Page 65 of The Spirit of Love
Walter Matthau whines.
“When your jokes embarrass a dog,” Jude says, “maybe it’s time to rethink your approach.”
“What happened the last time you stayed in a hotel?” I ask.
“A chandelier fell on me in the night.” He points to a scar above his eyebrow, which I lean in to run my finger over.
“No way.”
“Eight stitches.”
My eyes fall on the longer scar that runs down the side of his jaw. It’s very faint. Mostly hidden by his beard. I’d never noticed it, but then I’ve never stood this close to Jude de Silva. I point at it. “Is that from the chandelier, too?”
“No. Not that one.” He turns and waves me forward. Together we start down the dark trail. “Do you know about night vision?”
“I know it takes eighteen minutes to kick in,” I say, quoting Sam, remembering how he’d held me in his arms as he rattled off this stat.
“Very good,” Jude turns to me. He sounds surprised, but in the dark, I can’t see him yet. It hasn’t been long enough. “So until eighteen minutes pass, I’m going to point out the dicey parts of this trail. Right there, small rock. Right there, subtle incline. Watch your step.”
He takes my hand. His touch startles me. Warm, gentle. When I try to compare it to Sam’s, I find I can’t remember Sam’s touch as clearly as I should. As clearly as I want to. And maybe that’s for the best.
“Is this okay? I’d hate myself if you tripped when I could have prevented it.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m fine.”
The three of us walk in silence for a while, Jude only interrupting the hooting of desert owls to tell me where and how not to trip. Finally we arrive at his tent, pitched next to a broad, flat rock.
I wish I’d thought to camp like this. It’s a simple but cozy setup. Not much different from the one I had at Parson’s Landing.
“I don’t have any firewood,” he confesses.
“Better to see the stars.”
Jude hands me a blanket to spread out over the rock. We both climb up and then lie back. We look up at the stunning, spinning galaxy. Jude lets out a sigh that makes me wonder if he’s feeling as grateful for this view as I am. I know reverence is not his style, but how could anyone not feel awe in the face of this?
“Stars,” he finally says, breaking our comfortable silence.
“So many.”
“No, I meanstars,” he repeats. “You told me the other day that we can choose something to believe in. Maybe I choose stars.”
“They’re a great thing to choose.”
“I can only see a couple from my condo,” he says. “But maybe that’s the point. Maybe if we believe in something, we have to be able to take it on faith that it exists. Maybe we can’t have proof all the time.”
“I like that very much.”
“Don’t. Move.” Jude whispers.
I try not to move, but I turn my head to see what’s going on. He points, very subtly, down his chest, where Walter Matthau has just snuggled up and laid his head on Jude’s belly.
“You did it,” I whisper, grinning. “You bonded.”
“I think we all bonded,” Jude whispers back.
“Yeah. We did.”
“Fenny,” he asks. “Are we cool now? You and me? Are we okay?”
