Sea Glass by Anita Shreve Read Free Book Online Page B

mildly surprised. “As bad as all that?”
    “I’m afraid so,” she says.
    “How come, Viv?”
    She stretches her bare legs out and burrows her feet into the sand. “I’m twenty-eight. Twenty-nine in September. I’ve missed my chance.”
    “Poppycock.”
    “Besides,” she says, “I don’t believe in marriage.”
    “Really not?”
    “Name me a good one.”
    He thinks a moment. “Jean and Eddie?”
    “She’s a simp. Doesn’t count.”
    Dickie ponders her question.
    “See?” Vivian says.

    “Brain’s not up to par this morning,” Dickie says. “You’ve had proposals, surely.”
    “Oh God, yes,” Vivian says. And it’s true. She’s had dozens. Well, not dozens. Maybe six or seven. Two of them serious.
    “You come across as hard-boiled,” Dickie says, “but I’m not sure you are.”
    “Count on it,” she says.
    “I have a girl,” he announces suddenly. “Actually, I’m engaged. To be married.”
    A small jolt runs the length of Vivian’s spine, and she sits slightly forward. Dickie engaged? She monitors the shock. She ought to be upset. Furious, really. Should she act furious? But, oddly, Dickie’s announcement feels good, like diving into the ocean does. Painful at first and then refreshing.
    She lowers her dark glasses and peers at the man beside her. “A small detail you forgot to mention yesterday afternoon, perhaps?” she asks.
    Dickie looks away.
    “I hope she’s liberal minded,” Vivian adds. “Who is she?”
    “Someone I met in Havana,” Dickie says.
    Vivian registers a small ping of jealousy and then a larger one of intrigue. Anyone in Havana is bound to be interesting. You can’t go to Havana and not be interesting. She lays her head against the canvas back of the chair, as if she might doze off.
    “Not sure I love her, though,” Dickie says. “That’s the thing.”
    “Don’t whine,” Vivian says. “I can’t stand a man who whines.”
    Dickie throws the shell toward the water. “Just trying to explain about last night,” he says.
    “Not loving someone is no excuse for being disloyal.”
    “You believe in that, do you? Loyalty and vows and so forth?”
    “Not sure,” she says.
    “It was just that you looked so . . . so . . . I don’t know . . .
smart
standing there at the reception desk,” he says. “No one’s as smart as you, Viv.”
    “Don’t be smarmy. It’s beneath you.”
    “But it’s true,” he says.
    She glances over at Dickie’s shins, long and bare and sandy. A waiter appears with two glasses of iced tea with lemon pinwheels on their rims. “I hope you’re not falling in love with me,” she says, sitting up. She takes her glass and sips.
    “Don’t think so,” Dickie says honestly. Too honestly, Vivian thinks. “What’s your story, Viv?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Rumor is that your mother went off with another man. A French industrialist or something.”
    “A contradiction in terms,” Vivian says. “But yes. She did. When I was eight.”
    “Poor Viv.”
    “I hardly knew her, so don’t feel sorry for me.”
    “Never feel sorry for you, Viv. You’re probably the last person I’d feel sorry for. I’d probably feel sorry for myself before you.” Dickie puts his glass in the hole he’s dug in the sand so the dog can drink from it.
    “When are you getting married?” she asks.
    “At Christmas.”
    “I’ll send you a present,” she says. She thinks a minute. “A nice glass lamp.”
    “Viv . . .”
    “I’m quite serious,” she says. “I know where I can get some terrific glass lamps.”
    “Want some lunch?” he asks.
    “What’s on the menu?”
    “Haddock, I think,” he says. “And strawberry shortcake.”
    Vivian shakes her head.
    “I’m sure we could get some sandwiches,” Dickie says.

    “Cucumber sandwiches?” she asks. She pictures a cold cucumber sandwich.
    “Your arms are getting pink,” he says.
    She slouches back down into her canvas chair, and for a moment her head swims. “Yes, I do need