Page 43 of A Novel Summer
He handed her a glass of the red. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said.
“I have to admit, the first time I visited Northern California I expected everyone to be practically guzzling wine,” he said, pouring her a glass.
“But they weren’t?”
“No. Everyone seemed far more interested in cannabis.” He waved his hand dismissively.
“Not a weed enthusiast?” she said.
“Over a sublime cabernet franc? No. And if we must debate that, I need to fortify myself first. Cheers.”
She laughed. “I suspect that’s a debate I’d sorely lose.”
It felt easy to be around Anders. Partly, it was because he was a writer and so they already had a shorthand. But more than that, he seemed so comfortable in his own skin, so sure of himself. Not just sure of himself, but sure of his place in the world. Shelby could tell he wasn’t the type of man to be threatened by an ambitious woman.
“Shall we venture out to the veranda?” he said.
He led the way, carrying the bottles of wine while she took care of their glasses.
It was almost dark out, just a thin ribbon of light on the horizon. The back porch overlooked a small yard bordered by a hedge of white hydrangeas. They sat on a wicker sectional and he moved a bunch of throw pillows out of the way.
“So,” he said, crossing his legs and looking at her intently. “We haven’t talked much about our respective works in progress. Is that by design?”
“Not at all,” she said. Though maybe it was a little, on her end. She wouldn’t trade writing beach books for anything, but she was sure he’d never read one and probably wouldn’t find her novel compelling. “What are you writing?”
He nodded, sipped from his glass, then set it down on a wrought iron side table.
“A challenging project. My editor is pushing me to aim for a younger readership.”
“Really? Why?”
He lit a cigarette. “We must keep with the times or risk becoming mummified, creatively speaking. And financially speaking. The sad truth is that awards don’t necessarily translate to sales.”
“Well, if they don’t, what does?”
He held up his phone and rolled his eyes. “Videos of people dancing around their living rooms talking about books, apparently.” He put the phone down on the table next to his wine. He leaned closer to her. “I apologize. Let’s not be boring, talking shop on a gorgeous summer night.”
A breeze rustled through the tree branches, bringing with it the smell of jasmine from a nearby garden. A small animal rustled in the hedges, and the air felt electric, the way it did before a storm. Maybe being near Anders just made her senses seem heightened.
“No,” she said softly. “Let’s not be boring.”
He took the wineglass from her hands. She felt a flutter in her stomach. Seconds ticked by, or maybe minutes. Time did that funny thing where it seemed to stop or at least, bend.
And then he kissed her.
Thirty-One
There was no such thing as a typical day in the office at the Center for Coastal Studies. It was one of the things Justin liked best about his job. That morning, he headed to the Wellfleet office to map out the data for red tide contamination over the past decade. The lethargic sea turtle they rescued last night seemed like a classic case of red tide poisoning, but they still couldn’t say for sure.
He’d done triage on the animal, found some swelling in its joints, and now she was on antibiotics and resting comfortably while they waited for test results. They named her Ladyslipper, after a type of shell that they’d accidentally scooped up along with her. After the office, he’d stop by the marine animal rehab facility to check on her.
Doug said he’d give him a lift, and Justin planned to meet him at his apartment before eight. But he only made it halfway down his street when he spotted his mother making a beeline for his house. She was dressed in her kitchen uniform: New Balance walking sneakers, black capri pants, and a red-and-white Lombardo’s T-shirt.
He stopped walking.
“Ma, what’re you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“You tell me,” she said, out of breath by the time she reached him. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
