He opened the gate, pulled the truck just beyond it, then closed it behind us.

“Whose property is this?” I asked once we were moving. The road curved through trees, up and down gentle hills.

“It’s Beckett’s. He bought the land a couple years back—it borders one end of his farm—and put in a four-acre pond.”

“For swimming?”

“Well, you can swim in it, but mostly for water storage and irrigation. He stocked it with fish last summer and told us we could come hook our dinner whenever we want to.”

I laughed. “Well, no pressure. I packed plenty of food.”

Through a clearing up ahead, I saw the pond—a huge, oblong body of water with a wooden dock at the near end. The breeze rippled the surface of the water, and a few geese floated along in the center of it.

Griffin parked the truck and got out, wandering a few steps toward the pond. I hopped out too, following him, looking around from the water to the trees to the sky. The light was golden and soft, the air warm and tranquil. The only sounds were the wind rustling the leaves, the crickets warming up their evening chorus, and the occasional call of a seagull overhead. “Wow. This is really beautiful.”

“My dad almost bought this property.”

“Really?” I looked over at his strong profile.

“Yeah. He wanted to build a house on it. Retire here.”

“Did he change his mind?”

Griffin shook his head. “He was gone before he got the chance.”

“I’m sorry.” I hesitated, but then moved closer, slipping my arm through his and tipping my head against his shoulder. “I like hearing about your dad. Tell me something else about him.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. What’s a lesson he taught you that you still think about?”

He was silent a minute. “Never let a vehicle leave your shop unless you would be comfortable putting your family in it on the highway.”

“I love that.”

“Treat every little old lady like she’s your grandmother.”

“Especially the ones who forget their bowling balls in their trunks.”

He smiled slightly. “And everybody starts out as the ‘stack the tires’ guy, even the garage owner’s son.”

“He wanted to teach you a good work ethic.” I squeezed his arm. “And he did. He’d be so proud of you.”

“He’d have loved this.” Griffin’s eyes scanned the pond, the land, the trees beyond. “He’d have built a house over there, a barn over that way, kept a little rowboat tied up at the dock.”

I could see it, everything he described. I knew he could too.

“He always said he wanted to spend his golden years fishing, tinkering with old cars, and playing with his grandkids.”

“I bet he would have been an awesome grandpa.”

“Yeah. He was a great dad.”

I took a breath and decided to be brave. “You’d be a great dad too.”

He didn’t say anything right away. “Well, life never goes as planned, does it?” Then before I could dig in deeper, he went on, “Should we eat?”

“Sure.”

But we stood there a moment longer looking at the water, and he surprised me by taking my hand before turning around and walking back to the truck.

Thirteen

Blair

“You packed real plates for a picnic?” Griffin stared as I unloaded our basket onto the red plaid blanket we’d spread out in the bed of the old pickup.

“Yes. Picnic like the French. That’s my motto.”

“Of course it is.”

Kneeling, I set out plates and napkins, the galette and grapes. “Besides, you didn’t have paper plates. You did, however, have plenty of plastic forks.”

“One of the many benefits of frequent takeout. So we’re using real plates and plastic forks?”

“I said you had them. I didn’t say I packed them.” I pulled two real forks from the basket, the knife I’d included for slicing the galette, the bottle of Moët & Chandon from Mrs. Applebee, and two wine glasses, which I’d wrapped in kitchen towels. “Can you open the champagne?”

He took the bottle from me and carefully popped the cork. “All this is way too fancy to be called a picnic. A picnic is, like, fried chicken and corn on the cob. Potato salad. Beer cans.”

“Not if I’m planning it.” After taking my sandals off and tossing them to the ground, I set out the glasses and poured us each some champagne. Setting the bottle aside, I lifted my glass and sat back on my heels. “What should we toast? Our wedded bliss?”

“Why not?” He grinned as he touched his glass to mine. “To the wife I never knew I wanted.”

I giggled. “And probably still don’t.”

“You’re not so bad.” His eyes held mine as we drank, and a funny feeling tugged at my chest—almost like sadness or regret. I realized I was already dreading our goodbye.

But I didn’t want to think about that yet.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, setting my glass down. “I’m excited for you to try this. It’s one of my favorite things to make.”

While I was slicing the galette, he pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and frowned at it. “It’s my mother. Do I have to answer it?”

Laughing, I set a plate in front of him. “Probably.”

Grumbling, he touched the screen and put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Mom.” He looked at me. “Yes. She’s right here.”

I smiled and added a slice of galette to my plate along with a small bunch of grapes.

“Okay, I’ll tell her.” He paused and held the phone away from his ear while she rambled on. “It’s fine, Mom. Not a problem. I have to go.”

A full minute later, he was still trying to hang up, his eyes closed in frustration. “I know. I heard you. I won’t. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye. I’m hanging up now. Goodbye.” He jabbed a finger at the screen and tossed his phone aside.

Laughing, I popped a grape in my mouth. “What’s going on with her?”

“She wants you to know that she’s very sorry, but she won’t have my old room ready for you this week, because she’s coming down with something, and she really doesn’t have the energy to deal with the mess right now. Nor does she want to expose you to whatever germs she has. She’s not sure what it is, but she’s positive it’s very contagious.”

I smiled. “Oh, dear.”

“She also wanted me to know that she’s called around to absolutely everyone in town who might have space to rent, but didn’t have any luck.”

“Well, it was nice of her to try.”

Griffin grabbed his glass and chugged champagne. “I’m positive she didn’t make a single phone call.”

“Listen, it’s fine. Tomorrow I’ll call the motel on Highway 31 again. Maybe they’ve had something open up.”

He shook his head. “I’m not putting you at the motel, Blair.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, you still don’t have a car. How would you get to work?”