by Luanne Rice
“Forget everything,” he said. “Start over with me.”
“It’s too late,” she said.
“It’s not…”
She put her hand up, cut him off. Then she cradled her belly. “I’m having someone else’s baby.”
“Why couldn’t you have waited?” Gavin asked. “We could have had a baby together….”
Sheridan had started to cry. She’d turned away, then stood. Facing Gavin with pure despair in her eyes, she’d said, “There was a time when that’s all I wanted. But now—I’m so confused. I’m married to Randy.”
“You don’t love him!”
“I did,” she whispered. “And I think maybe I still do.”
“Sheridan, don’t do this. I don’t care if it’s someone else’s baby. I want to be with you. Marry me, Sheridan…I love you, and I love your baby.”
“Stop, Gav,” she’d said, weeping.
“Please…”
She looked up at him, touched his cheek with her hand. He reached for her, on fire, and she wrapped her arms around him, pressed her lips to his. Her mouth was hot and tasted of tears. The kiss made time stand still, filling him with desire. They held each other, kissing as if it would never end.
But it did. Sheridan pulled back. Staring into his eyes, she brushed his cheek again. He knew—he could see even before she spoke.
“Goodbye, Gavin,” she whispered.
And then she walked away. He’d stood in front of the rock, watching her go. His body tingled from holding her. He swore he could still feel her, taste her, smell her hair. The air reverberated with the sound of her voice—but she was gone, returning to Randy. The man she’d married. The father of her baby. Gavin couldn’t move. All he could do was think about her, know that she’d kissed him.
And know that it would be the last time.
He’d recognized the moment for what it was, their last kiss. Whether she stayed with Randy or not, Gavin knew she was never coming back to him. He’d lost her. He thought of that now, watching Nell sit there in front of his computer, the screen filled with photos of Cumberland fans, all staring up at the bass player. She stared at him, wiping tears from her angry eyes.
“Stop thinking Charlie had anything to do with her,” she said. “Because he didn’t.”
“Okay,” Gavin said.
“He didn’t care about Lisa Marie Langton, or whatever her name is. You shouldn’t be thinking that at all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And no one wants answers as much as I do,” she repeated.
And because Gavin, after years of fighting everything that moved, had finally learned how to stop, he nodded at her and let her win, and said, “I know. I know, Nell. No one.”
THE EVENING WAS WARM and clear, the sky violet and filled with summer stars. The constellations seemed so close to earth, the Milky Way spreading a swath of white silk, turning the sky into a mystery. Agatha and Bunny had done everything: turned Sheridan’s bluestone terrace into a scene out of the Arabian Nights.
They’d pulled out all of their grandmother’s party things: bright paper lanterns strung from a corner of the cottage to the flagpole, lit with tiny tea-light candles; low Waterford vases filled with flowers and herbs cut from the garden, filling the air with scents of beach roses, honeysuckle, lavender, and mint; an old embroidered linen tablecloth and napkins.
While Bunny stayed in the kitchen with Sheridan, putting last touches on the meal, Agatha arranged the chairs around the table. It was a lovely night to dine in the open air. The sea breeze was just enough to keep away the mosquitoes, but not so strong it would blow out the candles.
Stevie Moore had made place cards, sent them over earlier in the day. Agatha admired their delicacy and whimsy, the way Stevie had somehow captured the spirit of each person.
As Agatha placed them—carefully, with true consideration and planning—at each seat, she said a prayer for each person. At Sheridan’s and Gavin’s places, kitty-corner, with Sheridan at the head of the table, she waved her hands and murmured an incantation.
“What are you doing?” Bunny asked, carrying out a pitcher of ice water infused with cucumber slices, lemon, and spearmint.
“Nothing,” Agatha said, caught in the act.
“Don’t let Sheridan see you doing that.”
“What she doesn’t know…” Agatha said, and Bunny smiled. The sisters stood together as Agatha reached into the pocket of her flowing green dress, pulled out a tiny multicolored silk drawstring pouch, and sprinkled what looked like grated nutmeg in the bottom of Sheridan’s wineglass.
“Say it,” Bunny urged.
“May the blessings of Aphrodite, our grandmother named for the goddess of love, and may the powers of this wild thyme, so lovingly planted and harvested from her garden, bring peace, love, and understanding to our sister,” said Agatha.
“Amen,” Bunny said, glancing down the hill. “Come on—they’re here.”
“Amen,” Agatha said as they went to greet the guests.
THE EVENING WAS IDYLLIC, summer sweetness itself, as only a Hubbard’s Point evening can be. The sound of waves gently breaking on the sand mingled with distant voices, people enjoying a walk on the beach.
A soft sea breeze blew up the hill, just enough so Jack slid his arm around Stevie’s bare shoulders. The chairs were close together around the rectangular table; first everyone exclaimed about Stevie’s place cards, then about Bunny and Agatha’s excellent food.
They served chilled peach soup with a spoonful of crème fraîche and a sprig of sage; Agatha’s lobster canapés made from crustaceans caught in local waters; filet of sole baked with buttered breadcrumbs; Bunny’s roasted rosemary potatoes; and baguettes and Camembert.
Sheridan sat at the end of the table, with Gavin on one side and Nell on the other. She looked down the table, saw most of the people she loved in this world: her two sisters and their husbands, Stevie and Jack, Nell…She glanced at Gavin, saw him staring back at her. Caught, he gave her a big smile. She smiled back.
Eating her soup, smiling at Gavin, she felt as if she were practicing. She’d been so isolated for so long, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat on her terrace with friends—something she’d always loved to do. Everything felt new.
The tea-light candles twinkled overhead, and the crinkled paper lanterns threw a warm, colored glow across the table. Sheridan ate, sipped her wine, remembered how much Charlie had loved his great-grandmother’s paper lanterns. They were used only for the most special occasions. She took in a sharp, deep breath.
“You okay?” Gavin asked in a low voice.
Sheridan nodded.
“So, Gavin,” Jack said from down the table, “Nell tells me that’s your boat out by the breakwater.”
“That’s right,” Gavin said, reluctantly turning from Sheridan.
“She’s pretty,” said Mike, Bunny’s husband. “Chris-Craft?”
“Yep,” Gavin said. “A Futura. The Jaguar of the Cruisers.”
“I love all the bright wood,” Nell said.
Everyone turned to look at her. Sheridan wasn’t sure how much her sisters knew about Nell hiring Gavin, or what they’d told their husbands; in any case, she didn’t want the conversation to go in that direction, and the thought of it made her catch her breath. Gavin must have heard or sensed it, because he started steering things right away.
“Nell, you’re quite a swimmer,” he said.
“Don’t tell me you swam all the way from the beach out to that boat alone,” Bunny said, gazing down at the water, assessing the distance. “It’s almost all the way to the breakwater!”
Nell smiled proudly.
“Jack, remember when we used to swim from the beach out to the breakwater?” Gavin said.
“To go spearfishing,” Jack said. “Fins, masks, and all, holding our spearguns out of the water and swimming with one hand. We looked like beach guerrillas.”
“Cool,” Nell said.
“Cool unless you dro
wn,” Bunny, the eternal mother, warned. “That’s too far to swim without a boat along to spot you.”
“This place is always the same,” Nell said. “Kids do the same things their parents used to do, but the parents forget how much fun they had and tell them they shouldn’t do it.”
“Anyone care for seconds?” Agatha asked, passing the platter of fish.
“Bien sûr,” said her husband, Louis. Sheridan watched him serve first Agatha, then himself. She adored her brothers-in-law. Louis was French, from a small town in Bordeaux. He always brought the wine—tonight it was a St. Emilion from the vineyard of a friend of his; Sheridan thought it tasted delicious, but a little odd, as if parsley or sage had gotten mixed with the grapes. She watched Louis glance around the table, assess that another bottle was needed, go to the kitchen.
“This is beautiful,” Gavin said in a low voice while the others passed the platters and talked about beach days past and future.
“It is,” Sheridan said, sipping her wine and looking around.
“I’d forgotten how much I love eating out here.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” he said.
She gazed into his eyes. They were hazel, flecked with gold. His hair was a little long, curling over the collar of his blue shirt. It was still brown, but going gray around his face, rugged and lined from a life lived in the sun and wind. She wanted to say “Of course,” as if inviting him were the most normal thing in the world. But she knew it wasn’t. It was a strange miracle that he was here at all.
“I’m glad you came,” she said.
“So am I.”
“Does Hubbard’s Point seem the same to you?”
He stared at her instead of answering. She watched the color rise in his face, saw his eyes take in her eyes, her face, her hair, her hands. He gazed at her hands for so long, she felt him wanting to take them. Or maybe she wanted to take his…. The thought made her flinch.
“Yes,” he said. “Because you’re here.”
“I’ve changed so much,” she whispered. Emotions swept through her; she held his gaze, feeling her eyes fill. Her chest felt hot.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice lower. “You’re more beautiful than ever.”
“No,” she said. “I’m a wreck.”
“You’ve had a lot to be wrecked about,” he said.
“Everyone he loved is right here,” she said. “And it’s such a beautiful summer night…He should be here with us.”
“Maybe he is,” Gavin said.
Sheridan opened her eyes and stared at him. She felt him wanting to help her, trying to be close to her. He’d once known her better than anyone alive. He reached for her hand. She felt the pressure of his fingers; a long shiver ran down her spine. She wanted to lean into him so badly.
“More wine?” Louis asked, standing between them.
Sheridan didn’t speak, so Louis took that as a yes. He started to fill her glass, but Agatha jumped up.
“Wait a minute!” she said, coming down the table. She picked up Sheridan’s glass, held it up to the lantern light. Sheridan glanced up at her, then back at Gavin, who hadn’t looked away.
Agatha murmured something about thinking she’d seen a moth in Sheridan’s glass, Louis said, “Merci, chérie,” and kissed his wife, and Sheridan kept staring at Gavin. He hadn’t let go of her hand, and she felt growing panic, wondering what was happening to her heart.
CHAPTER 11
NELL SAT AT THE TABLE, UNABLE TO EVEN TASTE HER food. She’d been shocked by Gavin’s questions, thrown off-balance by the idea that Charlie might have kept something from her: plans to see Cumberland or, even worse, feelings for the bass player.
She’d started almost regretting asking Gavin to come. He didn’t know Charlie at all, didn’t know Nell. How could he think something so terrible? She stared down the table, burning with rage and thinking of things she could say to Gavin to make him realize how wrong he was. But suddenly something strange happened. Instead of staying furious over what Gavin was hinting at, she started thinking about it. What if it was true?
The thought was as bracing as cold rain. How well do two people know each other—even two as close as her and Charlie? What if he’d wanted to do something without her—not seeing another girl, but just going to the show on his own, not telling her? How bad would that be?
She glanced over at her father and Stevie. Seeing them reassured her—just knowing they were together, realizing that they loved each other so much in spite of their completely divergent lives.
Just because Stevie didn’t tell her father every single thing, and he didn’t run to her with every plan, didn’t mean they weren’t madly in love. In many ways, Nell looked to Stevie to show her how to be.
Sitting at the table now, Nell forced herself to breathe. She glanced at Gavin, wondering whether he’d found out anything more. Although no longer angry, she felt embarrassed that he could think Charlie might keep a secret from her. And why would Charlie do that, if it didn’t have to do with some girl? She swallowed hard, unable to believe Charlie would do that to her.
She closed her eyes, trying to bring a picture of him into her mind. If only she could grab him now, shake him and make him tell her what had happened. Her fingertips burned—that’s how badly she longed to touch him and connect with him. They had loved each other, they had had plans.
Real plans, life plans—not momentary, fleeting, confusing, not-being-honest-with-each-other-one-weekend plans. They were going to go to college together. Would Charlie have wanted her to be with him in New York if he had secrets to keep? That just didn’t make sense, and was one of the worst parts about death: you couldn’t talk things over, couldn’t ask questions, couldn’t explain the simple things that could so easily have been sorted out in life. It left so much unfinished business.
Nell tried to calm herself down, listening to conversation at the table, glancing around at everyone. She looked at all the adults. What did it mean to grow up? If Charlie had lived, would they have been able to make it together outside the enchanted boundaries of Hubbard’s Point? Would she have been possessive and demanding? Had Charlie started feeling that about her? Had he started feeling trapped, maybe wanting to see someone else? The thought made her almost start to hyperventilate.
“Nell,” Stevie said, catching her eye, “everything okay?”
Nell nodded, forcing herself to smile. Just the sight of Stevie made her realize she was being crazy; there was no way Charlie had felt trapped or held back by her. No way at all…
Except for Stevie, who was the very definition of an artist and free spirit and didn’t care what people thought, and Sheridan, who was pretty much the same, Nell found adults to be constrained. It was as if sometime during their late youth, someone had drawn a box for them to step into. The box had four sides, a bottom, and a top; the adult would hop in—willingly, it seemed—and never get out again.
Like Nell’s dad. As much as she loved him, he’d pretty much been in a box until Stevie had let him out. But then he’d fallen in love with Stevie, and she’d more than liberated him—they were proof, to Nell, that love actually set people free, rather than keeping them chained. Until this summer, with whatever was going on between him and Stevie, Nell’s dad had been a happy man.
Looking around the table, Nell realized that pretty much all the adults here were in box-free zones. Agatha, with all her supernatural freakiness, was very cool; Louis was French and loved wine and had the most awesomely thick accent, you could barely understand a word he said.
Nell gazed at Bunny and Mike and wondered. With a name like “Bunny,” you had to be kind of brave. But Bunny had the suburban mom thing down pat: even worrying about Nell’s long swim out to Gavin’s boat. Mike seemed nice; he looked like the only person at the table other than her father who might work in an office—his hair was trimmed in an office-friendly way, and he wore a striped polo shirt, and he had a heavy, kind of status-y looking stainless steel watch on his wrist. Any overt status symbo
l was an instant dead giveaway that the person wearing it was box-bound.
Gavin, on the other hand—and as mad at him as Nell still felt—was about as far from box-world as an adult could be. Nell looked him over, checking out the way he was leaning toward Sheridan. They were whispering, in voices too low to hear.
Since Charlie’s death, Nell was used to seeing Sheridan super closed off and shut in, sometimes drinking a little too much. But tonight she seemed awake and alive, smiling into Gavin’s handsome eyes. For an old guy, except for his disturbing theory about Charlie, he was all right.
“Everyone,” Agatha said from the other end of the table.
Nell and the rest of the party turned to look at her.
“I think,” she said, “a toast is in order…. If no one minds, I’d like to do the honors…”
“You are the oldest sister,” Bunny said, smiling.
“But Sheridan is our hostess,” Agatha said.
Sheridan laughed. “In name only. You two cooked the whole meal, and it’s wonderful. Of course, Agatha…”
“Well then,” Agatha said, standing. She took a deep breath, seeming to summon something from within. Nell leaned forward, watching. Agatha’s eyes were closed, her lips moving silently. Then, “With the power of the stars, and the deepness of the blue, from the bottom of the sea, and the strength of me and you…”
“My God,” Bunny said. “Is this a toast or a spell?”
“With Agatha, there is no difference,” Louis said, only he made it sound like Wiz Agate, zere ees no deeferance.
Agatha went on, eyes still closed, as if there’d been no interruption. “With all there is, and all there was, may love touch each at this table tonight, may the wildest dreams come true, may it be done.”
“Done and done,” Bunny murmured.
“Hear, hear,” Mike said, as if Agatha had just made a corporation-rousing speech. Bunny smiled proudly, whether at Mike or Agatha, Nell wasn’t sure.
“That was some toast,” Gavin said. “And I’ll drink to it.”