Bluebeard was the yacht’s name. I hadn’t noticed that before.

I saw Todd Croft see me; his head tilted and his smile grew wider, and I disappeared into the shadows of the room, cursing myself. I was wearing my swim cover-up. If Todd asked, Russ could say we’d struck up a friendship and I’d come to say goodbye. It didn’t matter, I would likely never see Todd Croft again, but I regretted not leaving first. I should have headed for home an hour or two earlier, but that would have meant losing time with Russ, and I hadn’t wanted to do that. For my greed, then, I was punished. I became the one who was left behind.

As I drove home, I thought of how the weekend had been a Cinderella story, minus the part with the glass slipper. I was returned to my ordinary self, in my proverbial rags, facing my scullery work. The only part of that magical story I could claim was that I had enjoyed a night (in my case, two nights) of bliss. I had successfully charmed a prince, only the prince was a midwestern corn-syrup salesman. A married corn-syrup salesman.

Mama was at work when I got home, despite the holiday, and I was momentarily relieved. Now I’m locked in my room, writing this down, because supposedly “getting it out” is a kind of catharsis. I have an hour left to get ready before I have to go back to Caneel, where I will work and pretend that everything is just fine.

February 23, 2006

I’ve decided that Bluebeard is an appropriate name for the yacht that delivered Russ to me and then took him away.

He was a pirate.

He stole my heart.

March 30, 2006

Mama was the one who noticed that I looked peaked and that I wasn’t eating much. When had I ever said no to her blackened mahi tacos with pineapple-mango salsa? Never was the answer. But they just didn’t seem appealing. Nothing seemed appealing.

She said, “Do you want to come to the clinic at lunchtime tomorrow and I’ll slide you in?”

I couldn’t tell her that I was suffering from a broken heart, and there’s no cure for that except time, and for all the technological advances going on in the world, no one has figured out how to speed time up or slow it down—or stop it. Whoever figures out that trick is going to be rich. “Nah,” I said.

“No, but thanks for offering,” Mama prompted.

I retreated to my room. I needed to put less energy into pining for the pirate and more into saving money so I could get a place of my own.

Then, a couple of days ago, I woke up feeling dizzy and nauseated and I thought, Damn it, I really am sick. I had planned to go to Salomon Bay—the best thing for me to do was get back into a routine—but it looked like it would be the clinic instead.