I don’t know. He was always too worried about me, like he was my father or something. Way too jealous about guys hitting on me. Like what, I’m going to just sleep with anyone? There’s a point where if a guy can’t trust you when you’re out of his sight, then who needs him? Unless he’s nice enough to buy you dinner.” She reached across the table and squeezed Reed’s forearm. “Thank you so much. It’s a treat to be able to dine here.”
“Don’t mention it,” Reed replied.
Sharon giggled. “Then again, maybe I would sleep with him. Depends on the guy.”
“So he was kind of right, right?”
“But him being like that is what pushed me away. And I wasn’t actually sleeping with anyone.”
“It’s jealousy, not envy, that’s one of the cardinal sins,” Clione said. “There’s nothing more destructive in a relationship than jealousy. If he was jealous, it means he didn’t trust you. And that means he isn’t happy with himself.”
“Which is why he’s becoming a lawyer,” Reed said.
All three laughed. Reed was on his fourth glass of wine and the absurdity of the evening’s events were playing out like a little movie in his head. A day before he’d been stumble-drunk beside a sterile resort pool; now he was having a romantic candlelight dinner with two young twenty-somethings, one of whom was the most perfect girl he’d ever met in his life. His heart had fallen a bit when he realized he wasn’t having dinner with just Clione, but he’d gotten over it. In fact, having Sharon as a third wheel took tension away, made him feel more at ease.
All the little coincidences of the past couple days seemed imbued with meaning. The Murakami book, the girls coming to the pool, the orange that the woman had given him—and Clione, her spectacular eyes, her lips…her lips. Wine had made him hungry to kiss them.
The restaurant Clione had picked sat directly on the beach, with wrought-iron tables anchored firmly in powdery, white sand. The Sunflower. A light breeze was coming off the waves, smelling of salt and the sea, but it was not strong enough to blow out the white candles that the chef-owner had lit for them and placed on the starched white linen. Votives lit the sloping walkway from the tiny two-car parking lot, darkness enveloped the tops of the palm trees, their silhouettes like giant feather dusters against the pinpoint patchwork of vivid, pale-blue stars.
“So,” Sharon said. “Clione said your wife left suddenly?”
“We had a fight. Sort of. She’s been busy. Maybe it was me, crazy to think she could pull herself away from her life on the spur of the moment.”
“What happened?”
“Long story.” He told them about the helicopter’s plunge, about how that had triggered the vacation, and how his avoidance of the water had ended up with him finding the book. “Actually, it surprised me that she came. Gave me hope.”
“Was it your fault or hers? That she left.”
Reed shrugged. “Hard to tell. I mean, you should try living with someone for a decade. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”
“She doesn’t appreciate you?”
Reed didn’t know. “We’re trying to figure some things out, I guess.”
Clione was watching him intently, her wine glass in front of her mouth as if she’d blown a giant bubble of transparent gum. “What things?”
“Big things. We’d talked about having kids for years and then talked about adopting and had some appointments set up, and she backed out. I guess she’s not as interested in it as I am. Or she’s scared. Or maybe we both need space. I don’t know. Maybe I pushed too hard on it.” He paused, poured himself another half a glass of wine. “I pushed too hard.”
“Is she pretty?” Sharon said, leaning in.
“She’s the girl that makes every guy’s mouth open when she walks into a room. She might have been a model. Now she’s a newscaster.”
“Wow. The newscaster and the helicopter reporter. It should be so romantic.”
“I know. Kind of stupid of me, right? Me. Letting her go—”
“Not if she makes you lonely.”
He sat back, glanced at Sharon, and then looked at Clione. “I should be devastated. But I’m not. Ask me tomorrow, maybe I’ll be sobbing into my pillow, but right now? Tonight? I’m still in disbelief that I’m having dinner with the two of you.”
“You don’t sound happy with her,” Clione said.
“When you’re with someone that long you don’t just toss in the towel and give up. You want it to work. They’re a part of you.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“It’s not about being happy,” Reed said, suddenly feeling defensive. He reached for the bottle and topped off his glass. “Besides, I’m happy enough.”
“Are you?” said Clione. She stared at him, unflinching. He tried to stare back but quickly dropped his gaze to the wine.
“I think it’s really noble to want to adopt a child,” Sharon said, looking as if she were going to cry. She put her hand out and rubbed Reed on the forearm. “It’ll work out. Things always do.”
“Bullshit they do,” said Clione. “Nothing works out unless you claw your way up a cliff to make it happen. And that includes happiness, too. It doesn’t just happen because you think it should.”
She sounded so bitter that for a few moments nobody had anything to add. Into the silence came the owner of the restaurant, a young Italian in a white apron and chef’s hat, who approached and hovered over them, putting a large hand on each girl’s shoulder.
“Everything to your liking?” he asked. “You must eat now so if storm Wanda hits you’ll not be hungry!”
Clione patted her stomach. Her left hand was tucked in at her side, the napkin resting on the bent fingers, discreetly hiding them. “It was wonderful, just perfect.”
“She’s not kidding,” Sharon said. “Deeeeelish.”
“Bene, bene.” He winked at Reed. “I envy you. A man between two beautiful flowers. You must promise to give me your leftovers.” He winked. “And I do not mean the food.”
“Ew,” Sharon said, after he’d left. “Are there girls out there who actually think, ‘Hey, now that he said that I guess I’m kind of hot for him’?”
“It must work,” Reed said. “Otherwise Italians would have died out long ago.”
The conversation stopped again. They all sipped their wine. Reed caught Clione looking at him over the rim of her glass, and this time he held her glance until she smiled at him.
“So what are you writing?” Reed asked. “I always see you with that book.”
“Don’t ask her that,” Sharon groaned. “It’s like
