Soup sounded delicious. I knew Mrs. Gradenni, and she made amazing soup. But could I eat with Marco? Could I control myself? There was, for sure, a bed in that house. “Thanks. Yes. I’ll have some soup and eat you.” Oh, Lord. “I mean, I’ll eat some soup. By you. With you. Turtles and soup, but I realize there are no turtles in the soup.”

Please shut up, please stop talking.

Marco smiled at me, his eyes indulgent, amused, friendly.

“Great. Let’s go.”

“Yes. Let’s go and eat turtles. Uh. Well. Turtle soup.” I laughed as if I’d deliberately made a joke. But I hadn’t.

Try not to fall more in love with him, Evie. Try.

And close your mouth.

* * *

“Tell me more about your life growing up with a father in the military,” Marco said. I told him I was born in Portland, Oregon, how we lived in the Middle East for three years when I was a toddler, then four years in Germany, and four years in Washington, DC, and Georgia before moving to the island.

“My father worked for the military, for the government . . .” I paused because I didn’t quite know when my father’s job switched from military to a different sort of job within the government. “And he traveled a lot, but my mom and Jules and I were here.” He had a lot of questions, but they didn’t seem nosy to me. They seemed . . . interested. Kindly interested.

It had never been lost on me that my beloved father was a military man . . . as was Marco. But they shared many of the same characteristics that any normal woman looked for: Kindness. Intelligence. Humor. Protectiveness. Maturity and insight. Experience. Courage. Dedication and a strong work ethic.

We ate the turtle soup with no turtles in it in his kitchen as we chatted. Marco had a rustic yet modern open home with views that spilled out everywhere toward the ocean, as I’d imagined. His four dogs, all rescues, hung out with us, too, Sundance having made a miraculous recovery. They were fairly well behaved, one more naughty than the others. One tried to sit in my lap. I let him.

“You were brave to serve, Marco.”

“I was proud to serve, still am. But it was tough.” He hesitated, then said, “After I served, I know I told you this already, but I had a hard time for a while. I still do. I still struggle. But it was years ago and it’s better now. When I got out of the military, I traveled. I went to Vietnam, Thailand, Laos, parts of Africa.”

We talked about his travels and I, the island hermit, lived vicariously through his adventures. “Why did you become a vet?”

“I like animals. They’re innocent. They are not dangerous like humans are. The wild ones may eat other animals, but it’s nutrition based, right?” He smiled. “I like healing them. I wasn’t interested in being a vet until I served in the military. I planned on going to medical school. But then I saw too much death. Too many horrific injuries. I have seen enough human pain to last forever. Some of it, even though I try, I’ll never forget.” He looked away for a minute, and I could tell he was trying to get control of his emotions. He sighed, blinked, and I knew he’d gone to the battlefields and come back. I wanted to hold his hand, because I wanted to comfort that hurting, courageous giant, but I didn’t have the guts.