Page 39 of The Runaway

Sunday’s face flames and she lifts the cold can of Prosecco to her lips, drinking the bubbly liquid like it’s a Diet Coke, but then remembering it isn’t soda when her head instantly starts to buzz. She follows his lead and looks out at the water. “You’re on Ruby’s detail,” she says softly. “We probably shouldn’t even be flirting.”

“We’re two consenting adults, and I’m notyoursecurity, so I don’t think you need to worry about us crossing any lines. Besides, we’re just talking.”

As Banks sips his beer she notices that the bottle looks small in his large hand. Even his arm dwarfs things. Banks is made of muscle, and every inch of skin that Sunday can see makes her want to take a long drink of him like she just took from her can of wine.

“It’s still complicated, and you know it is,” she says, but in a mild tone. Even to her own ear, Sunday sounds like a woman who isn’t entirely convinced by the words coming out of her mouth.

“From what you told me the other day on the beach, you’re single—and well on your way to a divorce. I’ve been divorced for seven years. That’s pretty uncomplicated.”

Sunday looks over her shoulder at the window that’s open between the porch and the dining room; she doesn’t want Harlow and Athena to hear her propositioning a man who they see as a professional person on their mother’s staff.

“Do you want to come over later?” she asks in a near whisper. “For awalk,” Sunday adds. “Just a walk to look at the moon.”

Banks takes a long minute to answer. “I could take a walk.”

They’re sitting together, contemplating this so-called walk and whether it’s possibly a euphemism for anything more, when the girls walk out to the picnic table at the other end of the porch, which has been set with an orange linen tablecloth, brown napkins encircled by cut topaz napkin rings, and plates that Sunday knows belonged to Ruby’s mother. She jumps up from the chair, still holding her can of wine, which now looks tacky next to the Pinterest-worthy table.

“Let me take that, Aunt Sun,” Harlow says, sweeping by and taking the Prosecco can from her. She hands her a bottle of wine instead. “If you could just set this on the table, that would be great.”

“Shall we?” Banks holds out a hand in the direction of the table, indicating that he’ll follow her lead.

Athena is leaning over three hurricane lamps, lighting candles with a long-handled lighter, so Sunday takes a seat on the bench with her back to the water, eyeing Banks to see which spot he’ll choose.

Out of habit, he sits facing the water, with his back to the house, which is better for him when it comes to observing. It’s true that things have gotten far more lax as the months have gone on, but the man is a Secret Service agent, and there’s no way he’ll stop taking the simple precautions that have been drilled into him so deeply that he’ll probably always take them, even when his years of guarding and protecting are long behind him.

“So, Aunt Sunday,” Athena says, sitting next to Banks on the bench. “I hear you and Mom are going to enter a sailing race.”

Sunday’s laugh bubbles over and she’s immediately at ease again. The obvious heat between her and Banks is easily smoothed over by the chatter of Ruby’s girls, and once Harlow is seated next to Sunday, they start in right away with teasing and ribbing one another, and it keeps Ruby, Sunday, and Banks in stitches.

By the time the sun has set completely and the only light on the porch is coming from the candles on the table, they’ve finished a bottle and a half of wine, all the grouper, the grilled asparagus, and Harlow is going for a third helping of whipped sweet potatoes with butter.

“Girl. All you’ve done on Shipwreck Key is eat,” Athena says, teasing her sister.

Harlow shrugs. “Well, I barely ate in New York because I was too busy working and going out in the evening with my coworkers, so I’m making up for it now. Besides, guys like thick girls. Right, Banks?”

Banks holds up both hands in surrender, looking at his plate. “I don’t like to comment on the appearance of ladies, nor can I speak for all men,” he says diplomatically, dropping his napkin on the table.

Ruby laughs over her glass of wine. “Banks is a professional when it comes to riding the fence. I admire that. Very tactful.” She bows her head at him.

This evening has been a total departure for Banks. For as long as he’s been with the family, Sunday knows that he’s always kept a respectful distance, so she can only imagine that Ruby pressed him pretty hard when it came to joining them for dinner tonight.

“Can I help you clean up, Rubes?” Sunday offers, gathering her plate and silverware as she stands up.

“No, absolutely not,” Ruby says sternly, waving a hand at Sunday. “You just relax. The girls and I are doing everything.”

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it a night then,” Sunday says, carrying her plate into the kitchen anyway. “I’m pretty tired,” she calls back over her shoulder, hoping that leaving just after seven o’clock doesn’t seem too abrupt.

“You know what?” Ruby says loudly. “I’m giving Banks the evening off, but only if he’ll agree to walk you home.”

Sunday walks back outside to give Ruby and the girls hugs, and to thank them for dinner. “I drove my golf cart, but thanks anyway,” she says.

“You also drank a fair amount before and during dinner, so I don’t want you to drive. If Banks walks you along the beach, you’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“She’s right,” Banks says, rising and picking up his own plate. “I’m happy to walk you.”

It’s in Sunday’s nature to protest, but then she realizes that she’ll be working against her own interest if she does.

“Okay,” she relents. “That would be nice. I can just come back tomorrow for my cart.”

---