Jasper pulls two sun loungers out onto the cabin deck. Then on a table between us lays out all the food he’s brought.
“So, do you bring all your dates out here?” I ask.
“Hardly,” Jasper says, wrinkling his nose. “I rarely meet anyone I want to meet for a drink, let alone bring to my favorite place in the whole world.”
“Well, aren’t I the lucky one,” I say, feeling as though I’m reciting lines from some flirtatious play.
“A lot of people our age move away from the island,” Jasper says. “Of the girls who are left, I went to school with most of them, and the rest I’m related to. Small pond.”
“And you’re a big fish, are you?” I say, pushing my tongue into my cheek.
Jasper reaches out to take my hand in his.
“Well, I’m not a small fish,” he says, raising his eyebrows up and down suggestively, and I can’t help but laugh. “Right, Laura, are you going to confess what this real cabin fantasy of yours is, or am I going to have to wrestle it out of you?”
4 November 1991
Alex,
It is over then, is it? Done with. Finished. Everything you said to me this summer, forgotten? I loved you with every particle of my soul, Al, as you did me, and now you try to dismiss it as a short-term fling? Where is the man I loved? He would not be so cavalier with another’s heart. Enjoy the Greek islands; I hope your boat sinks.
I am keeping the baby.
Annie
PS I enclose your half of the coin. The other half is mine, I found it and I paid for it. You wouldn’t have known this piece still existed if it wasn’t for me. It is now as much a part of my family history as it is yours, so I am keeping it for our child. Nice to know you care more about holding on to a piece of metal than a living, breathing human.
Chapter 21
I end up telling Jasper about the Scrabble game and the wood chopping. He’s flirting with me, the sun is shining, and the rosé tastes delicious. Somehow sharing my childish fantasy feels part of the script for this ideal date we’re on. Jasper claps his hands together, as though accepting the challenge to make my fantasy a reality. There is only pre-chopped wood for the cabin’s log burner and no ax, so he ends up trying to hack at pieces of kindling with a bread knife, all whilst shirtless and trying to flex his abs in my direction. His performance makes me cry with laughter, though it is the least erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Right, Scrabble. Unusual, but I like a girl with highbrow sexual interests. I think we have a set somewhere,” he says.
With his shirt still unbuttoned, Jasper searches the depths of a dusty games chest, and manages to find an old travel Scrabble at the bottom. He sets up the board on the driftwood coffee table.
I don’t know where I got the idea that playing board games was sexy in any way. In my fantasy, I’d lay down some brilliant word like “quixotic” or “oxyphenbutazone,” and the man I’m with would instantly fall in love with my brain as well as my body. In reality, I keep picking out Ps and can’t put down anything more impressive than “pop,” “pip,” or “pap” (which Jasper says is slang, so I can’t even have). After the fourth time Jasper asks, “Is this turning you on yet?” I upend the board in faux petulance. He catches my gaze with his, his eyes growing wide, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk, and then he leans in toward me.
“Is this OK?” he says in a low whisper, our faces inches apart.
I nod.
Jasper presses his lips to mine, one hand reaching up to cup my face. His lips are warm and soft; it’s a good kiss, the right balance of assertive but respectful. Would I have movie sex with Jasper, I wonder? There’s something slightly schoolboyish about him: his public-school brand of humor, the brown deck shoes—I’m not sure how wild a man who wears deck shoes would ever be in bed. All of these thoughts run through my mind during our kiss. I cannot believe how well this is all going. He’s making me laugh, he’s got a great body (that wasn’t on my list, but it doesn’t hurt), he’s got impeccable taste in clothes, wine, and pâtés. That salmon and dill one was delicious; I’m definitely going to look that up when I get home.
“Well, you were right about the Scrabble,” Jasper says, finally pulling away. I make a humming laugh noise and berate myself for thinking about salmon and dill pâté for most of the time I was kissing him.
Jasper stands up, then helps me up from the rug and leads me over to a small wooden bookshelf built into a corner of the cabin.
“What I love most about coming out here is no TV, no Wi-Fi. My parents used to ban us from bringing phones. We’d just read and eat and swim. I credit this place with why I’ve read most of the classics.” He pauses. “Tell me again about why you love To Kill a Mockingbird so much.”
The bookshelf is filled with beautiful worn editions of Penguin Classics. Most of the men I’ve dated in the last few years didn’t read much, or if they did, it was crime novels or nonfiction. I bet Ted reads crime novels. I pause at Jasper’s question, unsure how truthful to be, not wanting to upset the fun, flirty tone of the date by talking about anything too serious. But then, I do want to see if there is a deeper side to Jasper; that’s a box that needs ticking too.
“My dad died when I was three, and my mum kept a few of his favorite books for me, the ones he reread again and again,” I say, running my finger along the spines on the shelf. “Reading the books he loved, the stories he valued enough to hold on to—Robinson Crusoe, The Count of Monte Cristo, The Catcher in the Rye—felt like learning something new about him.”
Jasper nods, encouraging me to keep talking.
“Even though I don’t remember my dad, Scout and Atticus feel like mutual friends. I know that sounds silly.”
“It doesn’t at all,” says Jasper, pulling a book from the shelf and showing me the cover: P. G. Wodehouse. “I lost my father too, several years ago. He was a lot older than my mother.” My mind jumps to Maude. She is a widow, she’s not cheating on anyone; at least that’s something off my conscience. “I remember him reading us Jeeves and Wooster books on car journeys through France. It’s my favorite memory of him: his voice, reading those stories. I certainly consider Jeeves and Wooster to be friends of the family.”
He looks across at me and our eyes meet, and for the first time I see a glimpse of the more serious, contemplative side of Jasper, beyond the boyish humor.
“I don’t want to wait as long as he did to have children. I’d like to be a young dad—to have the energy to kick a ball around with my kids.”
He reaches out and starts circling a finger down my back. It tickles slightly, and I arch my spine in response. Then my phone starts ringing, and I immediately look around for my bag.