Once, that would have pulled me out of the sunset, out of the meal, out of myself. Once, I would have answered on the first ring, heart already racing, mind already reorganizing around whatever he needed.
I looked at the name.
Then I turned the phone face down on the table.
Not from cruelty.
Not from revenge.
Simply because I was in Tuscany, the wine was good, the evening was beautiful, and whatever Garrett had to say could wait until morning.
That was the whole revolution right there.
Not the bank forms. Not the canceled drafts. Not the arguments in my living room.
This.
The ability to let my son be a grown man for one evening while I remained a grown woman in my own life.
Lorine raised her glass.
“To James,” she said softly. “Who would be proud of you.”
I lifted mine.
“To James,” I said.
Then, after a moment, I added, “And to late bloomers.”
She laughed.
The sky deepened over the hills. Somewhere a waiter lit candles. The air smelled faintly of stone, rosemary, and warm summer dust. I sat there in the gathering dusk, an old widow with good shoes, a strong spine, and a life that had finally stopped revolving around the people most eager to spend it.