Page 54 of Total Dreamboat

Hope

There are so many things I’ve wanted to say to Felix since last summer. But now, in his presence, they escape me.

We’re both silent as we walk to the beach.

I wonder if all the time apart was too much for us. If, for all my happiness at seeing him, that spark that burned so hot died from lack of oxygen.

“I’m sorry I’m quiet,” he says. “I’m nervous.”

I’m grateful for his directness. It’s a quality that drew me to him from the start.

“Same,” I admit.

“I wanted to call you last year, when I got back to London. Very badly. But I thought it would be unfair to contact you, after the way things ended. That I should leave the ball in your court.”

“I didn’t realize there was still a court at all,” I say. “You said you didn’t want to stay in touch. I’m not one for chasing balls I can’t catch.”

He turns to me and stops walking. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“That if I let myself acknowledge how much I felt for you, I’d be lost.”

My breath catches. “And what did you feel for me?”

“I was falling in love with you, Hope.”

“Felix,” I say softly.

“I’m sure that sounds dramatic or manipulative or—”

“No,” I say. “I was too.”

We search each other’s eyes.

“And how do you feel now?” he finally asks.

“Like it’s hard to tell if this conversation is a beginning, or an ending.”

Pain flashes through his eyes. But then it fades into something more reflective. More hopeful.

“What if it’s not either one? What if it’s—what’s that expression you writers use? A turning point in the story.”

“I suppose we’ll have to see how the plot unfolds.” I take his hand. “Let’s walk.”

We make it to the beach and climb the stairs up the side of the rocks until we’re at the top of the cliff. It’s slightly overcast, and the sun is peeking behind a flat gray bank of clouds, glinting pale off the sea.

It’s beautiful.

“Do you know that song ‘God Moving Over the Face of the Waters’?” Felix asks.

“Never heard of it.”

“A Moby track from the nineties. Can I play it for you?”

“Sure.”

He takes out his phone and opens Spotify. “Here it is.”

The song that starts playing is instrumental. It begins quietly, mournful and wistful, and slowly builds to something joyful and powerful that I can only describe as the music of wonder. Of quiet, hopeful possibility.

“This song sounds like I feel,” I say.

He squeezes my hand. “Me too,” he says. And then he pulls me toward him, puts his hand delicately against my neck, and kisses me.

“I’m sorry,” he says, when we part.

I know he’s not apologizing for the kiss. He’s apologizing for everything else.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You know, if we’d done what I wanted—stayed in touch, tried to be something—it wouldn’t have worked.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I was in a bad place. I was lost, and unhappy, and looking for anything to drag me out of it.” I pause. “You were right. You couldn’t be the thing to drag me. I needed to get there on my own.”

“Have you?”

“I don’t know that I’ve solved the puzzle of my life. Maybe no one ever does. But I’ve figured out what I want, and what I don’t. I’ve decided to give up my lease. Stay here through the autumn.”

“Wow,” he says. “What will you do?”

“Tutor full-time. Finish my book. And then when my tourist visa runs out, I don’t know. Maybe spend the winter at my parents’ cottage in Vermont.”

“Didn’t you say they were selling it in the divorce?”

I smile at him. “They got back together. Kept it.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“It is. I’m happy for them.”

“I’m happy for you,” he says. “That you’ve found your way.”

“Have you? Found your way?”

“I’ve stepped out onto a ledge. Let go of my paranoia about needing my hand in every pot at work. Tried to be a bit more courageous. Trust myself more.”

“That’s why you bought the inn.”

He smiles. “That’s why I bought the inn. Can I show it to you?”

“I’d love that.”

A soft rain begins to fall as we walk back to the village. We follow a narrow country road up a hill until we reach a beautiful Georgian-era limestone manor on a bluff with sweeping views out to sea.

It doesn’t look as dilapidated as Pear and Prue implied. You can see the age and wear, the life the place has lived. But it’s beautiful.

“This is unbelievable,” I say.

“You think?”

“I love it. Show me everything.”

He leads me inside the front doors into a lobby that looks more like the great room of a country lord’s house than a hotel.

Which makes sense, given the place’s origins.

From there he shows me the restaurant—already renovated into a beautiful, clubby room.

We walk up the grand staircase to the third floor—which has been finished, unlike the second, which is still under construction.

“Where are you staying, if there’s no furniture?” I ask him.

“I’ll show you.”

He takes me to an apartment at the far west of the building, above the pub.

“My flat,” he says, opening the door to a lovely sitting room with a view of the ocean. “Sisters?” he calls out. “Hope and I are here.”

No one answers.

He looks confused, then takes out his phone. A smile breaks across his face.

“They’ve gone back to London,” he says. “Apparently they have a crisis with the so-called Maynards deal.”

“So-called?”

“It’s obviously a ruse. They wanted to give us privacy.”

“Do we need privacy?” I ask.

“I hope so,” he says.

He pulls me into his arms.

I put my hands around his waist.

We stand that way for a long time.

“Let’s have a summer romance, Hope,” he says. “Properly, this time.”

I lean up and kiss him. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s.”