Free The Secret Keeping by Francine Saint Marie

toward their windows. The high and low places admitted the sun and displayed their finest linens. Decorated tables were sent outdoors and stood at attention on the sidewalks. Silver and gold settings relinquished their tarnish and gleamed on their own accord.
    And at Frank’s Place the waiter opened the patio.
    Lydia Beaumont languished out there Saturday with zero expectations of the hot new spring. Still, she appreciated the sunshine. It was warm on her skin, stimulating to her blood, its heat long awaited. She basked in it, listening without too much resentment to the birds singing their I love you’s. She even watched them up in their branches as they flirted and played tag.
    Beside her table, on the sidewalk, flowed a multitude of fellow sun worshippers, bedecked, as she was, in their pre-summer best. She admired their flowers, their stripes, all the seersucker suits marching or meandering to similar churches like Frank’s or wandering aimlessly, just to show off. She searched their ranks without meaning to, a habit by now. Searching for her favorite blond.
    She found her, too, her body reacting first to her discovery, the heart leaping in her chest, the knees going weak with adrenaline, the arms wanting to lift up in the air, to hail the woman or hold her or both, the cords in the neck tense with a restrained yell, a whoop of joy trapped in there. She watched the woman nearing, those green eyes hidden behind sunglasses, her own eyes glistening, dewy with desire, the object of complete desire appearing in the flesh now, in full focus, her image once more in alignment with the one held so long in her mind’s eye, emblazoned there. She processed the woman anew, her synapses fantastically tripping with information, her brain’s search engine declaring a perfect match.
    The blond left the parade and selected the table adjacent to hers.
    The waiter came out to greet her and she smiled wearily as he held her chair. He lifted the umbrella and she removed her glasses holding Lydia’s gaze longer than usual.
    Delilah was mistaken. The woman had not been on vacation, that was clear. She was not rested. Her eyes, typically bright and dancing, didn’t have an ounce of joy in them today. Indeed, to Lydia, it looked as if she may have spent a good deal of the past month or so staying up late, crying. She waved with her book and whispered a soft hello. Lydia mouthed it back to her, her body leaning forward in a subconscious display of sympathy. The woman smiled then, laying her book on the table, her glasses on top of it. Something’s on the tip of her tongue, Lydia thought. So say it.
    The waiter reappeared with his menus and he read off the luncheon specials while the woman listened distracted. He seemed uneasy today as did the blond, Lydia observed. She threw around some scenarios in her mind trying to determine which one she could use to get herself at that table.
    Behind her a commotion sounded in the street, squealing tires and honking horns. She turned as did the other patrons to see what was going on.
    A yellow sports car screeched up to the curb alongside the patio. It idled a minute in its own exhaust and then finally emitted a long-legged beauty from the passenger side who nonchalantly hung over the open car window as she laughed and chatted with the driver. After a few moments, she stepped away from it, turned and began cutting a path through the tables of curious spectators on the patio. The car exited the same way it arrived.
    She didn’t need such a grand entrance. She was tall and commanding with exotic good looks, the type of girl they wrote songs about, that got attention even in crowds. Used to being stared at, she was dressed perfectly for it, so that you knew in an instant that her body was as flawless as her twenty-something face.
    She was quite the girl, walking in a gliding manner as if her feet didn’t actually touch the ground, floating as if she had wings. As she neared her table, Lydia thought she