Page 13 of Here & There

“I’m a sandwich aficionado,” I say as I set the club down to take a sip of my latte, which is equally outrageously delicious. “I live and breathe sandwiches.” I pick up the club again. “But honestly? This sandwich is so good it’s now my wholepersonality.” I take another giant bite, unable to stop another moan as the flavors hit me.

I’ve found the best way to get someone out of their shell is to either ask them about themselves or smother them with compliments. I’m guessing the first one will result in more grunts, so I choose the latter.

“Frankly, I think it’s sacrilegious to call this a club.” I chew thoughtfully, then swallow. “This bread”—I squeeze at the pillowy-soft, holey gorgeousness—“is homemade. It’s got the perfect sourdough tanginess and chew, and the crust has exactly the right amount of crunch.”

I hold it up to his back as if he can see it.

“It’s yesterday’s.”

So hedoesspeak. I give a little Alexis Rose shoulder shake hair flip at my victory. Compliments for the win.

“The bacon is farm fresh,” I continue, keeping my voice casual. “Some kind of local butcher’s cut. Same with the turkey. Is it local?”

I’m pushing it with the questions.

Mac grunts.

That’s fine. I think that was an affirmative grunt. I squint at the greenery sticking out the side of the sandwich. “And who’d think to use frisée and arugula in place of lettuce? The texture of the frisée combined with the peppery flavor of the arugula—it’s genius.”

Silence. Whatever. I pop the last bite of the sandwich into my mouth, letting out a contented sound as I savor the final delicious morsels.

I still can’t quite believe I jumped into the water. I can still feel the exhilaration of leaping off that dock. That unadulterated sense of freedom that had been missing from my tightly constrained life. I think the shock of the cold numbed whatever feelings of regret might have arisen right away. But as the islandgot farther away, and the shoreline didn’t seem to get much closer, I distinctly remember thinking this might have been the most foolish thing I’d ever done. And I’ve done a lot of foolish things. Except now? Sitting here having done it? I feel kind of like I could take on anything.

Mac scrubs the tub extra hard, the muscles in his back visible even through the flannel jacket he put back on.

Sandwich obliterated, I sigh. “I’m not that dirty, you know.”

He pauses, throwing a look over his shoulder.

I get a sliver of a dark brow and cut cheekbone. A scruffy jaw. “What are you talking about?”

Well, look at that. The man’s suddenly verbose. “You’re scrubbing out that tub as if I was a baby duck you pulled out of an oil spill. I should be insulted.”

That smidge of brow I can see drops into a scowl. He turns back around.

I do a “wow” face to his back. He’s uncrackable. Maybe he’s got a personality disorder. Although he did say stuff when he was walking me up the beach. I know he did. I just can’t remember what.

It doesn’t matter. Now that I’m warmed up and dressed and fed, it’s time for me to move on.

Because I did a lot of thinking in that sink as my body and brain thawed out. About what happened on that island. About where I go from here.

And there’s one more thing I know:

This is the last place I know my grandmother lived. And I’m going to find her.

I down my tea as quickly as the hot beverage allows, then glance around for where to put my dishes. The kitchen is neat—like military levels of neat. The man may not have words, but he’s got standards. The food alone could have told me that, but the kitchen says it too. Which makes it all the more impressive that he let me take a bath in his sink. But it’s getting weird now, how hard he’s going. How carefully he’s not looking at me. Maybe he doesn’t like people in his kitchen.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go,” I say to his back. “I’m not quite sure how to thank you for everything. Please share my thanks with your son too.” I look down at the long cotton dress and leggings his boy brought for me in that box of clothes. “I’ll uh…find some way to get these back to you. I’d be happy to offer you some money too, for your trouble. I know you went out of your way…”

I trail off as I realize he’s stopped scrubbing. He’s still folded into the same position, though, bent over, his hand gripping the bristle brush. I look away. Ireallyneed him to turn around, just so I can stop staring at his backside.

“I don’t need any money,” Mac says, his voice low. There’s almost a growl in it.

“Oh. You sure?”

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