Still holding her close, Mack presses his face to hers. He hums for a moment, then sings a line of the familiar song playing on the piano, just one line. He sings it softly, close to her ear.
“I once was lost … but now am found.”
Avery pulls back. “Mack,” she says as they still slow-dance. “I’m sorry about the things I said. About regretting our wedding, about my doubts. I just really got afraid of the pandemic, and of being here alone, and—”
“Shh.” Mack touches her lips. “Shh,” he says again, then lowers his hand to her neck. “Don’t worry, I know.” He raises his other hand and cradles her face. “I know,” he whispers again, then leans in and kisses her. His kiss starts light, their lips just touching.
But when Avery kisses him deeper, there’s a breathy sob in that kiss, too. Or a gasp, maybe. One of surprise, of hope, as she reaches around his waist and holds him close. As the lone piano plays on, their kiss plays on, too—the intimacy of it, the touch of it, as much a part of the summer night as the misty sea, itself.
six
THE COTTAGE IS QUIET FRIDAY morning. Quiet and still. Hushed might be a better word. The white sofa with a blue knitted throw in the living room, and the white-painted shelves covered with blue stoneware in the kitchen, the white walls, the white-brick fireplace—all of it hushed. Paused, waiting for the day to begin.
The bedroom is just as hushed. Pale early sunlight shines through the open window. The whisper of distant lapping waves is the only sound. Avery lies on her side in bed, one arm across Mack’s chest. Her fingers barely move, stroking his skin.
“Do you know what was on our itinerary today, Mack Martinelli?”
Mack kisses the top of her head. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, his eyes closed with sleepiness. “All that matters is what’s on it now.”
“Which is?” she murmurs.
Mack slips his arm beneath her and pulls her even closer. “We’re staying right here, beneath the cool sheet.”
“Mmh.”
“I added a couple of other things to the itinerary, too.”
“You did?”
“I did. First, the sea breeze is to come in right there,” he says, hitching his head to the open window. “And second? Coffee in a little while.”
“In a little while?”
“Yeah.” Mack turns and kisses Avery’s forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “After this.” As he says it, he reaches his hands beneath her satin chemise, gently lifts it off and tosses it aside. Moving on top of her then, he nuzzles her neck, rubs his whiskered face against hers.
Avery smiles, and loops her hands behind his neck. Her fingers tug through his wavy hair; she kisses him slowly, one kiss brief, the next longer. She whispers his name, too, her touch on his shoulders, his bare back, as light as the breeze rising off the distant sea.
* * *
“I thought you didn’t want to sit on a sand chair for seven days,” Mack says on the beach later that morning.
Avery lounges on the low chair beside him. Her seat is partially reclined. Her eyes are closed; her bathing suit still damp after their morning swim; her hair, slicked back. The midmorning sun shines warm on them.
“I’m finding I like sitting on a sand chair, actually,” she admits, turning to Mack and touching his arm. “I’m learning things about myself, being on lockdown like this.”
“Learning things? Like what?”
Avery brings her sand chair back to an upright position. She sits there and looks out at Long Island Sound. The sun drops thousands of sparkles across the rippling blue water. The salty air lifts off the Sound in a light breeze. A brilliant white seagull swoops low against the blue sky. “I’m learning to be in the moment,” she answers. “And to appreciate it. To hold it close. To know … it’s mine.”
“Like this one, now?” Mack asks, tipping his head.
“Yes. And I see something else now, just by being in the moment.”
“Which is …”
“Listen. Do you know that song, Over the Rainbow?”
“Absolutely. Judy Garland sings it.”
“She does. And in one part, she sings about happy bluebirds flying over the rainbow.”
When Avery looks at Mack beside her, he only nods.
“And she questions why she can’t, too,” Avery goes on.
“Why she can’t fly over the rainbow?”
“That’s right.” Avery pulls her knees close and wraps her arms around them, all while looking out at the sea, and the blue sky streaked with wisps of white clouds. Putting on her straw sunhat, she turns to Mack again. “The thing is?” She quiets, and watches that seagull hover on some salty air current.
“What’s the matter?” Mack asks.
Avery shakes her head. “Nothing. It’s just that, with the pandemic hitting so hard, and so many people catching the virus—and getting really sick with it—and with errands and every trip out needing the utmost precaution, and with fear and worry defining our days now?” Avery watches that same gull dip low over the blue water. “It’s just that I feel like I’ve done it. Being here, right here at Hatchett’s Point, during it all. For these fleeting, fleeting days, I’m one of the very few lucky ones who has done it.”
Mack leans closer. “Done what?” he asks.
She gives a sad smile and motions to the sea and sky practically surrounding them. Their view of blue is infinite. “Flown over the rainbow,” she whispers. “And left everything else behind.”
* * *
Back in the cottage later, Mack leans into the bathroom. “Dress up,” he says as Avery towel-dries her hair after a shower.
“Dress up?” Avery stands there in a short robe and wraps the towel around her head. “For what?”
“I’m taking you out to dinner.”
“But nothing’s open.” When she looks over her shoulder, Mack’s gone—walking down the hallway. “Mack?”
“I’m taking you out to the patio,” he calls on his way to the bedroom.
“The patio?” Avery whispers. And whispers again as she’s in the bedroom, too, brushing through the closet.
At the same time, Mack puts on a clean black tee over his rolled-cuff denim shorts. Leather boat shoes next, before he’s headed to the kitchen.
Avery decides on a sleeveless navy eyelet dress—fitted on top and tiered below her waist—the eyelet fabric sweeping practically to her ankles. After blow-drying her hair, she dresses while Mack’s cooking. And she does it again after putting on her dress, then bending to slip on flat sandals. She whispers, “The patio?” That patio is partially visible from the bedroom window, so she gives a look. Outside, a wrought-iron bistro table is set on weathered gray stones; candles are lit on the table; crystal glasses sparkle.
In the kitchen, Mack’s pan-frying salmon fillets, adding salt, pepper and a dash of garlic butter. He stirs risotto, too, while heating sliced carrots. He also lifts his navy blazer off a chairback. After putting the jacket on over his denim shorts and tee, he gives a pat to the satin square tucked into the blazer pocket.