I don’t know what I was looking for. What I did know was that I wasn’t going to find it in Ralph. The evening ended on a sour note when Ralph asked me out again. When I refused, I was then obliged to tell him why. Were all men this dense? Really?
I felt Dana’s eyes on me, and from her look I could see that she was debating if she should say anything or not. Frankly, I didn’t want to talk about Ralph or Mark or anyone else. I helped her decide by getting on the bike, leaning forward to brace my forearms against the handlebars, and said, “You ready to get this show on the road?”
“Ready,” Dana returned.
And so was the rest of the class.
We were off, wheels spinning, heads and shoulders forward, intent on working our hearts to the point of imploding in order to stay healthy and live longer. It didn’t make sense to me, but what do I know? I did it. I had a love/hate relationship with it, and afterward I was glad I’d made the effort.
I wiped the sweat off my face with a towel and let out a deep sigh.
“Are we to Paris yet?” I asked. As incentive, Dana and I had been adding our miles up for the last six months, mentally biking our way to Europe. Dana, who was naturally athletic, was miles ahead of me. I was no quitter, and while she might make it to Paris before me, I preferred to laze away in the imaginary French countryside, sampling freshly baked bread with cheese and a lovely bottle of red wine.
“We’re almost there,” Dana assured me.
I didn’t believe her for a minute. “See you Wednesday,” I said on my way out the door.
“Wednesday,” she called after me. “If not before.”
When she got a free minute, which wasn’t often, Dana stopped by the inn for tea and talk. I enjoyed her visits and was glad to have a friend who understood me.
I looked forward to my shower and sitting on the porch. We’d been having a beautiful spring to this point. The weather was unusually warm and sunny for Seattle. My mind was occupied with what I would make for dinner. I tended to eat a lot of salads, mainly because they were fast and easy.
On the way into the house I stopped at the mailbox. Inside were a couple flyers, a food magazine—I’d taken to reading those like novels—and naturally a couple bills. I laid the mail down on the kitchen countertop and went in for my shower.
Rover had forgiven me now that I was back. He cocked his head and stared at me.
“You’ve already had your walk for the day,” I reminded him. I spoiled him terribly, and he appeared to have our roles reversed. I had to remind him every now and again that I was the one in charge, not him. Okay, I’ll admit it, I hadn’t been all that successful.
After my shower I felt worlds better, and seeing that it was a bit early for dinner, I decided to take my food magazine out on the porch, bask in the sunshine, and relax. After the workout I’d just had, I needed it.
I poured myself a glass of iced tea and took it outside with me. Plopping myself down on a white wicker chair, I set my feet on the ottoman. Because I sat in exactly this same spot so often, I nearly overlooked appreciating the view. The cove stretched out below, the marina thick with boats of every size bobbing on the surface. The peaks of the Olympic mountain range poked against a radiant blue sky. After I let myself be mesmerized by the view, I flipped open my magazine.
That’s when it happened.
A postcard with a foreign stamp fell out from between the pages.
Not just any postcard.
Although he didn’t sign his name, I knew it was from Mark.
Enjoying Jeddah Beach Swim Reef.
Bad connection. No ANDC
Lost suitcase okay, but mine is badly damaged, making its way home.
Love you.
I’m not the suave muscle-bound hero romance novels are written about. I’ve always been on the lean side. In high school I was known as String Bean, for obvious reasons. I bulked up in my twenties but remained tall and thin. As far as I can tell from careful study of my mirrored reflection, I’m not handsome. Not that I pay all that close attention to my looks. I am who I am. I don’t mean to be crass