Amy reached for her tea, took comfort in the mug she drank from: a brown-speckled mug Jack made at camp years ago. The objects of home, the important things, she reminded herself—even as she fingered the edges of the scrap of paper she’d been keeping in the pocket of whatever she’d worn for the past two weeks. Touched it—that was all she did.
The phone’s ring startled her and she grabbed it before the second ring. Carol Anne, reminding her of the fund-raising meeting in an hour.
“You do not have to remind me.” Lies seemed to flow so much easier now. “I’ll be there.”
“I do have to remind you. You’ve been a little . . . gone lately. You missed the meeting last week and we can’t do much without the chairperson. You have all the paperwork and schedules.”
Irritation swelled. Amy placed her head against her palm. “I’ll be there in an hour. I was working on my lesson plans for this week. We have a field trip.”
“Amy, you’ve been using the same lesson plans for five years. What’s up now?”
“Nothing. Really. I’ll see you in an hour.”
She hung on to the phone long enough to hear a rapid-squeal signal. Her lesson plan was done, the art-auction paperwork was in perfect order and she did have the phone in her hand. Ah, the rationalizations. She held the receiver in one hand and reached inside the pocket of her wool pants, keeping her eyes closed as though she couldn’t watch herself. She fingered the piece of paper as if she could read Nick’s phone number through her skin.
She laid the paper on the desk, the phone still in hand, and opened her eyes; the paper remained folded. She stared at it as the phone screamed its off-the-hook warning. She opened the paper with one finger and stared at the number. She reached across the desk and pushed the button to reconnect to a regular dial tone. The paper flopped closed when she lifted her finger.
She began to rest the phone back on the hook. This was not a good idea. But didn’t she have a right to know what had really happened? It was part of her life, her life, and she wanted, deserved to know why he had never come back, what telegram he was talking about, what she possibly could have done that made him believe he couldn’t come home. Also he’d said he could help with Oystertip, and the committee could definitely use him. She’d told the others on the island project about him and they knew Nick Lowry, knew his reputation, and couldn’t believe that she could get him to help.
She opened the paper and pressed each number slowly, deliberately.
By the fourth ring, relief spread through her as Nick didn’t answer. She would have to see him again; Jack and Lisbeth were talking true love—there would be time to find out what had happened to him, to know. She didn’t need to call him.
“Hello, darlin’,” his voice came on the phone.
Her stomach clenched. “Oh . . . it’s me, Amy.”
“I know. I have caller ID—I’ve been waiting.”
The sound of loud motors or screeching chains filled the background. “What’s that noise? Do you want me to call you back?”
“I’m out on-site. Makin’ sure they are environmentally safe as they rip down another acre of pine to build a golf course.”
“Oh. Well . . . okay.”
“Where would you like to meet?”
She closed her eyes. “What?”
“Ame, where do you want to meet?”
“I’m not really sure I want to. I was just calling about the island and—”
“To see me.”
“No.”
“Yes. And for my help. But we need to talk first.”
“Can’t we talk on the phone?”
“No.”
Something other than her will, something of her cracked internal impulses answered. “I have to teach at two o’clock in Savannah on Thursday and then I have to take the class downtown Friday morning—”
He interrupted. “I’m in Beaufort, less than hour from the college. I’ll meet you Thursday. I’ll arrange to have Reese, my buddy with Eco-Tours, take your committee to the island. Would that work for you?”
“Yes.”
“Really? I’ll meet you at—where do you stay?”
“At Porter Hall. I’ll meet you there a little after three.”
“Perfect. Then we can meet your committee down at Carter’s Marina before four. Think they could do that?”
“Sure. Yeah, sure.”
“Ame?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” His voice, she was positive, cracked a little. The man who wavered between assured and sarcastic was still broken in the hidden places only she could touch.
PART II
I like to think that the moon is there even if I am not looking at it.
—Albert Einstein
Chapter Thirteen
Nick opened the refrigerator, lifted the orange juice carton and popped the top off, then took a swig. He glanced around his familiar kitchen; although nothing was out of place, it appeared skewed, as if someone had slanted the picture, placed something there that he couldn’t identify. All of this was real: his wife, his children, his job, the photos on the shelf, the mail on the counter. Yet simultaneously Amy and the truth, destiny and second chances, were even more genuine.
It all came down to this—to today; he would tell Amy what had really happened, where he’d really been. The air felt lighter on his skin, darkness of any kind lifted with the mere knowledge that she would hear the truth. He wanted all the misunderstanding and confusion that had blighted those years since he’d last seen her to clear as fog lifting after the rising sun. It wasn’t betrayal that kept her from him, it was absence of knowledge—all else faded in the bright light of this fact.
Eliza walked into the kitchen and looked him up and down. “What are you wearing?”
“Um . . . it looks like khaki shorts, a T-shirt and hiking boots. Is there a problem?” She wore silk pants with a floralsequinned pattern down the legs and a pale blue blouse. Her satin hair and lip liner were in place and he remembered—the party, the anniversary or birthday of someone important.
“Oh, God, Eliza. I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“I reminded you last night and this morning on your voice mail.”
“I’ve been in the field all day—I didn’t . . . I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes.
“Well, just go change. I’ll wait.”
“I can’t. I committed to go to . . . on-site.”
She groaned. “I told you it’s an early-evening dinner—I thought that’s why you were home—it’s a surprise party.”
“I’m already late, Eliza. I’m sorry. Please give my regrets to—who was it?”
“Oh, come on. This is Dick Foreman’s sixtieth birthday party at the Club. You cannot miss it.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you realize he is the CEO of Southern Timber? They were just bought out by—”
“I know who they were bought by. I keep up with all of it—trust me. I’m busy enough with my own job not to worry about somebody else’s.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Case in point: I have to go.”
“Can’t this wait—what project can’t wait?”
Nick grabbed his keys from the desk. “The Oystertip Island project.”
“Not the same one that Amy Reynolds works on, right?”
“One and the same.”
“Nick . . .” She turned away. “No.”
“This is about an island, not an old girlfriend.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed at the unfamiliar sound of his wife’s prissy voice cursing.
“It’s not funny. You’re only doing this because of her.”
“Even you don’t believe that. This is what I do. How many projects like this have I worked on—or at least volunteered for?”
“That’s the point. Greenpeace, National Wildlife Federation, CARE, no
w some OWP thing. How about you support the Lowry family?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not supposed to mean anything, except I wish you’d go to this party and I wish you were home more.”
“I’m home all the time. What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t go today. This is just an excuse, isn’t it? Just an excuse to see her again.”
“Don’t get on my back about this now.”
“On your back? You’re headed out to some deserted island with your ex-girlfriend and I’m on your back?”
“I’m not getting in a fight with you today. I’m not. And I’m late.”
“If you go there and skip this party . . .”
“What?”
He knew what came next: something about everything she’d done for him, how he must go to this party with her. But the litany didn’t come; she just turned away. Instead of going after her, Nick turned and walked toward the door to the garage.
He’d almost made it out the door when he heard her. “I do everything for you and the kids. Everything. And you can’t skip this—this one thing.”
He knew if he turned to this tune, he’d be singing it for the next few hours when he wanted to be thinking of something else entirely, someone else entirely.
“Answer me. You can’t just walk away,” she said.
“Yes, I can,” he said without turning. Then he opened the door to the garage, hesitated as the other part of him—the part that lived in this house with this family—prodded him to turn. He looked over his shoulder.
“It’s a project, not a reflection of all you do for me. I’ll be home tonight.”
Her face looked swollen, out of proportion from holding back a temper tantrum or tears. “Isn’t it funny?”
“No, I really am not seeing humor here.”
“Funny how things come back around, making us pay again just when we thought they were completely paid for.” Her voice sounded robotic, and a shiver crawled through his gut.
“What am I paying for?”
“Oh, not you, Nick. Not you.”
This time she turned away, and her motions seemed as automatic as her voice. The picture of his life now slanted even more than a few moments ago. His curiosity about who was paying for what could not match the pull of finding out Amy’s reaction to what he had to tell her.
Amy plopped down on the marble bench that sank into the soft soil, slanted down on the left. She dropped her black leather teachers’ planner and notebook beside her. She’d brought class work with her to distract her from the true purpose in sitting on a marble bench in a deserted courtyard behind the college dorm where she would stay tonight. She’d come here a thousand other times to grade papers, enjoy the beauty of the Porter Hall courtyard and gardens, brainstorm about the best way to teach her students about Greek-revival architecture, or the influence of the English on Georgian-style homes—something, anything that would remove the slack-mouthed stares that accompanied her students’ boredom.
But as she fingered the top of her planner, no distraction lay within its pages. The facts and figures blurred and her mind wandered. Just as they had in her bed the last few weeks, her thoughts tossed and turned without logical sequence. The memories of times with Nick were just disjointed images; she couldn’t delve below the surface of vague to the depth of specific.
How could he have been living within hours of her, saving trees, land and animals without her knowledge of his existence? How could she not have felt or known or heard of him? Was this how buried she’d become in her own life, in the whitewashed preservation of her own existence, in the life she’d built, brick by board, friend by friend—that she hadn’t seen or known Nick was near? But she’d buried all thoughts of Nick Lowry, so that she hadn’t even known him when she saw him—until he spoke.
She leaned her head back on the bench and took a deep breath. Nick would like meeting the island project group.
Nick had once told her the land possessed a power that very few people were aware of; that it had the strength to create and bring to it what it needed. She’d nodded and believed and still did. Maybe it was not her that Nick was here for, but the land itself.
Someone touched her shoulder.
Her eyes snapped open as her head jerked up, and she knocked the back of her skull against the marble—an electric flash of pain shot down her neck. “Ow.”
Nick laughed, then sat down next to her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He rubbed the back of her neck and she allowed this, stunned again by his overpowering beauty.
“You’re early,” she said. “Did they give you a hard time at the front desk?”
“Nope. Told me exactly where you were.”
“Well, the OWP sure is excited to meet you. Seems you have quite the reputation.”
“Oh, well, what type of reputation would that be?”
“I hadn’t realized that you’d been around for quite a while, that you’d been”—she laughed—“saving things.”
“Well, now you know.”
“Not really. What exactly do you do?”
“Ah, what I do! I work for Sullivan Timber, advise them on land use—on the impact to the habitat and ecosystem, on the best way to develop the land without harming it more than they would otherwise.”
“Oh.”
“Not what you wanted to hear?”
“No. No, not at all. I just thought you’d wanted to do more research and education. I didn’t realize you worked with corporations.”
“Not impressed with the job?” He poked at her arm.
“That’s not what I meant. I just—”
“You just remembered what I said I’d do, right? What I meant to do.” He made a groaning noise in the back of his throat and she had to turn away from him, from the sound.
“That was a long time ago. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you weren’t—” she said.
“No, it’s true. You’re right. I’m not doing what I said I would. But if it helps anything—I do a lot of volunteer work.”
“That’s how you know the Eco-Tours guy taking us out today?”
“You got it.”
She needed to stay on the subject—she couldn’t discuss broken plans, past promises. “I’m thrilled you’re able to help us. Seems you’ve showed up at the perfect time.”
Nick leaned in, placed his hand on her knee. She felt it as skin to skin although her jeans separated them.
“Amy, we have to talk at some point today. There are some things I need to tell you.”
“Well, right now the OWP is probably pacing the dock waiting for us and we’ll be on the island until tonight . . . maybe another time would be better.”
Despite how much she’d wanted to know what had happened to him, she now felt that what he had to say could wait—that it would ruin the calm joy of just having him around, just knowing he was here, alive, well.
He stood and reached out his hand. “Well, then, let’s go.”
She took his hand and stood, felt the ground sway as if the unseen moved beneath her.
“This island is beautiful. You’ll love it. And because of you, OWP now accepts me as a real part of their group, not just the housewife from Darby.”
“Ah, that’s because they didn’t know you before you were the housewife from Darby and the beach, well, did certain things to you.”
She felt a wide opening beneath her—the unseen now a gaping hole.
“Nick.”
He touched her face and she turned away.
“Come on. They’re waiting,” she said.
Chapter Fourteen
A ragged trawler bobbed on the calm surface of the Sound, tied to a splintered wooden dock at the marina. The OWP committee, two men and one woman, stood on the dock in a scattered group dressed in khaki shorts and sun-faded T-shirts.
Revvy, the leader, stepped forward and waved. Rubber bands bound his long blond ponytail every inch; his face was ruddy from outdoor life, and a camera hung around his neck and bounced against his chest as he walked toward Nick and Amy.
He thrust his hand out to Nick as he reached them at the dock’s edge. “Dude, it’s so great that you’re here.”
Revvy didn’t even look at Amy as she spoke. “Revvy, this is Nick Lowry.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. So cool that you can help. We’re gonna stop this, you know. Stop this guy from building on the island. You’re the clincher, man. Totally. They’ll listen to us now. I’ve heard about you from my buddy in Beaufort—how you helped save that osprey nest where they’re building the new resort.”
Revvy stopped and looked at Amy. “Hi, Mrs. Reynolds. How are you today?”
“Great, Revvy, great. Let’s go.”
Irritation rose without reason. And she always had a reason—for everything.
The OWP group carried backpacks with cameras and specimen containers, and for once, Amy didn’t feel like the escort on a school field trip. Nick walked with her; the rest of the group waved enthusiastically from the dock.
In Nick’s truck on the way to the marina, she’d explained the history of each member of the group. This litany not only filled the warm cab with innocuous information, but protected her from discussing the past—something she was not yet ready to do.
She’d explained that Norah, the dark-haired law student, was in charge of gathering and correctly cataloging the information to submit for a Heritage Preserve Trust. She’d never seen a hint of makeup on Norah’s face, yet she was one of the most beautiful girls Amy had ever known: quiet in her passion, inexhaustible in her efforts. Amy often wondered if Norah ever slept.
Brenton was the naturalist of the group, a botany student who hoped to find a rare species of plant or animal on the island that would qualify it for the Trust. He lived in a tent on the beach in one of the national parks; he considered the stars the only roof he could tolerate. He was calm and intense, his brown hair falling to his shoulders in a wavy mass that most girls envied. She’d once heard him tell Norah that his parents quit supporting him when he dropped out of the Citadel. His father would not tolerate his son dropping out of his alma mater, considering it a chromosomal error and therefore that Brenton was a man not good enough to be his son. Brenton hadn’t cut his hair since then or slept on any bed, not even a cot.
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