hot humid months doing what all the other local teenagers did, namely working hard to make money for the winter. She had three jobs, one of which included bussing tables at a seafood restaurant.
She was clearing one of the tables on the sunny deck, counting the hours until she could go home, when a man strolled up to the takeout window.
Something about the way he moved caught her attention. He had a quiet way about him, an understated confidence that was lacking in many of the boys her age who were wrestling awkwardly with their own identity.
He was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt and his cap was pulled down over his eyes.
As he pulled a sheaf of notes out of his pocket, his gaze settled on Lauren.
She had long legs and blond hair. She was used to boys looking at her. They’d reached an age where everything was about sex, who had “done it” and who hadn’t.
All her closest friends were having sex and boasting of their experiences. Cassie had lost her virginity in a field near Chilmark and had to explain away poison oak to her parents. Kelly’s first experience had been on the hood of her dad’s Cadillac in a deserted parking lot.
Because she didn’t want to expose her most private fears, Lauren pretended she’d had sex, too. She doubted she was the only one, but her reasons for holding off were probably different from most.
She was afraid she might have a phobia. The thought of sex made her heart race and her palms grow sweaty. That wasn’t normal, was it? It was all the other girls talked about, so she assumed it was supposed to be exciting, not terrifying.
Because she didn’t trust her reactions, there was no way she was experimenting with anyone from her school. What if she freaked out and humiliated herself? It would be all over the island in hours that Lauren Stewart was frigid.
This man was different. He was older for a start, and a stranger. Definitely not a Vineyarder. Nor did he look like a tourist. His fingers were stained with oil and his work boots were scuffed. A seasonal worker, she decided, and wondered why her brain was asking a thousand questions about him.
She had no idea how long the moment would have lasted or what might have been the outcome because her imagination chose that moment to conjure up a disturbingly vivid image of what it might be like to be kissed by him. It was real enough to knock the air from her lungs and trigger a curl of heat low in her belly, a reaction she’d never had before. As a result, she stumbled into a chair and knocked over a bottle of beer.
Her face burned with humiliation and by the time she’d cleared up the mess and dared to glance over in his direction, he was gone.
He hadn’t smiled at her or nodded. Hadn’t acknowledged her in any way. But she knew that if someone had asked him, he would have been able to describe her in detail.
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified to discover she was in fact capable of experiencing the same feelings as her peers.
Until she’d laid eyes on the unsmiling man in black, she hadn’t felt an urge to find out if she really did have a problem. She’d even wondered if she’d go through life without ever having sex.
But suddenly it was all she could think about.
She was still working out how to discreetly discover his identity when she saw him again.
She’d crept out of the house late at night and gone for a walk on the beach.
There was only one other person there, and she’d known even from a distance that it was him.
She’d had a choice to make. She could step forward, or she could step back.
“THANK YOU ALL for being here.” Her voice echoed around the cavernous space.
A week before she’d been planning Ed’s birthday party. Now she was speaking at his funeral.
She focused on the stained-glass window at the back of the church because that was easier than staring at the people seated in rows. It was bitterly cold. Lauren couldn’t stop shivering.
The night of the birthday party was a blur in her mind. She remembered the police stepping into the house, the sound of Gwen wailing, gawping guests slinking from the house muttering condolences instead of birthday greetings.
And now she was supposed to say something meaningful when none of it held any meaning.
“I first met Ed when I was eighteen and I knew right away that he was the perfect man for me.”
That was true, wasn’t it? The fact that there was one box he didn’t tick on the list of ideal attributes for a life partner didn’t mean he wasn’t perfect.
“We met by chance on the beach in Martha’s Vineyard where I grew up, and we immediately had a connection.”
I was crying. Ed was drunk.
We were both brokenhearted.
Both of us in love, but not with each other.
Choices, she’d discovered, had consequences.
She stared hard at the floor, terrified that her sleep-deprived brain might confuse her speech with her thoughts. What if she made a mistake and said the wrong thing aloud?
What if, for once in her life, she told the truth?
“Ed and I knew we were going to be together forever.” Except that Ed had broken that promise and died. Why? He watched his weight and exercised. People like him didn’t die slumped over their desks. She felt cheated. Angry. Devastated. It took a sob from someone in the front row to remind her she was supposed to be talking. “It was romantic.”
It hadn’t been romantic at all.
It had been practical. Sensible. A decision made by two people who favored planning over impulse.
She stared at the extravagant display of lilies at the back of the church and knew she’d never be able to have lilies in the house again.
“Ed proposed to me on the beach at sunset.”
There were murmurs of approval and sympathy from the mourners who were listening avidly. She wondered what they’d say if she told them the truth.
There had been no proposal. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word.
Ed had flung an arm round her.
You’re in trouble. I’m in trouble. We both chose badly, which is what happens when you let your emotions make decisions. Let’s get married. I like you. You like me. That’s a better basis for marriage than love. Love is for poets and artists. Getting married because of love is like building your house on quicksand. You never know when the whole thing is going to collapse.
She hadn’t been able to disagree with that.
She’d been emotionally numb and frightened about the future.
Lauren remembered Ed hugging her, telling her it was going to be okay, that they’d
