by Susan Wiggs
“Don’t you dare blame my clothes for that jerk’s behavior.”
“He was looking at you like a lamb chop all night.”
“How do you know how he was looking at me?” she demanded.
He threw the car into park and leaned over, pinning her against the seat, his face inches from hers, his whiskey-sweet breath on her face. “That’s what guys like him do.”
She gasped in horror and shoved at his chest as hard as she could. “Get the hell away from me!”
He drew back immediately, also looking horrified. “Okay, yeah. I know. I’m sorry. I just . . . Jesus, Caroline. I didn’t mean to—”
She couldn’t even hear him, because she started wheezing in a panic that suddenly roared through her like a forest fire. The latent terror of being pinned down and groped made it impossible to breathe. Her heart hammered against her chest, loud and frightening.
“Hey, hey . . .” Gentle hands cupped her shoulders. “Caroline, hey, listen, it’s over. It’s okay. I’m sorry for what happened.” His touch was tender, his words finally penetrating her panic. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was scared about what might have happened if I hadn’t noticed you’d wandered off. It’s over now,” he said again. “I’m here. I’m here, okay?”
She collapsed against his chest, pressing her cheek to his heart and clinging to him. The solid comfort of his embrace felt like a seawall, keeping fear at bay. He was right. Some drunk guy had come on to her, and Will had intervened, and she didn’t need to be afraid anymore. The panic ebbed, and she stopped trembling.
“You all right now?” he asked.
“I was so scared,” she said in a small voice.
“I know, baby,” he whispered, his breath warm against her hair. “I know. It’s over now.”
With aching tenderness, he cupped her face between his hands and stared down into her eyes, placing a feather-light kiss on her forehead. And then something else caught fire, not with panic but with a mindless, long-buried, unstoppable desire. Caroline wasn’t sure who made the first move, but suddenly she was planting a terrible, irresistible, illicit kiss on his mouth.
Time stopped.
Everything stopped.
It was a deep, thirsty kiss, born of years of yearning, and it was like an out-of-body experience. The world fell away, just for a moment. A blazing moment of sweetness. The taste of him. His smell. His hands on her bare skin. Then they broke apart as if burned.
She stared at him. He stared back.
“Caroline, my God. This is—this was . . . Shit. I’ve been wanting this forever, to—”
“Don’t you dare say anything more. Don’t you fucking dare.”
He froze. “Yeah, okay. We both had too much to drink. It’s just . . . You’re right. Damn. I’m sorry, Caroline. I’m so damn sorry.”
The generalized I’m sorry left her wondering, For what? She groped blindly for the door handle and leaped out of the car, filled with an insane jumble of guilt and excitement and horrible shame.
Caroline woke the next morning with a hangover—not from the drinking, but from the lingering fallout of her kiss with Will Jensen.
Her best friend’s soon-to-be husband. How the hell had it happened? Why had it happened? What on earth was she going to do now?
Forget it, that’s what, she told herself stoutly. Pretend it never happened. And hope like hell Will does the same.
Their thoughts were in sync. Without exchanging a word, they avoided eye contact as she and her co-groomsman—not Matt Campion, thank God—led the wedding party down the aisle, where Will, in full dress uniform, awaited his bride. She quickly stepped aside, taking her place as maid of honor. The unfortunate placement put her in a direct line of sight with Will, but she studiously avoided his gaze.
It was almost as if she had dreamed the whole thing. Maybe she had. And maybe Will had been so drunk he didn’t remember that moment. The friendship-destroying moment that complicated everything between them.
She glared instead at Matt, sullen and cowardly, his black eye and swollen nose barely covered by poorly applied concealer. He hadn’t said a word. No apology. No admission of wrongdoing. What the hell gave some guys the idea that forcing women was okay?
When Sierra walked down the aisle, she was a fairy-tale princess, an utter romantic triumph in the dress Caroline had made for her. Gasps of wonder and sobs of emotion drifted from the congregation. Caroline felt as cold as a stone. She didn’t allow herself to feel a thing—not jealousy, not shame, not disappointment, not regret. Not happiness, either, but she forced herself to pretend.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, she hung back, letting everyone else hug and congratulate the happy couple. As she stood apart from the joyous celebration, her mind was filled with flashbacks of the three of them growing up together, the golden summers, the three musketeers, sharing adventures, sharing everything, promising they’d be friends forever.
At the reception, no one seemed to notice that she didn’t dance with the groom. She left without saying goodbye, the tires of her rental car spitting crushed oyster shells in her wake. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the broad silhouette of a man, watching her go.
Part Six
Sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.
—Marilyn Monroe
Chapter 22
“I have a brilliant idea,” Sierra said, wandering into Caroline’s workshop and admiring the ready garments—beautiful rainwear, bagged and tagged for sale. Each piece featured the signature nautilus shell on the sleeve. And each piece represented hours of work and stress. Amy, from the Sewing Circle, had eagerly agreed to make the deliveries to the boutiques that had agreed to sell the goods, in Long Beach, Astoria, Portland, and Seattle.
“What’s your brilliant idea?”
“Let’s get hammered.”
Caroline pushed away from her workstation, which she’d hastily cobbled together with an old door and two file cabinets. She and Ilsa, a web designer, had been setting up her e-commerce website. “What? Hammered? Nobody does that anymore.” She peered at her friend and at Ilsa. “Do they? Do you?”
“Nah,” said Ilsa. “I used to, but not anymore. Not since . . . well, you know.” Caroline knew Ilsa was referring to the groping incident she’d related at the Sewing Circle meeting. “I’m going to call it a day. You two have fun.”
“I don’t usually drink,” Sierra said. “Too many calories. But tonight is special.”
After Ilsa left, Caroline looked at her friend. Her pretty, troubled friend. “Are you celebrating something? Or lamenting something?”
“Both,” Sierra said. “That’s what makes it so special. That’s why I need to drink. Come over to my place.”
Caroline hesitated. She was in an uncomfortable spot with Sierra and Will. She was friends with each of them, friends with both of them. And there were secrets between them all.
“Come on,” Sierra cajoled. “I need some girlfriend time.”
“I’ll come up for a bit. I won’t get hammered, though. I have to drive.”
“Well, at least have a couple of shots with me, for old times’ sake.”
Doing shots was not Caroline’s friend. Whether Sierra realized it or not, having too much to drink years before had caused the breakdown of their friendship.
“What about Will?” she asked. “Will he join the festivities?”
“He won’t be home for hours.” Sierra dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “He’s got a committee meeting, and then he’s going to the lumber supply to pick up a load of boards for the oyster shed. My busy, busy husband.”
“On a Friday night?”
“Perfect time to do it,” Sierra said. “Otherwise he’d have to spend it with me.”
Caroline tried not to read too much into the comment as she stepped into the foyer. Water’s Edge was a beautiful home, so lovingly restored. Yet Sierra didn’t seem happy at all. “I’ll have two shots with you—one for the celebration a
nd one for the lamentation.”
“Fair enough.” Sierra led the way back to the kitchen.
Caroline looked around in wonder. “It’s finished.”
“Pretty much. Will and Kurt added all the finishing touches last weekend.”
“Oh, Sierra. It’s fantastic.” She took a moment to check out the airy, light-filled space. The house’s old-world charm was on display even though it had been fully modernized. “Did you design it yourself?”
She lined up a bottle of tequila, salt, lime, and shot glasses. “Me? Heck, no. We have a kitchen designer, Padma Sen. She’s really good. Has a huge crush on Will. Just like everyone else.”
Caroline cut the lime into wedges, keeping her focus on the sharp knife blade. “Everyone else?”
“It’s like I told you—Will is incredible. I married a unicorn.” She poured two generous shots.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a thing.”
They tapped glasses, licked the salt, and downed the shots, chasing them with lime wedges. Caroline savored the salty, tart flavors along with the heady burn of alcohol.
“Now then,” she said, “assuming you can still speak after that—what are we toasting?”
Sierra settled onto one of the country chic barstools. “I got a job offer from Nordstrom.”
“That’s . . . great?” Caroline couldn’t quite read her friend’s expression.
“I used to get tons of modeling gigs there. Now I’ve aged out of the role.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve seen too much of that in the industry. So they want you back?”
“As a producer, not a model. And not just a producer—the producer. As in, the entire shoot will be managed by yours truly.”
“Holy crap, that is great. Seriously—great.” A producer was tasked with supervising catalog and website shoots, everything from scouting locations to planning the travel and managing the scouts, stylists, set designers—the whole process. She studied Sierra’s face again. “Is this the good news or the bad news?”
“It’s the dilemma. I’ll be away half the time. Maybe more. It’ll be like Will’s navy deployment, only in reverse. I’ll be the one leaving. And instead of defending our nation, I’ll be on tropical beach shoots in the winter and mountain resorts in the summer.”
“It sounds amazing, except for the separation part.”
“How am I supposed to have a marriage if I’m gone all the time?”
Caroline poured two more shots. “Can’t help you there.”
“I’m so screwed. When we were young, I was the one who wanted the relationship, the husband, the marriage. But then . . . my priorities changed. He went away on deployment, and I discovered my own life. It’s not fair to either of us. I changed into a different person. I’m not the girl he married. And I feel so guilty about that.”
“Listen, everybody changes.”
“God. You’re as bad as Will.”
“What does he think of your plan?”
“He keeps saying it’s up to me. That we’ll make it work. But he’s wrong. No matter what I decide, one of us gets shafted. If I take the job, he loses his wife. If I decline the opportunity, I lose out on the future I really want.”
“No room for compromise?”
Sierra was quiet for several moments. Then she downed her second shot. “Will would hate it if he knew I was drinking. We’re supposed to be trying for a baby. I’m horrible.”
“Stop it.”
“I can’t. I know I’m horrible. You know how the women at the Sewing Circle meetings talk about trying so desperately to escape their monster husbands? Well, here’s me, also desperate. I’m desperate to escape my perfect husband. So in this case, I’m the monster.”
Caroline grabbed her second shot and threw it back with a vengeance. “Christ, Sierra. Why are you telling me this stuff?”
“Because you’re my friend.”
“For something like this, you need more than a friend. You need a therapist. Or a marriage counselor. Some kind of professional. And I’m not one, not even close. And coming to me for relationship advice? Like asking the plumber to accessorize your outfit.”
Sierra helped herself to another drink. “For what it’s worth, I did see a counselor and laid it all out for her, the whole story. The only result was that I came away feeling even worse than I already do. Why would I put myself—and Will—through a painful session like that? No thank you.”
“I’m so sorry. Maybe it wasn’t the right counselor for you. I don’t know. I wish you had someone better than me to help you figure things out.”
Sierra sighed. “Everything seemed so easy when we were young.”
Speak for yourself, thought Caroline.
“It was all so crystal clear. Remember the summer you introduced me to Will for the very first time? I remember it like yesterday. I looked at him and just knew he would be my everything. God, I wish I could find that feeling again. It was so powerful. I thought it would last forever. And now here we are. I’m trapped by his perfection.”
“Not to be too obnoxious,” Caroline said, feeling the effects of the tequila, “but that’s not exactly the worst problem to have.”
“I had an abortion,” Sierra blurted out.
Every small hair on Caroline’s body prickled to attention. “What?” She gaped at her friend. “I mean, I heard what you said, but . . . Jesus. What happened? When? Are you all right?”
Sierra pressed her hands down on the countertop, the sleek new stone gleaming. “It was last year. I got pregnant. I thought I wanted . . . Will wants kids so badly. But I couldn’t do it. I tried so hard to want the same things he did. I knew he would be so happy. But I . . . I didn’t tell him, and I ended it in secret. I’m a terrible person.”
It was shocking, but Caroline refused to judge someone else’s private decision. “I hope he was understanding about it when you finally told him.”
“He still doesn’t know.”
Caroline nearly fell off her stool.
“He doesn’t know I was pregnant and he doesn’t know I terminated it. You’re the only one I’ve ever told.”
“Holy shit,” Caroline said. “Listen, this is really big, Sierra. Like I said, I’m no relationship expert, but I want . . .” What did she want? For the two of them to be happy, yes, yet she wasn’t sure what that meant. Sierra’s confession festered inside her, unspoken. The truth needed to come out, but it wasn’t hers to disclose—not to Will. Not to anyone. She couldn’t bear the thought of being around him, carrying this secret. “You should tell him. You need to tell him. He’s your husband, for chrissake.”
“It would break his heart. It would break our marriage.”
Caroline did not consider herself to be someone who knew how an intimate relationship worked. She’d never had much success in that department. But she was pretty sure a marriage plagued by a secret that big was already broken.
Part Seven
So often the end of a love affair is death by a thousand cuts, so often its survival is life by a thousand stitches.
—Robert Brault
Chapter 23
Standing at the kitchen counter, Will stared at the divorce decree, which had arrived in the day’s mail along with the Northern Tool + Equipment clearance catalog and the Peninsula Tattler.
The page was sectioned into vertical columns like a divided highway, like his life and Sierra’s had been split in two once the inevitable decision had steamrolled over them with breathtaking finality.
It had taken fifteen years to build a life together.
It had taken a mere three months to dismantle it. And after all was said and done, the settlement was just a formality. The life he’d dreamed of, planned for, built with his own hands and the sweat of his brow, was gone even more quickly. In an instant. In the time it took for a phone to ring, for a plus sign to appear on a home pregnancy stick, for a tear to fall down someone’s cheek.
The mediator—they had decided not t
o be contentious about it—told them they were lucky and smart to avoid a huge battle over their assets. There was no need for a battle. The fight had gone out of them both some time ago, slipping away unnoticed until it had irretrievably disappeared. In the end, being starkly honest, he and Sierra were forced to agree that they had the same goal—to end their marriage.
Will didn’t linger over the multipage document. He knew what was in it. The decree summed up their marriage in crisp, objective terms—how they would divvy up the cars, the Tiffany ring and other jewelry, the property, the pensions, the policies. A clean business transaction. It didn’t address the blurry details of all the ways he and Sierra had grown apart—his deployments, her loneliness, his accident, her ambivalence, his dream, her deception. Those things were all like a trickle of water through a crack in a rock, seemingly harmless. But when a deep freeze came along, the water cracked the rock into pieces.
That final deep freeze turned out to be the most frank and painful conversation they’d ever had. She told him she didn’t want kids.
Despite a churning disappointment, he had tried to be understanding. I’m married to you. I made a commitment, a vow. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll make my peace with it.
That’s not what I want, she’d responded, her flood of tears seemingly endless. I tried so hard to want what you want. I couldn’t. I simply couldn’t. Could. Not. She told him then that, last year, in the middle of a major catalog shoot, she’d terminated an early, unexpected pregnancy.
After that, there were no words that could have saved them.
He believed absolutely that a woman had a right to choose. His wife had a right to choose. But he also knew that Sierra’s choice meant something more than changing her mind about having children. It was an acknowledgment that she didn’t want to be married to him anymore. Didn’t want the future they’d envisioned when they were both too naively young to know that life didn’t always go according to plan.
“Fair enough,” he said, recognizing the irony of the statement. Then he dropped the papers into a drawer filled with all the detritus of the past three months. “Fair enough.”