THREE DAYS LATER, the weather shifted again. A blustery wind rattled the windows, sending the palm fronds scratching at the windows. Both she and Anna had retired to their rooms after an early dinner of comforting lentil soup, Gouda cheese, and chunks of sourdough bread. Linnea was exhausted. No child to feed or put to bed or worry about. Bliss. Linnea nestled in the big four-poster bed under the down comforter with Luna cuddled beside her. The puppy was always at her side now, seemingly relieved to no longer have to dodge the grasp of a six-year-old.

In her lap was her phone, waiting for Gordon’s call. Also, another letter from John. Although Hope was gone, John had continued leaving poetry for Linnea in her mailbox. They saw each other from time to time, waved, asked about each other’s health, commented on the weather and other such banalities. But in these letters, John’s poetry selections spoke of stronger, more passionate feelings. She reread the poem from Hafiz.

Don’t surrender your loneliness

So quickly.

Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you

As few human

Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight

Has made my eyes so soft,

My voice

So tender,

My need of God

Absolutely

Clear.

She thought she knew everything about John. They’d shared poetry when they’d dated. But in San Francisco, he’d gotten too caught up in his own world of work, going out for business meals to which she wasn’t invited. Perhaps, too, once living together, rather than getting closer, he had put up a wall to keep a part of himself—the tender, vulnerable part—separate.

The phone rang, and her thoughts quickly shifted gears. Picking up her phone, she saw Gordon’s name pop up. Must get John out of my head, she ordered herself as she sat up straighter. Luna rose and looked at her, alert, as if questioning what had happened to their serene evening. Linnea smoothed her hair, put a smile on her face, and pushed the accept button for FaceTime.

“Gordon!” she exclaimed when she saw his face appear on the screen. His red hair was longer, unkempt, curls trailing down the sides of his chiseled face. He looked tired; there was a five-o’clock shadow around his jaw. It was near midnight in England. Gordon never called at any particular time; so much depended on his teaching schedule or if he was out doing research. Recently he’d been conducting studies on gray seals along the Cornish coastline.

“Linnea. Are you in bed?” he asked, amused. “It’s only seven o’clock there.”

She smiled, loving his accent, his face. She leaned back against the pillows. “It’s a blustery night and I thought I’d cuddle up in bed.”

“Sounds inviting.”

“Too bad you’re not here.”

Gordon offered one of his crooked smiles, the one that melted her every time she saw it. It always made her think he knew some private joke he was going to share with her.