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"You know what I mean. Yes, I'd like a not-celebratory evening, please."
My phone buzzed, and he tensed. "Ricky?"
"Mmm. Hold on." I texted back. "He's just checking in."
He kept his gaze on the road. "If you would rather spend the evening . . ."
"He has homework to catch up on."
He drove two blocks in silence. Then, "I would understand if you wanted to spend the evening with Ricky. A lot has happened today, and he's . . . better with that sort of thing. We could do this another time. I mean that. I would understand."
"You're the one who had to put up with me through this whole mess. So you're the one who has to not-celebrate with me, too."
A flicker of a smile. "All right, then. We will do something special. Not dinner. Something different. Something fun." He paused, and I could smell smoke as his brain whirred, furiously searching for a fun activity. The longer he struggled, the harder I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing.
"Can I make a suggestion?" I said. "Since it's my noncelebration?"
He exhaled in relief. "Yes. Please."
--
We went to the beach. I'd remembered being at Villa Tuscana with Gabriel, before everything went wrong, how we'd walked down the steps and I'd talked about sitting out by the lake with a bottle of wine. That's what I wanted to do. Not there, of course. But I wanted that feeling again.
We spent the afternoon in the office, working on James's murder, so we wouldn't feel guilty about the evening off. Then we bought wine and drove up to my spot. It was a wild place, all driftwood and long grass and thin stretches of sand mingled with eroded, treacherous paths. No one came here--there were better, safer, more scenic places.
I took off my shoes and socks before I even climbed out of the car, and I rolled up my pant legs. Gabriel got out, still in his suit and his loafers.
"Uh, gotta at least take off your shoes," I said.
"I'll be fine."
I didn't argue. Gabriel had to experience an obstacle for himself, which he did, as soon as we'd walked fifty feet and hit a patch where the path vanished, and water swelled over the sand. Gabriel eyed the lake as if he could intimidate it into retreating. It refused to yield.
As I waded in, Gabriel headed farther up the shore, only to curse as he stepped on boggy ground.
"You're stubborn, you know that?" I called.
He grumbled under his breath.
"This is a beach, Gabriel," I said. "No Ferragamos allowed."
&nb
sp; He looked down at his shoes.
I sighed. "All right. Fine. There's a boardwalk a few miles up. We'll drive--"
"No, I can do this."
He started back toward the car. Then he lifted a finger, as if I might think he was making his escape. I walked to a small embankment and perched on the edge, my toes in the water, sinking into the mud below.
"Better?" he said when he returned a few minutes later.
I turned. He hadn't just taken off his shoes and socks. He'd rolled his trousers and lost the coat and tie, even if the top button on his shirt was still fastened.
"Much better. Now let's walk. By the way, I want a house right there." I pointed at the windswept plateau above the lake's edge. "A tiny house with a huge porch. I'll come out every morning, with my coffee and my newspaper, and I'll watch the sun rise."
"I don't think you can get newspaper delivery here."
