Page 7 of The Holiday

Heather had moved into the villas almost as soon as she got to Shipwreck Key. She had some money left over from each of her husbands (some more than others), and she wanted to preserve her nest egg as much as possible. Some people assume that Heather is a gold-digger, but that isn't even remotely true. When Edward died, he'd left her over three million dollars, all of which she put into stocks and bonds and an IRA before getting a job in an office in Savannah to pay for the rent on her small apartment that she'd taken after moving out of Edward's house.

With each subsequent husband, she'd gained something much more important to her than money: she'd found love--real love. It was never about the money with her and it still isn't; Heather is and has always been a romantic who wants the warm, secure arms of true love. The fact that the arms she craves are generally those of older, well-established men who adore her is just gravy.

Downstairs, Heather tops off her coffee mug and wanders out to the tiny screened-in lanai. She pulls her long, white nightdress up over her thighs and sits in a chair, crossing her ankles as she watches her neighbor, Mrs. Dougherty, load her Pomeranian into her golf cart for a drive.

"Morning, Heather!" Mrs. Dougherty calls out, waving. Heather waves back.

She's been a lucky woman all these years, and she knows it. The fact that each of her husbands afforded her with a lifestyle of comfort and ease has been amazing for a girl who grew up in the clutches of deep poverty, but the blessing of what they each left her has given Heather peace of mind; she can spend the rest of her life pursuing her passions: reading, painting watercolors, and watching old black and white movies. She never again has to work the front counter of a veterinarian's office, pose as a model at a community college for pocket money, or pick up extra shifts at a bar and grill and hope for leftovers to take home at night. From now on, she can live happily in her little villa, buy as many watercolors as she wants, and fritter away the next fifty years on anything she desires.

But what she wants now is Dave Hutchens. Heather stands up listlessly, wandering through the ground floor of her villa and looking at the watercolors that hang on nearly every wall. She's done some beautiful pieces, and her favorite is a canvas that covers a huge space--ten by twelve--and depicts a stormy sea under a vicious sky. It's moody and evocative, and she stands before it now in her nightgown, a mug of coffee clutched between her hands.

No one sees me as I truly am, she thinks, looking at the painting with her head tilted slightly to one side.No one really knows me. They see me as some floozy who just chases wedding rings and men over sixty, but what I really am is...what I really am is...what am I?Heather thinks as she steps back from the painting.

Am I what I think I am, or am I just what everyone else wants me to be?

* * *

"There's truly no one like you," Dave is saying over dinner at the Black Pearl later that evening. Heather has spent the day watching Marilyn Monroe inGentlemen Prefer Blondesand polishing her silver in preparation for Christmas dinner. She's not about to disagree with a man who is telling her--admiringly, too--that she's a one-of-a-kind, but Heather is feeling restless. She's been turning over in her mind all day the idea that no one in her life can see her for who she is--and that maybe it’s her own fault.

"Thanks, Dave," Heather says absentmindedly. When he reaches across the table for her hand, she lets him take it, even knotting her fingers with his so that he won't think she's gone cold on him. "You're special to me, too. My life has been...so wonderful with you in it."

Dave's face falls slightly, and the small change in his expression reminds Heather of a happy little boy who has brought his mother a frog, only to lose his excitement when she doesn't quite appreciate the gift.

"I sense a 'but' coming here," Dave says. He lowers his chin slightly and stares at Heather, still holding her hand.

Their server drops by with a loaf of fresh bread and a ramekin of whipped garlic butter, but doesn't interrupt them before moving on to another table.

Heather shakes her head and smiles distractedly. "No 'but,'" she says. "But--"

"I knew it!" Dave crows.

"No, it's not like that." Heather shakes her head wildly once she realizes what she's said. "I'm just feeling like..." There is no time like the present for honesty, and she reminds herself that Dave is fast approaching seventy-five. She can scarcely afford to be coy about her feelings at this point. "I feel like maybe I'm more invested in the long-term aspect of our relationship than you are," she says, feeling suddenly shy.

"Oh." Dave's smile disappears completely. His cheeks are ruddy and full of health from the day on the water, and his hair--still thick and wavy--is touched with golden sunlight at the temples. "Oh, Heather.”

Unexpectedly, her eyes fill with tears. This has always been Heather’s problem: she feels too much. Her heart gets involved too quickly. She wants the magic, the romance, the promise of forever.

Instead of speaking, she stands, pushing her chair back abruptly. “I should use the ladies’ room,” she says, reaching for her purse.

Heather winds through the tables and finds the restroom, where she leans over the sink and gives herself a good talking-to in the mirror of the empty bathroom.

“You need to just back off,” she whispers to herself, wiping underneath her eyes with a tissue. “You don’t have to marry every man you fall for.”

Heather tosses her hair over her shoulders and takes a deep, fortifying breath. She doesn't know why being alone is so unpalatable for her. Maybe it was the way her family fell apart after her mother died when she was fourteen, or maybe it was the fact that her father had so easily replaced her and her two sisters with a new family, leaving them to fend for themselves entirely by the time Heather was done with high school, but something about being alone and adrift without the anchor of a loving relationship just doesn't sit right with her.

She blinks at her reflection, which is starting to look less and less like the woman she’s always known herself to be. Maybe that’s it: maybe Dave thinks she’s losing her looks. That would be unfortunate, as Heather has always felt that she’s fine the way she is: wavy, light brown hair that she touches up with soft highlights; greenish-blue eyes that look nice with just a hint of makeup; a figure that’s softer around the edges than it used to be, but still nicely curvy and welcoming. She’s never struggled with some of the bad feelings that Marigold does when it comes to aging, but maybe sheshouldbe more worried. Maybe the cheery youthfulness she's always relied on is fading, and she hates to think that a few more wrinkles might be enough to put off a man like Dave.

Because Dave is great. He's funny, and active, and he has an almost encyclopedic knowledge of music, which never ceases to amaze her. The first time she showed him her watercolors, he said they reminded him of some of his favorite songs, and then he made her a playlist and sent it to her, which had nearly bowled Heather over. Dave had sheepishly admitted to her that his thirteen-year-old granddaughter had been the one to make the playlist at his request, but no matter--the idea that he would go to the trouble on her behalf had made her heart flutter.

Heather unzips her purse and takes out a makeup bag, dumping out lipstick, mascara, a hairbrush, and a tiny bottle of perfume. She takes a few minutes to touch up, and then shoves it all back in her bag and gives herself one last appraising look in the mirror. It will have to do--after all, this is who she is; this is her face, her body, her person. Any man who loves her less as she ages isn't worth her time anyway. She won't change who she is for Dave Hutchens, just like she hasn't changed herself for any of her previous husbands.

“You’ve got this,” she says as she straightens her shoulders. “If he doesn’t love you as much as you love him, you’ll get by.”

There’s a release inside of her chest as Heather makes her way back to the table. She's had a few minutes to compose herself, and so what if she overplayed her hand before stepping away to the restroom? It doesn't matter if Dave knows how much she cares about him; she's not a young girl, and she's not playing games. She never does. When she loves a man, she says so, and when he proposes, she wholeheartedly says yes and means it.

In fact, Heather is ready to say as much to Dave when she gets back to the table. She's more than prepared to tell him how she feels, and how her heart works, and she's going to accept whatever he says in return. She's got the words all queued up in her mind, and she's determined to speak her piece when she suddenly realizes that the entire restaurant is quiet. Heather slows her walk, glancing around. The sky outside is nearly dark, and inside, there are candles flickering on every table. The waitstaff is scattered around the edges of the room, and all the other patrons are sitting at their tables expectantly.

"Dave?" Heather asks hesitantly. The sudden change of energy in the restaurant has disoriented her. She looks around and her eyes land on Dave, who is down on one knee with a black velvet box in one hand.

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