Free Return to the Beach House by Georgia Bockoven Page A

lips. “Bella,” he said.
    “Grazie,” she replied.
    He tilted his head and looked at her. “Parli Italiano?”
    She laughed. “Molto poco. I had a set of CDs that promised I’d speak fluent Italian in six weeks. I either didn’t go enough places in the car or the CDs promised more than they could deliver, because not even my Italian grocer can understand anything I say.”
    “I wish I had the time to give you a lesson today, but sadly, I must get back to work. Perhaps next time. Buon appetito.”
    “What’s this?” she asked Kyle when Antonio was gone.
    “You said you preferred the view over the meal, but I didn’t think you’d mind if we had both.”
    “I can’t remember the last time I went on a picnic. What a terrific idea.”
    “I used to go on them all the time with Jenny,” he said as he guided her to the lawn chairs. “I nearly forgot how much fun they can be.” He glanced at the advancing clouds rolling in with the waves. “Even in the fog.”
    Before sitting down, she went to the short rock wall that provided a safety railing at the top of the cliff and looked over the side. Most of the waves broke before hitting the jagged rocks at the base of the cliff, releasing their energy on barrier rocks farther offshore. Still, there was enough force to create swells of rushing water and foam that swirled around and over the tenacious vegetation.
    Another life lesson—learn when to hang on and when to yield.
    “I love how something can be so scary and so beautiful at the same time.” She came back, sat down, and adjusted a clip that anchored the checkered tablecloth to the small table.
    “It’s an intoxicating combination,” he agreed. “A little like skin diving and having a great white shark brush against your leg.”
    “That happened to you?”
    “Once.” He chuckled at the memory. “Once was enough.”
    Kyle reached into the basket and brought out a covered dish and checkered napkin. Inside was a triangle of artfully arranged crab cakes. After handing her the dish and napkin, he pointed to the area on the other side of the outcropping and said, “If you look closely, you’ll see otters in the kelp bed. A lot of them are mothers with their pups.” He poured a glass of white wine, offered it to her, and when she took it, poured a short splash for himself.
    “Do you come here often?” she asked, squeezing the muslin-wrapped lemon over the crab cakes.
    “I used to. Whenever I could manage time off in the middle of the week, we’d have at least one lunch here at the park. Rain or shine.” He chuckled. “There was one time we couldn’t drink our wine fast enough to keep it from being more water than wine. Best picnic I ever had with Jenny. Now that I actually live here full-time, I’m more likely to make a reservation at the restaurant. There are some things that are better shared.”
    He studied her for several seconds. “Truth be told, I haven’t wanted to come back.”
    “Too many memories?” She would take her cue about how much or how little he wanted to tell her from his reaction to her question.
    “Something like that.”
    Alison took a forkful of crab and dipped it in the sauce. “Oh my God,” she sighed. “This is amazing.”
    “Antonio doesn’t believe in cans. If he can’t get something fresh, it’s not on the menu. I could live on his wild mushroom soup.”
    “And he still has time to fix a picnic basket and sit around the park waiting for us to show up?”
    “He’s a special friend,” Kyle said. “But I had no idea that he’d come himself rather than send one of the staff, or I wouldn’t have asked.”
    Kyle opened a third napkin held together with a length of raffia tied into a bow. “Forgot the bread,” he said, holding the napkin open so she could take a piece.
    A heated stone had kept it warm. There was a lovely bite to the smell that let her know it was sourdough freshly baked. She topped the bread with a slice of the accompanying brie and took a