a backpack that held a thick chunk of Irish Cheddar, a soft Brie, two kinds of sausage and a long loaf of bread he had purchased, still warm, from the City Bakery on Eighteenth Street. He also brought a cold bottle of fine pink champagne. A colleague had given it to him after his commercial for a new electric car had won a Clio, his third win.
There was also a change of clothes and a blanket to sit on. And the promise of a sunny day.
Allison was on the porch when he drove up. She held two clamming rakes, carried a metal pail, and wore a sweatshirt and cut-off jeans. Despite the casualness of her attire, she looked to him like Hippolyta personified.
He loved that she was tall. At six feet three, he had spent his high-school years bending over to try to kiss a girl. While he hadn’t yet held her, Mike knew they would fit together perfectly.
Allison took him to her secret clamming spot, a rocky outcropping about ten feet from shore. It wasn’t visible when the tide was in, but when the tide was out you could walk there without getting wet.
‘When it turns,’ she warned, ‘you need to get out very quickly before the rocks are covered in water. Because if they’re covered with water, we will be too.’
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