but mild morning, perfect walking weather, when Freya mentioned her connection to Low. “I hear my favorite student applied for a job at the store.”
I knew Freya taught pottery classes to a group of seniors. I couldn’t recall anyone from that demographic looking for work.
“Her name is Low Morrison,” Freya elaborated, over the crunch of her expensive hiking boots on the pine needles underfoot. “She’s tall.”
“Oh. Right.” The unique name and stature of the girl instantly sprang to mind. Her résumé still sat alone in my drawer. I’d expected to receive more applications, but the summer hiring pool was small on the sparsely populated island. And I was competing with higher-paying, more dynamic employers like the marina, the kayak rental shop, several restaurants, and two ice cream stores. Apparently, teens were not that keen to stand behind a counter helping gray-haired tourists pick out a soap dish.
“She’s kind of . . . intense,” I said. “I’m not sure a gift shop is the right fit for her.”
“I know she seems odd, but she’s sweet,” Freya said. “And she really wants to work for you.”
“But why?” I had to ask. Low Morrison seemed more suited to a solitary profession—like, working after hours at a grocery store stocking very high shelves.
“She loves ceramics and art in general. And she’s a talented potter,” Freya explained. “And once you get to know her, she’s quite fascinating.”
“Really?” My curiosity was piqued.
“She lives in a sex cult.”
I stopped walking. “Pardon me?”
Freya laughed. “It’s true. We had a few drinks one night and she told me all about it. Her parents are polyamorous. They live on a commune with their lovers and a bunch of goats and chickens.”
In the onslaught of information, I didn’t register Freya’s mention of drinking alcohol with the taciturn teen. “Wow. No wonder she’s so . . . different.”
“She’s not, though,” Freya said. “She’s shy. And she’s been ostracized by the other kids because of her family and her looks. But she’s smart and creative, and she’ll work hard for you. I really think you should give her a chance.”
Freya’s championing of the unusual girl was effective. I felt for Low. And I wanted Freya to see my compassionate side. But I had a business to run. “I’ll think about it,” I promised.
“I actually respect her family’s lifestyle,” Freya continued, as the trail afforded us views of the slate blue ocean. “Sex and love without possessiveness or jealousy? I think it’s admirable.”
“Really?” I prompted. Some would have dismissed Freya’s opinions because of her beauty, her California accent, the fact that she was hiking through the forest wearing overpriced, designer athleisure wear. But she had hidden depths. I loved our philosophical discussions.
“Everyone swaps partners on this island, and then they judge Low’s family for making it official. They’re a bunch of hypocrites.”
The island’s free-love culture was well-known. Brian and I had discussed it before we moved, speculating on how much was real and how much was legend. But it wouldn’t impact us, we knew. We were committed. Solid. Traditional even.
“True,” I mumbled.
“Monogamy is completely unrealistic for some people,” Freya expanded. “I should know. I’m married to a professional athlete who’s hot as fuck.”
Those precise words had run through my mind the first time I met Max Beausoleil. And every time after that. Hot as fuck. It wasn’t just his dark good looks enhanced by a sexy scar running across his lip; or his tall, muscular, athlete’s body. It wasn’t his fame and notoriety. When I met him, he’d been pleasant and engaged, but there was a darkness, a broodiness, a profound sense of tragedy about him. The combination was ridiculously attractive. Even Brian seemed enamored with him. (My husband’s overt fawning was significantly less hot.)
Freya kept going. “Women throw themselves at Max constantly. I’d be naive to think that he never slept with anyone when he was on the road.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
“I honestly didn’t care, as long as he used protection,” she said. “I didn’t want an STD. Or worse, a baby.”
Her comment stung. We had been so desperate for a child and Freya was comparing a baby to a case of herpes. But I hadn’t yet told her about our fertility struggles, or the evaporation of our adoptive child. I was sure she wasn’t being insensitive.
“But Max and I never talked about it,” she continued. “We never said, I love you, but I’m lonely. We’re apart so much, and I have needs.”
“Did you . . . ?” I didn’t