So soft, so tender, their lips seeking, claiming.
One, two, three long seconds, while her heart did a slow roll in her chest and her blood simmered. All the needs she‟d
tucked away, all the impulses she‟d denied, swam to the surface.
He knew it, too. She felt it in his kiss.
He raised his head, a glint in his eyes.
She was dimly aware of some commotion behind her, scraping metal and billowing steam, shouts of caution and cries of
appreciation, but her attention was on Morgan. She pressed her lips together as if she could hold the taste of him inside.
His eyes darkened. His nostrils flared. He wanted her. The knowledge made her giddy, lighthearted with hope, drunk with
power.
“Mommy, look! The lobsters are done. See?”
Liz blinked and turned her head. Regina, swathed in a bright red apron, was ordering the transfer of dozens of lobsters and
mountains of clams from washtubs draped in seaweed to long metal serving dishes. Volunteers heaped ears of corn in one tray
and piles of red potatoes in another. Dylan, his hands in industrial-looking blue gloves, lifted a coffee can of melted butter
from the rocks, swearing as the hot metal burnt his fingers.
She wanted this, to be part of this scene, not on the outskirts, an observer. She wanted to share in the joy and abundance.
She wanted this life.
With Morgan.
The guests flowed toward the picnic shelter where the tables were set. Regina‟s lobster boil was augmented by the island
potluck, Paula Schutte‟s tomato salad beside Edith Paine‟s blueberry cobbler, baked beans and corn bread and hot pepper jelly.
“We should join them,” Morgan said. He took her hand, making her start with surprise and pleasure. Had he touched her
like this before, so casually possessive? “Before the food is all gone.”
She twined her fingers with his, determined to hold on to this moment as long as she could. “My thoughts exactly.”
The fire had died to a red glow. The moon wove a silver web across the sea. Liz sat outside the wooden shelter with
Morgan, her hand linked with his, her stomach and her heart both full enough to burst.
The teens had drifted away from the volleyball net to flirt in the shadows or sprawl by the fire. She didn‟t see Zack. But
there was Emily, whispering secrets with Hannah Bly under the gift table. Nick rocked his baby sister in an infant carrier.
Children ran around the shelter, faces shiny with butter and excitement, as their elders sat with cooling cups of coffee, chewing
on brownies and the latest island gossip. Liz saw Dylan back his wife against one of the shelter‟s columns for a kiss. Margred
tipped her head against her husband‟s shoulder, her eyes as full of dreams as the moon.
Something about the way she stood, her pelvis angled, one hand on her lower back, snagged Liz‟s attention.
“She didn‟t eat much,” she murmured.
“Who?” Morgan asked.
“Margred.”
“She must be the only one who did not.”
Liz chuckled. “I may not eat again for a week. But it‟s nice the way everyone brought something. That‟s what I moved here
hoping to find, that sense of community for Zack and Emily.”
“And for yourself.”
It was the opening she‟d hoped for. Her insides jittered with nerves and anticipation.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Of course, it‟s not easy, coming here as the doctor.”
“But they need you.”
“They need the medical care I can provide. There‟s always a distance, a deference, between doctor and patient. I can know
the most intimate details of their lives—diet, depression, sexual dysfunction—and never be invited to their homes.” She smiled
ruefully. “Essentially, I‟m an outsider here.”
“Alone.”
“Yes.” She moistened dry lips. This was her moment. This was her chance. “You said once we weren‟t that different.
Maybe we‟re more alike than either of us thought.”
Morgan frowned, his gaze on the fire. “I have never sought to be part of a community. Or committed to anything but my