The Swap(14)



I’d suggested we discuss terms over coffee, so we moved to a cozy café across the street. At a tiny table, with two steaming lattes (Freya’s was a beet latte with almond milk), we discovered we had much in common. In addition to sharing a passion for art and design, we were the same age, married without children, and struggling to adapt to our new environment. And though we didn’t articulate it then, we were both lonely. I think we recognized that in each other.

Soon, we were seeing each other on a regular basis: for coffee, lunch, or wine. We had dinner with our husbands twice—once at Freya’s magnificent waterfront home, once at our modest bungalow. I’d been ashamed of our slightly run-down cottage set back in the woods, but Freya and Max pronounced it “homey and cozy.” Despite their differences, the guys had hit it off, too. Brian and I had never really had “couple” friends. In the past, I would become friendly with a woman only to discover her partner was a pompous ass. Brian would introduce me to his buddy’s wife, who’d turn out to be competitive and snarky. But we liked Max and Freya in equal measure.

One night at dinner, when Freya bemoaned the island’s lack of a SoulCycle, we planned more vigorous visits. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings, before I opened the store, we went for a forest hike. It was a walk, really, the path meandering gently through the woods and along the coastline. The rain forest felt magical, almost prehistoric with its massive cedars, abundant ferns, curtains of moss. It was on these walks, our environment so private, isolated, almost confessional, that our friendship grew and deepened.

Our standing date was weather dependent, of course. The island got a lot of rain, which Freya struggled with. It can be depressing for people who come from sunnier climes, but I was used to it. I’d spent my entire life in the Pacific Northwest—or as we Canadians call it, the South Coast. I was born and raised in Vancouver, moved to Seattle when I married Brian. I had spent my life in the gray and the gloom. It wasn’t the weather that caused my malaise.

It was a bright but mild morning, perfect walking weather, when Freya mentioned her connection to Low. “I hear my favorite student applied for a job at the store.”

I knew Freya taught pottery classes to a group of seniors. I couldn’t recall anyone from that demographic looking for work.

“Her name is Low Morrison,” Freya elaborated, over the crunch of her expensive hiking boots on the pine needles underfoot. “She’s tall.”

“Oh. Right.” The unique name and stature of the girl instantly sprang to mind. Her résumé still sat alone in my drawer. I’d expected to receive more applications, but the summer hiring pool was small on the sparsely populated island. And I was competing with higher-paying, more dynamic employers like the marina, the kayak rental shop, several restaurants, and two ice cream stores. Apparently, teens were not that keen to stand behind a counter helping gray-haired tourists pick out a soap dish.

“She’s kind of . . . intense,” I said. “I’m not sure a gift shop is the right fit for her.”

“I know she seems odd, but she’s sweet,” Freya said. “And she really wants to work for you.”

“But why?” I had to ask. Low Morrison seemed more suited to a solitary profession—like, working after hours at a grocery store stocking very high shelves.

“She loves ceramics and art in general. And she’s a talented potter,” Freya explained. “And once you get to know her, she’s quite fascinating.”

“Really?” My curiosity was piqued.

“She lives in a sex cult.”

I stopped walking. “Pardon me?”

Freya laughed. “It’s true. We had a few drinks one night and she told me all about it. Her parents are polyamorous. They live on a commune with their lovers and a bunch of goats and chickens.”

In the onslaught of information, I didn’t register Freya’s mention of drinking alcohol with the taciturn teen. “Wow. No wonder she’s so . . . different.”

“She’s not, though,” Freya said. “She’s shy. And she’s been ostracized by the other kids because of her family and her looks. But she’s smart and creative, and she’ll work hard for you. I really think you should give her a chance.”

Freya’s championing of the unusual girl was effective. I felt for Low. And I wanted Freya to see my compassionate side. But I had a business to run. “I’ll think about it,” I promised.

“I actually respect her family’s lifestyle,” Freya continued, as the trail afforded us views of the slate blue ocean. “Sex and love without possessiveness or jealousy? I think it’s admirable.”

“Really?” I prompted. Some would have dismissed Freya’s opinions because of her beauty, her California accent, the fact that she was hiking through the forest wearing overpriced, designer athleisure wear. But she had hidden depths. I loved our philosophical discussions.

“Everyone swaps partners on this island, and then they judge Low’s family for making it official. They’re a bunch of hypocrites.”

The island’s free-love culture was well-known. Brian and I had discussed it before we moved, speculating on how much was real and how much was legend. But it wouldn’t impact us, we knew. We were committed. Solid. Traditional even.

“True,” I mumbled.

“Monogamy is completely unrealistic for some people,” Freya expanded. “I should know. I’m married to a professional athlete who’s hot as fuck.”

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