on about love and relationships, which I would far rather be part of, but I can only just hear it.
“Look at the story we studied today,” Booklover is saying, dipping her bread into artichoke dip. “If that’s not about trying again—”
“But they don’t try again,” Author-to-Be interrupts. “That’s it. Finito.”
“I think we have to believe they might reconcile,” chimes in Austen shyly. “Isn’t that what love is—forgiveness?”
“But there’s a limit.” Author-to-Be turns to Dutch. “What about you, Dutch? Are you a forgiving type? Do you believe in second chances?”
My heart leaps at the sound of his name, and I try my hardest to hear what he says above the sound of Metaphor, who’s now droning on about the Italian landscape.
Dutch raises his head from the pepper grinder and shrugs easily. “I don’t know about a forgiving type, but I try to be rational,” he says. “I look at the evidence. There’s a quote I like. ‘When the facts change, I change my mind.’ ”
“ ‘Look at the evidence!’ ” Author-to-Be gives a short laugh. “That’s romantic!”
“That’s just how I am—” Dutch breaks off, and his face suddenly lights up as though he’s spotted someone he knows. “Hey, beautiful.”
My throat seizes up. Beautiful? Who’s beautiful? Who just arrived? His wife? His Italian girlfriend? The waitress he’s somehow already started a relationship with, this afternoon, without my noticing?
Then I see a huge white dog padding through the garden, weaving its way between the giant terra-cotta pots. Dutch holds out his hand invitingly and the dog makes straight for him, as though it knows, out of all of us, Dutch is the guy to choose.
Scribe is saying something to me, but I can’t hear. I’m gripped by the sight of Dutch. He’s talking to the dog, coaxing it, stroking it, smiling down at it, ignoring everyone else. I know it when I see it: He doesn’t just like dogs, he loves dogs. As the dog puts a paw playfully up to him, Dutch throws back his head and laughs, in such a natural, engaging way that I feel another tug at my heart.
Now Metaphor’s trying to get my attention, but I’m deaf to anything but Dutch. And as I watch him…his strong, muscled arms…candlelight flickering on his face…his easy smile…I feel as if I’m floating. My heart is bursting with hope and exhilaration.
As though he’s reading my mind, Dutch lifts his head and looks at me for a few seconds. He smiles as though he’s trying to say something, and I find myself nodding and smiling back as though I understand, my heart going hippity-hop in my chest.
I feel about sixteen right now.
No. Younger. When did I have my first ever mammoth crush? That age.
Then a waiter comes up to take Dutch’s plate, he looks away, and the moment’s over. Reluctantly, I turn my attention to my neighbors and force myself to listen to what Metaphor’s saying about some Booker Prize winner. But all the while, my thoughts are turning over and over.
What if…? I mean, what if…? He’s handsome. Positive. Thoughtful. Good with his hands. And, oh my God, he loves dogs.
Four
By the next evening, my heart has hipped and hopped all over the place. I’m getting ready for supper, staring at myself in the tiny cracked mirror in my room (everything here is old and picturesque), unable to think about anything except: What are my chances?
I’m slightly wishing I looked more Italian right now. All the Italian staff at the retreat have such glossy dark hair and smooth olive skin, whereas my skin freckles in the sun. I’m what they call “fine-featured,” which can seem like an asset until you see a luscious nineteen-year-old girl with blunt bobbed hair and a snub nose and rounded, dimpled shoulders—
No. Stop it. I shake my head impatiently to clear my thoughts. Nell would say I’m being a moron. She would have no time for this. At the thought of Nell, I automatically think of Harold—and before I can stop myself, I’m summoning up the Harold folder on my computer.
Scrolling through photos of him calms my heart a little. Harold. Beloved Harold. Just seeing his bright, intelligent face makes me smile, although even the video of him trying to get into the laundry basket can’t fix all my problems. As I shut the folder down, I’m still twitchy and uncertain. It’s been that kind of day.
The morning session was a blur. While all the other participants discussed their writing goals and made studious notes on