"Until next time, Jack."
"Wait," he pleaded. "It's still early..."
She interrupted him with an annoyed glance and, crossing her hands over the roof of the car, stated firmly:
"No, Jack, I can't."
Jack had learned to read between the lines—especially complicated ones. Hadn't he once cracked the codes used by counterfeiters during his training with the secret services? Tonight, Claire's body language was making her message crystal clear.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, if only to keep from brushing the delicate nape of Claire Betancour's neck, from undoing her bun, from capturing her lips in a kiss beneath the eyes of her fellow townspeople…
She wanted to go home? Fine. He wouldn't insist.
And yet... yet, he couldn't help himself. On a sudden impulse, he said:
"I don't want us to part ways just yet. Let's take a walk on the beach."
She shook her head in refusal.
Most women liked men who took initiative, Jack thought bitterly.
Why did Claire Betancour have to be the exception?
"Listen…" he began.
But his words were drowned out by the blaring honk of a car horn, sharp and relentless.
Furious, Jack turned on his heels.
One of the island's police vehicles had just pulled up beside them—a ridiculous little car that couldn't go faster than twelve miles per hour—daring to intrude on his moment.
"Claire!" called out the driver. "It's rare to see you in town on a Friday night!"
"Chise is sleeping over at a friend's. I took the opportunity to have dinner out."
"You're absolutely right. Enjoy your evening worry-free! You can count on us to keep our fellow citizens safe."
"Perfect," Claire said, seizing the opportunity to slip into her car.
"By the way, if you've got time, maybe you could give Mr. Hogan a lift back to the Pink Refuge.
He'd have to walk quite a ways in the dark from the beach to his cottage."
All three of them laughed, and the little police car drove off, while the Lexus disappeared around the corner.
Melancholy washed over Jack. His attempt to keep Claire in town had just slipped through his fingers, like sand caught by the island breeze.
---
Claire woke early on Saturday morning.
The digital clock on the coffeemaker read 6:32 as she filled the filter and turned it on.
While the coffee brewed, she went to retrieve the island newspaper the mailman had dropped off at the bottom of the porch steps the evening before—the same edition Jack had brought to the restaurant.
Back in the kitchen, she read the article he had mentioned.
The Arts and Crafts Festival was well-known throughout Florida and southern Georgia and attracted a large crowd.
But it wasn't the newspaper that had pulled Claire from her cozy bed at the crack of dawn.
Nor was it her shop, which wouldn't open until 10 a.m., normally allowing her to sleep in until 8:30 on Saturday mornings.
No, what had woken her was a restless night, filled with a vague sense of unease and the feeling that something strange was about to happen.
Now, as she thought about it, it seemed clear that her unease was directly tied to Jack Hogan.
The night before, breaking from her usual Friday routine, hadn't she gone downtown specifically to see him?
And she had gotten exactly what she wanted.
She recalled an old saying: Be careful what you wish for, because once it comes true, you may not know what to do with it.
That was exactly what had happened.
Once her wish to see Jack was fulfilled, she'd felt completely thrown off.
And when he suggested they extend the evening, a wave of panic had swept over her.
What would have happened if she had said yes? Where would they have gone? What would they have done?
What did Jack expect?
It had been over ten years since Claire had flirted with a man.
The rules had probably changed since then.
And she wasn't remotely ready to face the unknown.
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she stepped out onto Aunt Petula's porch.
The garden, meticulously cared for over the years by its owner, was immaculate.
How Claire envied her aunt's serene spirituality, her ability to adapt to any new situation!
Like a true child of the universe, Petula remained unmoved by life's ups and downs, welcoming both blessings and misfortunes with the same curiosity about what tomorrow might bring.
Three years after Roman's death, Claire still couldn't accept the idea that she had to build a life without him.
His passing had been so sudden, so unfair...
In her naïveté, she had clung to the comforting words of friends who promised that time healed all wounds, who encouraged her to change her surroundings, take on new challenges to forget and rebuild.
That was partly true, of course.
But none of it could bring back her old life, and she had realized that with painful clarity.
There would always be a gaping void in her existence.
Taking another sip of coffee, Claire let out a long sigh.
The night before, she had lied to herself, pretending that her trip into town was for the sake of keeping an eye on Jack.
In truth, her outing had nothing to do with her role as mayor—it had been driven by personal desire.
And during their dinner at the restaurant, Claire had realized she no longer knew how to connect with a man, that she simply didn't remember how to behave.
The shrill ring of the telephone suddenly snapped her out of her thoughts.
My God! Who could be calling at this hour?
Heart pounding, she rushed to pick up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Claire! I hope I didn't wake you."
"Carlos! I'm so happy to hear your voice… No, I wasn't asleep. But I am surprised you're up so early."
As she spoke, she glanced at the clock.
It was 7:15.
Why on earth was Roman's son—a young man of twenty-four—already awake on a Saturday?
As handsome as his father, Carlos was a frequent subject in Miami's tabloid headlines.
Girlfriends lined up, hoping to get a ring on their finger.
"You're not sick, are you?" she asked.
"It's rare for you to call on a Saturday morning..."
Indeed, it was usually Claire who called him—on Sundays, in fact.
Lately, it had even become harder and harder to reach him.
"No, I'm doing great. I'm just excited because I have big news to share."
"Hmm-hmm…" she replied playfully.
"What's the lucky girl's name?"
"It's not about a señorita, Claire," Carlos replied with a laugh.
"This is something way more important."
"Tell me everything!"