Unremarried Widow Read Free Page A

life I had imagined and yet it was the most natural thing in the world, with Miles there at the center of it.

2
    That summer Florida had its worst hurricane season in years. Four storms hit the state, one after the other, knocking down power lines and tearing off roofs. The phone lines at the senator’s office never stopped ringing. On the drive home from work I would open the car windows and gulp the fresh air, already counting down the days to the weekend when I would see Miles and we would set off on some new adventure.
    On a dense and humid Saturday late in the summer we decided to visit limestone caverns just south of the Alabama line. Water dripped from the rocks overhead as we shuffled along with the group, following a guide, and Miles and I pressed together in the tight space.
    â€œThe caverns date back more than thirty-eight million years,” the guide said, “to when the state of Florida was covered with a warm shallow sea.”
    I had the sudden image of salt tides spread over the land, and I stepped closer to Miles to breathe in his sun-warmed smell, like hayin summer. Even in the cold and damp he radiated heat. I still had to catch my breath with him sometimes, the way he made me feel. When I thought of the men who came before him, I thought of weighty materials, of earth and metal, bags filled with sand. I imagined carrying them like a load, being yoked to their desires. They asked too much of me. Miles asked nothing; he took me whole. When I thought of him I thought of water, of running my hand through a clear pool. Even surrounded by him, I could still see myself.
    â€œAnd these here,” the guide said, indicating the rocks that thrust up from the cavern floor, knee-high, thick-headed, with shafts as big as my fist, “are stalagmites. They’ll grow a cubic inch every hundred years.”
    I leaned close to Miles. “Does that look like . . . ?”
    He was already smiling. “Sure does.”
    The caves had a corporeal quality, like cloistered parts of the earth’s body, damp and dark and moist, lungs breathing in and out. I pressed against Miles’s back and we were a pinpoint of warmth in that vast and humid cavern. The distant dripping of water reached us, a steady plunk-plunk-plunk into a hidden pool, and as the group shuffled forward Miles took my hand. He ran his thumb over the fleshy webbing between my thumb and first finger, back and forth, so that the rhythm matched the fall of water. The guide led us farther into the cave and pointed to small ridges in the rock.
    â€œThese marks here?” she said. “Made by the retreating tides. Water giving over to dry land.”
    Miles gave my hand a squeeze and I squeezed back, softly at first, then more urgently. Did we feel the tidal pull of our own lives then? Or were we content to simply lean into each other and let the heat of our bodies build in that cold space?
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    The parking lot emptied quickly after the tour. By the time we arrived at the car, the other visitors had gone. Miles unlocked the passenger side door and held it open for me as I climbed in. I sifted through the glove compartment and retrieved a folded map, and Miles perched on the edge of my seat as I pored over it.
    â€œThere’s a lake not far from here,” I said. “We could go for a swim.”
    Miles moved his head close to mine to peer at the map. He looked up to see me looking at him and he leaned forward to kiss me, a slow kiss that deepened and lengthened. I reached up and circled his neck with my arms. He pulled back and looked at me, and I smiled at him as he surveyed the parking lot through the windshield.
    â€œNobody’s around,” he said. “Parking lot’s empty.”
    â€œDo you think . . . ?”
    â€œDo you?”
    He raised an eyebrow, a question, and I raised mine, an answer.
    â€œI’ve never—” I said.
    â€œMe neither.”
    â€œBut maybe we