"No." She looked stunned. "Really?"
"Yeah. She did a lot of musicals, so she's very well versed in dancing."
"Hey, that is excellent insight. I'll think about some elaborate concept for a stage there where people can dance."
"Do your parents live in Boston?" I asked her once the house was within reach. I immediately looked around for any notes or another letter. It bothered me that I didn't know the whole story with her ex. She didn't mention anything about him causing trouble again, but I was on high alert. In my experience, people like that didn't just back down.
“No." She sounded regretful. "They used to, along with my sisters. Then my sisters both went to Greece, working as receptionists for a hotel. They each fell in love and married there. My eldest sister gave birth to a girl last year. She asked Mom and Dad if they wouldn't mind moving over there to help them take care of the baby. It was all my parents needed to move. They just opened their own B&B too. They’re very happy there.”
"But you aren't."
She swallowed hard, taking out her keys.
"I’m very happy for them and for my sisters. I just miss them so much."
I had to employ all my self-restraint not to kiss her again. She sounded vulnerable and so damn adorable.
"But I talk to them every day, and, well, I fill them in on everything I do. My parents also went through some hard times in their lives, and they always pushed forward, and I learned that from them. They're proud of me."
"As they should be," I said.
This was one of the things that attracted me to her: she was a fighter. I noticed it even at Martha's Vineyard, and I wanted to know more. I wanted to invite myself in and ask her to tell me the story behind every picture she’d hung of her family. Her home contrasted so starkly with my suite at the Four Seasons—it was elegant but completely empty, as if my personal life was nonexistent. On one level, I supposed that was true. But on another, it couldn’t be further from the truth. I had my grandparents and my brothers.
She walked up to the door, jingling her keys, and then abruptly stopped, laughing nervously.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing."
“Natalie,” I said solemnly, "is something wrong?"
"Why does your mind jump to trouble right away?"
"Tell me what happened."
"Nothing. I remember this movie where they said that when a woman is playing with her keys in front of her door, it’s a sign that she wants to be kissed.”
"Shall I take the hint?"
"No, no, no." She quickly unlocked her door, pushing it open. "But thanks for walking me home."
"My pleasure," I said just as she closed the door.
I'd promised not to kiss her again. I didn't say anything about getting to know her better.