“She never really bonded. The dog kept jumping up on her, licking her face. She didn’t like that.”
“Perhaps”—Cara wiggled her brows in amusement—“you were right. She was too young for a pet.”
“As long as you’re sure.” Linnea’s smile was wistful. “I don’t think I could give Luna back if she stays.”
“She’s all yours.”
“Really?” Linnea was taken aback. The pricy, pedigreed dog was an extravagant gift. “I was hoping for maybe a discounted price. That I could pay off in time.”
“Don’t be silly.” Cara put up her hand. “And if you try to thank me, I’ll change my mind.”
Linnea put her hands to her cheeks. “Sorry. I have to. Thank you!”
“I’ll have the papers signed over to you. Sometimes life has a way of sorting things out for the best. I was trying to think of a gift to give you for all your care of Hope, and one materialized all on its own.”
“I confess, I’ve grown quite attached to Luna.”
They smiled at each other, aunt and niece, but more, two friends who could count on one another when the chips were down. That, Linnea knew, was the true gift.
Linnea looked at Cara in her cherry-red wind jacket, her dark, glossy hair held back by a navy and white scarf, her freshly scrubbed, smashing face. So strong. Vital. Another gust of wind sent Cara hurrying around to the passenger door.
“Take care, Sweet-tea!” she called, then climbed in.
A moment later the great engine sparked to life, and Linnea stepped forward to tap on the car’s back window. She gave a final wave at Hope. The girl sat beaming in the backseat, thrilled to be going home. She returned a quick wave before turning her head to look up one last time at John’s second-floor window. Just in case.
* * *
THREE DAYS LATER, the weather shifted again. A blustery wind rattled the windows, sending the palm fronds scratching at the windows. Both she and Anna had retired to their rooms after an early dinner of comforting lentil soup, Gouda cheese, and chunks of sourdough bread. Linnea was exhausted. No child to feed or put to bed or worry about. Bliss. Linnea nestled in the big four-poster bed under the down comforter with Luna cuddled beside her. The puppy was always at her side now, seemingly relieved to no longer have to dodge the grasp of a six-year-old.
In her lap was her phone, waiting for Gordon’s call. Also, another letter from John. Although Hope was gone, John had continued leaving poetry for Linnea in her mailbox. They saw each other from time to time, waved, asked about each other’s health, commented on the weather and other such banalities. But in these letters, John’s poetry selections spoke of stronger, more passionate feelings. She reread the poem from Hafiz.
Don’t surrender your loneliness
So quickly.
Let it cut more deep.
Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.
Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My voice
So tender,
My need of God
Absolutely
Clear.
She thought she knew everything about John. They’d shared poetry when they’d dated. But in San Francisco, he’d gotten too caught up in his own world of work, going out for business meals to which she wasn’t invited. Perhaps, too, once living together, rather than getting closer, he had put up a wall to keep a part of himself—the tender, vulnerable part—separate.
The phone rang, and her thoughts quickly shifted gears. Picking up her phone, she saw Gordon’s name pop up. Must get John out of my head, she ordered herself as she sat up straighter. Luna rose and looked at her, alert, as if questioning what had happened to their serene evening. Linnea smoothed her hair, put a smile on her face, and pushed the accept button for FaceTime.
“Gordon!” she exclaimed when she saw his face appear on the screen. His red hair was longer, unkempt, curls trailing down the sides of his chiseled face. He looked tired; there was a five-o’clock shadow around his jaw. It was near midnight in England. Gordon never called at any particular time; so much depended on his teaching schedule or if he was out doing research. Recently he’d been conducting studies on gray seals along the Cornish coastline.
“Linnea. Are you in bed?” he asked, amused. “It’s only seven o’clock there.”
She smiled, loving his accent, his face. She leaned back against the pillows. “It’s a blustery night and I thought I’d cuddle up in bed.”
“Sounds inviting.”
“Too bad you’re not here.”
Gordon offered one of his crooked smiles, the one that melted her every time she saw it. It always made her think he knew some private joke he was going to share with her.
“I wish I were. God, seeing you lying there, alone in bed…” He paused. “Not fair. Shouldn’t be allowed by international law.”
“Should I get up?” she teased. “Move to the kitchen?”
“No. I’ve got the bed in my mind. Don’t ruin it.”
“I hope you’re not going to suggest we get naughty,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to… but if you insist.”
“No!” she said, then laughed and reached again for her cup of tea. “Besides, I’d need something much stronger than this glass of herbal tea.”
“No, it’s not a good idea,” Gordon agreed. “One reason being it’s bloody freezing here. The wet seems to go right to the skin. The seals…” He laughed. “They’ve got that blubber to keep them warm. If I could invent a self-generating heating system like they have, I’d be rich.”
“What’s the station you’re staying at like? Warm, I hope.”
“It’s primitive. There’s this ancient heater and a wood-burning stove that seems to be letting cold air in more than warming anything. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere—and it’s rained every day. I can’t keep my sodding socks dry,” he added before taking another swallow of his drink. “It was warmer on the boat. And let me tell you, the wind was brutal.”
“Poor baby.”
He snorted and shook his head. “I really do miss you, Lin. Miss being in bed with you. Brings back memories. Lots of memories.”
She looked at her tea and smiled, remembering too.
He asked, “So, if we’re not going to be talking dirty to one another, what do you want to talk about?”
“Your work. I’m always fascinated. What are you learning?”
He smiled at her answer. She knew that their shared passion for marine life was one of the bonds that united them.
“Well,” he began, collecting his thoughts. “We’re trying to follow up on last year’s study.…”
She listened closely. The previous summer, Gordon had come to Charleston to continue research on the landmark study he’d participated in along the Cornish coast. They had examined fifty animals, from ten species of dolphins, seals, and whales and found microplastics in them all.
“We need to know how the fish are getting the microplastics,” he said. “Is it directly from the water or from their prey? This would mean that the plastics are transferred through the food chain.”