None of us says anything for a while. We stare at the fire and I listen to the crash of the waves. “Whatever happened to those business partners of yours, Owen?” I ask.
“I looked them up, too. They had one of the largest IPOs in the country. But they never delivered on their product or earned enough income to offset their spending. When the bubble burst their stock price tanked and was only worth pennies on the dollar. They went bankrupt in early 2001.”
“Wow,” I say. “Guess you called that one.”
“I guess so,” he says.
Later, when Owen has fallen asleep, Ben turns to me and says, “Is it hard for you? Being here?”
I’ve been lying here unable to sleep, mentally counting down the minutes until the seaplane will return, trying to make sense of it all. “I’ve got all these memories, Ben. All these sights and sounds and smells flooding my system, and none of them feel good. I thought I would feel invincible if I came back here, but I don’t. I still feel powerless. I want to go home, back to Anna and the kids.”
“I get that,” he says. “But whether you agree with me or not, you kicked this island’s ass, T.J. There aren’t very many people in the world who could make it through something like this.”
“You’d be surprised what people can do when they have no other choice, Ben.”
“Maybe so. But I’m not best friends with any of them.”
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say.
“Anytime.”
In the morning, I use my phone to take pictures so I can show Anna and my parents what I’ve seen, what the island looks like now. The pictures will show a place that’s breathtakingly beautiful, yet beautifully deceiving.
And when the seaplane lands in the lagoon, I’m the first one on it.
Chapter 22
Owen
I pack up my things and walk outside. We got home from the Maldives late yesterday, and T.J. and I both slept clear through to the next morning. Now, I’ve got another plane to catch in about three hours.
Anna is sitting on the steps blowing bubbles, with Piper on her lap. The baby seems to love this, and she reaches out a tiny hand, trying to pop them.
“Feel rested?” she asks.
“Getting there,” I say. “Do you know where T.J. is?”
“He and the twins are over there,” she says, pointing to a wooden structure that runs alongside the garage.
“What is that?” I ask.
She smiles. “It’s a chicken coop. We have five of them. They make great pets.” She blows another round of bubbles and Piper laughs. I watch as T.J. comes around the corner, Josie and Mick holding on to his hands.
“I was thinking about Calia while you were gone,” Anna says. “Whatever happened to her, Owen? Why didn’t she call?”
I sit down on the steps beside her. “After your seaplane went down I was in a pretty bad place. I went home. Made peace with my family. My sister had divorced her loser husband by then, but my mom was still with my stepdad. He’d finally gotten his shit together a little and she seemed happy. I hung around, trying to think of what I wanted to do next. But then I realized how stupid I was being. I had the financial resources and I definitely had the time. So why the hell wasn’t I looking for her? I started by flying to Farnham. It wasn’t that difficult to track down her address. I expected her to swing open the door and then I’d demand that she tell me why she never called. But no one answered when I rang the bell, and I was really disappointed because she should have been back by then. But small towns have one major thing going for them: Everyone knows your business. Calia’s neighbor was outside watering flowers when I arrived, and she was happy to tell me all about Calia, and where I could find her, which turned out to be a small, remote village in Africa. By the way, Africa is a really big place.”
Anna laughs. “It isn’t exactly small.”
“It took me a while to track her down. It turned out that she’d signed up for another volunteer project, and the organization she was with was not real eager to divulge the location of their volunteers, understandably. I persisted but kept running into one dead end after another. Finally, I got lucky and one day, after weeks of searching, I walked into a village and started looking around for girls with long blond hair. When I spotted her, in the middle of a group of African children, I remember being the happiest I’d been in a long time. I didn’t even care if she minded that I’d tracked her down. I was just glad I’d found her.”
“What did she say?” Anna leans forward, as if she’s eager to hear my response.
“She threw herself into my arms, crying, and said, ‘I hope you are here to un-break my heart, Owen. I’ve been waiting so long for you to come and find me.’”
“Why didn’t you call?” I asked her.
“Because my purse was stolen on the way home,” she said. “My phone was inside it.”
“Then what happened?” Anna asks.
“Then I kissed her like my life depended on it.”
“Oh, Owen,” Anna says. She has tears in her eyes.
“It made sense then. I hadn’t been wrong about her feelings for me. She just didn’t know where to find me.”
“Where is she now? Is she still in Africa?”
“Yes. We both live in that village, as volunteers. It makes her happy. And she’s my wife now, which makes me happy. It was hard for me to tell her that James’s body had been discovered. When I finally tracked her down in Africa the first thing I told her was that I hadn’t gone back to get him like I said I would. I felt horrible about that, and I was sure she’d break down. Tell me how disappointed she was in me. I don’t know if it was because enough time had gone by, but she said it was okay, that she’d made her peace with it, just like I had. She had lots of ways to remember him—pictures and his personal items, many of which she kept. But we both knew it was time to bring James back. She didn’t want to come with me. She has a lot of . . . bad memories. She said, ‘I will be waiting in Farnham to welcome him home, Owen.’”
“What did you whisper in her ear?” Anna asks. “When you put her on the plane to go home? What did you say to her?”
“I told her I loved her.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘I love you, too.’”
Anna wipes her eyes. “That’s beautiful, Owen.”
T.J. walks up to us, the twins following closely behind. He kneels down beside Anna, a concerned expression on his face. “Why are you crying?” he asks.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “They’re happy tears. There’s nothing I love more than a good happy ending.”
Epilogue
Owen
Six months later
I hold Calia’s left hand and she carries the flowers in her right. Daisies this time. It’s always different. She chooses whatever catches her eye. Three-year-old Adhra skips along ahead of us, singing softly to herself. Before Adhra came to the orphanage, she lived in the slums of Kenya, foraging for food after her parents died. She came home with us three months ago, and I can’t imagine her ever leaving our sides.
The cemetery is old and quaint, with cobblestone paths and crumbling tombstones, some of them dating back a hundred years or more. It’s where Calia’s mother, Eleanor, is buried, and we stop there first. Calia hands half of the flowers to Adhra and lets her put them in the little metal vase beside the headstone. This is Adhra’s job, and we would never think of taking it away from her. She gets immeasurable joy from such small things.
The next grave we visit is newer. The headstone reads JAMES COLIN REED, BELOVED BROTHER AND SON. Knowing her brother is home gives Calia immeasurable comfort. As for me, I can almost visit James’s grave without guilt and remorse. Almost, but not quite.
Once the flowers have been placed we linger for a few minutes.
“I’m ready now,” Calia says. She takes Adhra’s hand and we turn to go.
We’re going to be here for a while, in Farnham. We live in Calia’s childhood home because that’
s what she wants and I would find it nearly impossible to deny her something that makes her so happy. Besides, it was my desire to finally put down roots, to stop going wherever it was that we were needed. Not because I wanted to stop helping, but because I have a family of my own to take care of. And right now Calia and I are working on trying to expand our family to give Adhra a brother or sister. I’d hardly call it work, though, considering what’s involved. We’ll raise our family, not on the arid plains of Kenya, but here. Where Calia grew up. This house can hold a family of four with ease, but if we ever grow out of it, maybe Calia will finally allow me to buy her a bigger one.
After I drive us home I park the car and then pick up Adhra and settle her on my shoulders for the short walk to our front door. She giggles and pulls my hair, but I don’t scold her. It’s a small price to pay to hear her laugh.
“Someone needs a haircut,” Calia says. “You’ve simply got too much. It’s hard for her to resist.”
I lean over and kiss her. “You know what? I think you’re hard to resist.”
“You’re very lucky then. Because I happen to find you irresistible as well.”
“I’m so glad we got that out of the way, Calia.”
She laughs and follows me into the house. “Me, too, Owen. Me, too.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my editor, Jill Schwartzman: Thank you for suggesting the Penguin Special. I always wondered what happened to the guy who built the shack. Now I know (and so will everyone else).
To my publicist, Amanda Walker: Thank you for everything you do to make my life easier. I couldn’t do this without you.
To Jane Dystal, Miriam Goderich, and Lauren Abramo: Thank you for being the best agents a writer could ever hope for.
To the entire team at Dutton and Plume: Thank you for being a publisher who goes above and beyond in everything you do. I couldn’t be in better hands.
Thank you to Kent Lewis for answering my many questions about airplanes and navigation. You’re one of the nicest men I know.
Thank you to Andrew McAllister for answering my questions about storing computer data and also for sharing my love of Stephen King’s The Stand.
Special thanks to Dallal BenRomdhane for being British and living in the Maldives. Two birds, one stone, my dear. You answered all my questions about the Maldives (and sent pictures!), and when I first heard Calia’s voice in my head she clearly had an English accent.
To my beta readers Laura Bradley Rede, Catherine McKenzie, and Peggy Hildebrandt: Thank you for your willingness to look at this manuscript on such short notice and also for your valuable feedback. I appreciate it so much.
A heartfelt shout-out to the bloggers who champion my books every single day: Autumn Hull, Andrea Pierce Thompson, April Haug, Asheley Tart, Jaime Arkin, Erin Arkin, Jenny Aspinall, Gitte Doherty, Wanda Morales, Denise Tung, Nicola Farrell, Natasha Tomic, Madison Seidler, Chandra Haun, Mandy Ireadindie, Neda Amini, Amy Lazarus Bromberg, Melissa Amster, Stephanie Elliot, Liz Clark Fenton and Lisa Steinke Dannenfeldt of Chick Lit Is Not Dead, Tina’s Book Reviews, Rosette Alcantara Doyle, Gina Halsted Brown, Aestas Book Blog, Christine Bezdenejnih Estevez, Jana Waterreus, Racquel at The Book Barbies, Amy at Book Loving Mom, and Yara Santos.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you once again to my devoted readers. None of this would be possible without you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracey Garvis Graves is the New York Times bestselling author of On the Island, which has been optioned by MGM for a feature film; Uncharted: An On the Island Novella; and Covet, which will be published in September 2013. She lives in a suburb of Des Moines, Iowa, with her husband, two children, and hyper dog, Chloe. She loves to interact with her fans and can be found on Twitter, Facebook, and www.traceygarvisgraves.com.
Coming from Dutton in September 2013
Covet
Tracey Garvis Graves returns with a captivating new novel about three people who must choose between temptation, honor, and love.
1
claire
I’m on my way home from dropping off the kids at school when he pulls me over. I see the lights in my rearview mirror seconds before he hits the siren, giving it two short bursts. I’m not speeding, or in violation of any traffic laws that I know of, but I pull to the shoulder and the police car slows to a stop behind my bumper. When the officer walks up to the driver’s-side window, I hit the button to lower it.
“Did you know you have a taillight out, ma’am?” he asks.
“Really?” I crane my neck to look behind me—as if I could possibly see it from inside the car—and immediately feel foolish.
“Yes,” he says. “Passenger side. Can I see your license and registration and proof of insurance?”
I nod. “Sure.”
He doesn’t look like any cop I’ve ever seen. He looks like a model pretending to be a police officer for a photo shoot. Or maybe one of those cops who shows up at a bachelorette party and then strips down to his underwear.
Suddenly, I can’t remember where anything is.
He waits patiently while I locate the necessary documents in the console and pry my license out of my wallet. I hand everything to him and he takes it to his car, and when he returns he leans down by my window and hands it all back.
Up close, I notice that his eyes are green, the exact shade of a piece of sea glass I found on the shoreline of the Gulf of Mexico two years ago when Chris and I took the kids to South Padre Island. He must be six two or three, and he’s lean but broad shouldered. He doesn’t look older than mid to late thirties, but there are a few flecks of gray in his dark hair, which only enhance his good looks. So unfair. He rips a piece of paper off the pad he’s holding, glances down at the name he’s written on it, and looks back up. “Claire?”
“Yes.”
He hands me the ticket. “It’s just a warning,” he says, reading my expression and smiling to dispel my worry that I’m about to get slapped with a fine. His teeth are white and perfectly straight. “Have it taken care of as soon as possible, okay? It isn’t safe.”
“I will,” I say, looking down at the ticket. It’s been signed by Officer Daniel Rush. “Thank you.”
He nods. “Have a nice day.”
When I return home, my husband, Chris, is standing in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s wearing jeans and a polo shirt in accordance with casual Friday, and he smells like the cologne I gave him for his birthday.
“Have you seen my watch?” he asks, in lieu of a proper greeting. I unearth it under a stack of mail on the counter, and he straps it on. “Did you drive the kids to school?”
“Yes,” I say, setting down my purse on the island. “Last day,” I add, because even though I mentioned it, there’s a fairly good chance Chris forgot; he’s got other things, important things, to focus on right now.
I wanted to hand deliver the gifts for their teachers. I wasn’t sure they’d arrive in one piece if they took them on the bus.”
The kids are a safe topic, and politely exchanging information regarding their whereabouts and well-being has become our fallback method of communication. Neither of us raises our voice. I once read an article in a women’s magazine that said it’s a really bad sign when you and your spouse stop arguing. It means that you’ve given up and no longer care about saving your marriage. I hope that’s not true, but I worry that it probably is. I walk to the dishwasher and start unloading it, not bothering to tell Chris about the taillight; I’ll take care of it myself.
He opens the cupboard, grabs the pill bottle, and shakes a capsule into his hand, swallowing it with water. He’s probably wondering if I’ll say something about the pills, but I won’t. I never do. He’s whistling and seems eager to head out the door this morning; I should just be grateful he has a job to go to, because the twelve months we spent at home together when he was out of work were almost our undoing. Still might be. He grabs his laptop and car keys, says good-bye, and walks out the door without kissing me.
I finish unloading the dishwasher. Tucker scratches and whines at the sliding glass door, and I open it. “Go, Tuck,” I say, watching as he takes off in hot pursuit of a squirrel. He never catches one because the squirrel will scamper to safety on top of our fence long before he reaches it, but that seldom stops him from trying.
It’s quiet now. I pour a cup of coffee and gaze out the window as summer beckons.
I open the door to seven-year-old Jordan’s room, my arms full of clean laundry. She’s made her bed without being asked, and her stuffed
animals are lined up neatly on her pillow. There’s nothing on the floor, not a stray sock, not her pajamas, not one of the hundreds of crayons and markers she’s always drawing with. Nothing. It used to bother me until my mom pointed out that I did the same thing when I was her age. “Don’t go looking for trouble where there is none, Claire. She relishes order the same way you do.” I never did grow out of it either, this need to have everything organized, my life segmented neatly into tidy little boxes. How karma must have had a field day with me last year.
I open nine-year-old Josh’s door next and immediately trip over a pile of Matchbox cars; it appears there’s been a pileup. Josh likes to crash things. He does not, however, share his sister’s fondness for neatness and order. I step around the cars and navigate my way across the room, dodging piles of clothes, sports equipment, shoes, and his guitar. His navy blue comforter hangs halfway off the bed, but the sheets are pulled up and both pillows are in the right spot. I’ll give him an A for effort. After I put away the clean clothes I pick up the dirty ones and reverse my steps.
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