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"Vegan marshmallows?"
"We like good things, too." He grinned, lifting a whole-grain bun. "I made the hot-dog buns."
Abigail looked at the bun. "I can't believe you. You're like the perfect man, aren't you? Except I don't think a woman can really catch hold of you.”
He cocked his head, a curious smile on his face. "What do you mean?"
"Well, poor Marcie didn't catch you. How many women have you outrun? Someone told me three,” she said it flippantly but inside her stomach knotted. "Love 'em and leave 'em" Leif. She'd bet twenty dollars that could be his moniker.
“Ah, back to the whole lothario thing."
"I was teasing. Sort of."
He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe I'm not cut out for staying put. Relationships make me itchy no matter how much I want to be the guy who stays. I really want that, you know.”
She thought about that. About a guy who wanted to belong to someone but couldn’t. And why was that? “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to be the guy that runs. And I don’t know why I do it. I just feel like I may suffocate. It’s wrong, but I didn’t feel like I belonged with the women I left behind. Or belonged at all. Maybe that’s why I’m on the mission to find out who my father is. Once I learn, perhaps I will feel a sense of peace because I will know who I am.”
She watched as he uncovered a plate of colorless wieners and passed her a stick to use over the open flame. “And then you’ll magically be ready to commit? To kick off your traveling shoes and stay awhile?”
Leif seemed to contemplate that as he jabbed the tofu dog onto the stick. “Maybe. Or maybe not. There are a lot of what-ifs and maybes. All I know is I have to try to find the truth. For my mother. For me."
"I guess you'll deal with the what-ifs and maybes as they come the way we all do,” Abigail said, squirting enough mustard on her bun to mask what she was certain would be a horrid gastronomic failure in grilling. She balanced the hot dog over the flames, turning it, noting that it was darkening. Abigail withdrew her wiener and slid it onto the mustardy bun. She took a half-hearted nibble.
"Not bad, right?" he said, taking a bite.
"It's actually okay,” Abigail said, grabbing her wine and washing down the bite.
For a few minutes, they ate in companionable silence, the firelight flickering in the intimate darkness, casting patterns onto the patio. The smell of the incense, now burned out, still lingered, lending an exotic flavor to a Louisiana winter night.
"Tell me about being a dancer," he said when they'd shoved aside their empty plates.
Abigail wiped her hands on a napkin. "Well, I majored in theater and dance in college. Such a silly major but I had dreams of being onstage. I wanted to do Broadway."
"But you didn't make it there... or anywhere?"
"You're not going to sing the song, are you?"
Leif chuckled. "I'm a horrible singer, so no."
"I didn't quite make it there. Right after graduation as I contemplated what to pack for the Big Apple, Cal proposed to me."
"Wasn't letting you get away, was he?"
She stilled as Leif’s comment sunk in. She'd never thought about Cal using a big diamond and a boyish smile to convince her she belonged beside him... not waiting tables in Manhattan while praying for a part in the chorus of some off-Broadway musical. Cal had strategically prevented her from living out her dream. Jesus, she'd never realized that until now. "I guess that's true. Still, it wasn't a practical career choice. I stayed here and opened up a dance studio."
“Like for kids or what?”
“For kids. I loved it. Sharing my love of dance was really rewarding."
"So how come you now run a bed-and-breakfast?"
“Because it worked out that way," she murmured. "You know, I don't want to talk about me and my failures. Too many to discuss tonight."
"Want another hot dog?"
"No"
