Three Junes by Julia Glass

Jack’s brown hand like a starfish on Fern’s rosy, freckled back, his mustache chafing her neck. To supplant this vision, he looks at the harbor, concentrates on a sloop, its sails furled, gliding straight toward him. So what if he were to retire from the paper, even sell it; what if he were to travel alone for a year? What if he were to say to Fenno, All right, the house and the dogs will stay, but
you
take them on.
    Paul recognizes this immediately for the false wish it is: not just to call Fenno home but to make him see his father’s life from within. The house could simply be closed for a time, or let; the dogs, as Fenno suggested, sent over to board at the farm.
    “Yoohoo in there,” says Marjorie, her face a few inches from his.
    “What?” he says, embarrassed at his absence.
    She touches his arm, the way she did the first morning in Athens, extolling the benefits of time. “Oh listen, you do deserve to drift. I understand completely about the drifting; back then I called it the supposings. You know: supposing this; supposing that. I did a lot of it back then.”
    “When?” Paul is startled by how much she knows. He’s only beginning to realize what a good traveler she is.
    “When my farm burned down. Before I taught real school, I had a horse farm, a riding school, and the whole thing burned to the ground, not a single animal saved. I could probably have replaced it—insurance, I’m good about those things—but each horse . . . no, I couldn’t possibly. So that’s how I started on my rovings. Next winter, I’ll see the Yucatán.” As she delivers this oddly cheerful speech, Marjorie repacks her box of bowls. When she’s finished, she sits back to enjoy the sun, which has moved just high enough to touch their table. “I
was
a crack hand at dressage.”
    This thought seems to leave her more satisfied than wistful. And then she changes course again, suddenly raising her hands above her head and exclaiming, “Oh it is not for me, it seems, to touch the sky with my two arms!”
    “What?” says Paul again, but now he’s laughing. “Marjorie, you’re losing me at every turn.”
    “Sappho. One of her curious, lovely fragments. And here you are, snapping out of it; I see a start anyway. But honestly, will you look at those majestic clouds? The quintessential June sky—and such an everyday thing in these parts! I don’t know about yours, but my eyes were jolly famished for a sky like that.” She checks her watch, makes noises of polite alarm, and hastily begins counting coins. Paul stills her hand.
    “Gentlemen are too rare,” she says as she stands and hoists her box to her hip. “And no, you may not carry this back to the hotel.” She waves down their waiter. “Taxi,
paricolo
?
”
    Paul orders another coffee. He looks around, hoping to find an abandoned newspaper in a language he can read even badly. Sitting up to scan the tables, he sees, under the far side of the awning, Fern and Jack. Jack is eating a souvlaki. He eats greedily, radiant with energy and carnivorous content. Shaded by her hat, Fern sits very close to Jack, touching him often. She is trying hard to look carelessly affectionate, but her face refuses to conceal her panic. She looks bereft already. She has fallen hard for Jack, though of course she doesn’t know him. Paul doesn’t know him either.
    Fern lays her head on Jack’s shoulder. Jack is licking his fingers and constantly talking. He kisses the top of her head, but his eyes are on the harbor. He must know, from experience, just how to tell her good-bye: Wasn’t that a lark; enjoy the rest of your travels, love. Give ’em hell back in Paris.
    Turning his back to them, Paul stands up and leaves. Fifteen minutes later, reading in the hotel lobby, he sees Jack rush past without noticing him, up the stairs two at a time. Irene, buying postcards at the desk, glares after Jack, then looks at Paul as if he is some kind of playboy accomplice. Come Santorini, he will no