Page 64 of Every Beautiful Mile

“What do I wear when I sleep, Penelope?”

There is an amused fire in his eyes that makes my fork drop and eyes close.

My face might actually be on fire, and he laughs.

Bastard!

“You are bad at keeping secrets,” he says, resting his ropey forearms on the bar, smirking. Again. I don’t have to know him long to know Ethan’s smirk is like the heat of the desert or the coolness of the Pacific: it just is.

“It’s not what you think,” I argue, braving a look at him. “I’m here because my husband died, not because of you. Or the nakedness. Or whatever.”

“Your husband died, so you came to Bethel, Maine?” He laughs incredulously and shakes his head, sliding a clean wineglass onto the rack overhead.

“In so many words, yes. My kids and I fixed up an old RV and planned to drive it around the country this summer. So, I could, I don’t know, fix myself or something. After a very unfortunate day with dinosaur bones last week, I decided I’d always wanted to see Maine, so we will be here the rest of the summer. Specifically, the coast, Bethel, is just a stop for the night. So, yes. My husband died, grief turned me into the island recluse, and here we are in Maine.” I raise my glass at the confession. “And maybe I noticed that Bethel could be on the way, so we stopped here for the night so I could…”

I don’t even know the ending of that sentence. And yet, I lift my chin in defiance.

“Anyway. I fell in love with experimenting with flavors and the combinations that came from fresh ingredients behind the bar. Markets are my muse—or were. My husband died in a plane crash, and that part of me shut down. I was intrigued by you, I guess. About how you centered a restaurant around that same concept. And tonight was… fun.”

“When did he die?” he asks.

“Umm… well, almost a year and a half ago.”

I shift in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Did it work?”

My eyes pinch in confusion.

“Did you fix yourself?”

I’m stripped bare by his question. “Maybe?” A small laugh puffs out of me.

I finish my last bites of dinner as he finishes cleaning the bar, and he takes a seat next to me, topping my wine off before pouring himself a glass.

Our arms rest next to each other without touching as the music plays softly over the speakers through the empty dining room. For the first time in nearly eighteen months, I’m not a sad widow or failing mom trying to mend bridges.

I’m a woman in a bar with a man.

It feels like the first breath of air after being held underwater for too long.

“Penelope is an unusual name,” he says over the rim of his wineglass before taking a sip.

“Ahh, yes. Well, to know my mother would be to understand it all. She’s an artist and has gone through many phases in life. I was named during her phase of Greek appreciation, and my brother, Gabe, was named during her devout Catholic phase.” I laugh. “It’s all very inspired.”

“Which one was Penelope? I don’t know Greek mythology.”

“She was married to Odysseus and stayed loyal to him while he was gone for years and years in the Trojan War. Apparently, she was beautiful, so beautiful she had over a hundred suitors in that time, but she stayed faithful for twenty years until he returned.”

I zip the ring on my necklace. “Sometimes I wonder if my name sealed my fate in life,” I say softly.

“Because of the beauty?” he asks with a nudge.

“Something like that.” A small smile tugs at my lips.

“What kind of art does your mom make?”

“That is a fascinating topic. My mom is a painter. Until recently, she painted landscapes with lots of color, but now she paints nudes. Of my dad. Still with lots of color.” My eyes widen to emphasize the trauma of this.

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