They sat naked, cross legged, their knees touching on the mattress and sipped bubbly. Getting Riley away from the Inn was like pulling teeth from a grisly. She was tenacious about her work and everything it entailed. Granted, she'd probably reached her limit when the shit came down about Andy. There was no way she'd accept that it wasn't somehow her fault. But she was working through it all well, taking Jeff's advice and hiring that French fru fru cook to take over as executive chef. Pierre Gillet was already proving to be a guy John was not gonna like no matter what. Hell, this fucker made Antony look like a walk in the park. He was a pompous bastard who had, within moments, changed the entire kitchen to meet his preferences. Blessedly, Monica looked like she'd get on well enough with him. Ah well, John didn't have to be in that kitchen too much, so he'd let the culinarians deal with Chef Gillet.

But that evening, as the moon rose over the Atlantic and quiet permeated the Outer Banks, all those things seemed a thousand miles away. John looked at his wife, lovely in the moonlight, tender, the most important woman he had ever known. His life belonged to her, was formed and shaped by her, was jostled and shook and rebuilt at her hand … and he was grateful. Such a journey he had taken, long and hard, through two lives and along many, many rough roads to find himself in that bed with her. "God sakes, Riley. Do you know how much you mean to me?"

"No," she smiled softly. "But I know how far we've come."

John topped off her glass and ran a hand through his hair. "Damn, baby. This is the life, huh?"

"What's that? The fact that our son is sound asleep? The fact that we're completely alone in a house without a hundred guests right outside the door?"

"No," he leaned forward and tenderly kissed her, sucking her bottom lip before releasing. "Because we're together, Riles. You realize we've been together five years now? Though that other world, into marriage, through the avalanche and losing the first baby. Through …" and he fell silent.

Riley leaned back against the headboard. "John, can I ask you something?"

He rubbed his eyes and set his glass aside. "Sure."

"That girl. I know you didn't make love to her. What I don't know … is why you walked away."

"Will it make a difference, Riles?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. I know I was part of the reason you left, got drunk and picked her up. I accept my part in it all. Maybe it isn't important and I'd be happy to never think about it again … but … why didn't you go through with it?"

He looked into her eyes, wanting her to watch him tell it, not only hear his words but see his heart. A fleeting wash of terror shook him. What the fuck? Was she opening a can of worms that was best left sealed tight forever? It didn't matter. That moment, with her, both of them naked and vulnerable, opened, he had to finish something he never quite told anyone. He cleared his throat and began.

"Truth is, baby I don't remember even picking her up, couldn't even tell you what fucking bar I was in. I was so drunk; I bet I didn't even know my own name. What I remember most was being in that motel room, getting out of my clothes. I never looked at her, all I knew was I needed to touch someone, needed to connect … feel … I dunno … something.

"It was crazy. Like I was moving in a dream. I know a few things though. I didn't kiss her, didn't undress her. I remember crawling over her and then, for the first fucking time all night, I remember looking at her. That was all it took, Riley. I left, I think I fucking ran out of there."

"But … why did you leave? What did you see? And don't you dare tell me she was fat or ugly or anything stupid like that." Her words were harsh, but her voice wasn't. John knew this trait in Riley. Her strange skill for getting a point across as gently as possible, but getting the fucking point home all the same.

He sighed. "No. I'm sorry, baby. She was pretty. Actually very pretty. There was nothing wrong with her. Hell, I don't think she was even drunk. It wasn't that. Not that at all. See … when I looked down at her, Jesus … Riley, it wasn't what I saw; it was what I didn't see. I looked at her face and it wasn't you. It just … wasn't you."

John shuffled on the bed and rubbed his eyes. "It makes no sense for you to forgive me, take me back, but I gotta tell you, I am glad you did. I need you, baby. And I love you. I just don't know what else to say."

She sat up and reached her arms around his neck, pulling him close in a desperate embrace. "There is nothing else to say. And John Biebe, if you rehearsed that speech you couldn't have performed it better. But you know what?"

"What?" he held her tight; unsure if it might be the last time ever, afraid that his statements about that fateful night had finally closed all the doors to possible happiness for them.

"I believe you. I believe all of it. I know your heart, John. And I told you a little lie a few minutes ago. I swear to God, I do know how much I mean to you, because I know you know how much you mean to me. It's over now. You've said the words I needed to hear. Love me, John. Love me until we need to go home to Vermont."

It was a different, mature kind of passion. Long gone were the days of insane lustful needs and groping, grasping and exploring. John knew her body, loved it intensely. He rolled her over and over on the bed, finding his favorite places to touch and taste, used his most direct and more subtle ways of bringing her to climax, listened for the sounds that drove his heart to want more, to want her forever. That night they were reborn, brought together again by the same force that had brought them together in the first place; a draw, a pull, a perfection all their own. If he could have hoped for anything more, it would have been more time that night and that night alone … for even with the desire to make love for a solid week, John was forty four years old, he wasn't what he used to be and … the world had a ways of encroaching on the best laid hopes and dreams.

***

Many things interrupted their fantasy week of passion. The baby got a stuffy nose that required a visit to a pediatrician. John was stung by a jellyfish. Riley, well Riley was having Inn withdraw … bad. They often sat on the deck over a meal and discussed Antony or the new Chef Gillet. Talked about Jeff's new relationship or how Natalie and Jack were handling the design of the house in Maine. They worried over Andy's recovery and how Terry was managing Bridgid's hormonal mood swings. They planned next spring's flower garden and negotiated an addition that neither wanted added to the Inn.

And …

They both secretly called Vermont no less than ten times per day. Sly devils thought they were being so covert, until Marla announced to John that she won the pool, having guessed which one would call next and within how many minutes. Thirty-five dollars! It seemed the final straw.

"Hey Riles?" John groaned on the fifth morning of their well eared vacation.

"Huh?"

"What do ya say we go home today?"

Riley grinned, leapt into his arms with a squeal. "Yes! Yes! Yes! I'll go pack!"

To some, happiness is blissful relaxation. Obviously, not for the Biebes.