Work Text:
A row of houses on a sand-swept little lane by the beach, all candy colored, tall and narrow like Victorian painted ladies, but with the clean lines more suitable for modern sensibilities. She’d chosen the purple one off the website, because the color reminded her of the dress her aunt had sent her from Paris the spring she was nine. In person, the shades are subtler, more like Easter eggs. Her house stands before her, straightforward with its three stories and two galleries, less fussy than the gables and balconies of her new neighbors.
Up the stairs and into the house, depositing her luggage in the foyer and walking straight through to the back. She cares about nothing but the beach.
He’s already here, standing on the beach and yes, he’s in his coat, as though he’s been plucked from a Bronte novel and plopped on this Florida shore.
He’s smoking, but he’ll also have mints in his pocket.
She doesn’t go to him. He’ll have heard the cab drop her off. She walks back up the warm boards and into the kitchen. There’s a bowl of oranges and avocadoes on the counter and several dozen single serve bottles of Pellegrino in the refrigerator. The cabinets are empty save various spices left by previous tenants, and a dusty box of Tetley. The taxi driver had told her that the little grocery store a few blocks over would close at 8. They still have a few hours.
The screen door bangs shut and he comes into the kitchen, still with the look of England about him though he hasn’t been home in months. He hesitates, the lamp hanging over the worktop island carving his face into shadows, then he steps around and puts his hand on her waist. She steps into him and he is warm, full of the sun, his shirt smelling like salt and tobacco.
Alive. Real. Here. His heart beats and his voice rumbles into her ear.
“Hello, Molly.”