Page 45 of A Shore Fling
“We grew up with live-in help who took care of the cooking and laundry,” she explains. “They still work for my parents.”
Every time we find common ground, I learn a new detail about her life that negates it. The contrast between our upbringings is startling.
Nina walks me to the front door. “Do you want to sit outside for a minute before you head out? It’s still quiet enough to enjoy it.”
I glance out the window at her tiny porch and the blue lobster trap chairs and decide I’m not ready to end our temporarytruce or whatever this is. “Sure. Five minutes won’t kill my productivity.”
She smiles like she knows damn well I’m not getting anything done for at least another hour, and we settle into the chairs. They’re more comfortable than they look. Tucking her knees up, she cradles her mug in both hands.
“I’m still not used to the slower pace here. Yesterday, my neighbor, Bev, brought me cookies and then stayed for forty-five minutes, ranting about how her husband cut down one of her hydrangea bushes. I made the mistake of mentioning I didn’t know what that was, so she dragged me next door to show me.”
I chuckle. “You need to learn the fine art of how not to encourage conversations.”
“I didn’t want to be rude or hurt her feelings. I know you don’t have a problem with being rude,” she says, poking me in the arm.
“Was jawing in your ear for forty-five minutes about her husband’s mistake being polite?”
“Not necessarily, but she wasn’t intentionally rude. Maybe she’s lonely,” she offers in explanation.
“I doubt you’re the only person in this neighborhood who’s heard that story. Her poor husband was probably just trying to help out.”
“Well, now that I know this town comes with unsolicited garden tours, I’ll be more careful,” she says, giggling.
“Watch out for potluck dinners, too. It’s a trap.”
“How so?”
“There will be four different kinds of potato salad or pasta salad, and you’ll be asked to judge which is your favorite while everyone who made them is present. It’s a no-win situation.”
She grins at me over the rim of her mug. “I guess I’ll have to master the art of grunting like you. That way I can answer without really saying anything.”
I grunt.
She laughs. “I don’t think I can do that as well as you.”
I grunt again. “Try.”
There’s a look of intense concentration on her face as she gives it a shot. “Hmph.”
“Deeper. Like a growl,” I instruct.
She nods, looking hopeful as she tries again. “Hmph.” Her shoulders droop with disappointment. “I suck at grunting.”
I hold up my hands. “Hey, it’s a skill not everyone can master.”
She rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her coffee. After a few minutes of silence, I feel her gaze on me. “Why’d you stay here after the divorce?”
My head snaps in her direction, but all I find is her eyes alight with genuine interest.
“I’m not trying to be nosy, I’m just curious. But if it’s too personal a question, I understand.”
I could reply with a list that includes my family, my job, and the beach. But instead I say, “It’s home.” I can’t be more succinct than that.
She nods slowly, like she understands. “You belong here.”
“Just like you belong in the city. Our roots are hard to get away from.” I stand, tugging my keys from my pocket. “Thanks for dinner and not letting me die on your couch.”
She smirks. “What can I say? I have a soft spot for grumpy harbormasters who grunt.”
