He turned toward me, and I saw my reflection in his sunglasses. “Is everything okay?”
Dean had always been attuned to my moods and emotions. I was my truest self with him, and I felt accepted and loved. Perhaps even worshipped. I knew he would do anything for me. I was his whole world, and he was mine. I was a very lucky woman.
“Everything’s wonderful,” I replied, glancing up at the mainsail and adjusting the wheel slightly. “But I’ve been thinking . . .”
Dean sat forward on the bench and rested his elbows on his knees, attentively.
“You know how we decided that I would go off the pill and we’d see what might happen?”
He nodded.
“Well . . . it’s been three months, and nothing’s happened.”
He nodded again and waited patiently for me to continue.
“We’ve been trying,” I said, “sort of, but not officially. Not actively trying. We’ve just been doing what we usually do.”
“And what is that exactly?” he asked with a sly, playful grin.
I laughed and shook my head at him. “Want me to describe it? Colorfully?”
“I’m game if you are.”
I chuckled and looked up at the mainsail again to check the tension. Everything was perfect. We were cutting through the water on a fast and steady tack.
“I’m wondering if we should try a little harder,” I continued. “I mean . . . I could keep track of my cycle on the calendar and take my temperature so that we know exactly when I’m ovulating.”
“And start scheduling sex?” he asked without judgment. He merely seemed curious.
I made a face. “Yes, but I hate the sound of that. We’ve always been spontaneous, and I love that about us.”
“We could still be spontaneous.”
I was relieved he seemed open to what I was suggesting, but I was still wary of it, myself.
“I have to admit I’m hesitant,” I explained, “because I read an article the other day about a couple who had trouble getting pregnant, and they put too much pressure on themselves. They started booking appointments for sex, and all the fun went out of it. And then they were devastated every month when she got her period. They grew impatient with each other and felt like failures. Then they started IVF, and that was a whole new can of emotional worms. Their marriage was never the same.”
“Did they get pregnant?” Dean asked.
“No. They were still trying. And going to couples’ therapy to fix their relationship.”
“Couples’ therapy . . .” After a pause, he rose from the bench and stood behind me, slid his arms around my waist, and buried his nose in the crook of my neck. “Don’t worry about us. We’re only just getting started. And if you want to get all clinical and start taking your temperature, I could get myself a lab coat. If you’re really good to me, I might even wear it in the bedroom.”
I laughed and turned around to kiss him, knowing he would instinctively take hold of the wheel. We kissed passionately until the mainsail began to flutter in the wind.
“I love you,” I said, then faced forward again before we got stuck in the no-go zone.
“I love you too,” he replied and hopped lightly onto the foredeck to adjust the lines while I steered us back on track. When that was done, he returned to the cockpit and sat down again. “Just out of curiosity, when will you be ovulating next? I want to make sure I’m free that night.”
I smiled. “Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”
Impressed by my organizational skills, he checked his watch. “Well, if we want to get a jump on things, we could make an appointment for tonight. Midnight would count, correct?”
“I suppose, if you look at it that way.”
“And we’d kill two birds with one stone.”
“How so?”
“We’d have a legitimate excuse to make an early escape from your mother’s dinner party.”
I laughed again. “You’re terrible.”
“Guilty as charged.” He sat back, put his feet up on the bench, and raised his face to the sun again. “Take us home, Captain.”
A fresh breeze blew across the deck, and I looked up at the clear blue sky. It was a perfect day. Oh, how I loved my life.
When we arrived home, the red light on the answering machine was blinking. I pressed the button to listen to the messages and kicked off my shoes. “Are you hearing this?” I called out to Dean, who had gone into the washroom. “It’s Richard. He wants you to call him.”
Dean was a pilot who flew private jets in and out of Miami, and Richard was his boss. The clients were often business travelers, always wealthy, sometimes famous. Flying was Dean’s passion, and he loved his work as much as I loved mine. Or at least my idea of it. I had graduated from film school with the intention of becoming a documentarian, but I hadn’t produced anything yet. I just couldn’t seem to find the right subject matter to inspire me, and funding was always an issue.
Dean returned to the kitchen. “Did he say what it was about?”
“No,” I replied. “But he only left the message a few minutes ago. You should give him a call.” I handed Dean the phone, then opened the fridge to grab a can of orange juice. I cracked it open and sat down at the kitchen table. I was thinking about what I should wear to my mother’s house for dinner when I listened in on Dean’s conversation with Richard.
“Tonight?” Dean said. “That’s short notice, isn’t it?” He looked at me, shook his head, and rolled his eyes. But then his expression changed. He perked up a little and turned away from me. “It’s Mike Mitchell? Are you sure Kevin can’t do it? How sick is he?”
My insides turned over with dread. Mike Mitchell was a singer and guitarist who had just broken into the Hollywood scene with a dramatic supporting role in an Oscar-nominated film, and his new album was currently number one on the Billboard charts. He was on the cover of every glossy magazine imaginable. It was not the first time Dean had flown him to his luxurious oceanside retreat in Saint Thomas.
Dean faced me with a sheepish look, a look that was asking my permission to take the job. Or perhaps begging was a more accurate description.
“Let me talk to Olivia about it, and I’ll call you right back.” He hung up the phone.
With a sigh of defeat, I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “Don’t tell me. You want to do it.”
He winced a little, as if he were stepping on broken glass. “I doubt your mother will mind if I’m not there. She’d probably be overjoyed.”
“But I’d mind,” I argued. “I was looking forward to this. I haven’t seen Sarah in ages, and—”
“You can still go,” he said. “And you’ll have more time to visit with her if I’m not there. You won’t have to worry about leaving me alone with your mom.”
I stared at him. “What about afterward? We were going to come home and . . . you know.”
I couldn’t deny that the postponement of our midnight rendezvous was the true root of my disappointment, because lately I’d developed a serious case of baby fever. I hadn’t told Dean about it, but whenever I saw a young mother on the street pushing a baby carriage, an intense longing took hold of me. And when my period arrived last month, I’d cried on the bathroom floor.