Chapter Four

Nash

The last time that I'd driven on Beach Street in Crystal Cove, I was an eighteen-year-old high school graduate leaving for college. I still remembered that day, the mix of anticipation, frustration and impatience I'd felt as I'd looked at my hometown for what I assumed would be the last time until Thanksgiving break.

As it had turned out, my parents had come up to visit me in Georgia for Thanksgiving, and they'd broken the news that they had put the house in Crystal Cove up for sale and bought a condo outside of Savannah. Mom and Dad had asked if I wanted to go home for a weekend before they left the Cove, and after some thought, I'd told them no. There was nothing for me back in Florida, no one I wanted to see.

As I made my way along the main drag now, I felt as though my eighteen-year-old self was riding shotgun, gazing at the changes and finding the small things that remained the same. The outside of the Rip Tide hadn't changed much, but just about every storefront on Beach Street was new. I saw the Hawthorne House which was mentioned in the reunion literature as the site of some of the weekend's festivities. It sure didn't look the same as it had when I'd been a boy.

But I didn't have a lot of time to dawdle and reminisce today. I had to check in at the Riverside Hotel so that I could unpack and change for tonight's cocktail mixer. I hadn't shared this with Reggie, but privately, I was hoping that I'd see Jared Brady at this party and be able to convince him to sell his family's land to us . . . which would allow me to head home tomorrow morning, mission accomplished.

I just needed a little luck on my side.

Of course, if Reggie were here, he'd tell me that I had to make my own luck. My longtime business partner and brother-in-law was a huge believer in positive thinking, energy manipulation, and creating abundance. Over the years we'd been friends, family and business owners, some of his woo-woo attitude had rubbed off on me, but sometimes, when I was particularly uptight or anxious, I tended to default to old negative habits. And now, back in the Cove, about to spend an evening—and maybe longer—with people I had hoped never to see again? I was on a major pessimism bend.

Pulling into the parking lot of the Riverside, I had to admit that the old place had been spectacularly restored. It was a sprawling resort now, but I noted that somehow, the restoration had managed to retain a certain charm and nostalgia, calling back to years past. When I drove the car around to the shaded valet drop-off area, I could see the river and the boat ramp there next to the dock. A large luxury boat floated there, making me wonder if one of my more successful classmates had chosen to arrive via water instead of automobile.

Thanks to the admirable efficiency of the valet drivers, bell staff and front desk agents, I was walking into my hotel room within ten minutes, stepping aside as the bellman wheeled in my suitcase.

"Is this your first visit to the Cove, or are you here for the reunion?" he inquired, eyeing me curiously.

"I came for the reunion, but I haven't been back to Crystal Cove in a very long time. So I sort of feel like a stranger."

"Yeah, I bet a lot has changed since you graduated, huh?"

The kid couldn't have been more than nineteen, I mused. Maybe even younger.

"I almost didn't recognize Beach Street," I agreed. "And everything seems a little busier. More people are around than what I remember from when I was growing up here."

"Oh, yeah. Well, you know, since the Holts opened the Riverside and the Hawthorne House, tourism has picked up quite a bit. And now they've bought that old vineyard outside town, so I guess we'll have even more people visiting the Cove once that's open." He didn't sound unhappy about that turn of events.

"Doesn't it bother you, all these outsiders on the beach and taking up space in the local restaurants and stores?"

"Nah." He shrugged. "More people coming to the Cove means more jobs and more money for those of us who stay here. I just graduated in May, and a bunch of us decided to stick around and work here instead of moving away to find jobs. I think that's a good thing."

"Well, good luck." I shook the young man's hand, discreetly passing him a five-dollar bill. "Thanks for your help."

"Hey, thanks." Grinning, he tucked the bill into his pocket. "Have fun at your reunion. I hope you have a great time catching up with all your old friends."

After the bellman had gone on his way whistling, I pulled out a pair of khakis and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, hanging them up to let the wrinkles out as I unpacked my toiletries. I decided to be optimistic and leave everything else in the suitcase for now in the hopes that I could make an early get-away tomorrow morning.

Dropping onto the end of the king-sized bed, I picked up the television remote and began to channel surf. I knew I was dragging my feet; the longer I lingered here in the quiet of my room, the less time I had to spend surrounded by people I hadn't enjoyed thirty-five years ago and didn't anticipate liking now. I wondered if anyone would recognize me, or if they'd even remember who I was. I'd never been the most popular kid in school, or even marginally part of the in-crowd. I'd hung out with a couple of guys in classes and at lunch, but we weren't friends—not really. The only person with whom I'd connected at Crystal Cove High was?—

I slammed the brakes on my wandering mind before I could even think her name. I'd ventured a glance at the list of attending 1989 graduates on the website before I left Burton, and she wasn't included. My reaction had been an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. Seeing her with Ryan would destroy me, even after all these years, but on the other hand, not seeing her at all . . .

". . . is for the best," I muttered aloud, jabbing my finger onto the button to change the channel yet again. "I don't have anything to say to her. And she sure as hell made it clear she's had nothing to say to me for over three decades."

And I was being ridiculous, acting like nothing was going to be different with my classmates after thirty-five years. We weren't children anymore, we weren't petty teenagers who were so insecure that we had to treat other people badly in order to make ourselves feel better. Those old roles we'd once filled—the jocks, the cheerleaders, the popular crowd, the nerds—who cared about that anymore? We'd grown up and become wiser. I wasn't the earnest dude mooning around after the most beautiful girl in school; I was an extremely successful businessman who owned a company and had a wonderful son.

Now I just had to walk out there like the badass guy I was, find Jared Brady, and talk him into selling the stupid parcel of land that was holding up our next project.

Then I could return home and go on pretending that Crystal Cove had fallen into the ocean.

I had to admit to myself that if I had to be back in the Cove at this reunion, the Riverside Hotel was a pretty sweet place to stay—and to survive seeing my classmates again. Whoever had restored the place had somehow managed to preserve the sense of history and timeless hospitality even while ensuring that everything was functional. I admired the beautiful woodwork and vintage wallpaper as I made my way down the corridor toward the lobby, where I was supposed to check-in for the reunion and pick up my Fun Packet.

"Fun Packet," I snorted softly to myself. "That sounds about right. It's just what I'd expect from the people who planned this nightmare. Bet they never left the Cove. They probably just live for this kind of thing, where they can go back to living the glory days?—"

"Nash?"

I turned in the direction of the soft voice, guiltily hoping that whoever was calling me hadn't overheard my mini-rant.

At first, I didn't recognize her. She was much thinner than she'd been back in high school, and her hair was totally different. We hadn't been friends in those days, not in any sense of the word; if we had ever interacted at all it was because we both loved Peyton.

And it was the memory of Peyton that jogged my brain to recall the woman looking up at me now.

"Sheri." I forced my lips into the rough approximation of a smile. "Hey. How are you?"

Even as I asked the question, I realized that it was stupid because now that I looked closer, I noticed that my former classmate didn't have any eyelashes and that her brows were sketched on. What I had initially thought was a new hairstyle was actually a wig. And I recognized that lump near her collarbone, hidden beneath her blouse: it was a port catheter, the same kind that Lena had had the whole time I'd known her.

Sheri was quiet for a moment, and I was aware that she saw the dawning realization in my eyes.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "I've seen better days. Better years, even." Sighing, she shrugged. "How I am is dying, Nash. I'm here for my last hurrah before I go on hospice and wait for the grim reaper to carry me away. Fun times, huh?"

"Jesus, Sheri." I'd never been a demonstrative guy when it came to friends, and I wasn't even sure that I would have classified Sheri Wilson as a friend, but that didn't stop me from reaching down to hug her. "I'm so sorry. That fucking sucks."

She laughed, the sound a little shaky. "Yes, it does. It fucking sucks." Her chest rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath. "But you know what? We're not going to talk about that anymore. We're here to remember the good times and catch up with old friends. You know the theme is Glory Days, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, I saw that. I don't look back on high school as the best days of my life, though. I didn't even want to come this weekend. I just—" I wasn't going to share my mission of cornering Jared Brady with anyone since I didn't want to tip my hand. "I just decided at the last minute that I might as well."

"I'm glad you did, Nash. Really glad." Sheri took my hand in both of hers. "I know why high school wasn't fun for you. If I had any part in making you miserable, I want to say that I'm sorry." She managed a tremulous smile. "I've had a lot of time for self-reflection, you know, and I regret many things I did or didn't do."

"You never did anything to me." It was the truth even though I would have assured her regardless. "We just didn't move in the same circles."

"Yeah, I guess." She dropped my hand and clasped hers beneath her chin. "Maybe we didn't know each other so well. And maybe that's why it's easier to talk to you now." She darted a glance up at me. "I'm standing here right now because I'm scared to go out there. When I got my last test results back and realized that I don't have very long left, I did something kind of impulsive. I wrote to all of my old friends who I haven't seen since high school, and I played the dying woman card to beg them to come to the reunion this weekend. I didn't stop and think how much I really don't want to see anyone else but those girls, you know? I'm going to walk into the lobby and all of our classmates are going to see me—not the old fun Sheri who made people laugh and was always up for a good time, but the broken, dying Sheri."

"Hey." I reached for her hand. "Listen. Anyone who sees you as anything but brave—and –and wonderful is an idiot." I paused. "Like I said, I don't exactly want to be here, either, and I'm dreading seeing everyone. So let's walk out together, okay? We can help each other to be brave."

"Okay. Thanks, Nash." Sheri squared her shoulders. "I'm ready."

We held hands as we slowly meandered into the lobby teaming with people. But we'd barely moved into the crowd before someone hurried over, wrapping Sheri in a hug.

"Oh, my God. Sheri!" This woman I did remember. Emmy Carter's red hair was still as bright as it had been thirty-five years ago, even if I did spy a few streaks of silver. She held on tight to Sheri, tears leaking from her closed eyes.

"Emmy." Sheri pulled back and shook a finger at her friend. "None of that. This weekend isn't about being sad, so don't you start, you hear?"

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry." Emmy swiped at her face and spared me a glance. "Oh . . . um, Nash, right? Hi, I don't know if you remember me?—"

"Emmy." I held out a hand to shake hers. "Good to see you again."

Emmy's brow crinkled. "Um, I don't mean to pry, but are you two—" She pointed at Sheri and then at me.

"No," Sheri chuckled. "We just ran into each other on the way to check in. I haven't seen Nash since the day we graduated."

I nodded. "Yep. But it was good to catch up a little." I shot Sheri an inquiring eyebrow lift.

"Yeah, I'm fine now. Seeing Emmy makes me feel much better." Sheri hesitated. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'll be great. I'm just going to check in and then maybe wander over to the bar."

"Okay. Well—good luck. I'll see you around this weekend." She stood on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek. "And thanks, Nash."

I squeezed her shoulder, easing away as I heard her ask Emmy, "Are the rest of the girls here yet? Have you seen Delilah or?—"

The last name was lost to the noise surrounding us, but I had to wonder if Sheri had sent what she had termed her dying woman request to any of her other friends. And if she had, would she be here after all?

Pushing away that thought, I focused on finding the line to the check-in table. All around me, people were greeting each other with squeals and hugs, and that old familiar bitterness rose in my throat. The pain of being left out and ignored—feelings I was certain I'd gotten over decades before—roared back to life with a vengeance.

Once I finally reached the table, I recognized Amy Leonard, one of the committee members, sitting in front of me with an opened laptop. She gazed at me without recognition before consulting the list on her screen.

"Name under which you registered?" she chirped.

"Nash Sampson." I waited, wondering if that might jog her memory.

"Uh-huh. And are you the guest of a classmate?"

"No, Amy." I couldn't keep the aggravation out of my voice. "I went to school with you from kindergarten through twelfth grade. In middle school, I helped you pass social studies."

Amy frowned. "I don't think I ever . . ." And then a knowing expression filtered over her face. "Ohmigod, Nash the nerd? Is that you?"

Thirty-five years. Thirty-five years since I'd been called that, and yet the anger didn't burn any less now.

"Can you just give me my name tag and shit, please?" I thrust out my hand.

"Ooooh, touchy, touchy," she chided. "Hold on. I gotta grab your Fun Packet."

"Honestly, all I need is the name tag. Or whatever it is that will get me into this icebreaker thing."

"No, no. You need the packet because it has all the tickets to our fun events. Like the karaoke and the dinner dance . . . did you sign up for any of the optional fun?" She bent over to reach into a basket on the floor, and I noted with no little satisfaction that cheerleader and perennial popular chick Amy had a little trouble getting her hand into the container.

Not so flexible now, are we? I thought uncharitably and then immediately hated that I was being so petty. We were all older now. I sure as hell couldn't run the way I used to when I was eighteen.

"No, nothing optional," I responded, taking the envelope. "Just the bare minimum. Thanks."

"Okay, well, now you can put on your name tag and head for the Hawthorne Ballroom, where our mixer is already in progress." Amy pointed to the doorway on the other side of the lobby. "Have a wonderful time reliving our Glory Days, and don't forget—Shout Out, Sharks!"

I clenched my jaw and walked away.

The icebreaker actually wasn't as bad as I'd feared. It turned out that the committee had decided that the best way to break the ice was to make sure we all had someplace to sit and not necessarily with the people we knew or remembered. As I approached the doorway, a woman who looked vaguely familiar handed me a card with the number seventeen printed on it.

"Wish they'd thought of this in the cafeteria back in the day," I quipped to the woman distributing the cards. "It would have made lunchtime a little easier for some of us."

To my surprise, she grinned back at me. "Why do you think I had the idea to do it this way? A lot of us haven't been in the same room since graduation. This way, we don't have a table of popular people, another one of jocks . . . you get the picture."

"Good thinking." I hesitated and then added, "I'm Nash Sampson, by the way. I'm sorry that I don't remember your name."

"Cory Wright." She tilted her head. "I remember you a little. But we must not have had many classes together. I moved to the Cove in junior year, so it's not a shock that we weren't best friends."

"Well, I'm glad to know you now." I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the line of people waiting for their numbers was getting long. "I'll let you get back to work."

Table seventeen, it turned out, was in the back of the room, which was great for me. I could sit in the proverbial—and literal—corner and watch everyone, which meant I could keep my eyes open for Jared Brady. Thinking of Reggie and his unwavering belief that the universe conspired to help us with whatever we needed or wanted, I concentrated on positivity, on trusting in the powers that be to bring Jared to my table and let him sit down right next to me.

"Oh!" A decidedly feminine voice—one that did not belong to Jared Brady—drew me from my manifestation focus. "I'm sorry, I didn't see anyone sitting there—Nash?"

I jumped to my feet, my chair bouncing against the wall and knocking me forward a little. My mouth was dry, and I blinked rapidly as I stared agape at the woman holding onto the chair next to mine.

"Peyton?" I croaked, my voice tunneling back in time to seventh grade. "Um, hi."

Way to go, Sampson. Smooth as always.

"I didn't know you were going to be here." Her eyelids were fluttering, too, I noticed. Maybe I wasn't the only one who was thrown for a loop here.

"I didn't decide to come until the last minute." I cleared my throat. "You weren't on the list, either."

"I wasn't planning on it, but then Sheri—" She broke off, her forehead crinkling as her mouth pressed into a straight line and tears filled her eyes.

I decided to come to her rescue. "Yeah, I saw her a little while ago, on my way in. She said that she had asked all of you to join her here." I paused for a beat. "Hell of a thing, isn't it? How are we old enough to be losing classmates like that?"

"I know." She bit her lip. "Anyway, I wasn't going to come this weekend, but when Sheri emailed, I felt like I didn't have a choice." Her fingers twisted together. "If it had been up to me, I never would've come back to the Cove. I don't have many happy memories here."

"Yeah, I hear that." I gripped the back of my chair. "I feel the same way. I could have happily lived out the rest of my days without a trip to Crystal Cove."

Peyton frowned. "You don't live here anymore?"

I shook my head. "Nope. Until today, the last time I was in the Cove was the day I left for college in Georgia. My folks moved to Savannah, and I ended up settling nearby after I graduated."

Her mouth dropped open. "You live in Savannah? Are you serious?"

"Not in the city, but not too far away. It's a little town called Burton."

"Oh, my gosh, what a small world. My cousin Jude—do you remember her? She owns the Rip Tide? Well, her daughter lives there. She's married to a farmer named Sam something."

I chuckled. "Sam Reynolds, I bet. I know Meghan a little, and I knew she was from Florida, but I had no idea she came from the Cove, let alone that she was Jude's daughter."

"That's incredible. What a coincidence." Peyton smiled, and suddenly, I was eighteen, and all that mattered in the world was that Peyton Rivers was smiling at me. Paying attention to me.

Then I remembered with sick and abrupt clarity why it had been over thirty-five years since I'd spoken with her, and all the words I'd been holding inside for decades came spewing out.

"You left. You didn't even call me, or leave a message, or tell me why or where you were going—you just left. I thought—after that day on the beach, I thought you were—that we were going to—" I couldn't bring myself to complete a sentence.

Peyton's face crumpled, and she lowered her gaze. "I know."

"Are you here with him? Are you guys still together? Did he come to the reunion?"

She slowly wagged her head. "No," she whispered, and although I waited for something more, it didn't come.

"I loved you," I said, my voice low. "I loved you with all of my eighteen-year-old soul, and you broke my heart. If you didn't want to be with me, you only had to say so that day. But you made me think we had a chance, and then you disappeared. With him."

She covered her face with both hands, drawing in her shoulders. I thought she was crying, but then she dropped her hands.

"You don't know," she murmured. "You don't know anything. I broke my own heart, too. You have no idea."

She grabbed for the small purse that she'd set down on the table, and turning around, she ran from the room, leaving me alone.

Again.