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"Of course," Sunday agrees. "But it's not for me. In fact, maybe it never was."
Banks jingles the change in the pocket of his khaki shorts as he steps over to Sunday and offers her his elbow. He realizes as he does this that he's waited a lot of years to have a woman walk by his side again, and to feel that he is somehow her protector and her partner.
Perhaps it's too soon to start thinking of things between him and Sunday that way, but he does. She is strong and effervescent, but there's an element to Sunday that reminds Banks of a wounded bird; there's a bit of her that always seems to be fluttering around and searching for what she's missing. At first he wondered if it had to do with her terrible marriage to Peter Bond and the way Peter slept his way around D.C., openly dating any man he wanted while trying to show the world the face of a straight family man, but once he'd gotten to know her better, Banks realized that it had more to do with her upbringing than anything. And it's possible that her marriage to Peter had been unavoidable as he ponders the way life had let Sunday down repeatedly--even before she'd ended up in D.C.
"I think it seemed like my destiny when I was young," Sunday goes on, walking beside him as she holds onto his arm, pressing her body against his bicep. "To get off of Tangier Island and tobesomebody. It was all I really wanted."
"Not what it was cracked up to be?" Banks asks mildly, though he already knows the answer.
Sunday shrugs. "Not so much. I mean, if I hadn't given birth to Benjamin at such a young age I might have done a million other things," she says, referring to the baby she'd given up for adoption. "But I certainly wouldn't have adopted Cameron and Olive, and I wouldn't have met Ruby or ended up here on Shipwreck Key."
Banks nods amiably. "Though never marrying Peter might have been okay."
Sunday gives a hard laugh. "That's true. I probably could have avoided the years I spent with Peter and been better for it." They walk up the wooden steps to The Black Pearl and choose a table with an umbrella that overlooks the water. Banks pulls out Sunday's chair for her and waits until she's settled before taking his own. "But you can't get to wherever you are without passing over those same bumps in the road, and I think I learned some things about myself from my marriage. Things I wouldn't undo."
Banks takes his menu from the waitress as she swings by and leaves two ice waters in glass goblets. "Thanks," he says to the young woman, then turns his focus back to Sunday. "We don't talk about our marriages much," he says, laying his menu on the table.
"Who wants to talk about failed marriages with a shiny new lover?" Sunday gives him a winning smile and picks up her water glass.
This is fair. Banks has never met a woman with whom he actuallywantsto discuss his marriage or his divorce, nor has he ever been with someone who he wants to listen to as they unpack their own marital disasters. But Sunday is different. It's important for him to know her, and to be known by her.
"I think as much as we learn things from our own situations, we also learn from other people's mistakes, and we learn even more about ourselves by sharing and talking. At least, that's what I'm finding out," he adds quickly, suddenly feeling shy about saying so much. Since when does he say things like this? Openly wanting to share his thoughts and feelings?
Sunday sets her water glass down and rests her elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly as she looks him directly in the eyes. Just then, the waitress comes back. Sunday turns her head up to look at the young girl. "We'll split a lobster omelette and an order of brioche French toast. A side of crispy hash browns, eight pieces of bacon, and two coffees with cream and sugar. Please." She scoops up the menus and hands them to the waitress with a quick smile before looking back at Banks.
He laughs. "Is that all for you?"
"No, we're sharing."
"I'm not used to ladies ordering for me," Banks says, though he's not annoyed by it, just surprised.
"Well, get used to it. I spent a lot of years letting a man control what I did all the time, and my new policy is to just do things without asking people for permission. If I really screw up, I'll just apologize for it later."
Banks lifts his eyebrows and nods as he takes this in. "Okay. Noted."
"And besides, who hates bacon and coffee and French toast? I figured there'd be something there you'd eat." She waves a hand to let him know she's changing topics. "Now, let's talk more about this so I can understand what we're getting at."
Banks sets both hands on the table and folds them together. He blows out a long breath. "I'm not sure that I'm getting at anything in particular, but I want to know you, Sunday. I really want to know you, and I want to understand you. Maybe that's selfish because it's really just my way of continuing to get to know myself--"
"A lifelong project for us all," she interjects, holding up a finger pointedly.
"Absolutely." Banks scoots around in his chair, getting comfortable as the waitress brings two mugs of coffee and a tray with cream, sugar, and two stirring spoons. "I just really failed at marriage, and I'm not saying that I'm ever going to walk down the aisle again, but I think in terms of a relationship, I want to do better. I want tobebetter."
Sunday nods seriously. "Admirable. But are you sure you aren't too jet lagged to be having this conversation?"
Banks looks out at the Gulf of Mexico, which is threaded with strands of gold from the morning sun. There's a boat in the distance, and on the deck near them, a middle aged couple is spoon-feeding one another bites of their breakfasts. At another table an older gentleman is reading the newspaper alone, drinking coffee and taking bites of a crumbling muffin.
"I'm not jet lagged. I'm good." He pauses, recalling his lunch with Ruby at Le Petite Pearl in Saint Émilion. Suddenly he realizes that he'd had lunch with Ruby at Le Petite Pearl, and now he's having breakfast with Sunday at The Black Pearl, and he marvels at the symmetry. "When we were in France, Ruby invited me to lunch and we had wine and fondue."
"Ooohh, you're making me jealous," Sunday says, narrowing her eyes. "Not about you and Ruby having a lunch date, but about that delicious food!"
"It was incredible," Banks says, already thinking of what he wants to share with her. "But we really talked--for the first time ever--beyond just pleasantries and work stuff, and it made me feel...good."
"Sure," Sunday says, pouring a ribbon of white cream into her rich, black coffee and then stirring it with a spoon. "Ruby is a fabulous listener. She's helped me through some tough times just by listening and asking questions."
"Exactly," Banks says, still amazed by how easy it is for women to share with one another and not feel as though they've been too vulnerable, too naked with one another. "We talked about a lot of things, and I realized that I don't share how I feel very often. I know that I didn't do it enough or very well with my ex-wife."
"Denise," Sunday says, giving him a soft smile. "You can say her name if you want to; I've never been one to believe that people didn't have lives before one another. And as long as you tell me she wasn't a horrible woman, then I owe her the respect of hearing about her by name. I think we're all just one big mishmash of the people and the loves we've known before, and Denise is one of your people, one of your loves." She reaches across the table and laces her fingers through his for a long moment.
