Folly Cove (29 page)

“What did it say?” Anne was nearly holding her breath. The tension was unbearable.

“That I shouldn't worry.” He shook his head. “As if that were even possible. But the note said Jenny planned to visit her parents for a couple of days. If they agreed with me, she promised to check herself into another psych facility. And, God help me, I chose to believe her. I went back to sleep, figuring I'd call her parents in the morning and check on her.”

“You were able to sleep?” Anne was shocked. Then again, who could predict how you'd act during an event that extreme?

He nodded. “I was wiped out. Mentally and physically exhausted. An hour or so later, I got the call from the ER.”

Jenny had driven up to New Hampshire along Route 1, and had apparently aimed the wheels of her Toyota straight for the railing while crossing a bridge she must have crossed a thousand times before, Sebastian said. She was going ninety miles an hour. According to the police report, it had been deliberate.

“I might as well have killed her myself,” he said.

“Don't say that. It wasn't your fault!” Anne said. “You did everything you could to take care of her.”

“No,” he said. “I should have gone after her that night. Called the cops. Something!”

“But if you'd tried driving when you were that tired, it might have been you going off the road!”

Sebastian turned to her, his hazel eyes the color of damp bark. “No. Any way I look at it, it was my fault, Anne. Jenny knew that the only reason I didn't leave her was because she was pregnant.”

Jenny must have overheard him talking to Paige on the phone about having her committed, he added.

“I thought Jenny was asleep. But she was probably listening from the top of the stairs when I told my sister that I didn't think I could go on being responsible for Jenny's life. My wife killed herself because she knew I'd lost faith in her. In us.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Anne said softly. “Don't you see? You had no choice but to demand that she get help. You couldn't have trusted her around the baby otherwise. Or had any sort of marriage.”

He looked at her, his eyes bloodshot. “Thank you for saying that, but you're being too kind.”

“I'm not,” she said. “I'm just sorry you went through all this. You must have felt so alone.”

Sebastian was rocking a little next to her on the couch, still bent forward, his elbows on his knees. “What I felt was useless,” he said.

Anne touched him again. His arm first, then his back. The heat of Sebastian's skin through his flannel shirt was like an electric charge on her palm, but she kept her hand there.

“Listen,” she said fiercely. “Every single thing you did for Jenny and your child, you did out of love. But sometimes loving people isn't enough to save them. They have to save themselves.” She wrapped one arm around him and rocked with him, her hip and thigh pressed against his.

“You see why my sister said I needed to tell you,” Sebastian said, breaking free of her embrace. He went to the counter, where he poured them each more wine.

“No,” she said. “Not really. But it's good you did. You've been carrying all this around for a very long time. It's time you shared it.”

He nodded, then pushed his hair out of his eyes with an impatient gesture that by now was familiar to Anne. “I went to therapy for a while. That helped until it didn't. I told a few friends. But you know what's helped the most? Being alone in the woods, doing my work. When I'm outside, I feel more insignificant, somehow. I don't know why that makes me feel better, but it does.”

Anne smiled. “I know what you mean. That's why I sit outside on the porch with Lucy or walk with her as often as I can. I feel unimportant in the scope of things when I'm in the woods or near the ocean. Less weighed down by my own stupid little problems.”

“You haven't ever told me about Lucy's father.” Sebastian was still leaning against the kitchen counter. “Did you meet him in Puerto Rico?”

She nodded, missing the warmth of Sebastian on the couch beside her and wishing she knew how to ask him to sit beside her again. “We were living together when I got pregnant. I thought he was getting divorced. Turns out, he had other ideas.”

“Must be nice to be here around family after going through that.”

“Yes.” Anne wasn't going to get into the ridiculous thing between herself and Laura, or tell him about her mother's odd behavior toward her and Lucy.

Sebastian crossed the room and knelt before her on the braided rug. “I'm glad,” he said. “And I'm glad to be spending time with you. I can't lie, though: it's hard sometimes, being around you and Lucy. Painful. I'm afraid I'll never get to experience that sort of bond with a child. At the same time, watching you makes me dare to believe it might be possible someday.”

“Good.” She said nothing more. She didn't need to: it was as if Sebastian had suddenly invited her inside his thoughts and heart. As if he'd unbuttoned his flannel shirt and drawn her against him. Anne couldn't stop feeling the heat of his skin through that soft fabric against her palm even now, even though she wasn't touching him anymore.

She thought about reaching for him but kept her hands clasped in her lap. It wasn't a good idea. Sebastian was too wounded. So was she.

But sometimes your bad ideas are the ones you feel most compelled to follow through on anyway, she thought, as Sebastian regarded her a moment longer with those changeable hazel eyes, now warmed through with gold, before leaning in slowly to kiss her.

He smelled of wine and pine trees, of seaweed and damp leaves. She gasped in surprise at the warmth of his lips. Then his hands were on her breasts, her breasts so full that he groaned.

Anne leaned forward, wanting to press her breasts into his hands and longing to feel more of him against her. Sebastian caught her as she nearly fell against him.

He lowered her to the rug beside him, then rolled on top of her and kissed her hair, her face, unbuttoning her shirt as she undid his. Then their chests were bare, pressed together, and she thought she'd never been warmer, or more alive, than this.

N
ine o'clock came and went without Jake or Elly returning home. Laura texted both of them at about nine thirty and received apologies from each.

Jake's text read,
Something came up. Be there soon.

Elly's was more surprising:
Decided to stay with Paige.

What about my car?
Laura texted Elly back.

I'll get it back to you early,
she replied.

Laura didn't really need the car—Kennedy was in a car pool, so she had a ride to school, and anyway, Jake's car was here—but she was disappointed to be spending the evening alone. She had been looking forward to talking to Jake and Elly about Kennedy.

It had been a wonderful afternoon and evening. She'd made dinner with Kennedy and they'd sung in the kitchen to songs on the radio, sometimes making up the words and laughing. Laura couldn't believe how quickly it came back to her: the sheer joy in the art of making noise, the easy harmonizing. At long last, she had found something she and Kennedy could enjoy together. She owed that to her sister.

By eleven o'clock, Jake still hadn't turned up and Laura was drunk. She'd had only one measly glass of wine while eating dinner with Kennedy. But after Kennedy went to bed, Laura turned on a recorded dance competition and finished the bottle of wine, weeping at one contemporary dance number performed by a crippled veteran.

Oh, the courage of people! The beauty of the arts! And now her own daughter, a dancer and a singer!

The house phone rang on the table next to her. For a minute Laura thought the sound was coming from the TV. Nobody ever called this phone except her mother, occasionally, and yet Jake insisted on keeping a landline despite the expense.

She picked up the receiver, which felt absurdly huge and awkward compared to her iPhone. “Hello?”

“Elly? It's Ryder.”

“Ryder!” Laura said happily.

“You're not Elly,” he said suspiciously.

“No, this is Laura. Her sister.” Laura held the phone close to her cheek, remembering what it had been like to talk to her friends on the phone at the inn when she was young. Her mother allowed them to use the phone in the reception area—the only phone in the place—but made a fuss if they tied up the line.

“You could cost me a booking!” she'd yell.

Finally, Sarah had bought an egg timer to keep next to the phone. They were supposed to flip it over the minute they picked up the receiver.

“My mother was a bitch,” Laura said, opening her eyes.

“What?” Ryder said.

“A
royal
bitch,” Laura confided, giggling. “We were like her three little Cinderellas. All of us might as well have been her stepdaughters. Scrub, scrub, scrub. All the live long day!”

“Laura, am I calling at a bad time? It must be late there.”

“Not too late for my sister and husband! They're still out on the town!'” Laura declared, waving an arm at the television, muted now. The contestant who'd been kicked off the show, some large-breasted celebrity chef, was crying her eyes out.

Well, it was time for her to go. Everyone had a time to go. And that chef had danced like two people in a mule costume. This made Laura giggle again.

“Elly and your husband are out together?” Ryder sounded startled.

“No, no, no. Elly is with her friend Paige. You know Paige? No, of course not. That's a Paige from a different book, ha-ha-ha! From way
back in
high school
! You're Elly's friend from California! Hey, why aren't you calling her cell phone?”

“She's not picking up. I Googled you.”

“Oh.” That was odd. Elly always answered her phone. But Laura felt pleased that Ryder had bothered tracking down this number. Elly deserved to have a man in pursuit. In
hot
pursuit: he sounded hot! Every woman needed that. “Maybe she's asleep,” Laura suggested. “Or her phone is dead. I don't think she knew she was spending the night with Paige. Her charger's probably here.”

“Okay,” Ryder said. “Well. Thanks. I'll try her tomorrow. Nice talking to you.”

“Wait!” Laura yelled.

There was a pause, then Ryder said, “Yes?”

He had such a nice voice, Laura thought wistfully. Deep. She imagined a business suit, gray, over an open-necked white shirt. A blond guy who surfed in his spare time.

No, no. Surfers were Anne's thing. Elly went for bad boys. “Are you a bad boy, Ryder?” Laura said conversationally.

He laughed. “Not usually.”

Ryder's laugh was lovely, too. Slow and warm. Laura closed her eyes, letting herself bathe in the sound. “You should come visit,” she said.

“Visit there?”

“Sure!” Laura forced her eyes open. The dance show was over and the gloomy news was on. With the sound off, the anchorwoman looked two-dimensional, too skinny in that blue sleeveless dress. “Ryder, you're in television, right?”

“I'm a cameraman, actually. Mostly for music videos and commercials.”

“But you're in the business!” Laura waved a hand in the air. That felt good, so she did it again. “Tell me. Why do newswomen always have to go sleeveless, but the men get to wear suits? Those poor girls must be freezing to death.”

He laughed. “Blame it on Michelle Obama and her toned arms.”

“Oh.” Laura continued waving her hand, covering and uncovering the sleeveless girl child on the television screen with the slow arc of her fingers.

“I would like to see New England,” Ryder was saying.

“You've never been?”

“Nope. Never been farther east than Idaho.”

Laura's eyes drifted closed again. “And what was that like, Idaho?” She tried to draw the word out the way Ryder did. Like honey.

“So beautiful, it brings you to your knees.”

“I bet.” Laura sighed. “Well, Massachusetts isn't Idaho. But Cape Ann isn't bad. You should visit while Elly's here.” She sat up straight, seized by a brilliant idea. “Hey! You know how to run a camera, right?”

“I'm a cameraman. Yes. That's me.” Ryder sounded very solemn now. Perhaps he knew Laura was about to say something of the utmost importance.

“My mother's birthday is in three weeks!” she said. “You should come and film it! It's a very important birthday. Sixty-five years old, but she doesn't look a day over sixty-nine!”

“What?”

“Joke, ha-ha!” Laura said, laughing so hard that tears sprang from her eyes. “But I'm not joking when I say we need a good cameraman to capture the event on film. Could you do that? We would pay you, of course.”

“You wouldn't have to pay me,” Ryder said. “I'd like to be there.”

“Great! You'll stay with us, of course.”

She gave him the date of her mother's birthday before hanging up the phone. Another problem solved. She took care of everything, didn't she?

She'd fallen asleep on the couch by the time Jake showed up. Laura smiled at him, then arranged her face in a scowl when she saw the clock beneath the TV. Nearly midnight!

“Where the hell have you been, Jake?” she demanded, then immediately regretted her tone. She sounded like one of those TV housewives, and not even a wife from one of those clever Netflix shows.

“I'm sorry,” Jake said.

“Forget the apologies! I need an exclamation!” Laura licked her lips, then corrected herself. “I mean an explanation!”

“Are you drunk, honey?” Jake approached the couch, but stopped several feet away.

“No,” she said, hauling herself up the rest of the way. She was at a disadvantage with him standing over her. “Not anymore. What about you? Are
you
drunk? I hope so. That's the only possible reason for you being out this late, unless you had a goddamn accident.” Her hand flew to her throat at the thought, but Jake looked fine.

He sighed. And then her fit, sensible, hardworking husband collapsed. Literally: as if someone had suddenly snipped the strings holding him upright, Jake's body puddled onto the floor. Then he turned onto his side and drew his knees to his chest, clutching them.

“Laura,” he moaned. “Oh God, Laura, what are we going to
do
?”

Alert now, and frightened besides, Laura rushed around the coffee table to drop onto the floor beside him. She rubbed his shoulders. “What's wrong? Are you ill? Do you have a fever? Are you having a heart attack?”

“No, no, no,” Jake moaned.

“Jake, stop it! You're scaring me!” Laura rested her palm on his forehead. He was warm but not hot.

“No, no,” Jake went on. “Oh God, no. I can't do this. I just can't!”

Laura couldn't tell if he was moaning in distress or actually weeping. She stopped just short of slapping him. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do when someone got hysterical?

“Look at me!” she demanded. “I need to see your face.”

When he finally turned her way, Jake's eyes were dry but red-rimmed, as if he'd been trying to force himself to cry but failing. His mouth was chapped and his nose was, too. Maybe he had a cold.

“Jake,” Laura said, fully sober now. “What is going on?”

“Our life is over. Over!” he moaned. “And it's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Laura. God, I'm sorry.”

She sat back on her heels. “Don't be melodramatic,” she snapped. “What happened? Did you have a bad day at work?”

“Bad day at work?” Jake echoed.

“Yes.”

He started laughing, softly at first, then frantically, ha-ha-ha-ha, like one of those terrifying clowns who chased you with a fake chain saw at the Topsfield Fair's haunted mansion. “Oh, God. A
bad day at work
! If only! Somebody suing me for a faulty bridge! A root canal
gone horribly wrong! Laura, I would give everything we own if that's what this was about.”

Laura sank back down onto the carpet, curling her legs under her. “Well, I wouldn't. I love everything we have,” she declared. “You and Kennedy. Our house. The stables. So, no, I would not give it all away for this to be about a bad day at work. You're talking nonsense, Jake. I wish you'd have some coffee and snap out of this.” She got to her feet. “You wait here. I'll make coffee.”

“No. I don't need coffee.” His voice was sharper now. “Look, I'm sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I can't. And I'll probably say it a hundred more times tonight. Maybe every day of my life.” Jake scrubbed at his face with both hands and stood up, swaying a little. “And you don't even know why, do you, Laura? You don't have a clue.” He shook his head, his tone forlorn now. “Not a damn clue.”

She faced him, speechless for a moment. What was it with these mood swings? Jake was always even-tempered. The man everyone trusted to be gentle. Careful about everything he did.

Except about Anne. Oh, Jesus. Let this not be about Anne.

“So clue me in,” she said.

He read her expression. “This has nothing to do with Anne or any other woman, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Yes, I was,” she said, folding her arms. “Can you blame me?”

“No. You know as well as I do that our marriage is over. You've known it for a while, haven't you?”

Laura went to the couch and sank down onto it. The cushions were still warm from where she'd been sitting during those innocent hours when she'd been watching television and having her wine, waiting for her husband to come home. “Don't be ridiculous. I don't know any such thing. Whatever's wrong with our marriage, we can fix it.”

“No,” he said, “we can't. I'm sorry.” Jake came around the coffee table to sit on the couch with her, a careful distance away. Beyond slapping distance.

“Why not?” she said, folding her hands on her lap.

“Because I'm gay.”

She heard the words, but they made no sense. Laura smiled at him. “That's ridiculous. How can you be
gay
? We've known each other twenty years!”

He was silent, looking at her.

She had no choice but to reconsider his statement in their quiet house, with her husband looking at her. Waiting for her to understand.

College. Lacrosse. Parties. The pregnancy and his proposal. The miscarriage: Jake had been so sweet and tender, had insisted they get married anyway.

But before that: Laura had known something was wrong. That their tepid, infrequent lovemaking was nothing like what most of her friends shared with their boyfriends in college or even after college.

Jake was a gentleman, she'd told the few friends she ever discussed sex with openly. “He respects my needs.”

Jake wasn't going to push himself on her, she explained. He always waited for her invitation to make love.

Laura knew nothing about sex before Jake. She'd saved herself for the man she planned to marry. She had rationalized that different people had different levels of passion.

But she had also known for a long time that passion was missing in her life. Now she knew why. How could she have been so blind?