by Various
We look out for each other around here. Lucas had said something like that early on. Now the words echoed inside her head. Neighbors, families, all the way up to the businesses around town, huh? The squeezy feeling inside her chest returned, a little tighter this time.
A red sports car slowed beside her. “Hey there,” the driver called. “Need a ride?”
“Ah, no, that’s okay.” Sophie waved him on. Lindsey Point might be giving her all kind of warm fuzzies this morning, but she knew where to draw the line. Hell, it could be the guy from the beach, playing nice but wanting to finish her off. She wasn’t getting into a car with a stranger. Not even in Norman Rockwell land.
“Sophie, come on.”
She glanced over. Anyone in town might know her name.
Then the driver slid down his sunglasses and smiled.
“Hey, Finn.” Her shoulders sagged with relief. “I’d love a ride, yeah.” She opened the door and slid into the rich, soft leather of the passenger seat. “Wow. Nice.”
“Thanks. My baby. Don’t take her out all that often.”
Sophie rested her head against the seat, exhausted though it was barely past nine.
“You goin’ to see Lucas?”
She nodded. They reached Madge’s rooster doorstop in less than ten seconds. “Have you talked to him this morning?”
Finn shook his head. “Buddy of mine called and told me what happened. I left him a voicemail. Figured he’ll call me when he’s feeling up to it.” He turned, and the road curved the way Sophie remembered. A moment later, they pulled into Lucas’s driveway.
She stared up at the brick house and tried to steady her nerves.
“You want me to wait?”
Suddenly Sophie realized she didn’t even know if Lucas was here. No truck in the driveway. No lights on upstairs. “Ah, sure. Thanks.” He could have gone to his parents, she supposed. Could have gone to another friend’s too. “Let me run up and knock quick.”
“No problem.”
But as Sophie closed the car door, Lucas opened the front door and appeared on the porch. Bare-chested, wearing pajama bottoms and no shoes. He pulled a few dead leaves off a hanging plant, took the paper out of the box, and shaded his eyes. Puzzlement changed to recognition as his gaze moved from Sophie to the car and then back.
He was up and walking. Getting the morning paper. Those were good signs, right? She supposed. But when she took a few steps closer, her hope dwindled, and she had to swallow away the fear that crawled into her throat. Honestly, he looked terrible. His hair was matted, his bottom lip was swollen, and red, raw scrapes covered both elbows.
“Lucas.”
He didn’t move as Finn beeped and drove away. He didn’t say anything at all as she approached. When she got close enough, he reached out with one arm and pulled her into his chest. For a long time, they stood there without speaking. Fragments of sentences slid through her mind, but nothing seemed right.
She wrapped both arms around his waist and let her head rest against him, his heartbeat matching hers inside her temple. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“Wasn’t your fault.”
“You didn’t see anyone?” She glanced up at him.
He shook his head. “Came up behind me.” His eyes, vacant, stared past her toward the water. “Never been hit that hard in eight years of football. Blindsided but good.”
She wanted to take him upstairs and wash away his wounds. She wanted to touch ointment to his scrapes and then curl up next to him until the sun rose and fell a few times and they could forget what had happened. “Your parents bring you home?”
He nodded. “My dad. Mom was working at the library.”
“Can I come up? For a little while?”
The pause lasted only a moment. Maybe less. Still, Sophie was about to say forget it, I’ll come back later, when he said, “Sure. Of course. Don’t know as I’m in shape for another go-round, but sitting and talking might be okay.”
She smiled, even though his vibe wasn’t humor as much as it was reserve. Uncertainty. She tried to dismiss the thought that whatever they’d had last night had vanished. “I’ll go easy on you, I promise.”
Chapter 30
Sophie kept her hand in his as they climbed the stairs to his apartment.
“Want something to drink?” Lucas asked when they got inside. “I can make some tea.”
“No. I’m good.” She tugged at his hand. “Sit down.” He swayed on his feet, and she wondered if the painkillers or the shock and exhaustion were responsible for the cloudiness in his eyes.
Lucas collapsed into a rocker with arms so worn she wondered if he’d inherited it from his parents. Maybe his grandparents. Plaid, ugly, but obviously comfortable, because his whole face relaxed the minute he settled into it. That left the couch for her, a modern-looking green thing with stiff cushions, one of two straight-backed chairs flanking the fireplace, or the ottoman near his feet.
She opted for the ottoman. “Anything I can do? Ice? Heating pad? Handful of drugs?” A long, slow kiss or two? The edge of a white bandage peeked up from his shirt at the back of his neck. “What did they treat? Where are you hurt?”
He winced. “Bruised back. One place needed stitches. Nothing broken. Doc thinks I might have a mild concussion, so I gotta go back tomorrow and have him check me out one more time.” He shrugged. “I’m not worried. Got banged up a lot in football.”
It all sounded horrible to Sophie. She wrapped her arms around her legs. “I’m sorry,” she said again. Somehow she felt like she should keep apologizing, like all this could have been avoided if she’d stayed away from Lindsey Point.
“If someone was sneaking around the lighthouse, it was bound to happen one-a these times.” His hand dropped onto her shoulder. “Rather it was me than you, if he was gonna go knocking someone over the head.”
“Or how about a cop, instead of you?” Why did you have to play hero? “Or a night-patrolman, someone with a gun or a weapon.”
“Lindsey Point doesn’t have a night-patrolman, Sophie. They barely have enough part-time guys to keep the department running during the day. Calls at night go straight to the state police.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Stop thinking you’re in the city.” He said the words low, as if to himself, but she heard them plain as day.
It took all she had to bite her tongue. She stood and walked to the French doors on the other side of the living room instead. “This is nice.” She hadn’t looked at his apartment at all last night, since they’d headed straight for the bedroom with no argument from her. “You ever go out here?” A small, deserted balcony overlooked the driveway. She could see a ribbon of ocean in the distance. “Be a nice place to sit and hang out.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I’m not home enough. Besides, it needs to be fixed. One of the supports is loose.”
She opened the doors to let in some air. Beautiful day. Beautiful view.
“Don’t go out there. I’m serious.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Relax.”
When he didn’t say anything, she turned around. Eyes open, he rocked, a restless expression on his face. His fingers drummed the arm of the chair.
“You want me to leave? You should get some rest.”
“I guess so.”
She hadn’t expected him to say yes. Disappointed, she took another look outside. “You know, you could fit a table and couple of chairs out here. Maybe one of those little grills, too.” She had neighbors in the Village who did a lot more with a lot less space.
“Sophie!” Lucas roared. “Stop it.”
She whirled. “Stop what? Making conversation?” She blinked. “Forgive me for disturbing you. You should have told me to leave you alone when I got here. I would have been happy to stay with Finn.”
“I’m sure you would have.” He pushed himself up from the chair.
Her gaze narrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She stayed where she was.
“I just meant, stop moving so fast. You run from place to place, person to person, stop, take stock, make a comment, roll your eyes, pass judgment, and keep going.”
She pulled in a long breath. “You think that’s what I’m doing here? Taking stock and passing judgment?”
“Maybe. To a certain degree, yes.” He folded his arms. “Listen, it was nice of you to stop by. I mean it. We had a good time last night. And I’m glad you’re concerned enough to come and see me today.” His gaze slid from her to the wall beyond her. “But I’m not gonna tell myself it means anything or it’s going anywhere. I know you’re leaving in a couple of days.”
Heat climbed all the way from her belly to her face and erupted on her cheeks. “You’ve known me for–what? A week? Not even. And you know what this means or where it’s going?” She took one step backwards onto the balcony. No wobble. Nothing at all. Loose support like hell. He probably never even came out here. “Let me tell you what I see when I look at you, Mr. Golden Football Player.”
Fire flashed in his eyes, but he didn’t speak.
“You’re scared.”
One brow lifted. “Oh, really?”
“Not of anything physical. And not of anyone, oh hell no. You can beat up, or outrun, or throw over your shoulder anyone who gets in your way. As long as they don’t sneak up behind you, of course.” Her comment was mean and she knew it, but she couldn’t help herself. “You’re scared to leave this town and figure out who you are.”
“What are you talking about? I left for college. I was gone for four years. I chose to come back.”
“How far did you go? Fifty miles away? Not even.”
“That makes a difference?” He scratched around the edges of his bandage.
“Yes. Because you were always close enough to be safe. You grew up with parents who loved you. You had a freakin’ storybook high school life, beautiful girlfriend, a mom who probably made your favorite meal every night before a big game and did all your laundry and made your bed.” And put your school picture in a frame year after year so she’d never forget how you looked or how you’d changed. “Yeah, you got your heart broken, but not because you went to California or Paris and fell in love with a crazy, exotic woman who spoke another language and fed you something besides meat and potatoes.”
He stared. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Try something different, Lucas. For once! Go someplace you’ve never been. Don’t talk to your parents for an entire month. Eat something you’ve never eaten, something with squiggly legs or hair or brains or... God, make love to a woman whose last name you don’t know!” She took a breath. “How do you know who you are and what you like if all you’ve ever experienced is here on the coast of Connecticut?”
He didn’t answer.
She took another step back, then one more, until she stood in the middle of the balcony. “Take the risk of stepping onto this damn balcony. That would be a start.”
“Sophie, get back in here.” He walked as far as the doors.
“It’s safe.” She hopped from foot to foot. A little zip of pain shot up her ankle, but she ignored it. Would ruin the effect if she gave in to it. “Look. Not moving at all.”
“Sophie.” His nostrils flared, and he looked angrier than the night he’d saved her on the beach. Actually, that had been irritation. This looked like full-on ire. Finally he threw up his hands. “Fine. Kill yourself. You know what? I like my life. I like knowing where I’m going each day and knowing I’ll be back in this bed each night. You think going halfway around the world and shoving some strange food into my mouth is gonna make me a better person? Give me broader horizons or some shit like that? You think fucking a woman I don’t know, whose language I don’t speak, is gonna make me a better lover?”
She stared at him.
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’ve never gotten over Sarah.”
It was as though she’d slapped him. All the color left his face, and he backed away. “You mean Shannon. And I got over her a long time ago.”
“I mean Sarah.”
“I never dated Sarah.”
“Doesn’t matter. You loved her, I’m guessing more than you ever loved her sister.”
“You don’t know anything about it.” He dropped into his chair and refused to look at her.
“Stop telling me that. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or even a shrink, for God’s sake, to know you’re still so torn up about her dying that you can barely function. Everything you do around this town is to try and make up for the fact that you couldn’t save her. You feel guilty it was her and not you on the plane.”
“It was supposed to be me.” The words, flat and angry, fell into the air between them.
Sophie slapped both hands against the doorframe. “How long are you going to live with that? And wallow in it?”
His eyes flashed. “You can’t–”
“I know, I can’t imagine, I don’t know, I wasn’t here. You’ve told me a hundred times. But it happened, Lucas. It happened and I’m sorry and it was horrible and you know what? You weren’t on that plane. For whatever reason, she was, they all were, and you weren’t. Maybe there’s a reason, maybe it’s bad luck, maybe it’s God telling you it wasn’t your time yet. But you can’t mourn her for the rest of your life.”
Somewhere, a clock ticked away the seconds. Sophie counted to twelve before he spoke again.
“Yes I can.”
“So why isn’t there a cross for her?”
His gaze flicked up to hers.
“I’m serious. If you’re hell-bent on not forgetting her, on honoring every moment of her life, why won’t you let them put one up?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t want to even admit she’s gone. Because if there’s a cross somewhere with Sarah O’Brien’s name on it, then it’s real.” Her heart ached for him. “That’s it, isn’t it? If there isn’t a physical place to go and say goodbye, you can somehow hold onto the hope that maybe she wasn’t on the plane. Maybe she’ll come back and you can have your best friend with you and everything will be the way it was in high school.”
You don’t look for Shannon’s type to date, Sophie thought as she looked at him. You look for Sarah’s. What an agonizing way to spend a life.
For a long few moments, neither one spoke. She waited for anger. Maybe he’d even throw her out of the apartment, throw a dish at her, throw something. But he only sat there, fingers drumming the chair. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “Maybe I am hoping for that.”
And she had nothing else to say.
So Sophie let herself out of Lucas’s apartment and walked downstairs and stared straight ahead as she left his driveway, refusing to limp even though by this time her ankle was goddamn killing her. She didn’t look back. She kept the ocean in front of her so this time, she’d find her way back to the center of town and out of Lindsey Point for good.
Chapter 31
Lucas sat in the chair without moving. A sharp pain split his head in two, but he had a feeling it had less to do with his concussion and more to do with the woman who’d walked out on him a few minutes earlier.
I don’t care.
Like hell you don’t.
She doesn’t understand.
Yes, she does. She has a pretty good idea, anyway.
The two voices warred inside his head until finally he got up and downed some pain killers to get them to shut up.
Lucas leaned against the kitchen counter. If he walked down the hall to his bedroom and opened his bottom dresser drawer, he’d find it. Under his work t-shirts and heavy socks lay a Lindsey Point yearbook from his senior year of high school. Faded messages filled the pages, with smiley faces from the girls and illegible scrawls from the guys. Cover to cover, memories and promises to get together and ph
one numbers, most of which hadn’t changed in the ten years since.
Only one page had no writing at all. Folded inside that page, the one with the fifty-eight thumbnail pictures of the junior class, was a note from Sarah. He’d found it inside his locker the week after the crash.
Hey, loser, stop worrying so much. I’m gonna have an awesome time and make you proud. Feel better and I’ll see you soon.
XOXO
Sarah
He’d read it a million times, folded and unfolded it until finally the paper had torn in a couple of places along the edges. Lucas slammed a fist against the cupboards. He’d memorized it. Seen it in his sleep. Even told his shrink about it. Another slam. Pain shot up his forearm. Maybe it was time, huh? Maybe it was finally time to open the yearbook back up, read Sarah’s note once more, then put it away for good. Someplace where he wouldn’t be reminded of it every time he got up in the morning, every time he put away clean clothes, every time he fucking breathed.
“You’ve never gotten over Sarah.”
Shit. Sophie was right. He hadn’t. Not until now.
* * * *
Sophie sat in the middle of the bed and stared at her birth certificate.
Mother’s Name: Josephina Marie Smithwaite
Father’s Name: Peterson Paul Smithwaite
Baby’s name–hers. Date of birth–hers.
Her mother had always called him by his middle name. Always. Had that been deliberate on her part, so Sophie wouldn’t guess? Or had her father himself given up his first name because it reminded him of his own father? She adjusted the bag of frozen vegetable medley on her ankle, the only thing Francine had in her freezer, and waited for the extra-strength ibuprofen to kick in. She’d turned down three offers of a ride on her way back to the bed and breakfast, mostly because she hadn’t known the drivers of the pickup trucks, but also because her black mood needed an outlet. Limping on a swollen ankle focused her mind on something other than the heart cracking apart inside her chest.