by Elsa Kurt
“You’re overthinking it again.” Mae cupped her hand over William’s forehead. “I can feel the steam coming out of your brain.”
“You’re right, I know. It’s just—”
“Nope. Get your shoes on. We’re going for a walk.”
William lifted his head from the pillow and looked out Mae’s bedroom window. “It’s almost midnight.”
“We can sleep in tomorrow. Bruce is opening for me, and the Petrovas are going in early. Come on, it’s a full moon.”
“All right, you win. Where are we going?”
“The beach, of course. Unless that’s too cliché for the famous author? Has this scene been written too many times before?”
Mae teased, but she also worried there was truth in it and that she was just acting silly. William erased her fears with gentleness. He met her in the doorway, where a slice of moonlight caught her in its light, grabbed hold of her hips, and pulled her against him.
“It doesn’t matter how many times that scene has been written. Tonight, for the first time ever, it’ll be our scene together.”
Mae’s heart swelled at the sweetness of his words, but then a stab of worry pierced her. He could’ve said “the first of many,” yet he did not. Was it an omen, that omission? Surely, a man who makes a living by his words would not have misspoken.
Now who’s overthinking? Mae banished the thoughts and stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him. Outside the moon and stars shone bright, and William took Mae’s hand in his as they walked down her quiet street toward Access Road. As they passed the Brightsiders’, she tugged William’s hand to stop.
“What is—”
“Shhh, listen,” said Mae, her finger to her lips.
From the half-open basement window a soft light spilled onto the grass, and though they couldn’t see him, they could hear Charles Brightsider playing the violin under the glow of that lamplight.
“I recognize it,” smiled William. “Mozart. He plays beautifully.”
Mae nodded in agreement and rested her head against his chest. The music drifted and swelled around them, mingling with the crickets and rustle of the trees. They stayed until the song ended then carried on their way.
At the deserted beach, they kicked off their shoes and rolled up their pant legs before walking along the ebb and flow of the water’s edge. Mae had strolled the beach on many a sleepless night, but until then, it had always been alone.
“I grew up on this beach,” said Mae. She pointed to the lifeguard station and said, “First kiss. Right there.” Then, by the jetty, “Sliced my foot on a broken seashell over there. Four stitches. You can still see the scar. I think I—William? What is it?”
He had stopped and was looking at Mae with an expression she couldn’t read in the moonlight. It was what she heard in his voice that gave him away. “If you could only see what I see right now.”
Mae went back to where William stood and wrapped her arms around his waist. The waves rolled gently and buried their feet under the sand each time the ocean pulled the saltwater back into her.
He loves me.
She knew it to be true. It was in every look, it was in his touch. If only he would just let himself go of whatever held him back. On their walk along the beach, then in the wee hours of the night and into the dreamy pre-dawn, William spoke to her of his past. She knew of Emelia and his grief and guilt, and she understood his work driven single-mindedness. His regrets and almost forgotten hopes—he gave them all to her in a quiet, steady voice spoken against the crown of her head as she lay in his arms. His had been a lonely, isolated existence up until Chance. Until Mae.
In turn, she had shared herself with him—soft, halting words against his chest that became easier to speak as he smoothed her hair and held her tighter. The weight of her hopes and fears—and the constant hollow numbness that losing her father had filled her with—lightened. William and Mae now knew one another as no one ever had before, and there was peace in the knowing.
Mae drifted into sleep feeling that a page had turned in their budding relationship, they had reached a place of comfort and understanding. When she awoke hours later in the harsh morning light, her empty bed and house gave her only a moment’s worry. She shook her head and laughed at herself, dressed, and went to the kitchen. It was there, on the island by her spare key—William’s key—that a note sat ominously, waiting to tell her she’d been mistaken. The night before hadn’t been a beginning; it had been a goodbye.
Chapter 23
MOVING ON
Mae served the Brightsiders as Elise Martino walked in. The rest of her girl gang was nowhere in sight. She observed as the petite brunette scanned the café until her eyes locked on her target and followed her gaze. Mae knew before she saw that it would be Bruce she’d keyed in on.
“Mae, dear. How is everything going?” asked Georgie Brightsider, nodding her head in the direction of the skinny girl folding linen napkins at the front counter.
“Well, it’s going, I can tell you that much. She’s a trip, that one,” said Mae, looking over at Feather Anne, who—sensing their attention—looked at Mae and stuck her tongue out, then smiled sweetly at the Brightsiders. “See what I mean?”
“Oh, she’s just testing you, testing the boundaries. They all do it.”
“Well, she’s a good distraction, at least.”
Charles and Georgie gave each other a look, then Georgie patted Mae’s hand and said, “Has he gone, then?”
Mae glanced back at the empty table where William had been a fixture for months and shrugged. “He’s in New York. Meeting with his publishers and…well, whatever else he’s doing there.”
“When did he leave?”
“Georgie, dear, perhaps—” began Charles.
“It’s okay, Mr. Brightsider. Everyone’s been tip-toeing around me like I’ll break in half if they say one word. I appreciate you asking, Mrs. Brightsider. He left a week and a half ago. Haven’t heard a word from him.” Mae’s eyes began to sting, so she abruptly changed topics. “So, Sunday—acoustic open mic, four o’clock. You’ll be here, right?”
Charles smiled kindly up at her and said, “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now go get me my omelet before I starve.”
Mae smiled gratefully at him. “You got it, sir.” The smile faded away the moment she left their table.
Bruce, leaning against the back wall and chatting with Elise, caught her attention. Their brief, wordless conversation was spoken with only their eyes.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
Mae kept walking, and Bruce kept talking. Things had changed between them, but it wasn’t bad. She supposed she had Elise to thank for that, although Mae might be the only one around town with anything positive to say about Elise Martino. Her own had turned on her, not only spilling the news that Elise and Ethan had split, but that the suspected reason was an affair between her and Bruce. Someone tapped her shoulder, and Mae spun around, a silly, sad hope that it would be William.
“By that face, I’m guessing I’m not the person you were expecting,” said Elise apologetically.
Mae answered tiredly, “Not expecting, just hoping. What’s up?”
“Listen, I just wanted to thank you. If you hadn’t overheard Brianna—that bitch—and the others talking about me the other day, I’d never have known who told everyone about Ethan and me or started the rumor about Moose and me. I mean, I would’ve guessed, but knowing for sure is a whole ’nother thing. And I suppose it’s not exactly a rumor now…anyhow, I’m sure it was more about protecting Bruce than me, but still—”
“It was for both of you. Really. Thanks for not telling them you got it from me. Not good for business to rat out your customer’s private conversations, you know?”
“I guess we’re even then, huh?”
“Eli—Lissie? Let’s not have scorecards, okay? Friends look out for each other, period.”
Elise gave a small, ironic laugh and nodded. “So that’s
how other people do this friendship thing? It’ll take some getting used to, but I think I can manage.”
“Bruce told me the real story, Elise. I think you’re better at this ‘nice thing’ than you think.” Mae nudged her conspiratorially.
“I should have known he’d have told you.” She shook her head but not angrily. “Hey, so maybe when William gets back, the four of us could grab dinner or something. I figure since we’re the talk of the town anyhow, why not, right?”
Mae disguised the sharp jolt of pain through her heart with a cheery, “What the hell. Sounds great. We’ll, uh, chat later.”
Elise left as Rosabelle—a very excited-looking Rosabelle—came in. She gave Mae a quick wave and pointed to the patio. Mae gave her the thumbs up and grabbed a water and a menu for her.
“You want me to take care of her, Mae?” asked Paulina. She and Melina—along with everyone else—had been handling her with kid gloves since William had left. Well, everyone except Feather Anne. She seemed to amp up her attitude.
“Nah, I got it. Thanks. See if table four is ready?”
Paulina gave her a campy thumbs up, and Mae went out to Rosabelle.
“Good morning. I wasn’t expecting to see you today, Rosabelle. Today’s usually your—wait, don’t tell me—library day. Right?”
“Yes, but I had a change of plans.”
She also had a new glow about her and could barely contain herself. Curious, Mae asked, “Safe to say it’s a good change of plans?”
“Oh, yes. At least, I think so.” Rosabelle’s forehead creased then smoothed again. “No, yes—it is. I’m getting a makeover, Mae.”
She beamed up at Mae, expecting a big, equally excited reaction, but a stab of dismay poked a hole in Mae’s initial joy at seeing Rosabelle so animated. “A makeover? Aw, Rosabelle, you’re perfect the way you are. You don’t need to change anything about yourself.”
“Thank you, Mae. But I do. I’m tired of being a—a Plain Jane, a wallflower. I want to be a butterfly. If I’m ever going to get—” She stopped herself and looked away.
“Rosabelle? Does this have something to do with Miles? Forget him, he’s incorrigible. If he hasn’t noticed you by now, then he’s a fool.”
Rosabelle looked around surreptitiously, waved Mae down closer, and said, “We’ve been…seeing each other.”
Mae stepped back again and stared at Rosabelle uncomprehendingly. “Who? Wait—you and Miles?” She dropped down in the chair beside the giddy woman. “Rewind. Start over. You and Miles—Miles Hannaford—are dating? Since when? How did this happen? I need details, Rosabelle!” Mae waved Paulina over and said, “Change of plans. Could you bring us two cups of coffee and—” she looked at Rosabelle, who whispered “croissant,” “a croissant for Rosabelle?”
Rosabelle laughed and clapped her hands in front of her lips. “Well, it all started right here, actually. Remember that day when you made me tell Miles about my work? Well, Miles said he wanted some art for his office. So, that afternoon, I packed up some canvases I thought he might like, and I marched them over.” She sat up tall and proud.
“Good for you, Rosabelle.” And Mae meant it. She could just imagine the anxiety and turmoil such an assertive act must’ve caused her. Yet she went and did it anyway.
“It sure was. He bought two right then and there and asked if I had any more. Can you believe it? So I said, ‘I have a bunch back at my house in my studio,’ and he was all, like, ‘Wait, you have a studio? I gotta see it. Can I come over?’ And I was like, ‘Um, sure,’ but Mae, I almost died on the spot. I mean, Miles Hannaford? Coming to my house?”
She flopped back against her chair, drained and still amazed at what she deemed to be good fortune. Mae wasn’t yet sure if it was all good, but she couldn’t deny that it had brought Rosabelle out of her shell. She’d never heard her string so many sentences together at one time. Tentatively she asked, “So, what exactly is prompting this makeover, Rosabelle?”
Rosabelle deflated a little and began picking at her napkin. “I’ve seen the women Miles has dated—”
“Dated is a strong word—” Mae scoffed then stopped herself.
“I know I don’t look anything like them. Like, not even close. He—he doesn’t want to be seen in public with me, Mae. He’s embarrassed to have people see us together.”
A surge of fury raced through Mae. That arrogant, self-centered, chauvinistic asshole. She was ready to go on a tirade, but then she saw something in Rosabelle’s face that made her stop. It was wistfulness. Maybe she wasn’t doing this for Miles’ approval, and he was just the excuse or push she needed. Maybe Rosabelle Waterman was doing this for herself. She remembered something William had said to her once.
He told her, “It’s a gift and a curse to see people, Mae. To see the things about them they can’t or won’t. Not everyone has it, but you do. That part is the gift. The curse is that you will forever be inclined to help them.”
Mae had frowned and asked, “How is it a curse to want to help people?”
William had taken her face in his hands and searched her eyes before responding. “Because you will be disappointed time again by their inability to accept your help.”
Mae had wanted to argue, tell him he was wrong, and use Gina Byrd as her example, but William had hushed her with his kisses, his tenderness. Mae let the combative thoughts drift away and let William lead her to his bedroom. Now he was gone, his key and a short note left on the kitchen island with a red rose from the garden beside it.
“Mae?”
“Sorry. I just think—you know what, Rosabelle? You do whatever you think you need to do. I’m happy for you, really. Come back after your appointment, and we’ll have a glass of champagne to celebrate your…metamorphosis.” That you absolutely do not need to make.
Chapter 24
HANDLE YOUR BUSINESS
William dipped his head and climbed into the back seat of the chauffeured car just as a hard rain began to fall. He nodded to the driver, and the car pulled smoothly out into late morning traffic. He’d been back in the city for just over a week, but rather than the usual feeling of familiarity and contentment that settled over him after time away, he felt like a man in a too small woolen coat. It made him surly and irritable and long for the quiet of a particular little town just hours away.
“We’ve arrived, Mr. Grant,” said the driver, barely glancing in the rearview.
“Yes, thank you.”
A doorman rushed out with an umbrella and walked him into the building, and after muttering another thanks, he made his way to the elevators. When the numbers above the doors lit on eighteen, he heaved a weary sigh then arranged his face in anticipation of James McKenna’s barrage of saccharine-loaded praise.
“There he is, our star novelist,” bellowed James before the elevator doors had opened fully. Obedient applause followed, and a dozen or so vaguely familiar faces beamed and nodded at him.
“Oh, please. James, we’re still in the first round.” William’s tone was affable, but his eyes bored into his publisher with a silent admonishment.
“Never mind that, it’s literary gold. I can tell already. Come on back to the office. We’ll chat.” When William was beside him, he leaned in and said, “I mean it, William. Your best work since…”
William looked at him sharply, and James McKenna let the sentence drop. Once the doors to his office were closed, James handed him a drink and clapped him on the back. He motioned to the leather chairs facing his desk and went and sat down behind it. In his most somber, professional voice, he said, “Hand to God, William. This is good. As in ‘special’ good. It never hurts that slice of life stories are always well received. People love this stuff. Hell, I could see this turned into a movie or, better yet, a television series.”
“Whoa, slow down, old boy.” There was no delicate way of saying it. “I’m having second thoughts about publishing. It’s—it’s gotten personal.”
His old friend heaved himself up and walked out from
around his desk and sat beside William. He studied William the way one would an abstract painting then said, “I see. I should’ve guessed. What’s her name? No, don’t tell me. It’s the Fiona character, isn’t it?” James laughed—a big guffaw—and said, “Never mind, your face already gave me my answer. Well, shit. If that young woman is anything at all like you portrayed her, then I don’t know what in hell’s name you’re doing here, old boy.”
“Well, that’s just it, Jim. She’s practically a kid. Not even thirty. What kind of perverted old man goes after a twenty-six-year-old girl?”
“Well,” James said slowly, “if he snagged her, I’d call him one lucky as hell old pervert.” When William didn’t laugh with him, his laughter died off, and he looked at his friend with renewed curiosity.
“William, I’m your oldest friend, so you’re going to have to forgive me for what I’m about to say to you. You’re a chickenshit.” William’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. “That’s right, I said it. Life’s short, damn it. If anyone knows that, it’s you. What happened to Emelia—that was inconceivable, but it happened. And you, you survived, by God.” He rested a heavy hand on William’s shoulder. “But, my friend, you have not been living. Not up until this little town, that is. It’s changed you, this place. I can see it. So, my question is, what the hell are you doing back here? Hmm?”
William was silent as the words scalded him. They were much the same as Mae’s had been once. They were both right, of course. And he was behaving like a cowardly old fool. “I might be too late, Jim. I—I didn’t leave things well. Bloody hell, I left like a thief in the night, if you must know.”
“Ah, the Brit in you only comes out when you’re right agitated. You’re God-damn William C. Grant, for fuck’s sake. Go back there and handle your business.” He stood. “And send me back a revised manuscript. This time with the right ending. Now go.”
William stood as well and smirked. “Well, look at you, you old softie. You’re a blasted romantic under all that bluff and bluster. All right then, you’ve convinced me. Just remember, if it all goes to shit, it’ll be on you.”