Page 7 of This Is Who I Am

“Hey.” I shoot her a smile. “No. Dry land is decidedly more my thing.”

“My treat, ladies,” Sadie shouts over our brittle conversation. “Shall I just order a couple of bottles of white wine?”

There’s lots of whooping and I glance around the rowdy group that has joined us as though it was always planned that they would once Sadie’s lesson ended. I know the other four ladies from the restaurant—and Estelle as well now, I guess.

I just came here for drinks with my two best friends on my day off, but that’s Clearwater Bay for you.

One of them, Julianne, a feisty woman in her sixties with short-cropped gray hair, also used to be my mother-in-law. Sitting here with her makes me realize, once more, why it makes sense that Sarah and I are no longer a couple—although it sure hurt like hell when she left.

The wine is served, glasses distributed, and a group conversation develops. Estelle doesn’t interject much. She’s more a quiet observer, although it’s only logical she wouldn’t have much to contribute since most of the topics relate directly to the town. Besides, when you’re at a table with the likes of Suzy and Linda, not much is required from anyone else in terms of conversation.

I push my chair back a little and angle it to my side—to Estelle. She’s wearing a tattered T-shirt and her hair is a wet mess, but she still easily rivals Sadie’s TV-worthy good looks.

“How’s that thing you were working on so relentlessly last Friday?” I ask.

“Oh, hm, yeah… not good.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s a math problem my father left for me just before he died, and I’m beginning to think he wanted to play one last prank on me by giving me an unsolvable problem that he knew I wouldn’t be able to let go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thanks, um, yeah, he passed a few months ago, but I’m only just now going through all his stuff.” Her face doesn’t betray deep sadness, but that doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps Estelle is just very good at hiding her emotions. Especially when sitting with a group of strangers. “That’s why I’m back in Clearwater Bay.” She sips from her wine.

“Suzy reckons she knows you from school,” I say.

Estelle squints in Suzy’s direction. “Yeah. Goodness, that was so long ago. I never lived here again after college. My dad moved back after he retired, but that was only a few years ago, once his health didn’t allow him to teach anymore. He would have just kept on going if his body hadn’t stopped him.” A touch of sadness does creep into her voice now.

“Where did he teach?” I ask, gazing into Estelle’s light-brown eyes.

“Berkeley. Differential Equations.” She shrugs. “Just like me. Well, used to.”

“You were a professor at Berkeley?” I’m a little impressed, especially because numbers might as well be another language for me.

“I, um, resigned recently.” Estelle is not forthcoming with more information. This is hardly the place for it.

“How long are you planning on staying in Clearwater Bay?”

“At least until I solve this fucking problem.” When she smiles, her face opens up and her eyes catch the orange hues of the sunset—and she’s even more shockingly beautiful.

For a split second, I consider asking her on a date, so we can have a proper conversation, but then I remember what Suzy and I were talking about earlier, and the reason why Sarah and I split up, and I think better of it—much, much better. Either way, Estelle Raymond is so incredibly out of my league, I wouldn’t even dare to ask.

“So I might be here a while,” Estelle says.

“Suzy’s turning fifty in a few months,” I say. “Even though you don’t look it, you must not be too far off.” An inconvenient blush heats up my cheeks. Damn it. But at least it’s not a hot flash—yet.

“Oh, please.” Estelle waves off my comment. She’s not good at taking compliments then. “But yes. My birthday’s only at the end of the year, though. In December.”

“Are you at all interested in joining her support group?” I pry, my blush intensifying. Suzy’s so right about how much we need this group if it’s this hard to have a casual conversation about it, with another woman no less. My cheeks are burning up, for heaven’s sake.

“Hm.” Estelle makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a scoff. “Not sure that’s for me, to be honest.”

I almost ask whether she’s a late bloomer but realize just in time that would be quite rude.

“You?” she asks, tilting her head, as though she’s taking a good look at me for the first time and only now realizes that, give or take a few years, we must be the same age.

“The other night when you were at the restaurant,” I admit, even though I have no clue why—must be brain fog, another fun symptom of the menopause—“I had to cool off outside during a massive hot flash.”

“It didn’t impact your food,” Estelle says dryly.

I have to chuckle. “Good to know.”

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