The Last Letter From Your Lover by Jojo Moyes

wives are not entirely dull.”
    “I don’t think anyone could accuse you of being dull, Jenny.” He held out his hand for Anthony to shake it. “Richard Case.”
    “Anthony . . . ah . . . Boot. There’s nothing dull about Riviera society, as far as I can see. Mr. and Mrs. Stirling have been wonderful hosts,” he said. He was determined to be diplomatic.
    “Perhaps Mr. Boot will write something about you, too. Richard owns the hotel at the top of the hill. The one with the fabulous views. He’s at the absolute epicenter of Riviera society.”
    “Perhaps we can accommodate you on your next visit, Mr. Boot,” the man said.
    “I should like that very much, but I’ll wait and see if Mr. Stirling enjoys what I’ve written before I predict whether I’ll be allowed back,” he said. They had both been so careful to mention Laurence repeatedly, he thought afterward, to keep him, invisibly, between them.
    That evening she glowed. She gave off a vibration of energy that he suspected only he could detect. Do I do this to you? he wondered, as he watched her eat. Or is it just the relief of being out from under the forbidding eye of that husband of yours? Remembering how Stirling had humiliated her the previous evening, he asked her opinion on the markets, Mr. Macmillan, the royal wedding, refusing to let her defer to his own judgment. She was not greatly aware of the world beyond hers, but was astute on human nature and interested enough in what he had to say to be flattering company. He thought briefly of Clarissa, of her sour pronouncements on the people around her, her readiness to see slights in the most cursory gestures. He had not enjoyed an evening so much for years.
    “I should be going soon,” she said, after a glance at her watch. The coffee had arrived, accompanied by a small silver plate of perfectly arranged petits fours.
    He laid his napkin on the table, feeling the drag of disappointment. “You can’t,” he said, and added hurriedly, “I’m still not sure if I’ve overridden your previous opinion of me.”
    “Really? Oh, I suppose there is that.” She turned her head, saw Richard Case at the bar with friends. He looked away swiftly, as if he had been watching them.
    She studied Anthony’s face. If she had been testing him, he appeared to have passed. She leaned forward and lowered her voice: “Can you row?”
    “Can I row ?”

    They walked down to the quay. There, she peered down at the water, as if she wasn’t confident of recognizing the boat without double-checking its name, and finally pointed him toward a small dinghy. He climbed down into it, then gave her his hand so that she could take the seat opposite him. The breeze was warm, the lights of the lobster boats winking peaceably in the inky darkness.
    “Where are we headed?” He removed his jacket, laid it on the seat beside him, and picked up the oars.
    “Oh, just row that way. I’ll show you when we’re there.”
    He pulled slowly, listening to the slap of the waves against the sides of the little boat. She sat opposite, her wrap loose around her shoulders. She was twisted away from him, the better to watch where she was guiding him.
    Anthony’s thoughts had stalled. In normal circumstances he would have been thinking strategically, working out when he would make his move, excited at the prospect of the night ahead. But even though he was alone with this woman, even though she had invited him onto a boat in the middle of a black sea, he wasn’t convinced he knew which way this evening would go.
    “There,” she said, pointing. “It’s that one.”
    “A boat, you said.” He stared at the vast, sleek white yacht.
    “A biggish boat,” she conceded. “I’m not really a yacht person. I only pop aboard a couple of times a year.”
    They secured the dinghy and climbed aboard the yacht. She told him to sit on the cushioned bench and, a few minutes later, emerged from the cabin. She had shed her shoes, he noted, trying not to