Note: This is another excerpt from a longer story about Jim and Monique, two grieving lovers who find each other on a private island in the South Pacific. This is what happened just after they took that delicious shower together...
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We sat there for a long time before regaining enough strength to rinse off and step out of the shower. We toweled off, and toweled each other off, and stepped into a mutual embrace.
"Mmmm," Monique said. "All that exercise has made me hungry. "What's for breakfast?"
"Why don't you make the omelettes," I suggested, "since you are 'a graduate of the world famous Cordon Bleu.' I'll make some coffee, cut up some fresh fruit, and maybe . . . pour some Mimosas?'
"Yes!" she said. "Perfect." And so we put on a couple of the white terrycloth bathrobes hanging there and headed downstairs.
We were both giddy, humming "La Vie en Rose" and snapping each other with dishtowels while we worked. Monique sliced mushrooms and chopped onions, cracked eggs and whisked them in a bowl. She was thrilled to find fresh croissants in a white paper bag on the counter.
"Where do they come from?" she asked.
"I really don't know," I shrugged. "I just know that every morning when I wake up there is fresh food in the house and fresh flowers on the table. It's not that anybody brings them in. It's just a little more of that magic I was telling you about."
"I like this magic," she said, with a broad grin. And then, adding a wink, "I want more!"
"Oh, I think there will be more," I chuckled.
We sat down at the kitchen table with a couple of omelettes that could have graced the cover of Bon Appetit: absolutely beautiful. Monique seemed so pleased with the kitchen--apparently she had been able to find everything she needed, not only for breakfast this morning but also for dinner last night. Along with the omelettes we had fresh fruit, flaky croissants, real butter, strawberry preserves, Starbucks Caffe Verona, and a couple of Mimosas made with freshly squeezed orange juice and a chilled Veuve Clicquot. I raised a glass to Monique.
"To you, darling," I said, "and the way you have transformed this island."
"To you," she said, as she clinked my glass, "and the way you have transformed . . . almost everything."
There was a moment of meaningful silence as we sipped from our glasses, stared into each other's eyes. And then we dug into breakfast like two people who hadn't eaten in days.
"I have to make a confession," Monique said, at last, glancing up. "I couldn't sleep last night. You know . . . before I came upstairs. I was up, looking around, and I looked into your study. I found your journal."
I stiffened just a bit, wondering if there was anything in my journal I wouldn't want her to see. There were pages and pages of my private grief in there. I had written in an effort to get it all out.
"And?" I asked.
"Well," she said, looking down, "I know I shouldn't have read it, but I had to know what sort of man you were--on the inside. Your 'outside' is gorgeous, and I love your playful personality, but I wanted a peek inside your soul before I took the next step with you. Jim," she said, shaking her head slowly, "what I read was so moving, so beautiful. Wow. Tears were just running down my cheeks. And that's when I knew I wanted to join you in your bed. I was too nervous to do what I really wanted to do, which was hold you and heal you, so I just lay there beside you, and then--you remember--I reached out for your hand."
"That was so tender," I said. "My heart was pounding when you first got into bed, but in those next few minutes I felt a peace wash over me that I haven't felt in a long, long time."
