by Luanne Rice
When the kiss was over, he stepped away. She reached out to grab him, but her hand caught only air. He walked backward a few paces, holding her gaze with passion and intensity.
“Charlie, I love you,” Nell said.
“I’ll always love you,” he said.
Then he turned and walked into the tall grass where his great-grandmother was waiting. Aphrodite smiled at Nell, said something in Irish that she couldn’t understand. Then, side by side, Aphrodite and Charlie walked away. Nell stared until they disappeared into the silver starlight, until she was sure they were gone.
A truck rumbled by on the road outside the cemetery, and Nell rolled over, felt the cool dirt on her cheek, and woke up with a start. Her mouth was dry. Her mind swam with the dream she’d just had.
It had felt so real.
She cried to think of how good it had felt to hold Charlie, and she knew she’d sleep here every night if she could kiss him again, even in her dreams.
She looked up at the stars. Then she looked down at her ankle where she wore a thin green anklet of tall grass. Sitting up in pure shock, she stared at the grass tied there. Had she done that in her sleep? Had he? She touched her lips; she could still feel Charlie’s kiss.
Nell knew that it was time to go. She turned away from the gravestone with its guitar-playing angel. And she walked out of the cemetery, onto the winding road that led toward the Point and home.
EPILOGUE
THE SKY WAS SEPTEMBER BLUE, CRYSTAL CLEAR, WITHOUT a cloud. A sharp, warm breeze blew off the Sound, making the flags snap. Most Hubbard Point families had gone home at the end of August, back to school, but many of them had returned for the wedding. It was to be held on the beach, right on the sand, at noon.
Agatha and Bunny had been busy all morning, preparing the buffet. With the help of Peggy, Tyler, and some of Nell’s other friends, they set it up on the boardwalk, under the blue pavilion roof. They’d made lobster canapés, cucumber sandwiches, Hubbard’s Point tomato soup—although the day was sunny, there was a fall snap in the air, and besides, there were all those late-summer tomatoes coming in on the vines. But the pièce de résistance was to be Coquilles St. Jacques—scallops served in their own shells—in honor of Aphrodite.
Sheridan and Gavin were staying on the Squire Toby, and would be until Sheridan’s house was rebuilt. Gavin hadn’t exactly packed dress clothes for this trip, but he managed a blazer and a pair of not-too-wrinkled khakis. Sheridan had lost all her clothes in the fire, but she looked as beautiful as a bride herself in a soft-yellow dress she’d borrowed from Stevie.
Gavin pulled the dinghy close to the boarding ladder, helped Sheridan over the side and into the small boat. She moved gingerly, as if everything hurt. He knew it did—she had burns on her feet and hands, but every day she swam in salt water, healing a little more at a time. Gavin never let her go in alone; he swam right alongside her, feeling his own burns and cuts closing up.
Heading into the beach, he pulled on the oars, staring at Sheridan. The September sun glinted on her white hair; she’d never looked more lovely. He knew everything she had lost last month, wondered how she could stand looking up the hill from his boat, at the empty place where her house had stood. But she did; he came up on deck every morning, found her sitting there with a cup of coffee, gazing contemplatively up at the spot.
“You ready for this?” he asked her now.
“The wedding?” she asked.
He nodded. “The last time we saw all these people gathered together, it was…”
“The night of the fire,” she said. “I know. It’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” She smiled, and he knew she was telling the truth.
As strong and tough as he’d always wanted to think himself, his strength was nothing compared to hers. Every night since the fire, she’d huddled over the mahogany table in the main salon, writing songs. He’d gone down to New York, to her regular guy at Mandolin Brothers on Staten Island, bought her a Martin guitar just like the one Merle Haggard had given her.
Last night he’d asked her what she was writing, and she told him it was a surprise—a song for the wedding. Now, rowing her into shore, he wondered why she hadn’t brought her guitar.
“Forgot something?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Why?”
“Because if you’re planning to sing that song you wrote, we’d better go back and get your guitar.”
“I don’t need it,” she said.
“But it sounded so pretty,” he said, “the way you were playing last night.”
She just smiled, as if she had a secret. The look in her eyes filled him with more excitement than he could believe—amazing that just one little look could do that to him. He shook his head, smiling back. He’d never understand his luck, as long as he lived. He’d blown things with Sheridan so long ago, and here they were again, giving each other another chance.
“You know what?” he said.
“What?”
He stared, the smile growing on his face. He just shook his head, because he couldn’t tell her what he was thinking. What he wanted, more than anything, was to propose to her. They were on their way to the wedding of two of their oldest and best friends, and all he could think of was marrying Sheridan.
But she’d been through so much, he didn’t think it was fair to lay this on her right now. Not just the fire, but the trauma of losing Charlie, and then finding out Randy’s son had killed him. Sheridan knew that Jeff had suffered through childhood without a father, just as Charlie had. Tragedy had caused more tragedy, and she had bittersweet compassion for Jeff Quill. She’d told Gavin that when time had passed, she knew she would go to the prison, where he was being held in New York, and talk to him. Gavin knew better than to try to talk her out of it; she was doing it for Charlie.
Gavin knew he owed her a break before he started hounding her about being his wife. Let her get used to him a little longer, see how they did living together.
“You’re not going to tell me?” she asked just as he rowed them up onto the sand, rolled up his pants, and hopped out into the shallow water to haul the dinghy up above the tide line. He helped her out of the boat, shook his head.
“Not right now,” he said. “But I will, Sheridan. I’ll tell you soon—and that’s a promise. You got that?”
“I got it,” she said, slipping her arm through his as they hobbled—old soldiers home from their own private war—down the beach they’d always loved, toward the wedding tent.
SHERIDAN CRIED. She didn’t even try to hide it. The whole ceremony was so beautiful: Stevie nine months pregnant, Jack holding her hands and gazing at her as if no man had ever loved anybody more. Nell, their maid of honor, standing there so still in her pretty blue dress, wearing her mother’s pearls. Maddie was Stevie’s bridesmaid, and of all the guests, she and Sheridan cried the hardest.
The vows had come from several sources: Agatha had offered a prayer, and Stevie had asked Sheridan for one of Aphrodite’s best love spells to incorporate into the vows. When the ceremony was over, Agatha, who as Eucharistic minister had officiated, said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife!”
Gavin waited, then turned with surprise to Sheridan.
“Aren’t you going to sing?” he whispered.
She smiled and shook her head, wiping away tears. “No,” she said.
“But…” he began, confused.
Then the reception began, and everyone filed through the buffet line, filling their plates. This was a most unusual wedding, in every way—at least to Sheridan. The bride and groom pulled her and Gavin aside. Instead of her giving them wedding presents, they gave gifts to her.
Stevie, dressed in a beautiful white lace maternity dress, handed Sheridan the basket she had carried over to her house in mid-August, the night Sheridan had thrown the jelly jar at the rocks.
“Oh, Stevie,” Sheridan said, lifting the cloth, seeing the portrait of Charlie.
�
�I painted it for you during the winter,” Stevie said.
“But I wasn’t ready for it when you tried to give it to me before,” Sheridan said.
“No,” Stevie said. “It was too soon…”
“And too unfinished.” Sheridan stared at her son’s portrait, so lovingly painted by her old friend. Stevie had caught Charlie’s eyes, the sparkle and smile that had always been in them. Sheridan touched the canvas, as if she could brush his fine blond hair out of his blue eyes.
She tried not to think of Jeff, but he was part of their story now—part of their lives, part of their family. He was being held on Rikers Island, until his plea could be accepted and his sentence handed down. Gazing at the portrait of Charlie, she saw hints of his brother. Sometimes she prayed that they’d never met. But they had, and life had been forever changed.
“Charlie,” she whispered, still touching the painting of her son. The canvas felt so stiff beneath her fingers; but Stevie had put such life into his eyes, into his being, and Sheridan felt him with her. She felt Charlie as he was, as he’d always be: her beautiful boy.
“We brought you these, too,” Jack said, handing her an album. Gavin helped her open it, look through. The pictures were so vivid and alive—all of her house, many of Charlie. All different ages—at birth, when he was two, the day he got his driver’s license, the summer he died.
“Thank you,” Sheridan said, looking up at Jack. “I lost all my photos in the fire. These mean so much to me.”
“Look,” Gavin said. “Here’s one of Aphrodite and your mother…and your sisters…”
Sheridan nodded. “And so many of Charlie.”
“Also,” Jack said, “of your house.”
“Yes,” Sheridan said, feeling a wave of sadness. “I said it didn’t matter, but it does. I miss the place…it was so quirky, one of a kind. I’ll never have my old cottage back.”
“No,” Jack said. “But you’ll have one just like it. Or as close as I can make it…”
Stevie smiled, hugged Sheridan. “Jack is drawing up plans,” she said. “From all these photos, he was able to do blueprints…”
“That’s going to be our gift to you two,” Jack said, shaking Gavin’s hand.
“Yes,” Stevie said, kissing him. “Congratulations!”
Gavin played it cool. He smiled, as if they knew what they were talking about. He accepted their good wishes, laughed, thanked them for their generosity. Nell called them over to the boardwalk, to get their scallops while they were hot.
Sheridan held the basket in one arm, the portrait of Charlie in the other. Gavin had the photo album in his hand. She stepped forward, and he put his other arm around her.
“What?” he asked, looking confused.
“That song I wrote last night? For the wedding?”
“Yes,” he said.
“It’s for our wedding,” she said.
“Sheridan…”
“Stevie and Jack asked me the other day when you and I were going to follow them…. I didn’t even have to think about it. I told them soon. I said you and I would be getting married soon.”
“Is that true?” he asked, really starting to smile.
Sheridan nodded.
“Gavin,” she said, “will you marry me?”
“Sheridan,” he said, grinning, “you know I will.”
She put down the basket and portrait, and he put down the photo album, so they could really hold each other tight. And Sheridan Rosslare and Gavin Dawson stood on the beach at Hubbard’s Point, in the bright sun of the mid-September day, under the bluest sky they’d ever seen, and they kissed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LUANNE RICE is the author of twenty-five novels, most recently Last Kiss, Light of the Moon, What Matters Most, The Edge of Winter, Sandcastles, Summer of Roses, Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, and Beach Girls, among many New York Times bestsellers. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.
ALSO BY LUANNE RICE
Light of the Moon
What Matters Most
The Edge of Winter
Sandcastles
Summer of Roses
Summer’s Child
Silver Bells
Beach Girls
Dance With Me
The Perfect Summer
The Secret Hour
True Blue
Safe Harbor
Summer Light
Firefly Beach
Dream Country
Follow the Stars Home
Cloud Nine
Home Fires
Blue Moon
Secrets of Paris
Stone Heart
Crazy in Love
Angels All Over Town
LAST KISS
A Bantam Book / August 2008
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2008 by Luanne Rice
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Rice, Luanne.
Last kiss / Luanne Rice.
p. cm.
1. Mothers and sons—Fiction. 2. Motion picture producers and directors—Crimes against—Fiction. 3. Bereavement—Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 5. Connecticut—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.I289L37 2008
813’.54—dc22 2007052179
www.bantamdell.com
eISBN: 978-0-553-90539-7
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