or there’s no dessert for you.”
I hold back a laugh.
“Yes, ma’am,” Aaron says, laughter in his eyes.
She bustles back into the restaurant. There’s the splashing of water, the clatter of dishes, and then, over the sound, the soft tones of Sue humming a tuneless melody.
After a moment of contemplation, hunger gets the better of me and I decide to dive in. I stick a forkful of the snapper in my mouth. It’s flaky, delicate, and sweet. There’s a mild nutty flavor that blends perfectly with the mango chili sauce Sue prepared. The snapper is pink and firm and delicious.
Aaron glances at me when I give a soft, appreciative moan. He holds still, watching me with a quick hunger.
“Good?” he finally asks, his voice rough.
I nod, swallowing a bite of mango. “Better than good.”
He watches me take another bite, a fire growing in his eyes. I think about leaning forward and kissing him, tasting the soft flavor of mango and lime on his lips.
“Tell me,” he says. “Last night we pretended you didn’t know me. Tonight, tell me something about you that I don’t know. Pretend we’ve never met.”
“Like a first date?”
He nods, his gaze steady.
The sky is dark now. A cool evening breeze shifts over me, dragging strands of hair across my neck and bare shoulders. I can almost hear the waves, rising and falling, building, maybe, to a storm.
Inside Sue hums. Outside the crickets sing.
I think about what to tell Aaron. Something about me that he doesn’t know.
But there’s so much he doesn’t know. So much I could tell him.
“I don’t want to stop with one thing,” I say. “So I’ll tell you it all. If you want to know?”
The side of his mouth kicks up in a smile. “Of course I do.”
I take a drink, the sugary lime tart and sweet. “All right. The first thing you should know is I love being a mom. I love it more than anything in the world.”
He tilts his head, his eyes drinking me in. “You do?”
I forgot. Here, according to Robert, I never wanted to be a mom.
But I nod. “I never knew I would. But it’s a love so big, so overwhelming. I was given this person to protect and love. I’m in awe of it every day.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, watching me with a funny expression.
I lean forward, a glow lighting between us. “I didn’t think I could do it. But I had help. I had my family.”
Daniel.
“Maranda.” He nods. “She helped us a lot after Amy was born.”
I look up at the stars then back to him.
I want Aaron to know me. Not the me he thinks I am, but me.
“There’s one thing you don’t know about me.”
He tilts his head. The candlelight bounces off his sun-kissed skin. “Yeah?”
“I love time.” I smile, reaching out and tapping the wristwatch he’s wearing. “I love watches, clocks, timepieces. Everything about them. I love the history, the science, the mechanics, and the art. I love how a watch can be self-winding, as if there’s a little heart inside that keeps beating on its own. I love how for thousands of years humans have been fascinated by the sun casting its shadow on a dial, or the trickle of grains through an hourglass, or . . .”—I smile at him—“the closing of flowers on a clock tree. I love time. I love watchmaking. I love everything about it.”
“You do?” he asks, looking at me as if he’s never seen me before.
“Yes. A hundred times yes. If you could see the Abry Headquarters in Geneva. The production facilities, the museum, the collection. If you could see the hundreds of intricate steps it takes to create a single wristwatch . . .” I glance at him, swept away by my love of Abry.
A bittersweet ache lodges in my chest. I wish I could take his hand, pull him out of this dream, and show him everything I love. I’d take him on a tour of Abry. I’d show him our heirlooms—pieces that are plain or beautiful, worth little or worth a lot. I’d take him to the production facility and I’d let him see the McCormick, the watch I named for him. I’d show him the Flower Clock and I’d ask if he’d like to stay to see the seasons change.
“You’d like it,” I say, my voice thick, my throat aching. “If you like watches, you’d like to see it.”
“You’ve always loved watches?” he asks, his forehead wrinkling. “I didn’t know you’d heard of Abry. I’ve always wanted one.” He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug as if that dream is beyond him.
And maybe it is. Just like I can’t bring books to Amy, I can’t bring a watch to Aaron.
But I could describe Abry to him. I could make him feel as if he’s walking the halls, glancing over a master watchmaker’s shoulder, holding the cool metal links of a perfectly ticking Chronomaster in his hand.
A warmth bubbles inside me. “I’ll give one to you,” I say, and when he lifts his eyebrows I amend, “Pretend. I’ll describe it all. Pretend it’s real. I know a lot about Abry watches.”
“You do?”
“I do. I’ve been learning about them for a long time.” I reach over and take his hand. “Close your eyes. I’ll make it so real you’ll be able to feel the warm metal of the watch around your wrist. I’ll make it so you can hear the ticking of the second hand. Then you’ll have an Abry.”
He smiles at me then. A delighted look. He closes his eyes and grips my hand.
So I begin. “Abry is in the country, outside Geneva. In the summer, when you look out the windows, the field below is a sea of sunshine-yellow flax and the mountains are indigo-blue, hugged by the dusty olive of the evergreens. It’s different than here. Even in the summer there’s a softness to the sun and a quiet breeze blowing off the mountains. Two siblings own Abry, a brother and a sister. They love it so much they swore they’d do anything to make sure it survived for the next generation. And they have. They’ve kept so busy, given so much of themselves, that they’ve put all their dreams into the watches they create.”
As I describe the love that goes into each watch, all the lost arts and the intricate steps, the hand-enameling and the hand-setting, a mellow richness flows around us. I lean into Aaron, settle into his side, and rest my head against his heart.
I build for him a dream.
And when I finish, having described the watch I’d make just for him, he opens his eyes and stares down at me.
“Thank you,” he says, the low rumble of his voice stroking over me. “That was beautiful. I’d like to see it someday.”
I press my hand to the heat of him. “I’d like you to too.”
He brushes a kiss over my head and wraps his arms around me. “But if I don’t, it feels like I already have.”
My chest pinches and I look up at him, the world feeling wobbly and unreal.
The jasmine scent shifts to lavender, and from the kitchen there’s an insistent beeping.
Aaron drags a finger across my mouth. “I’m falling for you,” he whispers, his voice ragged. “I didn’t know I could fall so hard.”
“Aaron.” I reach up, touching the pads of my fingers to his lips.
The beeping grows louder, more insistent.
He grasps my hand. “This falling—it could wreck me. Tell me you feel it too. Please tell me you?—”
Bright light flashes and I’m wrenched from the garden, out of Aaron’s arms, back into my bedroom in Geneva.
I blink into the morning sunlight at my ringing alarm clock. The pocket watch is heavy and warm in my hand, the second hand frozen in time.
I’m still floating, trying to fall back into reality.
Tell me you feel it, he’d asked.
And I’d left him.
I don’t know what will happen now. I imagine if I don’t land back in the same moment that the Becca in the dream will leave him. She won’t tell him she feels the same. She’ll run.
She’ll leave him in the garden. Alone.
He said he’s falling, that it could wreck him.
In the dream I would’ve told him I feel the same.
But here in Geneva? In the light of my bedroom, the lavender-scented sheets crumpled around me and a day of work and Mila’s camp ahead? It’s reality. It’s real life.
In the harsh line of morning light falling across the bed, I wonder, if I fall, will it wreck me too?
But then I shake my head.
It can’t.
It’s just a dream.
A dream to help me live my life.
That’s all.
And if Aaron is left alone in the garden? It’s not any different than him being left behind when I close the watch back in its wooden box.
When time stops, so does the dream.
With that dispiriting thought, I place the gold watch in its antique box and close the lid.