The Guardian

That afternoon, she'd missed Jim more than she had in a long time. She supposed it was because of what was happening with Mike. She was moving on, but she began to wonder if Jim would have been able to, had their positions been reversed. She thought he probably would have, but if not, did that mean he had loved her more than she'd loved him? And what will happen, she wondered, if I do fall in love with Mike? What would happen to her feelings for Jim? Her memories of Jim? Those were the questions that cycled endlessly through her mind after lunch, questions with answers she didn't want to face. Would her memories gradually diminish, she wondered, fading away like decaying photographs?

She didn't know. Nor did she know why the prospect of seeing Mike tonight left her feeling more nervous than she'd been yesterday. More nervous than she'd felt about any of her other dates, for that matter. Why now?

Maybe, she thought, answering her own question, it's because I know this one is different.

Julie reached the Jeep and got in; Singer hopped into the back, and Julie started the engine. She didn't head toward home. Instead, she followed the main street for a few blocks and took a left, heading toward the outskirts of town. A few minutes later, after another turn, she reached Brookview Cemetery.

Jim's headstone was a short walk away, just over the rise and off the main path, in the shade of a hickory tree. Julie made her way up the path. When she got close, Singer stopped, refusing to follow any farther. He never had. In the beginning, she wasn't sure why Singer always stayed back, but over time she came to think that somehow he knew she wanted to be alone here.

She reached the gravesite and stood over it, not knowing what she would feel today. She took a deep breath, waiting for the tears to come, but they didn't. Nor did she feel the heaviness she always had in the past. She pictured Jim in her mind, recalling the happy times, and though a faint feeling of sadness and loss came with the memories, it was like hearing a clock tower chime in the distance, echoing softly before finally fading away. In its place, there was a numbness; she wasn't sure what it meant until she saw the winged angel etched above his name, the one that always reminded her of the letter that had come with Singer.

It would break my heart if I thought you'd never be happy again. . . . Find someone who makes you happy. . . . The world is a better place when you smile.

Standing by his grave, she suddenly realized that maybe this was what he'd meant by those words. And as she had the night before, she suddenly knew Jim would be happy for her.

No, she thought, I won't forget you. Ever. And neither will Mike.

That's what makes him different, too.

She stayed until the mosquitoes began to circle. One landed on her arm and she slapped it away, glad she'd come but knowing she should probably be going. Mike was going to pick her up in less than an hour, and she wanted to be ready.

A breath of wind shook the leaves above, sounding like the faint rattle of shaken pebbles in a jar. After a moment it stopped, as if someone had muted the sound. But then it wasn't quiet anymore; from the road she heard a passing car, the sound of the engine rising and falling, before disappearing. A child's voice carried from the distant houses. There was a faint brushing sound, something scraping the bark of a nearby tree. A cardinal broke from the branches, and glancing over her shoulder, Julie saw Singer swivel his head, his ears twitching. He remained rooted in place, however, and Julie saw nothing. She frowned slightly and crossed her arms. Turning from the headstone, she tucked her head down and began walking toward the car, goose pimples lifting the hairs on her arms.

Twenty

Mike appeared right on time, and Julie stepped out, closing the door behind her before Singer had the chance to get out. Noticing that he was wearing a jacket and slacks, she smiled.

"Wow," she said, "that's two nights in a row that you're looking pretty spiffy. This is going to take a little while to get used to."

Julie could have been talking about herself. Like the night before, tonight she was wearing a sundress that accentuated her figure. Small gold hoops dangled from each ear, and Mike caught the slightest trace of perfume.

"Too much?" he asked.

"Not at all," she reassured him. She touched his lapel. "I like this-is it new?"

"No, I've had it for a while. I just don't wear it that much."

"You should," she said. "It looks good on you."

Mike rolled his shoulders and motioned toward the truck before she could dwell any further on it.

"So-you ready to go?"

"Whenever you are."

As he began to turn, Julie reached for his arm. "Where are the Band-Aids?"

"I took 'em off. My fingers are better now."

"Already?"

"What can I say? I'm a quick healer."

Standing on the porch, she held out her hand like a teacher requesting that a student spit out his gum, and Mike held them out.

"They still look red to me." She paused before looking up with a curious expression. "How hard did you scrub? It looks like a couple of them were bleeding."

"It stopped," he said.

"Goodness," she said. "If I had known what you'd do, I wouldn't have said anything. But I think I've got something that'll make them feel better."

"Like what?"

Julie held his eyes as she raised his hand to her mouth and kissed his fingertips.

"There. How's that?" she asked, smiling.

Mike cleared his throat. Like I was holding on to a live electric wire, he thought. Or standing in a wind tunnel. Or flying down a mountain on skis.

"Better," he managed to answer.

They ate dinner at the Landing, a waterfront restaurant in downtown Beaufort. As on the night before, they opted to sit at a table on the patio, from which they could watch the boats pulling into and out of their slips. On the planked boardwalk, couples and families passed by holding ice-cream cones or bags filled with tourist mementos.

Julie put her napkin in her lap and leaned forward.

"Good choice, Mike," she said. "I love this place."

"I'm glad," he said, relieved. "I like it, too, but I usually come for lunch. I haven't had dinner here in a while. I'd feel funny coming by myself for dinner."

"You could always come with Henry."

"I could," he said, nodding. "Or not."

"You don't like going out with Henry?"

"I spend all day with him. It would be like you going out with Mabel."

"I like going out with Mabel."

"Mabel doesn't insult you."

Julie laughed, and Mike put his napkin in his lap. Julie appeared relaxed and radiant to him, completely at ease in her surroundings.

"How'd your lunch go with Emma?" he asked.

"Oh, it was fun. She's easy to talk to."

"Like me?"

"No, not like you. You're easy, too, but in a different way. I can talk to her about things that we don't."

"Like me?" he said again.

She gave him a sly wink. "Of course. What good is going out with somebody if you can't tell people about it?"

"What did you say? Good stuff, I hope."

"Don't worry. It was all good."