Page 127 of Wreckage and Rain

I laugh. "Don't get smooth on me."

"That wasn't smooth. That was the only sentence I'm qualified to say with confidence anymore."

"Okay. Keep it. The rest, we will work on."

We walk back to the car as the light turns gold. We pick up sandwiches at a place in Mount Pleasant that has been there since we were children. We eat them on the hood of the car in the parking lot. I steal half of his, and he doesn't complain. He's stopped complaining about that since the first time I stole from his plate.

The drive back is quieter. The sun is dropping. My hand is on his thigh. I've missed it. His thigh solid under my palm. The denim of his jeans. The small flex when he downshifts.

"Summer."

"Yeah."

"I'm happy."

I look at him. The line of his jaw against the gold light coming through the window. His hair needing a cut. The man I married, who almost stopped being the man I married, who has come back the long way around.

"Me too."

***

Back at the B&B, Lorna has set us a small round table in the dining room she usually keeps for breakfast service: two candles in old brass holders, a linen runner, the shrimp and grits we asked for, biscuits with honey butter, and a small chocolate pot de crème she didn't warn us about. She leaves us alone in the dining room with a bottle of red on the sideboard and the lights low.

"Lorna," I say from the hallway.

"Yes, sweetheart."

"You didn't need to do all this."

"Hush." She's at the desk with her crossword again. "You two are the most interesting people who have stayed in this house in three years. I'm rooting for you. Eat your shrimp and grits."

We eat. The shrimp are perfect. The grits are perfect. The biscuit is the kind of biscuit that makes Mama nod with approval whenshe eats one in someone else's restaurant. Colt eats more than I've seen him eat in a long time. He's got color in his face again. The dark circles are lifting. He's filling back out.

He pours me wine. Pours himself wine. We eat by candlelight in the dining room of a yellow Federal house on Queen Street and we tell each other small stories. The dog Jake had in tenth grade that ate three of his shoes. The summer we drove to Asheville with no plan and slept in the car when the cabin we booked turned out not to exist. The night in college when Autumn and I convinced an entire bar I was a Russian exchange student named Natasha.

He's laughing. Really laughing. The laugh that starts in his chest.

I'm laughing too.

We finish the pot de crème. Lorna pretends to be doing her crossword and is actually listening from the front desk and I love her for it.

"Walk me upstairs," I say.

He stands. Comes around. Pulls out my chair. We walk up the stairs side by side. At the top we stop under the haint-blue ceiling light. He looks at me, I look at him, and the question is in the room without either of us saying it.

"Your room or mine," I say.

"Whichever one is yours."

"That's the right answer."

He smiles. I take his hand. Lead him to my door. Unlock it. Pull him inside and close it behind us.

The yellow lamp is on. The bed is made. The window is open to the garden and the scent of camellias flows in with the night breeze. The room is warm. Loud with the small sounds of Charleston at night, the carriage clopping somewhere down the block, a screen door closing, the low far hum of King Street traffic.

I cross the room. Put my hands on his chest. Feel his heart through the soft cotton of his shirt. It's going fast. I press both palms against him.

"Tell me what you want."