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SANTORINI, GREECE

THE NEXT MORNING

NATALIA

Whoever came up with the phrase “My cup runneth over” must’ve had servants to clean the mess. Wouldn’t it make more sense for one’s cup to runneth just shy of the top? Full, but not so full that the slightest false move threatens disaster?

I can’t help thinking this in the shower this morning after having tumbled into bed with Klaus last night… more than a year after our first time. It’s been fourteen long months of anger, forgiveness, flirting, struggling, longing, and resentment. What a journey.

Is this really the destination, or… just a detour on the way to somewhere else?

The sex was epic and creative. We barely slept. I wonder if he was thinking the same thing I was when we’d roll together—sleepy and eager, if a little sore—again and again: If we stay in this bed, it only counts as once, and we don’t have to think about whether this is a terrible idea.

Everything was perfect. Weirdly so. Klaus and I were easy, tender, and effortlessly communicative, in everything from the (did I mention amazing ?) sex to how we casually arranged our bodies in sleep, curled together as naturally as if we’d been doing it forever.

My happiness when I opened my eyes was “runneth over” full.

Followed by panic by the time my feet touched the cool tile floor beside the bed.

I’ve retreated to the guest room rather than showering in his en suite, because I need time to think. As I gingerly glide basil-peach scented soap over my aching girl bits, I outline my morning.

First, I need to reply to what will certainly be a stern email from Nefeli, responding to the angry one I jabbed out on my phone in the airport parking lot last night.

Then I have to tell Klaus this either has to be completely discreet or…

can’t happen again. No way can we “date” openly.

Nefeli would be appalled at my lack of professionalism.

Anxiety drums in the back of my mind like approaching hoofbeats, warning, This will tank your journalistic objectivity, just like last year. How did you not learn your lesson?

I can’t let myself ignore the murmurs about the E-20’s startling design similarities to Allonby’s car—it has to be addressed. Other publications absolutely will talk about it. There’s also the matter of having seen with my own eyes that Emerald is courting Sage Sikora. That’s big news.

I’m worried that Elena, the housekeeper, might know what Klaus and I got up to last night.

I twist my hair into a professional-looking, severe chignon and choose my most sensible skirt-suit before heading into the main part of the house, as if looking faultlessly prim will somehow make up for any lusty caterwauling she might have heard.

Klaus isn’t in the living room or on the patio, so I brave the kitchen—Elena’s domain. She’s cleaning the oven, her bony behind wagging side to side in a slate-gray pinafore dress as she vigorously scrubs.

Clearing my throat seems bossy, but I don’t want to startle her, so instead I try a kind of sighing yawn.

Apparently this is the wrong thing, based on the critical look she delivers when she stands and rotates.

Her gaze rakes me as if to say, I’ll just bet you’re tired after the night you had, tramp.

“Have you seen… um, Mr. Franke?” I ask with false brightness.

“He is in the garden. Talking to Sofia.” There’s malicious mirth, maybe even a hint of victory, in her eyes.

Sofia his dead wife? No, it must be a common name here. The gardener?

Stepping toward the counter, I open a hand at the coffee maker. “May I?”

“Certainly. There are breakfast selections on the dining room table. Help yourself.”

It sounded like there was a double meaning in the way she said, Help yourself. As in, You clearly need professional help, you walking disaster area…

She inserts her upper half into the huge oven again, and I flash on the part in Hansel and Gretel when the children shove the witch into the stove and slam it shut.

I pour a cup of coffee and splash in some almond milk, then go to the table to peruse the offerings: fresh fruit, squares of thick flatbread studded with vegetables, something that looks like doughnut holes glazed with lemony syrup.

I peek toward the kitchen before plucking up a fried dough ball and popping it into my mouth whole, then walking outside.

The angle of light in the garden touches me with a blend of chill shadow and golden warmth as I stroll the path, inspecting the flowers and trees.

Behind the cottage I spot Klaus on the other side of a fountain, sitting on a brick semicircle abutting a natural rock cliff, where a statue of Aphrodite is featured.

I quiet my steps in my high heels, reading his posture, worried what I’ll see when he turns.

With a pang of sorrow, I acknowledge to myself that I should be relieved if he’s regretful about last night.

Because really, has anything changed? Of course not.

What happened owed only to proximity—a powder keg of hormones and a spark of heartache detonated and propelled us into each other’s arms.

The obstacles that were there last summer haven’t gone away , I remind myself.

As I draw closer, I notice items at the base of the statue—an orange, a lemon, a few figs, a long gray feather, a cluster of pink bougainvillea.

Ah. So this is what Elena meant by “talking to Sofia”—it is his wife.

What’s he telling her? I apologize for taking another woman to our bed? I miss you? She’ll never replace what we had?

It’s not my finest moment, the surge of competitiveness that rises in me.

Twenty feet ago I half hoped Klaus would suggest we forget last night; it’s the sensible thing to do.

But seeing the way his hand lies open on the sunlit brick, fingers fanned out as if he’s grasping its warmth…

part of me wants him to need me as much as he seems to still need her .

I stop, fingers curling hard on the coffee mug as I chastise myself. Stop it this instant, Nat. You know what you’re doing—this is well-trod ground.

My “Smart Girl Achilles Heel”: angsty men. The only thing saving me in this case is that Klaus hasn’t sniffed out my weakness to exploit it deliberately.

Plenty of them have. In grad school I had a boyfriend named Chris who clocked my susceptibility in this respect and manufactured an entire “tragic childhood” with a monstrous stepfather.

Any time it seemed I might slip through his fingers, he doled out fresh details, like someone feeding quarters into a Laundromat dryer.

My tender heart had wept for the terrified child he’d been…

right up until I discovered he’d never had a stepfather.

After that, I got more skilled with fact-checking—a talent that’s helped enormously in journalism. Unfortunately, it hasn’t made me less emotionally vulnerable to a sob story.

I’m poised to pivot and walk back to the cottage and give Klaus his space when he turns and catches me staring.

Forcing a smile, I head his way, lifting a hand in greeting and settling on the brick ledge.

I place my mug between us so he can’t scoot closer…

but I’m still disappointed when he doesn’t try.

I peruse the collection of objects around the statue. “I wouldn’t have guessed you’re superstitious,” I tease. “Offerings to the goddess for a successful race season?”

He gives one of her stony sandaled feet a pat. “She’s impartial. Bestowing neither blessing nor censure for any of my mortal deeds.”

And there we have it. The look on his face says it all.

The statue isn’t Aphrodite to him. I know it’s Sofia who gets fruit and flowers, Sofia he turns to in moments of struggle, Sofia who will reign over the garden of Klaus Franke’s heart. Like this sculpted white marble, her presence will endure, silent and cool, unchanging, unquestioned.

I’ve been so focused on the possible danger to my career that I’ve conveniently forgotten the other critical reason I shouldn’t touch Klaus with a bargepole: He’ll never stop grieving. He’s all but integrated it as part of his identity.

I flick a fingernail against the side of my coffee mug, tapping out a bell-like rhythm, unable to meet his eyes. “So, we should consider last night to have been an ‘oopsie,’ right? A one-off. Back to business now?”

“No.”

I look up, startled. “What?”

“I hoped we might at last be on the right path with each other.” He draws aside the high neck of my blouse. One eyebrow lifts. “Though I see you’ve retired the necklace again.”

“It was—” I put one hand against my neck. “Y-yes,” I falter.

He stands, sinking both hands into his trouser pockets and glaring down at me. “Merely a useful toy for the fantasy?”

“Klaus.” I hold out a hand for him to take, which he does after enough of a pause to make me feel it. “Don’t be like that. We needed last night. And I’m not actually saying that it can’t… happen again. Casually. But I won’t date you.”

His hand drops away. Our silence stretches, punctuated by the ocean’s susurration and the intermittent questioning tweeps of birds.

“Last summer,” he says, “you seemed willing to take a chance on us.”

“I wanted very much to try. I won’t deny it.”

I’m dying to blurt it out: Part of me still wants to try, more than anything… but I force the words down. They move through me with a crawling, painful heaviness, like a bite of bread swallowed too quickly. I wait until the feeling is bearable.

He scowls at the ground. One dark lock falls from his widow’s peak hairline in a mussed arc. “I damaged your trust. I offer this not as an excuse for my clumsy words and coldness that night in Montréal, but as an explanation: It was the day after Edward Morgan told me his illness was terminal.”

I place a shaky hand over my mouth, then pull it away. “Oh God.”

“The helplessness, knowing I would go through it once more, after”—his eyes flick to the statue—“after Sofia… I was feeling all but cursed. The thought of being that vulnerable ever again, of life being just a series of painful goodbyes…” With a sigh, he sits back down.

“It was bad timing when you asked what I wanted from you. There was no way I could express it, with a war raging inside me. When you walked out, I told myself it was for the best.” His eyes lock with mine.

“I was wrong. And I’ve regretted it every day since. ”

My erratic heart drums in my ears, and I look away first. I’m relieved, elated… but also terrified. Aren’t these the words you’ve been waiting for? I ask myself. You’re both scarred by loss, afraid of people leaving. But Klaus is willing to try. Why are you hesitating?

I take a steadying breath, staring into my lap. “You weren’t ready last year. To be honest, I probably wasn’t either. And… I’m not confident anything is different now, aside from what happened last night. Which was wonderful, but…” I clear my throat. “Casual.”

There’s a hard glint in his eye when I look up. “Interesting. You once told me you wouldn’t do ‘friends with benefits.’”

“The irony, right?” I say, trying for a lighthearted tone.

The joke falls flat. I always forget about men’s need to have their pain taken terribly seriously.

I rush in with more words. “Please try to understand. After the day in Shanghai last season, when you mentioned my ARJ Buzz content ‘making Emerald look foolish,’ I put on kid gloves. I can’t make that mistake again. I have to remain impartial. It’s not just about—”

Somehow it feels rude to refer to his mourning here in front of “her.” Sofia’s shadow falls over us, figuratively and literally.

But part of me wonders if I’m being fair.

Is it me who has the problem? People believe they understand grief if they’ve had losses of their own.

But I think maybe we understand only our own grief.

“Last night,” Klaus asserts, moving the coffee cup and shifting nearer, taking my hand, “something crystallized for me. I don’t want to be casual , Talia. I’m not an adolescent, finding thrill in the clandestine. I want all of you.”

A vibration resonates through me: desire, hope, a familiarity almost like nostalgia. I think of the “secret chord” in Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” What is this music inside me? For a moment as Klaus and I watch each other, I think I’ll never feel anything else.

Call it what it is: love.

Would it break the spell to speak its name aloud, like in a fairy tale?

He pulls me into his arms. “I was shortsighted and cowardly last year, keeping you at arm’s length. I should have trusted you. I will never again complain about what you report. Free rein—say what you will, ask what you wish. On my honor.”

“Are you sure? What about problems with the location for the new race that’s in the works? You were prickly yesterday when I asked about the rumors I’m hearing. Like… the political stuff.”

He tenses slightly; then his arms soften. “There’s nothing to discuss on that subject. If I was terse when you asked, it’s only because we were at odds.” He drops a light kiss on my hair. “I’ve nothing to hide.”

I relax against his chest. “If we… y’know, let ourselves be close …

I’d have to be sure it won’t impact my writing.

I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I have big goals.

” I smile at a memory of myself in grade school.

“I was the kid who said I wanted a Pulitzer Prize when other girls in my little town wanted to be champion horseback riders or beauty pageant winners or Nashville singers. Don’t get me wrong—those are big goals too.

I hope we all achieve our dreams. I’m very hesitant to risk mine. ”

He pulls back, tucking my hair behind my ear.

His expression is slightly worried, then smooths into a gentle reverence.

“I’ve every confidence you’ll get your Pulitzer.

And everything else you deserve.” He brushes my bangs aside.

“Though I confess to being terribly jealous of your lumberjack, Ethan. That’s one dream I hope I can replace with something else. ”

My eyes go wide. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“A wedding at the old sawmill. Sparky the dog. Three or four children.” He lifts my hand and brushes the knuckles in a whisper-light kiss. “I remember your dreams as if they were my own, kleine Hexe. Please give me a chance to make them all come true.”