The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk)

by Samantha Young

  Before he’d even made it to me I was out of there, the blood whooshing in my ears at the galloping of my heart.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Cooper

  For once Cooper liked the bar better empty.

  He cleaned down the bar top, wishing like hell he could afford to just shut the place down for a few days. Of course Ollie could keep running it for him if he decided to take off again, but he knew he couldn’t run from his life.

  Or the pain.

  Being with Jessica the other night . . . that was like having a stinging cut for days and then suddenly someone slathering cool balm over it.

  His head was all fucked up about her.

  Part of him felt betrayed by her, angry, furious, resentful. That part wanted her to get the hell out of his town and never come back. But unfortunately there was this bigger part of him that felt like if he could only find out what the hell it was she was hiding, then maybe they could work this shit out. That part of him was responsible for the fear he felt, and Cooper hadn’t felt fear since his mom got diagnosed with cancer.

  He feared Jessica packing up from Tremaine’s and leaving Hartwell for good.

  When the rumors hit that Jessica and Vaughn were having an affair, he didn’t even entertain it, which was surprising, considering Dana. But he didn’t believe that of Jess. What she was hiding wasn’t an affair. No. He was worried it was much darker than that.

  In fact, he was worried that if he did find out, Jessica’s fears would be proven right; that in the end the truth would be too much for him to handle.

  Yet the idea of not wanting to be with Jessica for any reason seemed absurd to him. He couldn’t seem to stay away. And so he’d taken what he’d wanted from her . . . and like he’d told her, it wasn’t enough. If anything, the taste of her only made her leaving him burn harder. Yet, he knew he wasn’t above making that mistake again. In fact, he was itching to find her and repeat the other night.

  His head was all fucked up.

  The knock on his bar door was like a shot of adrenaline through him. The knock reminded him of all the times these past few months that Jessica had come to him before the bar opened.

  He braced himself for finding her on the other side of his door.

  The disappointment he felt was mixed with a whole lot of anger at the sight of Ian Devlin on his doorstep.

  “You do not want to be here right now, believe me,” Cooper warned.

  His warning went unheeded as Devlin pushed past him, striding into the bar like he owned the fucking place.

  “Bad mood, Cooper?” Devlin shot him a smirk over his shoulder before he perused the bar with his greedy eyes.

  Cooper kept the door open. This asshole was leaving. Now. “Worst ever. Which means I’m not in the mood to deal with your shit.”

  “You heard about Beckwith selling to some rising star chef from Boston?” Devlin sneered.

  He had to admit this part of their conversation lifted his spirits a little. “Didn’t know who he sold it to. Just knew it wasn’t you.”

  “And you loved that, didn’t you?”

  “Not going to lie, it didn’t suck.”

  Devlin narrowed his eyes. “I’m not the one that screwed your wife, son.”

  Dick.

  Cooper kept his expression blank, not willing to give him a reaction.

  “And now another woman has messed with you. I heard the good doctor is shacked up with Vaughn Tremaine.” His eyes glittered with malice as he ran his fingers along the top of Cooper’s bar. “Admittedly that makes more sense. A woman of Jessica Huntington’s caliber . . . Anyone who was smart enough to recognize what she is would know a small-town bartender wouldn’t keep her happy for long.”

  Do not rip his fucking face off.

  Do not.

  I’m going to rip his fucking face off.

  Cooper found himself leaning toward him and stopped just in time, reining in his anger, forcing his features clean of reaction, because that would be what the prick wanted.

  “I met her, you know.” Devlin sauntered over to him. “Interesting woman. And very attractive. Although she’s no Dana Kellerman.” He smirked. “I always thought you were a lucky son of a bitch to have caught that woman’s eye. But . . .” He sighed. “Maybe it’s the bar, Cooper. Have you ever considered that? All those long hours. It doesn’t really give you much time to look after your women the way they obviously need. Otherwise they wouldn’t keep leaving you.” He gave him a small smile that Cooper guessed was supposed to look fatherly. And it did. If fathers ate their offspring. “I will make you a very generous offer on the bar. It will be enough to start fresh, do something that isn’t killing your time the way the bar does.”

  Jesus Christ.

  Cooper crossed his arms over his chest, studying him. “Is it stupidity?”

  Devlin frowned. “What?”

  “You and your fucking persistence. Is it stupidity or just sheer arrogance? I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I am not selling my bar. I’m telling you now”—Cooper lowered his voice in warning—“I’ve just about reached the end of my tether with this shit.”

  Devlin gave another heavy sigh as he walked casually over to him, stopping mere inches away. “I came here to give you one last chance to accept my offer.”

  “And what exactly does that mean? Are you threatening me like you’ve threatened all the other people whose places you’ve stolen out from under them?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. And this is just a friendly warning.”

  What the hell was he up to?

  Uneasiness settled over Cooper, but he didn’t let it show. “You come after me, Devlin, you’ll have the biggest fight of your fucking life on your hands.”

  “Somehow I doubt it.” Devlin leaned in to say quietly, “What you haven’t seemed to grasp is that money makes the world go around. And I have it, Cooper. You don’t.”

  It took everything within him to keep his fists at his sides as every nerve ending he possessed screamed at him to deck the bastard. Instead he stood locked in place, fighting for control, watching Ian Devlin swagger out of his bar with a smug smile on his face.

  He was still standing staring out the door when Tremaine appeared in it.

  Eyebrows raised as he strode inside, he said, “Was that Ian Devlin I just saw?”

  Cooper nodded tightly.

  Tremaine’s cold eyes narrowed. “What did he want?”

  Finally, Cooper managed to unlock his muscles enough to walk back behind the bar. He touched the bar top, worrying now about his future with it.

  “Lawson?”

  He looked up at his neighbor. “What the hell is Jessica doing at your place?” he blurted out.

  Tremaine sighed as he slipped onto a stool at the bar. “Don’t tell me you believe those ridiculous rumors?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Good.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “The doctor said she had some business with Beckwith before she could leave. She doesn’t have much money so I offered her my place to stay until she’s ready to leave. I spend most of my time in a suite at the hotel, so it wasn’t a big deal.”

  “I still don’t get why.”

  Tremaine shrugged. “It gave her time.”

  “Time for what?” Cooper scrutinized him. Cooper had realized a while back that Tremaine wasn’t just the cool businessman he portrayed himself as to everyone else, but it shocked the hell out of him that Tremaine may actually be trying to play Cupid here. “To come back to me?”

  His neighbor didn’t give him the truth one way or the other. Instead he said, “What did Devlin want?”

  The fury returned. “It was a warning. He gave me one last chance to accept an offer on the bar.”

  “One last chance? What
does that mean?”

  “He’s coming after me.”

  Tremaine studied him, surprise lighting his eyes. “You’re worried.”

  “He’s got the kind of money I don’t. I’ll fight him, with everything I have. But that sneaky bastard is underhanded, and if he greases the right palms—”

  “Cooper.”

  He stilled at the quiet way Tremaine said his name.

  He gave Cooper a dark smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got more money than ten Ian Devlins. And I like my boardwalk the way it fucking is.”

  A slither of reassurance moved through Cooper. “Your boardwalk?”

  Tremaine smirked. “Better the devil you know, Lawson. Better the devil you know.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jessica

  Number 131 Providence Road was on the south side of Hartwell and it ran along the coastline. The homes varied from moderate to large there, and 131 was somewhere in between. It was a smaller version of Vaughn’s in style. The gardens and driveway were well maintained, and the white cladding had been repainted recently, because it was pristine and fresh.

  I’d passed a For Sale sign as I drove up the driveway.

  One thirty-one Providence Road.

  George still lived in the same house.

  One half of the double front doors swung open before I could knock and I found myself staring into the warm brown eyes of a tall, older gentleman. “May I help you, miss?”

  Oh, my God.

  Butterflies raged in my stomach as I clutched the purse that contained Sarah’s letters. “Mr. Beckwith. George Beckwith?”

  “Yes?”

  I thrust out my hand. “Jessica Huntington.”

  Bemused, George shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Huntington. Now, how can I help?”

  “This is strange,” I said softly. “I . . . uh . . . I guess I’ll start off by saying that up until a few months ago I was a physician at the women’s correctional facility in Wilmington.”

  Immediate understanding dawned on him and I saw the warmth overshadowed by pain. “Is this about Sarah?”

  Like the emotional nutcase I’d become, I had to fight back the strong urge to burst into tears. She was the first thing he considered.

  He’d never forgotten her.

  “Yes.”

  George opened the door wider. “Then you’d better come in.”

  “So . . .” George said a few minutes later, as he put down a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table in front of me.

  I was sitting in a large, comfortable lounge, the furniture dated but of a quality that put my stuff now stored in Cooper’s garage to shame.

  Shit. My stuff. Getting that back would be awkward.

  “What do you have to tell me?” George said, pulling me from my thoughts.

  He sat down on the sofa across from me as I reached for my cup of tea.

  The letters were by my side. I’d gotten them out of my purse while he was making tea. Shaking a little— for him—I handed them over. “I found these, Mr. Beckwith.”

  “Please call me George,” he muttered as he took the letters from me.

  “They were sealed inside a library book. They’ve been there for forty years.”

  His eyes washed over his name and address, and I heard the pain in his voice when he whispered, “This is Sarah’s handwriting.”

  “She wrote to you . . . but unfortunately she passed away on the same day she wrote the last letter. She never got the chance to send them.” The tears I’d been holding back sprang free and I swiped at them, embarrassed.

  George’s gaze turned kind at my show of emotion. “I’m almost afraid now to know what’s inside, if it has caused such a reaction in a stranger.”

  “You need to know.”

  “And you came all the way here to give these to me?”

  I nodded.

  He studied me. “How extraordinary,” he murmured.

  Not really. Not if he knew me. He’d get it then. He’d understand why Sarah’s story had gotten under my skin.

  “I can leave,” I said, “if you’d like to read them in private.”

  “That’s alright.”

  So I sat there, watching George read Sarah’s words, and my heart broke for him as he reached the last and his own tears began to fall. I watched him as he read them all over again.

  And again.

  Finally he looked up at me, his eyes shining, and he whispered, “I already knew. I already knew. God damn it, Sarah.”

  With my chest aching so much for them both, I moved to sit beside him, to clutch his hand in comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

  After a moment he took a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening so hard around the letters they began to crumple. “I found out about my father’s criminal activity a few years after Sarah married Ron. I was disillusioned, yes, but I still loved him. I couldn’t betray him. All I could do was stay out of it, let it all die with him.” He looked at me, regret in his eyes. “She should have trusted me. She should have trusted me enough to tell me.”

  “Was I wrong to give you these? Have I made it that much worse?”

  “No,” he said. “At least this way I know that she loved me like I loved her.”

  A little sob escaped my mouth before I could stop it.

  Looking concerned, George slid an arm around my shoulder. “Why does this touch you so much?”

  It took me a minute before I could speak properly. “I feel like I understand her.”

  His expression fell. “For your sake I hope that’s not true,” he said kindly.

  I had to ask, had to know . . . “Do you still love her? Despite what she did? Do you forgive her? Do you still love her?”

  George gripped my hand tighter and leaned in to me so I could see the absolution in his eyes. “I loved my wife. I did. But Sarah Randall was the love of my life, Ms. Huntington. Yes. Yes to all of the above.”

  I swiped at my tears and gave him a shaky smile. “You can call me Jessica.”

  George smiled back. “Jessica. Somehow I think there is more to this story for you.”

  I nodded and looked at Sarah’s crumpled letters. “You know, she doesn’t say it, but I think maybe she didn’t fight her life with Ron because you were lost to her once you married Annabelle.”

  “Why do you think that?” he said hoarsely.

  “Because you were her whole world, George. Maybe it wasn’t right, maybe it was stupid, but she made you her whole world. Once you were gone, she stopped fighting . . . until she realized not fighting was going to kill her.”

  “She was my whole world, too,” he said quietly. “I thought she knew it.”

  I gave him a sad smile. “Sometimes women in love are fools.”

  “Not just women, Jessica. People. People in love can be fools.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Well, I need a stiff drink after all of this. What do you say?”

  I nodded again, smiling through my tears. “That sounds just about right.”

  The trendy bar just off Main Street was nice, but it lacked the coziness of Cooper’s. George had first suggested that we go to Cooper’s and as soon as he saw my face, realization dawned. “You’re the doctor?”

  See—small town.

  “And it all begins to make sense,” he’d said, giving me a smile.

  So we’d ended up at Germaine’s. For obvious reasons I’d never been there before.

  And by the time I’d made it on to my second Long Island (nowhere near as tasty as Coop’s), I’d made up my mind to tell Cooper the truth.

  Cat’s words the other day had played a part in the decision. My thoughts of Julia and how much she’d like Cooper were part of the decision. So I’d already arrived halfway to the decision when George Beckwith’s love
for Sarah saved me.

  Yes.

  I did consider it saving me.

  Because even if I did tell Cooper and I lost him, at least I wouldn’t have to live with the kind of regret that Sarah had lived with. A regret that she found peace from but George never did.

  I couldn’t do that to myself or to Cooper.

  But I was terrified. I’d spent all these years creating barriers between me and everyone else, even Matthew, and I wasn’t sure what would happen to me once I tried to take those barriers down.

  Without telling George the details I gave him the gist of my inner turmoil, while he regaled me with his fond memories of Sarah. He also talked about Annabelle, his late wife, and the fond memories he’d made with her, too, including their beautiful daughter, Marie. It was for Marie and his grandchildren that he was packing up his life in Hartwell and heading to Canada.

  “Oh, excuse me.” George slid off the stool at the high round table we were sitting at. “Bladder isn’t what it used to be.” He winked at me, making me laugh.

  I watched him walk away, still straight-backed, tall, and strong for his age, and I saw what Sarah had seen in him.

  Only a few hours.

  That was all the time I’d spent in George’s company, but I knew instinctively that he was a decent man, a kind man. A good man.

  Like Cooper.

  Suddenly the vision of George walking away was blocked by a man.

  I blinked, as the man slid onto George’s stool.

  I was about to tell him politely that I wasn’t interested, when I froze in recognition.

  Jack Devlin.

  Bailey hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d first told me about Jack. He was a handsome devil. The day I’d bumped into him at the music festival I couldn’t help but smile at him in return, he was so charming.

  Of course I lost my kind thoughts as soon as I realized who he was.

  Right then he wasn’t smiling at me.

  He wore a cold, blank expression that I found more than a little concerning. “What do you want?”