little longer. On two afternoons he played catch with Kyle while Denise watched from the porch; on the third afternoon he taught Kyle to hit the ball with a small bat and tee that Taylor had used when he was young. Swing after swing, Taylor retrieved the ball and set it back on the tee, only to encourage Kyle to try again. By the time Kyle was ready to stop, Taylor’s shirt was soaked through. Denise kissed him for the second time after handing him a glass of water.
On Sunday, the week after the carnival, Taylor drove them to Kitty Hawk, where they spent the day at the beach. Taylor pointed out the spot where Orville and Wilbur Wright made their historic flight in 1903, and they read the details on a monument that had been erected to honor them. They shared a picnic lunch, then waded in and out of the surf on a long walk down the beach as terns fluttered overhead. Toward the end of the afternoon Denise and Taylor built sand castles that Kyle delighted in ruining. Roaring like Godzilla, he stomped through the mounds almost as quickly as they were molded.
On the way home, they stopped at a farmer’s road stand, where they picked up some fresh corn. While Kyle ate macaroni and cheese, Taylor had his first dinner at Denise’s house. The sun and wind at the beach had worn Kyle out, and he fell asleep immediately afterward. Taylor and Denise talked in the kitchen until almost midnight. On the doorstep they kissed again, Taylor’s arms wrapped around her.
A few days later Taylor let Denise borrow his truck to head into town to run some errands. By the time she got back, he’d rehung the sagging cabinet doors in her kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, wondering if he’d overstepped some invisible line.
“Not at all,” she cried, clapping her hands together, “but can you do anything about the leaky sink?” Thirty minutes later that was fixed as well.
In their moments alone, Taylor found himself mesmerized by her simple beauty and grace. But there were also times when he could see written in her features the sacrifices she’d made for her son. It was an almost weary expression, like that of a warrior after a long battle on the plains, and it inspired an admiration in him that he found difficult to put into words. She seemed to be one of a slowly vanishing breed; a stark contrast to those who were always chasing, running, on the go, searching for personal fulfillment and self-esteem. So many people these days, it seemed, believed that these things could come only from work, not from parenting, and many people believed that having children had nothing to do with raising them. When he said as much, Denise had simply looked away, out the window. “I used to believe that, too.”
On Wednesday of the following week, Taylor invited both Denise and Kyle to his home. Similar to Denise’s in many ways, it was an older house that sat on a large parcel of land. His, however, had been remodeled over the years, both before and after he’d bought the place. Kyle loved the toolshed out back, and after pointing out the “tractor” (actually a lawn mower), Taylor took him for a ride around the yard without engaging the blade. As he’d done when he’d driven Taylor’s truck, Kyle beamed as he zigzagged across the yard.
Watching them together, Denise realized that her initial impression of Taylor being shy wasn’t completely accurate. But he did hold things back about himself, she reflected. Though they’d talked about his job and his time with the fire department, he remained strangely silent about his father, never volunteering more than he had that first night. Nor had he said anything about the women he’d known in the past, not even in a casual way. It didn’t really matter, of course, but the omission perplexed her.
Still, she had to admit she was drawn to him. He’d stumbled into her life when she’d least expected it, in the most unlikely of ways. He was already more than a friend. But at night, lying under the sheet with the oscillating fan rattling in the background, she found herself hoping and praying that the whole thing was real.
“How much longer?” Denise asked.
Taylor had surprised her by bringing over an old-fashioned ice-cream maker, complete with all the ingredients needed. He was cranking the handle, sweat running off his face, as the cream churned, thickening slowly.
“Five minutes, maybe ten. Why, are you hungry?”
“I’ve never had homemade ice cream before.”
“Would you like to claim some ownership? You can take over for a while. . . .”
She held up her hands. “No, that’s okay. It’s more fun watching you do it.”
Taylor nodded as if disappointed, then played the martyr as he pretended to struggle with the handle. She giggled. When she stopped, Taylor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Are you doing anything Sunday night?”
She knew he was going to ask. “Not really.”
“Do you want to go out for dinner?”
Denise shrugged. “Sure. But you know how Kyle is. He won’t eat anything at most places.”
Taylor swallowed, his arm never stopping. His eyes met hers.
“I meant, could I take just you? Without Kyle this time? My mom said she’d be happy to come over and watch him.”
Denise hesitated. “I don’t know how he’d do with her. He doesn’t know her too well.”
“How about if I pick you up after he’s already asleep? You can put him in bed, tuck him in, and we won’t leave until you’re sure it’s okay.”
She relented then, unable to disguise her pleasure. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t want you to have the opportunity to say no.”
She grinned, leaning in to within inches of his face. “In that case, I’d love to go.”
Judy arrived at seven-thirty, a few minutes after Denise had put Kyle in bed. She’d kept him busy outside all day in the hope that he’d sleep while she was out. They’d ridden their bikes into town and stopped at the playground; they’d played in the dirt out back. It was hot and steamy, the kind of day that saps the energy, and Kyle started yawning right before dinner. After giving him a bath and putting on his pajamas, Denise read three books in his room while Kyle drank his milk, his eyes half-open. After pulling the shades closed-it was still light outside-she closed the door; Kyle was already sound asleep.
She took a shower and shaved her legs, then stood with a towel wrapped around her, trying to decide what to wear. Taylor had said they were going to Fontana, a wonderfully quiet restaurant in the heart of downtown. When she’d asked him what she should wear, he’d said not to worry about it, which didn’t help at all.
She finally decided on a simple black cocktail dress that seemed appropriate for almost any occasion. It had been in the back of her closet for years, still draped in a plastic sheath from a dry cleaner in Atlanta. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn it, but after slipping it on, she was pleased to see that it still fit well. A pair of black pumps came next; she considered wearing black stockings, too, but that idea was dropped as quickly as she’d thought of it. It was too warm a night, and besides, who ever wore black stockings in Edenton, except for a funeral?
After drying and styling her hair, she put on a little makeup, then pulled out the perfume that sat in her bedstand drawer. A little on her neck and hair, then a dab on her wrists, which she rubbed together. In her top drawer she kept a small jewelry box from which she withdrew a pair of hoop earrings.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she evaluated herself, pleased with how she looked. Not too much, not too little. Just right, in fact. It was then that she heard Judy knocking. Taylor arrived two minutes later.
Fontana’s Restaurant had been in business for a dozen years. It was owned by a middle-aged couple originally from Berne, Switzerland, who had moved to Edenton from New Orleans, hoping for a simpler life. In the process, however, they’d also brought a touch of elegance to the town. Dimly lit, with first-rate service, it was popular with couples celebrating anniversaries and engagements; its reputation had been established when an article on the place had appeared in Southern Living.
Taylor and Denise were seated at a small table in the corner, Taylor nursing a Scotch and soda, Denise sipping Chardonnay.
“Have you eaten here before?” Denise asked, scanning the menu.
“A few times, but I haven’t been here in a while.”
She flipped through the pages, unused to so many choices after years of one-pot dinners. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything, really. The rack of lamb is the house specialty, but they’re also known for their steaks and seafood.”
“That doesn’t really narrow it down.”
“It’s true, though. You won’t be disappointed with anything.”
Studying the appetizer listings, she twirled a strand of her hair between her fingers. Taylor watched with a
