"No?" He gave Oliver his most forgiving and father-in-law knows best smile, stopping just short of issuing an order. It happens to all of us; you might as well get with the program—that was the message.
Jennifer was satisfied with both visits. Nothing really mattered but Emma, anyway. "Isn't she a doll baby? The most precious doll baby," she would say, answering her own question and thrusting Emma into Oliver's arms.
"Yes, she is. Yes, you are," he would say, holding Emma carefully. She was a good-natured baby. Her hearing was sensitive; she made faces and sometimes cried at loud noises. She liked music. Oliver had fun twirling her around the living room, keeping her high against his shoulder so that she could see the walls spin by.
One Saturday late in May, he received a note from Francesca saying that she was coming back that week and that the winter had not gone well. Jennifer didn't ask about the letter, perhaps she hadn't noticed it. Oliver said nothing. Later that afternoon, he took a roundabout route shopping and walked out to Crescent Beach. The log had shifted position during the winter, but it was close to the same spot. He left a note in their format: "O+F" in a heart on the outside. Inside, he wrote: "Welcome back. Much to tell you." That was all he could bring himself to say. If Francesca came out in the morning, at least she would have a welcome. Maybe he could get there, maybe not.
Sunday morning, he went out for bagels and a newspaper. On his way home, at the last moment, he kept going down State Street. He crossed the bridge, drove to Cape Elizabeth, and walked quickly to the beach. He didn't know what to say, but he was suddenly glad and hopeful that Francesca might be there. The force of his feeling surprised him. The note was gone. She wasn't around. She got it anyway, he thought as he hurried back. Probably.
That week, when he thought of Francesca, he twisted his wedding ring around and around his finger. He worried about her and about the girls. It occurred to him that Emma would be as large as Maria and Elena in a few years. It didn't seem possible. The following Sunday, he got up early, put on running shoes, and told Jennifer that he would be back with bagels in an hour or so. He bought coffees to go and carried them to the log in a paper bag. The water was cold that early in the season. There was no one on the beach. No note. No sculptures or arrangements. He and Francesca might never have been there.
A figure appeared in the distance, walking with long familiar strides. He balanced the bag on the log and started toward her. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was shorter than it had been. Her eyes. Her beautiful mouth. They walked into an embrace that became tighter and tighter. There was no time, no weather, no ocean. Getting closer was all that mattered. Francesca was trembling. Oliver dug his feet deeper into the sand and moved one hand slowly across her back. She let out a deep breath and relaxed against him. When they stepped apart, it was like waking up in the morning.
"Hi," he said, stupidly.
"Oliver . . ."
"You look like you've had a hard time. I brought coffee." He pointed back to the log.