“Huh …” That’s it. That’s my best reaction.
“Why did she take off her clothes outside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, when they got home, she pointed for Gabe to go in through the deck door. So I’m going to go see him. If I see Gracelyn, I’ll ask her why she stripped.” She skips toward the stairs.
“Morgan!” I chase after her. “Don’t ask her about it. If she knows we saw her, it might be really embarrassing. We don’t want to embarrass her. Okay?”
“Fine. Whatevs. I won’t say anything.”
I haven’t had any in-depth conversations with Gracelyn since they moved in two weeks ago. We sit on the deck stairs to her place or mine and watch the kids play on the beach, usually talking about them. I don’t know what she does, but I can’t lie … the stripping thing a few seconds ago piqued my curiosity.
Twenty minutes later, two kids streak past the front window toward the beach. They plant one of the umbrellas in the sand, drop into the beach chairs, and cover themselves with beach towels. This is new.
Gracelyn appears a few seconds later, taking a seat on the bottom step to my deck with her phone in her hand. I watch the situation for a few minutes before opening the door.
She glances back at me. “Hey. I can keep an eye on them if you have things to do.”
“What exactly are they doing?” I take a seat next to her, reminding myself to keep my gaze from lingering on her hair. It’s hard. I do it a lot, and I can tell that she notices it because she smooths her hands over her hair when I let my gaze linger too long.
Gracelyn’s face contorts, little wrinkles forming by her eyes. “You don’t want to know what they’re doing.”
That’s code for I need to know.
When I stand to check out what I apparently don’t want to know, she grabs my wrist. “They’re playing a game on Gabe’s tablet.”
I start to pull out of her hold, and she tightens her grip. We have a silent stare off until she releases me along with a deep sigh.
“She’s going to be around kids who have cellphones, computers, and tablets. According to Gabe, most schools give kids computers or tablets that they get to bring home. If you’re planning on sending her to public school, you’d better be prepared for her to have a lot of exposure to it.”
I squint against the sun to see them huddled under the towels before easing back onto the step next to Gracelyn. “I hate it.”
She chuckles. “I can see that.”
We wordlessly stare at the water for several minutes before I turn toward her. “How’s your new job going?”
She stiffens, keeping her gaze on the water. “Fine. Thanks.”
“What do you do?”
“Uh …” She bites the inside of her cheek for several seconds. “I work at a cli—well, a salon.”
“You do hair?”
More cheek-biting before a slow nod. “Yeah.”
“Is that what you did in Idaho?”
“No.” She laughs a little. “I worked in sales. Radio advertising.”
“Now you’re doing what you were trained to do. That has to feel rewarding.”
Another pause and slow nod. “Yes. I was trained to do this job. How about you?” She shifts her body to face me. “Will you go back to being a professor this fall?”
“Probably not this fall. I’ve been working on a book, and I might see about getting it published.”
“Wow! What’s your book about? Anatomy?”
“No.” I laugh. “It’s about my life. I spent a lot of time journaling when we traveled, so I wrote about my experiences. The first half of the book covers things that happened before Morgan was born, and the second half is all about our adventures.”
“A single dad story?”
“Of sorts. It’s quite ironic. I’ve never been much of a reader … for pleasure. More out of necessity. However, when I decided I wanted Morgan to experience life and learning away from the internet, I had to set a good example. So I started reading for enjoyment.”
“But you have a cellphone?”
“Yes.”
“And you only use it to make calls? No email? No social media? Games? Photos?”
“I use it to take videos and photos.”
“You’re not on any social media?”
I shake my head.
“I’m …” Gracelyn tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “I think I’m envious. And you’re staring at my hair again.”
“Jeez …” I close my eyes, wrinkling my nose. “I’m sorry.”
“Would it help if I wore a hat?”
“No.” I grin, resting my forearms on my knees while diverting my gaze to the ground. “My wife …”
“Your wife?”
“Yes. When I met my wife, she had your hair. The length, the color, the highlights—or streaks as I called them.”
“I can change it. I’ve been thinking of making a change.”
“That would be great. Thank you.”
Shifting my gaze to the kids, I wait for her to respond, working hard to contain my grin. Through the corner of my eye, I see her hanging jaw and unblinking eyes.