Chapter 31

July 2023

By the time Lucy gets released from the hospital, James has everything arranged.

There's a car to take us back to his place, and an overnight nurse. Rooms have been prepared for each of us, and James apologizes when he tells me that I've been put in the honeymoon suite. Finalizing the rooms for guests is the last step to getting the winery ready, but he prioritized this room, and the groom and bride suites, for an event that's taking place in a couple of weeks.

Fred is in the groom's room, and Lucy is in the bride's, and when I take off my clothes and step into the shower to wash off the smell of the hospital, I can't help feeling that that's the way things might turn out. Fred was very gentle with Lucy when she was discharged, and so apologetic too, helping her into the car, into the house, up to her room.

I try not to let it bother me, but I can't lie to myself.

I'm jealous.

When I'm done with the shower, I find a pair of cotton pajamas waiting for me. "Brian Susan" they say in embroidery across the breast, supplied, I assume, for the upcoming nuptials. They fit, and are soft and comfortable. I pull my hair back with a hair tie I find in my purse, then think about going in search of food. That fabulous lunch a million hours ago has worn off.

But first I send two messages, one to Colin to let him know Lucy is all settled in, and another to Wes, to let him know I'm staying the night.

He answers me quickly, asking to go to dinner next week. He's secured a reservation at this Greek place he's been wanting to try all summer. I say yes because it's so much easier than saying no. But he was good today, funny and kind, all the best of him, and I made a promise to him—for better or for worse—that I meant when I made it. It feels old-fashioned to get too specific about it, but I feel like I owe him one more chance. I owe us. And maybe all of this—coming home, packing away the past—that can help us too. Because it lingered between us, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

I'm about to leave my room when I remember one last text—to let Matt know I'm not going to make it tomorrow morning. Cindy will be disappointed maybe, but she'll live. Matt answers me too, despite the hour, saying he hopes Lucy is well.

When I find it, the kitchen is large and set up for catering, with massive built-in fridges and freezers and more counter space than anyone could need. One of the fridge doors is open, Fred half inside it, and then he steps back, his arms full of things, too much for one person to carry.

"Let me help you," I say.

I've startled him, and he almost drops the top container he's holding, but I swoop in and catch it before it falls completely. "Got it."

"Thanks." He smiles at me with tired eyes, then walks the containers to the counter.

"What you got there?"

"I thought I'd make an everything omelet," he says. He's wearing the matching pajamas to mine, the groom's pajamas.

"That sounds great. Lucy okay?"

"She's sleeping. The nurse—and I'm quoting directly here—said that my services were no longer required."

"She needs some sleep."

"She does."

"So stupid." He starts to arrange the containers he's pulled from the fridge in a line. They're chef's prep containers, the leftovers of what was used to make lunch. There are onions and shallots, garlic and peppers, lobster and cheese, and a large package of eggs.

"People make mistakes."

"I meant me. I should've caught her."

"You can make mistakes too. She shouldn't have been jumping from there. It was dangerous."

"Yeah … Where do you think the pans might be hiding?"

We open cupboards until I find them. Along the way I find a white wine fridge and glasses too. "Do you think James will mind? I could use a drink."

"I'm sure he won't."

"Where is he?"

"He went to bed. He was tired. It was a lot of activity for him today."

So we're alone. If I weren't starving, I might find an excuse to get out of here, but wasn't I supposed to be honest with myself? It's not only the promise of food keeping me in place.

I open the wine, pour each of us a glass, then sit at one of the counters while Fred starts peeling tops off containers. Then he fiddles with the stove, getting it going after a minute.

"This wine is good," I say.

"This will be good too."

His back is to me, but I can read the expression in his shoulders. He's tired, stressed, annoyed.

"Not how this day was supposed to turn out, huh?"

He chuckles. "No."

"I hope there's no lasting damage."

"Lucy's young—she'll bounce back."

Not so young,I think. She's thirty, and I wasn't referencing Lucy, exactly. But all of our conversations are like this. We never say what we really want to, and that makes me tired.

"Why did you come here, Fred?"

"James invited me."

"You know what I mean."

His shoulders sag as he adds ingredients to the pan. "I'm not sure this is the time to get into all of that."

"What should we talk about, then?"

"I have no idea."

I sigh. "Tell me about James. Tell me about his saving your life."

He picks up a spatula as the pan sizzles, the smell of cooking onions already making me ravenous. "We were in a bad swell, and I was topside when I shouldn't have been. James came looking for me, saw me get swept off. He acted quickly, getting the rescue rope, but then it got tangled in his leg. Each time I was pulling it, it was squeezing him, you see?"

He reaches above him for plates, like he knew they were there all along, and then divides the omelet in two, slipping half onto each plate. He turns around and puts one in front of me. There's a container of cutlery in the middle of the island, and I reach for a fork.

"You didn't know what you were doing."

"I didn't. He pulled me out, but his leg was ruined. They wanted to amputate, but he insisted they keep it. He rehabbed it for years, but it hasn't gotten much better."

I dig into the omelet. It's as good as the lunch. Better. "This is fantastic."

He takes a bite, then another one, two, three. "I needed this."

"I was hungry too."

He takes another bite. "Anyway, then his fiancée got sick while he was in rehab oversees in Germany, and he didn't make it back in time. So, he lost everything there for a while."

"That's a lot."

"It is."

"Did you help him with this place? Give him the money?"

"What makes you think that?"

I look down at my plate as I cut the omelet into smaller pieces, then eat them quickly. "It's something you'd do, I think."

"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Really?"

His tone softens. "Top five for sure."

We stare at each other for a beat too long, and a warning bell goes off in my head. I clear my throat and spear another piece of the omelet. "The investment?"

"I did invest in it, yes. I wanted him to be able to start over. And he was always talking about having a winery when we were serving together. It was their dream. His and Franny's."

"A nice dream."

"It was. It is."

Fred finishes his omelet. "Would you think me a complete pig if I made another one of these?"

"I was just working up the courage to ask you to do it."

"Ha."

I hold out my plate. "Please sir, can I have some more?"

"That's a terrible accent."

"Does that mean I don't get the eggs?"

"It does not."

"Good."

We grin at each other, and it feels weird, but familiar.

Sometimes I forget, because of all our tragedy, how well we got along between our problems. If we could only have a stretch of time between catastrophes, maybe we could've made this work. But we never got that, and sometimes you have to listen to the universe when it's telling you something isn't meant to be, no matter how much it might feel like it is.

"Are you making it or …"

"What? Oh yes. Coming right up." He whisks my plate away and takes it back to the stove.

The second omelet is just as good as the first—better even, maybe—and I devour it, along with a second glass of wine.

When we're done, I help Fred wash up and put everything away. And now it's late, almost eleven, but I'm awake. I resign myself to a long wind-down to sleep. But Fred has other ideas.

"I'm not tired," he says. "Though I should be."

"Me neither."

"Why don't we take this to the beach?" he says, holding up the half bottle of wine. "It's a nice night."

"Okay," I say, feeling nervous.

"Don't worry," Fred says.

"About?"

"My intentions are pure."

I laugh because he's read my mind, and though I'm not sure I believe him, I cast my doubts aside. "All right, then. Let's go."

We find an exit into the backyard, then scramble over the dunes to the beach. I can't imagine what Fred and James must've paid for this property—it's four times the size of my father's place.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"Sure."

"How could you afford this? With this and my father's …"

Fred swings the wine bottle between his fingers. "Remember the shipping company I was working for? De Keurig?"

"Yes."

"Tomas died and left it to me."

"What? The whole company?"

"He said I was like his son and he had no one else. I told him not to—to leave it to charity—but he insisted."

"What did your mom think about that?"

"She was happy for me. My aunt too. They loved Tomas. We all did. And it's enabled me to help them out. And James too."

"And my house?"

He glances at me. "I thought we weren't going to talk about that tonight?"

I want to bat that suggestion away, but there's something in his tone that tells me not to push. "All right."

He walks on ahead, slipping up over the dunes and then back down again, waiting to help me to the beach. There's a good grassy spot on the edge of it, where we can use the dune for a seat back. Fred plops down, crossing his legs, and I sit next to him. The breeze is high, whipping my ponytail around, racing black clouds against the moon. The air is salty, almost fishy, but it's not unpleasant.

He pours me a glass of wine and hands it to me. "Thank you."

"Welcome."

I lean back and tuck my knees up. The moon's reflecting off the choppy water, but the breeze is warm, and I'm not cold. "It's beautiful here."

"It is."

I pull the loose top of my pajamas over my knees. "Who do you think they are?"

"Who?"

"Brenda and Jack. Or whoever's getting married. The names on our pajamas."

"No idea."

"First wedding, I'd imagine."

Fred puts the empty wine bottle down into the sand. "Why do you say that?"

"No one goes to this much trouble for a second wedding."

"I wouldn't know."

"Never came close?"

"Once or twice."

Something in his tone makes me take a deep drink of my wine. I know about the once. Was there truly a twice?

"What about you?" Fred asks.

"Just the once so far."

"You going to work it out?"

"I don't know." I sigh. "This is a bit weird, talking about this with you."

"I get it."

"Because we're not friends."

"No?"

"I … I don't think so."

"That's too bad."

I'm not sure what he's saying, but it is. It is too bad.

"Do you think they're going to make it?"

His eyes are dark. I can't read them. "Who?"

"Branda and Jack. The pajama people."

"Hard to tell. On a scale of one to ten, how pissed do you think she's going to be when she learns that her pajamas have gone missing?"

I laugh. "Maybe he's the one into monogrammed clothes?"

"Maybe."

"You don't think so?"

"I can't see Jack being into that."

"Imaginary Jack, you mean. You don't know real Jack."

"Imaginary Jack," he agrees. "Tall, handsome, he's won the hand of Brenda, also tall, also handsome."

"And rich, very rich."

"Naturally."

"Maybe she's marrying him for his money." I tap him on the shoulder. "You should watch out for that. All these houses you're buying for other people … You're going to be prey."

"You think?"

"Definitely."

He holds his wineglass in his hands. "Maybe I should do that."

"What?"

"Let someone marry me for money."

I almost choke on my wine. "Excuse me?"

"It would be easier. Everything would be clear and up front. Like a business transaction."

"You can't be serious."

"Maybe I am."

"What about Lucy?"

He finishes his wine. "I should've brought another bottle."

"You're avoiding."

"Am I?"

"Wow, you must really like her." I say this with a catch in my throat that I hope he doesn't hear.

"She's a great girl."

"Beautiful, impulsive, fun."

"Yes."

"Do I need to keep selling?"

"Are you trying to?" He looks at me now, his face brightened by the moonlight. He's staring at me intensely, half amused, half something else.

"I'm sure Lucy doesn't need any help getting someone to fall in love with her."

"No."

"And you shouldn't marry for money," I say. "You should marry for love."

"That's what I always thought."

"Don't sell yourself short."

"Get the full price?"

"I just meant … you shouldn't settle. Wait until you feel … wait until it feels like you can't stand your life without that person in it."

Our eyes lock and the world slows down. That's what it felt like between us whenever we could manage to be together.

"I only feel that way in the summer," Fred says.

"Summer after summer …"

"What's that?"

"Something Ash said about how we tortured each other summer after summer."

"That's not all we did …" He shifts his body weight, and now he's tipping closer to me. "Olivia …"

I raise my finger to his lips, surprised somehow at the shock of touching his skin, his mouth, though I shouldn't be. It's always like this between us. The one thing that was never in doubt.

But it reminds me too. Of everything that's broken. How we can't seem to make it work. And I don't want to think about that right now. I just want to enjoy this night and this moon and the gentle rock of the ocean at our feet.

"No bad intentions," I say. "Remember?"

He smiles against my finger, and it's almost like a kiss, then leans away. "I remember."

"We should go back to the house."

"In a minute."

"Okay."

He scoots closer to me so our sides our touching. It feels dangerous, but my eyelids are heavy, the sound of the waves lulling me under.

I let my head fall onto his shoulder, blocking out who I'm leaning on.

"Olivia," he says, but he's far away.

"Shh."

I let my head fall further, and then I feel his arm around me, supporting me, and then I feel nothing at all.