Page 54 of The Witching Hours

“Did I hear a yes in there?”

“You didn’t, but here it comes. Yes. But if I drown, I’ll kill you.”

“I accept your terms. Now what else is in that brochure that has your interest.”

“Item number two. Drumroll please.” He gave me some rapid taps on the table. “Next on the list of must-dos is the Santorini Flying Dresses Photo Shoot.”

He looked bewildered. Who could blame him? I mean, flying dresses?

I turned the brochure around so he could see some photo shots of women in dresses with long, sheer trains billowing in the wind while they pose in front of poster-worthy scenery on rooftops or beaches.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked.

I giggled. “No judgments. I’m a girl. It looks like glamor fun.”

He looked at the brochure again. “This looks like fun? I will never understand women.”

I grabbed the brochure out of his hand. “You’re not supposed to understand women. You’re simply supposed to be in awe.”

“Okay. If you want awe, you have to take me along on this, ah, photo shoot.”

Holy Cow!Is that a second date he’s asking for? We were moving at lightspeed. My lentil soup hadn’t even come yet. “What? How will that inspire awe?”

“Isn’t that what flying dresses are supposed to do?”

He had me there. “Well. Yeah. I guess.”

“Good. Sailing tomorrow. Flying dresses the next day. What’s number three?”

“Black sand beaches, but slow the roll a sec. I don’t want to take up all your vacation. How about planning things one at a time? Just in case I bore you to tears.”

He laughed, once again exposing brilliant white, even teeth that made a heartthrob contrast against tan skin. “Catherine. I’m pretty sure boring isn’t part of your M.O.”

“I’m saying yes to sailing. If I’m still alive after that, we’ll see.”

“Fair enough. Where are you staying?”

“Erosantorini.”

“Nice.”

Not only did I survive sailing, but violated my own rules about slutty behavior and took him back to my hotel after. There I learned that Nick has gigolo-level sex skills. I’d say his bedroom technique fell squarely in the range of fantasy lover, but bragging about such things is never appreciated. So, let me just say this, the more time I spent with him, the more I found it incredible that somebody else had let him go. I didn’t care if it was incredible. I was walking on air and owed the jilting woman a debt. Her loss was my gain. It even occurred to me that he might be my cosmic reward for surviving a twisted childhood.

By the end of my holiday week, Nick and I were talking about moving in together. Like I said, lightspeed.

When I got home, I began sending out feelers, looking for a San Francisco publisher or fully remote work. One of the outfits I talked to suggested that I consider freelance. I had an impressive portfolio, years of experience, and few biases about subject matter. It could work.

There are fourteen small press publishers in San Francisco. I contacted every one and, within a week, already had enough work to justify the risk.

Why would I give up my job and move to the opposite coast? Nick was most of the reason, but I quickly found that freelancing was a gift. A win/win. I had more freedom, more choice, and gods be praised, I was making more money, too.

My parents thought I was insane.What else is new?

I didn’t tell them about Nick. My story was that I needed a change of scenery both at work and in general. My explanation didn’t help my case at all. Maybe I should’ve told the truth. I knew they had a romantic side. Perhaps they were old-fashioned enough to think chasing a fella to the west coast was a good idea. Hard to guess.

They thought I’d reached the top of my game working for a big New York publisher and were proud of the job they’d done parenting, all things considered. The “all things” distilling down to how very strange I was. But I might have outdistanced my folks on one bit of wisdom. There’s no such thing as security. Especially not job security. The concept is faulty to the core. The illusion of job security can create its own version of “golden handcuffs” and every adult in the world needs a Plan B.

Nick met me at the airport with a ring and a statement of commitment. “If you’ll take this chance on me, I’ll bet my life on you. Marry me.”

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