Leesa Freeman

“Her knees gave slightly at the thought, and as my arms tightened around her to keep her upright, she managed a breathless uh-huh with just a hint of a moan. Only sheer willpower kept me from lifting her up on the cabinet and dipping my mouth to her warm center. That, and the need for sustenance before she really did drain me dry.”

“She turned and smiled. “Kitchen-sink pasta.”“My favorite. But you really ought to come up with a better name for it than kitchen-sink pasta. Sounds only slightly more appealing than bathtub gefilte fish.”She shuddered. “Who in god’s name would make bathtub gefilte fish?”“I dated a Jewish girl whose grandmother made it,” I laughed.”

“What looks good to you?” he asked as if we were out for ice cream. Rocky road or pistachio?Like my Corvette sitting back in the shop, he had a penchant for American-made classics, the ones Detroit had long-since forgotten it once knew how to make. Slowly, I walked around looking at each one—the acid green Shelby Mustang with white racing stripes, the powder blue Ford Fairlane, the black Chevy Bel-Air— each in pristine condition and only because his blood and sweat coursed through them as surely as gasoline. But if he was serious that I could take my pick and drive it out of here, there was only one choice for me: the cherry red 1955 Ford Bronco.”

“I looked at the images hanging on the walls, wanting to find those things in her pictures. My favorite was directly across from me: a photo of a beaten, weathered hull of a rowboat. I knew about as much about boats as I did photography, which was next to nothing, but that boat wasn’t going anywhere near the water anytime soon unless the owner decided it would make a mediocre shipwreck to explore while scuba diving. Nevertheless, it faced the out-of-focus lake in the background, almost hopefully, as if it hadn’t yet decided its best days were gone, as if it still dreamed of bobbing peacefully on the waves.“Does that one have a name?” I asked.She smiled. “Seaworthy.”