The View From Alameda Island. Robyn Carr

      “It was, but I’m glad, too. I know it’s meaningless but just knowing you’re going through something similar... Really, I planned to wait for a time when I felt secure and comfortable to ask you...”

      He stopped walking and looked into her eyes. His were dark, smoky blue and heavily lashed. She smiled. She had extra lashes applied so she wouldn’t need too much mascara but this guy who liked to dig in the dirt had all the lashes in the world.

      “I hope I don’t make you feel insecure or uncomfortable. What are you going through that’s similar? You can ask me anything. I’m pretty much an open book.”

      She took a deep breath. “How did you tell your boys you were getting a divorce?”

      He put a comforting hand on her upper arm. “Our situations are probably different. Pamela told them she was moving out. She needed a breather, she said. She might be filing for divorce, she said, but she hoped a little separation would help. Then I had to tell them I wasn’t willing to try again. But I also told them I wasn’t going anywhere, that they were my boys and I loved them.”

      “And that was enough?”

      “I thought so at the time. We’ll see.”

      “I have to tell my daughters,” Lauren said. “They love their father. They tiptoe around him, but I know they care about him.”

      “Good that they care,” he said. “That’s a good thing. I’m sure he’s a great father.”

      “No... I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “But that’s all too complicated. I just want to know how to tell them.”

      “Lauren, they probably already know. They live with you. Once you know how you feel and what you want, you have to be clear and honest. Don’t expect them to be supportive. Aw hell, what do I know? I’m no expert. Our attempts at marriage counseling have been pretty dismal.”

      “Ours, too!” she said. “Brad walks in the door with a mission to win over the counselor! Within ten minutes she’s thinking...it’s almost always a woman...she’s thinking the poor man has a nagging, half-crazy gold digger trying to bleed him dry of all his hard-earned money!”

      All Beau could say was, “Gold digger?”

      “Brad’s older than I am,” she explained. “He was a surgeon when we married. He’s very successful. His family was rich. As I mentioned, mine was not.”

      “But you’re a chemist. A working chemist,” he said. “You’re obviously not laying on the daybed watching your soaps and having your nails done.”

      She hid her hands. He smiled and pulled them out. They were lovely, manicured nails, soft hands, but not because she was self-indulgent. She took care of herself. “I do my own most of the time. I get an occasional manicure but I just can’t sit still for it.”

      “It’s not a crime to be able to afford something like this. Pamela gets completely redone every six weeks. Maybe we have more in common than I thought,” he said. “Is your husband a little overpowering?”

      She nodded.

      He chuckled. “If you knew Pamela...”

      “Overpowering?”

      “She makes the rules,” he said. “Every couple of years she gets restless. Has he left you?”

      “Never,” she said. “Not physically. He’s a very difficult, high-strung man. He knows everything. He has a bit of a temper.”

      Beau’s face darkened with a low crimson brewing under his tan. “He hits you?”

      She shook her head, shame preventing her from talking about what he did. What he did was so subtle. He hurt her in small ways that no one would ever notice. He had to have control. He was in total control all the time and if anyone got in his way or argued with him, he would fight back until he exhausted his opponent and they gave up or gave in. He belittled her. He loved reminding her she came from nothing. “I really should go,” she said a little nervously. She wasn’t afraid of being caught talking to a gardener in broad daylight at a church. She was nervous about exposing herself too much. If people knew how much she’d put up with, how could they respect her? She no longer respected herself.

      “Wait,” he said. “Lauren, who do you have to talk to?”

      “I have family. My sister. I have friends. They’re not all close but there are a couple I can confide in,” she said. “There’s Ruby. She was my supervisor at work but she’s fifteen years older than I am and she’s retired now and yet we’ve been close for a long time. It’s just that...” Ruby’s husband had been ill.

      “I know marriage counseling hasn’t worked out. Mine hasn’t, either. Maybe she’s like your husband, put the two of us in a room and Pamela has to win. She’ll do anything to win. But maybe you should think about your own counselor. Just for you. Someone to help you get through the rough patches.”

      She had done that once, on the sly, a secret counselor. Maybe she should revisit that idea. “Do you have your own counselor?” she asked.

      “I don’t,” he said. “It’s been suggested and I might go that way yet. Right now, things are manageable. Not fun but manageable.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.

      “Listen...” He paused and glanced away. “I’d like to see you again. Is that possible?”

      “Probably not. A complication right now...”

      “I’m not suggesting anything illicit, but if you want someone to talk to... I know I wouldn’t mind having someone to talk to.”

      “I can’t depend on a man right now, not even for talking.”

      “I wouldn’t want that, either,” he said. He pulled out a card. “That’s my cell number. If you want a cup of coffee. Or if you’re sitting on a park bench worrying about things...”

      “Thank you,” she said. “It’s doubtful I’ll call.”

      “I understand,” he said. “It’s an offer.”

      “But you’re a busy guy and I’m a virtual stranger.”

      “Doesn’t really feel that way,” he said. “Here we are, two people going through divorces with grown kids to deal with and... You know. It just happened that way. Neither one of us ran an ad or signed up for online dating.”

      “I appreciate the offer,” she said, smiling.

      “We’ll run into each other again,” he said. “Meanwhile, hang in there.”

      * * *

      Father Tim was leaning on his hoe, waiting for Beau in a stance that looked like the old farmer stance, except that Tim was anything but an old farmer. Plus he was grinning mischievously, ready to give Beau the business. “Your friend Lauren is very attractive.”

      “Stop looking. You’re supposed to be a priest,” Beau said, lifting his shovel.

      “A priest, not a corpse,” he said with a laugh. “Did you notice her eyes are violet?”

      “Must be contacts,” Beau said. “No one actually comes with eyes that color.”

      “If they’re born from a god and a high priestess.”

      “Spread the manure on the ground, Father.”

      He had noticed everything about her. He loved the sound of her voice, her easy laughter, her rich and soft brown hair that fell to her shoulders. It was the color of mahogany. He loved her sass when he ran into her at the fund-raiser and noticed that when the subject turned to her husband, her marriage, it sucked the confidence right out of her. She had that lean and strong look, like a thoroughbred. She was tall and she had kind of big feet, but tall women had to have a sturdy base or they’d blow over in the wind.