Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
“Because, my only Brigid, this is what it’s about. I want to assure you. I want you to know for once and for all, that when I’m making love to you, I think of no one but you.” His eyes, wide open in mine, were deep, and dark brown, and true.
“And at every other time,” he said, “I see no one but you.”
I trusted him, because what else can you do? “Okay,” I said. “Now can it be about sex?”
“Okay.”
Then the conversation ended.
His head resting on my belly. My heart feeling safer than it had felt in a while.
“Who were you quoting before?”
“John Donne. A sixteenth-century rogue turned Anglican priest.”
I said, “I never knew poetry that old could be that sexy.”
“Yes, unfortunately we’re still living with the fallout from the Victorian era. But enough of the small talk. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I wish I could go back and not hurt you.”
“I admit, you could have lived a long and successful life without telling me all that.”
“I know you won’t believe this, but you’re nothing like her, and that’s a good thing.”
I noted that at this point he wouldn’t even risk saying her name. “Why is it good?”
“Without being disloyal to her memory, I think I can say that when you’re in a relationship for a long time, you understand why bubbles are made to burst.”
“Please. You don’t have to try—”
“Too bad you don’t like sci-fi much,” he continued. “There’s an old Star Trek episode where Mr. Spock says, ‘You will find that having is not altogether so good a thing as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.’”
His struggling to make it better, and with a Star Trek quote no less, was only making me incredibly sad. That to some extent, in order to love me, he needed not to love Jane. I managed to say, “So much for grand passions.”
“Yes. Are you sure you’ll be safe?” he asked, rapidly switching gears so as not to restart the argument.
“I’m sure. Just promise me you won’t let that man, whatever his name is, inside the house.”
Carlo promised.
“Now tell me,” I said. “What is my gift?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said I couldn’t bake, but that I had my own gift. What am I gifted at?” Grabbing hold of my old jokey self, I reached out and put a finger on his lips. “And before you speak, you better come up with something better than I’ve got a great ass.”