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I give her a grim shake of my head. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to stay behind at the house.”
She appears wounded. “Seriously?”
I chuckle. “I’m just kidding. You can leave your sandals on the dock and go barefoot.”
The kids return with their life jackets, and we migrate out to the dock. After lowering the boat, I help everyone onboard, and they resume their positions from our previous outing with the kids up front and a barefoot Julia beside me.
“Where to?” I call out to my four passengers as I ease away from the dock.
“The ocean,” they respond in unison.
“All right. Hang on while I speed up,” I say and slowly press the throttles forward.
My eyes are on Julia when the wind lifts the hem of her short dress. I catch a glimpse of her black lacy panties and have to cross my legs to hide my excitement. Casting an uncertain glance in my direction, she clambers onto the leaning post and tucks her dress between her legs.
What is wrong with me? How could I possibly be attracted to another woman so soon after my wife’s death? Am I that shallow? Or were there worse problems in my marriage than I realized? I loved my wife, but I’m willing to admit I may not have been in love with her. Until now, I thought true love was a myth. I’m not suggesting I’m in love with Julia. We hardly know each other. But something about her moves me the way no other woman has.
NINETEEN
JULIA
Exhilarating is the word I’ll use when writing about my boat ride experience in the ocean. Puffy white clouds hang low in the late afternoon sky, and the water is smooth as glass stretching beyond the horizon.
“Where would we end up if we kept heading east?” I ask Will.
“Somewhere in Africa depending on the ocean’s currents. But we don’t have the proper provisions for such a trip,” he says with mischief in his blue eyes.
I give him a gentle shove. “Duh.”
The boat glides over the swells as we cruise along the shoreline. The children are ecstatic when a school of porpoises appears, jumping and diving alongside us. They rush to the side of the boat, hanging over the bow, to watch them.
“They’re not in danger of falling over, are they?” I ask Will.
“They’re fine. We’re barely moving,” he says, but calls out to them to be careful.
After the porpoises have swum on, Will puts the boat back in gear and we ride slowly along the coast. I spot our small yellow cottage, nestled among the mammoth beach houses, and point it out to the others. “Look. There’s our cottage.”
“I’ll try to get in for a better view,” Will says and noses the boat up as close to the beach as he dare.
I’m snapping pictures with my phone when I notice a flicker of movement inside the cottage. Is someone in my house? I shield my eyes and squint, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. Must have been the late-day sun playing tricks on my eyes.
I’m unaware Will is watching me until he asks, “Is something wrong?”
“Nope. Just looking to see if I remembered to leave lights on.”
We continue south to the Sandy Island Club, a sprawling complex with a terrace-wrapped clubhouse, swimming pools, and tennis courts. On the way home, I’m once again in awe of the Mathesons’ contemporary home and grounds on the northern tip of the island.
“What’s the view like from inside the house?” I ask Will.
“Impossible to describe. With so many windows, it’s like being inside a glass bubble and looking out in every direction around you. Maybe one day I’ll sneak you in for a quick tour.”
I smile at him. “I would love that.”
By the time we arrive back at Marsh Point, the children are complaining of starvation. Will and I prepare dinner together as though we’ve done it hundreds of times before. We dine at the table on the veranda, and while we eat, the kids discuss what movie they’d like to watch afterward.
“Can Buddy and Miss Julia spend the night?” Caroline asks.
Will doesn’t hesitate. “Sure! If they want. We have two spare rooms.”
