"Then he can't be all bad," Pitt said, admiring her hazel eyes. "Do you live with him?"

"No, actually I was born here but I was raised in England. I suffered through school there and when I was eighteen I fell in love with a dashing motorcar salesman and married him."

"I didn't know car salesmen could be dashing."

She ignored his sarcastic remark and continued. "He loved to race cars on his time off, and he was good at it too. He won trials and hill climbs and sporting car events." She shrugged and began drawing circles in the sand with her finger. Her voice became strange and husky. "Then one weekend he was racing a supercharged MG. It was raining and he skidded off the course and hit a tree. He was dead before I could reach his side."

Pitt sat silent for a minute, staring at her sad face. "How long ago?" he asked simply.

"It's been eight and a half years now," she replied in a whisper.

Pitt felt dazed. Then anger set in. What a waste, he thought. What a rotten waste for a beautiful woman like her to grieve over a dead man for nearly nine years. The more he thought about it the angrier he became. He could see tears welling in her eyes as she lost herself in the remembrance, and the sight sickened him. He reached over and gave her a hard backhand slap across the face.

Her eyes jerked wide, and her whole body tensed from the sharp blow. It was as if she was struck by a bullet. "Why did you strike me?" she gasped.

"Because you needed it, needed it badly," he snapped. "That torch you carry around is as worn out as an overcoat. I'm surprised someone hasn't taken you over a knee and spanked it off. So your husband was dashing. So what? He's dead and buried, and mourning over him for all these years won't resurrect him from the grave. Lock away his memory somewhere and forget him. You're a beautiful woman—you don't belong chained to a coffin full of bones. You belong to every man who turns and admires you as you pass by and who longs to possess you." Pitt could see his words were penetrating her weak defenses. "Now you think about it. It's your life. Don't throw it away and play 'Camille' until you're withered and gray."

Her face was distraught in the morning sun, and her breath came in sobs. Pitt let her cry for a long time. When she finally raised her head and turned it toward him, he could see that her cheeks were streaked with tears, mixed with tiny grains of sand, clinging to the wetness. She looked up at him, and he caught the gleam in her eyes. They were soft and scared-looking, like a little girl's. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her. Her lips were warm and moist.