Christy-Lynn felt her cheeks go pink but said nothing.
“Were you happy? Back then, I mean.”
She thought about that a moment—and about her need to think about it. Shouldn’t the answer be obvious? It wasn’t, though. Like everything else in her life the truth lay half in shadow, perhaps because that was how she preferred it. Things tended to be less messy that way.
“I think I was numb,” she said at last. “Not happy. Not unhappy. There were signs, I suppose, that it wasn’t Shangri-la, but there wasn’t any one thing. It was gradual, you know? Insidious. It wasn’t until he was gone that I realized I’d been married to someone I barely knew. I was holding on so tightly I never realized how much we’d both changed. Still, it wasn’t enough to leave. At least I didn’t think it was.”
Wade came to sit in the chair beside her, beer balanced on one knee. “Were you still in love with him? I asked once before, and you never did answer.”
Christy-Lynn looked out over the lake, watching the light play over the mercury-smooth surface. “I’m not sure I ever was,” she answered finally, realizing, perhaps for the first time, what she had never let herself see. “How’s that for an admission?”
“Then why marry the guy?”
“I was in awe of him,” she said with a shrug, not even sure she understood it. “And it’s what respectable people do, isn’t it? Grow up and get married? Respectability was important to me back then. Which is probably why I always gave up what I wanted—so I could be who and what he wanted. But after a while, the shine started to wear off. It was like going backstage after a play and seeing the star without his makeup.”
“But you stayed.”
Christy-Lynn looked at her hands, smoothing her nails one at a time. “It wasn’t because of the money.”
“I knew that,” Wade said quietly.
“Or the status.”
“I knew that too.”
“I don’t know. He was this larger than life guy, always so sure of himself. And back then, I wasn’t sure of anything. It was . . . attractive. And it made him the perfect place to hide.”
“From what?”
She met his gaze evenly. “Myself. And it worked. The day I became Stephen’s wife I stopped being Christy-Lynn Parker. And for a while, I was okay with it. They say ignorance is bliss, and I guess it was, because I never bothered to ask myself who I’d be if I wasn’t his wife.”
“You said you gave up what you wanted. What did you want?”
They were silent for a moment, sipping in unison as they watched a pair of egrets lift away from the shore. “I used to think about writing sometimes,” she said, finally breaking the quiet. “Not the great American novel, but something. I had a couple of ideas I pitched to Stephen, but he always squashed them. He said telling someone else what they’re doing wrong isn’t the same as being able to do it yourself.”
Wade eyed her stonily. “So that’s it? You just abandoned your dream because he said so? Stephen gets what he wants and to hell with your dreams?”
Christy-Lynn screwed the cap back on her water bottle and set it on the railing. It was true. Well, mostly true. She wasn’t sure writing had ever been a lifelong dream, but it was something she had toyed with—and given up. On Stephen’s say so. But at the moment, she was more intrigued by the anger she saw banked in Wade’s eyes.
“What happened between you two?”
He shrugged, rolling his empty beer bottle back and forth between his palms. “It was years ago.”
“Maybe, but it still bothers you. It’s there every time you talk about him, the same tamped-down fury that’s coming off you right now. So what was it?”
“We were friends. Or I thought we were. Wade didn’t have many friends back then. He had a tendency to suck up all the oxygen in the room. But there was another side of him, one he kept to himself until no one else was around, like when we’d come up here to study. He was different then, laid-back, maybe because there was no one around to impress. But then we’d get back to Charlottesville, and it was like he’d flip a switch. All of a sudden the big man on campus was back.”
Christy-Lynn nodded. She knew exactly what he was talking about. “And what else?”
“He was lazy.”
“That’s it?” She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but criticizing Stephen’s work ethic hadn’t been on the list. “You think cranking out a book a year is lazy?”
“I meant his writing was lazy. He had talent but never bothered to hone it. He was happy just turning out stock stories that leaned on sex or violence to sell. There was never any emotion in his work, never any of himself. That’s the hard part, spilling your guts out onto the page, tapping into the stuff that scares you, crushes you, breaks you wide-open. Stephen couldn’t be bothered.”
Christy-Lynn sat mulling his words, certain there was more to the long-standing rift than he was letting on, something more personal, more painful. “You’re saying you’ve been angry for twenty years because Stephen didn’t live up to his potential?”
“I was laying the groundwork,” Wade replied tightly. “I’m not the only one who thought Stephen was lazy. Our professors saw it too. They started leaning on him, challenging him. It was getting harder and harder for him to slide. At the end of our sophomore year, we had a course project due, a short story that counted as a large part of our grade. Stephen knew what he was working on wasn’t good. He asked me to help him fix it, so I gave him some ideas, all of which required pulling the story apart. Rather than doing the work, he went into my desk and found a piece I’d written the previous year. He retyped it minus my edit notes and handed it in as his own. He got an A and passed the class. Unfortunately, the professor passed it along to the editor of the Meridian, who ended up printing it. That’s how I found out—when I saw my story in print with his name on it.”
Christy-Lynn went still, numbed by the revelation. “He just . . . stole it?”
“Borrowed was the term he used. He said he just needed to pass the class, and it wasn’t like I was ever going to do anything with the story, so what was the big deal?”
“I can’t even—” She paused, dragging both hands through her hair. “What happened when you told the professor it was your story?”
“Nothing happened. I didn’t tell him.”
Christy-Lynn gaped at him. “I don’t understand. He stole your story and got a publishing credit for it, and you just let him get away with it?”
“It would have been my word against his, and I knew better than to think he’d ever cop to plagiarism. The bastard couldn’t even bring himself to apologize. Suffice it to say, we were through as friends. It wasn’t just that he stole my work and passed it off as his. It was that he could screw over a friend when he knew damn well I was willing to help him.”
“I’m so sorry, Wade.”
“For what?”
“That night at the alumni dinner. I thought it was sour grapes, and all the time you were sitting on this.”
“You called me bitter and jealous.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wade forced a smile. “Forget it. You didn’t know. Besides, you were right. Or at least half-right. I was pretty bitter. But it’s water under the bridge now.”
Christy-Lynn pushed to her feet and crossed to the opposite side of deck, more shaken than she wanted to admit. Who had she married? A man who kept a mistress, who fathered a child he barely saw and had neglected to provide for, who plagiarized a story written by his best friend. It was unfathomable. But really, it wasn’t. And that made it worse somehow.
She didn’t hear Wade leave his chair, but suddenly he was standing beside her, his fingers warm as he reached for her hand on the railing. “You okay?”
Christy-Lynn kept her eyes averted, watching the breeze push a series of ripples across the lake’s silvered surface. “I honestly don’t know. I keep learning things about a man I thought I knew, terrible things. It makes me wonder.”
“Makes you wonder
what?”
“How I could live with someone for so long and still not have a clue who he was.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Christy-Lynn had been only too happy to change the subject when Wade suggested they start dinner. He had grilled salmon steaks and skewers of fresh summer vegetables, which she’d helped him prepare. Now, as they sat on the deck, eating strawberry ice cream and watching the sun slip behind the trees, she felt herself finally starting to relax.
“Refill?” Wade asked, holding up his empty bowl.
“God, no. I’m stuffed. But I think I could sit here all night looking out over this lake. It’s so peaceful, like a church without walls.”
“My grandfather built this place with his own hands. He loved it up here.”
Christy-Lynn closed her eyes and pulled in a lungful of air. “I can see why. It’s the perfect place to forget all your cares.”
“That’s why I came.”
Christy-Lynn opened her eyes. “Did it work?”
Wade shrugged. “Jury’s still out. Oh, hey. I almost forgot why I lured you here in the first place. Be right back.”
He appeared a short time later carrying a thick sheaf of papers. “It’s not finished,” he told her sheepishly. “I threw up my hands around page three-twenty, when I realized something wasn’t working. I printed you off a hard copy, but I can send an electronic copy if you prefer. I plan to pay you, by the way. I’m not asking for a freebie.”
Christy-Lynn eyed the stack of pages in his hand with something like dread. She was half hoping he’d forget. “I prefer paper for my first pass. And don’t be silly. I’m not taking your money. What’s the title?”
“The End of Known Things.”
She let the words roll around in her head, dark but intriguing. Perhaps a bit dystopian, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “And your premise?”
Wade dropped back into his chair, the pages in his lap, and propped his feet up on the railing. “The main character is Robert Vance, a big-shot business type who thinks he’s got it all figured out. He’s had a plan since he was fourteen, and nothing’s getting in his way. Until something does, and his life is completely turned inside out. He realizes the only way he’s ever going to be happy is to lay himself open. I just can’t seem to get him there. And before you ask, no, it isn’t autobiographical.”
Christy-Lynn smiled. “Not even a little?”
“I was nineteen when I started it. I thought I knew everything.”
“And now?”
“Now?” He looked away, his gaze lost on the horizon. “Now, I’m not sure I know anything at all. Why things turn out the way they do. How the world works.” He shrugged then turned to face her with a thin smile. “A classic case of the nice guy finishing last, I suppose.”
Christy-Lynn could see that she’d stumbled onto a sore subject. Hoping to steer the conversation to safer waters, she held out a hand. “Give me the pages. I’ll dig in, make some notes, and then we can talk.”
Wade was about to pass her the pages when he paused, frowning. “What’s this?” He had captured her upturned wrist and was pointing to the small cluster of half-moons. “They look like scars.”
Christy-Lynn jerked her hand away, tucking it between her knees. “They are.”
“I’ve never noticed them before. How’d you get them?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
When Wade’s gaze lingered, she pushed up out of her chair. She needed to put some distance between herself and those shrewd journalistic eyes. But Wade was soon beside her at the rail, his silhouette outlined in the thin twilight.
“Everything all right? You seem jumpy all of a sudden, like I made you uncomfortable. I meant what I said before, Christy-Lynn. If you feel weird about the manuscript, I understand.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.” But she couldn’t meet his eyes as she said it. “And I don’t feel weird. It’s just . . . my head’s so full right now.”
“You’ve decided, haven’t you? To go through with the trust?”
“Yes.” She’d been wondering when he’d get around to asking. “I know you think it’s a bad idea. But it feels right.”
“So things are moving along?”
“I’ve asked the attorney to draw up the paperwork. When it’s ready, I’ll set up some time to talk through it all with Rhetta.”
Wade had his enigmatic face on again, but she could see the wheels turning behind those amber eyes, assessing risks, weighing the what-ifs. “Are you sure she’s going to be able to handle that kind of money?”
“She won’t be handling it. At least not all at one time. Peter’s setting it up with me as trustee, which means the principle remains under my control with a kind of monthly allowance being paid to Rhetta.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“No. But I’m doing it anyway. I have to.”
He nodded. “I know.”
Except he’d said it in a way that made Christy-Lynn wonder if he really did. He told her once that he believed in clean breaks—in walking away and burning your bridges. And she had for the most part. She’d left Clear Harbor, sold the house, opened the store, and put down roots in Sweetwater. But this was different. How did you burn a bridge when there was a child standing on it?
She was still trying to come up with a response when Wade surprised her by changing the subject. “Are you up for fireworks? If we hurry, we can get out there in time.”
Christy-Lynn checked her watch, but it was already too dark to read the time. “I thought they started at nine. It’ll take at least twenty minutes to get downtown and find a place to park.”
“Who said anything about downtown?”
“Seriously?” Christy-Lynn tipped back her head. “You can actually see them from here?”
Wade surprised her again by taking her hand and leading her down the deck stairs. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“Out there,” he said, pointing toward the lake.
“In the dark?”
Wade stepped into the canoe and held out a hand. “It’s the best way to see them. Come on. You’ll be fine.”
Christy-Lynn smothered a sigh. He was already seated, the paddle resting across his thighs. “All right, but if I end up in the drink, the markup on that manuscript of yours isn’t going to be pretty.”
He chuckled warmly in the dark. “I’ll take my chances. Just stay low like I showed you and hold on to both sides.”
Breath held, she stepped over the side and into the canoe. Climbing into a boat was tricky enough for a novice, but doing it in the dark was downright scary. Finally, she eased down onto the empty seat and was able to breathe again.
“This better be good.”
“Would I lie?”
Christy-Lynn considered the question, knowing full well it had been rhetorical. And yet somehow she knew the answer. “No,” she said quietly, wishing she could make out his face in the dark. “I don’t think you would.”
Wade said nothing as he pushed off and began to paddle, smooth, easy strokes that barely made a sound against the quiet. Eventually Christy-Lynn felt herself relax. She let go of the sides, gazing up into the indigo sky as they glided soundlessly over the water.
“Okay,” she said grudgingly. “This is nice.”
“My grandfather and I used to come out here every year for the fireworks and for the Perseid meteor shower. There’s less ambient light so everything looks brighter.”
“Sounds like you and your grandfather made a lot of great memories.”
Wade stopped paddling, letting the canoe drift. “We did. In fact, we built this canoe together. Took us three summers. The old man was a stickler for detail, a real perfectionist. But thirty years later, here we are, out on the lake watching another set of fireworks.”
As if on cue, the first plumes of color erupted overhead, illuminating the night sky with a burst of red-and-white fire. Seconds later, a boom punctured the qu
iet, the percussion palpable in the heavy night air. Christy-Lynn’s breath caught, then caught again as a single missile arced into the darkness, followed by a profusion of pink, white, and gold that echoed like diamonds in the lake’s mirrorlike skin.
She wanted to tell him he was right, that she’d never seen anything so wonderful, but there wasn’t time. One after another the volleys continued, each explosion bigger and brighter than the last. She barely noticed when Wade’s hand closed over hers, her eyes locked on the sky, reveling in the hypnotic pulses of color and sound, flecks of gold and silver tumbling down around them like falling stars.
Finally, she snuck a glance at Wade, surprised to find his attention on her rather than the sky. “You’re not watching the fireworks.”
“It’s okay. I can see them in your eyes.”
The words threw her off balance, smoky and warm, the way she imagined a shot of whiskey might feel as it snaked its way into the bloodstream. Her pulse ticked up as his fingers twined with hers and the sky continued to explode overhead. And then he was pulling her toward him. Something fluttered in her belly, like a pair of soft wings lifting off. He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him. Because suddenly she wanted him to very badly.
His mouth opened against hers with maddening slowness, a velvety assault on her long-starved senses. She stiffened briefly as his arms came around her, startled by her body’s sharp and visceral response. She had nearly forgotten this part—the urgent mingling of breaths, the blending of bodies, the languid, bone-deep sense of surrender. How easy it would be to let this—whatever this was—happen, to sweep caution aside and yield to this startling new ache. It was a heady thought. And a dangerous one.
She pulled back abruptly, causing the canoe to skitter. “We can’t,” she blurted. “I can’t.”
“I thought—”
Christy-Lynn’s fingers felt bloodless as she gripped the sides of the canoe, thankful for the darkness. “I know what you thought. I must have thought it too. But I’m not . . . I can’t.”
“Did I read it wrong?”
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