On Saturday morning, Maggie walked up Cottage Street following her run. Sweat ran down her face, and she swore even her eyelashes were sweating. She was wiping her face with the bottom of her T-shirt when she heard a car pull up next to her.
It would be him, she inwardly groaned after she glanced over her shoulder and saw the blue-and-white police car stopped at the curb.
“This is a new look for you,” Brett said as he got out from behind the wheel.
“Nice of you to notice.” She pulled her shirt back down and tried to pull up her ponytail.
“Hard not to. I haven’t seen you sweat like that since you were on the track team back in high school.”
“I’ll have you know I’m in training for a marathon,” she told him.
“Do tell.” Looking faintly amused, he leaned back against the passenger-side panel.
“It’s been on my bucket list. And after talking to Dee Olson at the reunion luncheon, I was inspired. Do you know she runs marathons?”
“I do. She runs the Boston Marathon every year. She’s quite the accomplished runner.”
“Well, she told me she’d help me get started if I was serious about it. I thought I’d run a few miles every day before I called her. You know, build up to it.” She rested her hands on her hips. “It would be really embarrassing to go out with her and pass out after the first quarter mile.”
“Yeah, I can see where that’d be a problem.” He rubbed his chin to hide a grin.
“So have you talked to Joe this week?” she asked.
“Yeah, this morning. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He took off his sunglasses, their eyes locked, and inside her head she heard that old familiar buzz. “We were thinking about dinner tomorrow night. You, me, Joe.” He studied her face for a long moment before putting his glasses back on. “What do you think? You ready for that?”
“I . . . yes. Yes. I’d love that,” she heard herself say, pushing away all thoughts of it being too soon or feeling too much like a family dinner.
“I thought maybe Crossen’s, out on the Cape.”
“I haven’t been, but I heard it’s really good. Sure.”
“So I can tell him you’re in?”
“I’m in. Yes. Definitely in.”
“Great.” Brett nodded and pushed away from the side of the car. “So how ’bout I pick you up around six?”
“Oh. Sure. Good.” Maggie nodded. “Yes.”
“I’ll see you then.” He walked around the front of the car to the driver’s side and opened the door. He stood for a moment, and Maggie had the feeling he wanted to say something more, but all he said was, “Bye.”
She raised one hand in a sort of half wave, then when the car pulled away from the curb, she resumed walking toward her house, already second-guessing her decision. Would it feel strange, the three of them together? Lunch with Joe had been fine, and Brett’s dinner with him apparently had gone well. And her visits the past week and a half with Brett had gone really well. But was it too soon to have the three of them together?
Would it feel strained to Joe? To her? One minute she thought it was a great idea, the next, the worst ever.
Her biggest fear? That it would feel too much like what might have been.
The drive to the Cape wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. Brett may have sensed her unease, or maybe he felt a lick of anxiety himself. He kept the conversation light, ignoring the elephant in the room, for which Maggie was grateful. She didn’t want to talk about how she felt, and she didn’t want to know his feelings about what they were about to do. Instead, he entertained her with stories about dumb criminals and dogs, like the guy who burglarized a house, was attacked and chased by the homeowner’s dog, then called the police to report the dog bite. Or the guy who kidnapped a pricey best-in-show-winning pug and left a ransom note written on the back of an envelope that had his full name and address on the front. By the time they reached their destination, laughter had helped Maggie relax enough that she could shake off her worries.
Joe had waited inside at a table overlooking the water, with a spectacular view of the sunset over the dunes. He’d risen when Maggie and Brett approached the table, offering Maggie a hug and extending both hands to shake Brett’s. After making their drink selections—beer for Brett and Joe, wine for Maggie—the conversation easily drifted from one topic to another.
“Jamey had a swim meet this afternoon,” Joe told them after Maggie asked what his kids were doing for the summer. “He said he wanted a job to start saving for law school, but I reminded him there was time for that and he should concentrate on being a twelve-year-old.”
“Right. Don’t want him growing up too fast, or to push him into something he doesn’t want to do,” Brett commented.
“You played football from the time you were what, seven?” Joe asked, and Brett nodded. “Did you ever feel pushed?”
Brett hesitated. “Maybe a little. My dad played when he was in high school and was good enough to get a scholarship for college, but he wrecked his knee his freshman year, so there went the scholarship, and there went college. So he had really high expectations of me.”
“Which you fulfilled in spades,” Maggie reminded him. “And I don’t remember you wanting to do anything else. You loved playing.”
“You’re right.” Brett turned to her. “I did. I don’t regret a minute of it up until the time I got hurt. There was nothing else I wanted to do.”
“How did you feel about that? About not being able to play anymore?” Joe asked, something Maggie herself had wanted to ask. She’d been there through
