Between Here and Gone

by Barbara Ferrer

  Jack’s head went back as a full-bodied laugh exploded. “Goddamned sneaky bastard.”

  “Indeed.” I had tried, so often, to be annoyed with what I’d seen as his meddling—had let him know in no uncertain terms what he provided was unasked for interference and skirted dangerously close to pity.

  He’d told me to shut up.

  Dante Campisi was not the sort of man who did things simply out of the kindness of his heart. He had made a wise decision—for all parties involved. A fact of which he reminded me at every possible opportunity, as if to reinforce understanding that it was not and never would be pity.

  As I said, we understood each other.

  “So you’ve reunited with your family?”

  “Consider it more … a work in progress. They still don’t completely understand me, but I think we’ve come to a mutual agreement that they don’t necessarily have to understand me to love me.”

  As I’d come to the understanding that I needed their love.

  The lone exception had been Abuela. To her dying breath, she had never forgiven me for the shame she insisted I’d visited on the San Martín name. Simply because I refused to conform. Still refused to get married for propriety’s sake—to preserve the integrity of a name which no longer carried any import. However, I could no more control her feelings than I could make her understand how little the San Martín name mattered any longer. My one regret was that she’d been unable to find it in herself to unbend enough to accept me as the woman I’d become. But that would have meant acknowledging that she had been wrong, all those years ago, trying to force her vision of a future on me. That misguided belief that Cuba—our Cuba—would one day be returned to us. More and more, it was obvious that would never be the case.

  “I think we all understand the important thing is we not lose each other again—especially now.”

  I turned away from Jack and stared intently over the water—attempting to visualize that imaginary line where west became east.

  “Carlito’s in Vietnam.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Stupid little fool had a deferment—was attending medical school when he up and decided to join the Army. Couldn’t stand the thought of anyone needing medical attention and there not being enough people over there to give it to them. And if that’s not enough, he volunteered to become a helicopter medic. Flying right into the teeth of danger.”

  I swallowed hard. “I’m so proud of him, but Dios mío, how I hate it.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Mamá lights a lot of candles. Papi doesn’t say much, but he makes a point to hire returning veterans. He’s good to them when so few others are.”

  Silence fell, not the awkward pause of acquaintances having run out of things to say, but rather a respite—a gathering of energy and strength to forge ahead and confront that which had remained unspoken between us for all these years. The only question would be who would be brave enough to breach the stillness first.

  “What about you, Natalia?”

  “Me?” I shrugged, my hands toying with the gauzy folds of my skirt. “I work. I attended the Sorbonne for a year.” I offered the last almost shyly.

  The long breath he released wove together with the light breeze. “You finally went to Paris.”

  “I did.” Suddenly restless, I eased down to sit on the rocks, hoping their residual warmth would soothe the urge to run and hide. It wasn’t often it overtook me anymore, but every now and then, when it seemed as if my world was about to undergo a seismic shift, the impulse reappeared, making its demands in sly, insidious whispers.

  “Was it everything you expected?”

  “No,” I answered flatly. “But I am glad I went.”

  His noncommittal, “Hm,” lingered briefly before floating away on the breeze. Taking a seat on the rocks beside me, he tilted his head back, allowing the last rays of daylight to bathe his face in an otherworldly glow, gilding his tawny head with fiery streaks.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. I’ve just come to the understanding there are some questions that will never have answers.”

  “So you’re making it a point to address the ones you can.” The beginnings of a smile emerged, nothing more than a deepening of the lines around his eyes.

  “I prefer to think of it as living with no regrets. As someone I respect a great deal once exhorted me to do.”

  The faint smile faded. “And have you lived, Natalia? Are you happy?”

  Another silence fell—one that waited for me to pierce its veil. “I think so,” I finally said.

  “You think?”

  “There are things about my life that make me very happy.” I mirrored his pose, tilting my head back, allowing the wind to play through my hair like a lover’s caress. “Having a relationship, however tenuous, with my family, is good. Working with Greg and Constance makes me very happy.”

  “They say you’ve turned into a really fine editor. And an even better writer.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you know.”

  “Greg’s downright smug about the whole thing.”

  “Let’s see if I have a second one in me before he gets too smug.”

  “You do.”

  A quiet confidence underscored his words, beating back, at least for the moment, the secret fears I’d harbored since shyly offering Greg and Constance the manuscript that had come pouring out during a long, Paris winter.

  A lengthy pause, pregnant with expectation, stretched between us. Whatever weighed on his mind, I understood he wouldn’t ask unless I provided him with an opening.

  “You can ask, Jack.”

  “Can I? Even after all this time?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why would you say that with such certainty?”

  “Because we promised,” I replied gently.

  A grateful half-smile lightened his expression, the brief touch of his hand to mine a sign that he, too, remembered our pact. “Have you found love?”

  “I did.”

  “Did?” He paused, then asked, “Is the past tense an accident?”

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  I brushed a wayward strand of hair from my eyes, staring up into the early evening sky with its shades of deep blues and grays bleeding into the last hints of rose gold painting the horizon. This time of day might always remind me of him, but in a wistful and bittersweet sort of way. Small mercies, I supposed.

  “It was very good for a long while. It seemed as if we were perfect for each other. Despite many differences in our backgrounds, we had a remarkable compatibility.”

  “But?”

  “But we were too frightened. There was trust, but the basic foundation wasn’t sound. I think we were each scared the differences might drive one or the other to leave. Finally, one of us did.”

  “Which one?”

  I answered with a shrug. My final act of running away, the devil on my shoulder had whispered, but that was a fear I was able to wrestle into submission with relative ease. There had been no running, no sneaking off, no fights or recriminations or misunderstandings. Remy and I had both gone into our relationship understanding it was a risk—we had both hurt each other and had responded in ways long conditioned into us—but we both decided being together was a risk worth taking.

  No regrets or unanswered questions.

  “Do you think it’s possible to ever find it again?”

  The tiny hairs along the base of my neck prickled, inherently understanding he meant not what I’d had with Remy, but rather, with Nico. The sense of inevitable.

  Of forever.

  “I think—” I paused, carefully choosing my next words. “It couldn’t ever be exactly the same.”

  “But does it have to be?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Good.”

  “What about you, Jack? What about your life
?”

  “Have you ever been to Hawaii?” On the surface an odd non sequitur rather than an answer, yet obvious in its meaning. At least, to me.

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “It’s amazing. Green mountains and white beaches and an endless blue expanse of water that extends to forever.”

  His description teased a memory from deep within—of similar mountains and beaches and warm waters that defied description. And prodded deep-seated longing to the surface. “It sounds beautiful.”

  “It is. The islands—they have a life of their own. As if something greater is lying in wait, just beneath the surface.”

  “I believe they call those volcanoes.”

  I grinned as he chuckled. “Touché. Volcanoes aside, however, it’s a good place to stop running. To just … be.” The web of lines about his eyes deepened once again, but this time, rather than looking out over the seascape, his gaze turned inward. “I did what I needed to do. I traveled. Began writing again. Felt good.”

  “I saw your byline a few places.” An admission I felt safe making without revealing how anxiously I’d perused newspapers and periodicals once Greg had alerted me to the first of Jack’s articles, beating back terror when a story posted from a particularly dangerous corner of the world, attempting to read between the lines to see if he was really all right. Attempting to reassure myself that we had both made the right decision. That these were the lives we had to live, before—

  Taking a deep breath, I rose and carefully picked my way down the rocks to the sand, leaving him staring out over the water—saying his goodbyes. Taking time for myself to confront the questions that had plagued me since the middle of the night phone call from Dante summoning me to California. To this moment.

  I had lived. I had answered all the questions that could conceivably be answered. I had no regrets.

  But one.

  I sensed him standing beside me. “What are you waiting for?” His voice was soft.

  “You.”

  “You sure?”

  “About waiting for you?”

  He shook his head as his hand rose to my face, brushing that errant strand of hair back. “About the rest of it.” His gaze bored into mine, open and clear and without any guile. “I have good days and bad days.”

  My hand covered his, my heart beating with the rapid tattoo of hummingbird wings against my chest. “Who doesn’t? So long as you let me help with your bad days and I promise to let you do the same when I have them—and I do have them. Just so long as there’s no more hiding—or running.”

  What we’d been doing, under the guise of living, I understood. We’d had to, in order to heal. And so when the right moment finally presented itself, we’d know. We’d be open to new possibilities.

  What a hopelessly tangled web, this business of living and loving with its inherent deceptions and inadvertently inflicted wounds. But worth it, in the end.

  “You sure?” he repeated, giving me one last chance to retreat, to run—but no. Not again.

  “I’m sure, Jack.” I stepped close, my arms going around his waist as I closed my eyes.

  Under starlit skies and to the music of the waves … coming home.

  Acknowledgments

  To mon capitan, Adrienne Rosado—whither thou goest, I go too, dude. As ever, you are the best.

  Many thanks to my very patient editor, Randall Klein, and to everyone on the team at Diversion Books. You all have made this particular dream a reality for which I will be forever grateful.

  To my twinling—onward to new adventures.

  To my Writer Girls—hang on for the ride.

  For my online families—thank you so much for the laughs and the support and the bright moments when all seems dark.

  And as always, many, many, many thanks to my husband Lewis—you keep me from winding up in a clock tower far more than you might even imagine. I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.

  More from Barbara Ferrer

  Both Sides Now is available now!

  In grief, they find each other. Through loss, they find love.

  They meet in a hospital corridor. Libby is there for Ethan, her mentor, her best friend, her husband. He’s dying, and she’s struggling to survive. Nick is there for Katharine, his reason for living, the love of his life, his wife. She’s dying, and he holds on all the tighter as she slips away from him.

  They can't do this alone. But maybe they don't have to.

  From that chance meeting grows a fast friendship, one of gallows humor, of life in South Florida, of shared experiences in their marriages—the fights, the quirks, the love. Libby and Nick become for each other what no one else can: the person who understands, who hears with the same ears, who sees with the same eyes. In stunning prose, Barbara Ferrer maps the sacred terrain of Libby and Nick’s connection as it develops from one of necessity, to one of possibility.

  Deep and powerful, this nuanced, elegiac portrait of two marriages, of sickness and survival, and of the healing power of human connection will resonate with readers for years, and showcases Ferrer in all of her brilliant insightfulness.

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