“She asks about you every time our paths cross, and I promised her that you’ll call. Now that she’s back from Paris for good, she’s anxious to see her old friends.”
Never mind that Constance Worth is hardly one of Thom’s old friends.
Constant Comment, as she was known back in boarding school days, is a notoriously narcissistic chatterbox. Considering that Thom would—and actually has—crossed Park Avenue against traffic to avoid her, he certainly isn’t about to drive a hundred miles on a holiday weekend to see her.
“I don’t have time for my current friends, Mother, let alone ‘old friends,’” Thom informs Lillian. “Between everything that’s going on at work with this merger, and the house renovation, I’ve got my hands full.”
“That’s another thing I wanted to discuss with you,” Lillian says.
“The merger?” he asks hopefully.
“The renovation. It isn’t too late to change your mind about buying that place.”
He sighs. “Mother—”
“It’s just that you’re going to be so far away, and the neighborhood is dreadful. You’ll have to fear for your life every time you set foot on the street.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a five-minute cab ride from your apartment”—not that Mother would deign to set foot in a yellow cab—“and you know the Village is perfectly safe.”
“I’d feel better about it if at least you were going to be in a doorman building on one of the avenues. Why you felt the need to buy a wreck of an old brownstone when you had a lovely, modern penthouse is beyond me.”
“I told you, Mother. I was sick of living in an apartment. I wanted a house.”
“You have a house in Southampton and you don’t even go there.”
On the verge of filing yet another protest, Thom closes his mouth, knowing it’s futile. Mother would never in a million years understand why he’s making the move.
In fact, all she knows about is the move. If she had any inkling about what else he’s poised to do . . .
But she doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to break it to her. Not yet. Not until he’s actually put his carefully thought-out plan into action.
“I promise I’ll come out to Southampton, Mother, just as soon as I have a free weekend.”
“Don’t bother. The season is over.”
Thom takes a long drink of sparkling water, wishing there were something more potent in his glass. Unfortunately, he needs a clear head for the ongoing business negotiations he’s been conducting by cell phone for weeks now.
Sometimes he isn’t even sure that it’s all going to be worth it in the end.
If you win Annie back, it’ll be worth it, he reminds himself. And if not . . .
At least you’ll have been true to yourself, with a life you can live on your own terms.
But he can’t help thinking the adventure that lies ahead won’t be nearly as satisfying without Annie by his side.
Chapter 19
Walking along the beach beneath a copper-streaked sky at sunset, watching her children wade into the shallow surf nearby, Annie waves Andre’s metal detector over the wet, compact sand.
Andre always said that low tide is the best time for treasure hunting. A century ago, the treasure could easily have been buried in this area of beach; it was undoubtedly dry ground back then. Thanks to gradual erosion of the coast, this stretch is now under water a good part of every day.
A hundred years from now, Annie thinks, the remaining strip of dry beach might very likely have washed away. One good storm surge can easily bring the tide line a few inches inland.
Nothing lasts forever.
The sad, familiar refrain runs through her mind less frequently these days. But it certainly is fitting out here, and suits her melancholy mood tonight.
Gazing out at the whitecaps, Annie wonders if the hurricane Merlin mentioned is really going to hit here next weekend. She’s experienced her share of fierce coastal storms, but Andre was always here to batten down the hatches.
This time, she and the children will face the gale alone.
Both Merlin and Erika have urged them to come stay, especially if the storm is as dangerous as the National Weather Service is predicting in increasingly dire warnings.
A year ago, Annie might have agreed to leave the house and move to drier, higher ground.
But lately, she’s felt almost . . . self-sufficient. It isn’t just her improved financial situation. It’s the fact that she can make it through most days now without crying, through most nights without awakening in the wee hours, expecting to see Andre’s head on the pillow beside hers.
They’re all improving, slowly but surely. Milo has given up his daily takeoff and landing attempts, at least for the time being, and somehow taught himself to tie his shoes. Even Trixie’s night terrors have been subsiding.
Annie told both Erika and Merlin that, barring a forced evacuation, she and the children are going to ride out the storm at home, where they belong.
What she didn’t say, even to Erica, is that she’s fervently hoping the weather conditions will finally be right for a cellular connection to her dead husband. It might not work if she tries to reach him from any location other than home. It might not work at all . . .
But she has to try.
“Mommy! I found a starfish!” Trixie calls, bending over in ankle-deep water to examine something at her feet.
“That’s great, sweetie,” Annie murmurs in a voice that can’t possibly carry, her thoughts drifting to Andre.
Funny how one can become accustomed to just about anything . . . even widowhood.
“But I still miss you,” Annie whispers, shifting her gaze heavenward. “I miss you so much. I just want to hear your voice again, even if it’s one last time.”
She wipes her suddenly moist eyes on the shoulder of her T-shirt and looks back over her shoulder so the children won’t see her crying.
Her gaze falls on the lone set of footsteps she left on the sand, a stark reminder that she’ll walk alone through the rest of her life.
“It’s not a starfish, Mom, it’s just a rock,” Milo shouts, to his sister’s immediate protest.
Wearily turning back to see her children arguing over whatever it is that lies on the beach between them, Annie absently swings the metal detector in another sweeping arc.
“Mom, tell her this is just a rock!” Milo is splashing his way toward her, clutching the object in question, with Trixie trailing along behind him.
Suddenly, the metal detector beeps.
Swinging it back again, Annie hears another beep.
She swings the metal detector in an increasingly narrow pendulum to pinpoint the spot. Then she drops to her bare knees and scoops at the sand.
Seeing her, the children hurriedly make their way over.
“What is it, Mommy?”
“Did you find the treasure?”
“I don’t know.” Annie takes the shovel Milo hastily hands to her and digs deeper.
Her heart is pounding.
The shovel hits something solid.
“Is it a treasure chest?” Trixie is hovering so close beside Annie it’s all she can do not to swing her elbow into her as she digs frantically.
“I don’t know. It’s something big . . .” With Milo’s bare-handed assistance, Annie scoops away more and more sand until the buried object takes definite shape.
“What is it?” Milo asks, peering into the hole.
Annie swallows bitter disappointment. “An old tire rim.”
“No! That’s not fair! I wanted it to be my daddy’s treasure!” Trixie wails.
“We all did,” Milo says glumly.
Annie hugs her children close. “We’ll keep looking,” she promises, kicking sand back into the hole. “Maybe someday we’ll find it.”
And maybe, she can’t help thinking, staring at the horizon, the treasure never even existed in the first place.
In the backseat of an air-conditioned black Town Car gliding along East Si
xty-first Street, Thom flips his cell phone closed at last and leans his head against the leather seat.
It’s been a hell of a long day. Long, but fulfilling.
He boarded the morning’s first shuttle to Boston with his CFO, bound for Saltwater Treasures corporate headquarters. The flight was on time, the day-long merger talks couldn’t have gone more smoothly, and the return flight actually arrived at La Guardia a few minutes ahead of schedule.
Just now, he had a call from Daisy Kellerman. The latest inspection report on the brownstone is satisfactory, and the closing date will be arranged for early October.
Yes, everything is going according to plan.
In a few months, he’ll be ready to step down as chairman of the company his great-grandfather established almost a hundred years ago, in favor of overseeing operations at his latest acquisition.
He’ll trade his sterile penthouse for a three-story, nineteenth-century home with crown moldings, plaster walls, working fireplaces, and hardwood floors . . . none of which are in good repair. The whole place needs to be gutted and renovated, but it has character.
Just like Annie’s house. Just like Annie herself.
In a few more months, he’ll be ready for her . . . and by his calculations, she might be ready to give him another chance. She’ll have proven to herself and to the world that she can stand on her own two feet. She’ll have survived another season on her own, stronger, and undoubtedly lonelier, than she was when he left.
Thom stretches, yawns, and reaches for his briefcase as the driver pulls to a stop in front of his building’s awning. Teddy, the doorman, ruddy-faced from the evening’s heat, is on the sidewalk, chatting with a well-heeled, poodle-walking tenant.
After greeting them both, Thom strides through the climate-controlled, carpeted lobby, picks up his mail, and takes the elevator up to the top floor. As usual, the apartment smells of furniture polish and new upholstery, despite the fact that his is several years old.
It just doesn’t feel . . . lived in.
He smiles, remembering the look on Annie’s face as she said it, trying so hard to be tactful.
God, he misses her. Aches for her.
He yawns again, loosening his tie as he heads for the bedroom, thinking that at least he can see her in his dreams.
Yes, it’s corny.
But it’s true. He dreams about her almost every night. Usually, she’s standing in a blooming meadow, wearing a flowing white dress with a wreath of violets and honeysuckle in her hair. She looks up and sees him, then runs toward him, calling his name.
It isn’t a graceful, slow-motion run like in the movies, but a full-out, wholehearted, Annie-style race into his arms.
Thom smiles. Just a few more months, he reminds himself, stopping to check his answering machine.
The light is blinking.
Every time he comes home to find that he has a message, he has a momentary inkling that it might be her.
It never is.
But he doesn’t give up hope. If she comes to him first, the waiting game is off. He’ll be on his way to Montauk before the end of the message.
He holds his breath as he tosses his keys on the table and presses the button on the answering machine, willing it to be Annie.
But it isn’t.
For a moment, as he listens, his body goes motionless in dread.
Then Thom leaps into action, grabbing his keys and racing out the door, praying as he’s never prayed before.
“Come on,” Annie tells the children, “let’s go home. It’ll be dark soon. We’ll order take-out pizza for dinner.”
“Take-out pizza? Cool!”
“Can we have it with pepperoni?”
“Extra toppings are too expensive, Trixie,” Milo says with an experienced shake of his head. “Plain cheese is cheaper and it’s just as good.”
With a pang in her heart, Annie says, “Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s better with pepperoni.”
“Then can we get it that way?”
“Sure,” Annie tells Trixie, and smiles as her children exchange jubilant high fives.
Just weeks ago, take-out anything was a forbidden expense. But she can afford to splurge a little, she thinks, gathering up the shovel, the metal detector, the buckets full of shells.
The kids deserve a treat. They’re so good, and they’ve been through so much.
“After dinner, you guys can stay up a while and watch SpongeBob,” she tells them.
“Can you watch with us again, Mommy?”
“Not this time, Trixie. I have work to do.”
“Aw, come on, Mom.”
“Sorry, Milo.” She kicks a stone with the toe of her sandal and yawns, thinking of the long evening that still lies ahead.
Snuggling with her children on the couch in front of the television is about all she has the energy to do tonight, but Annie has twenty-three more shell paperweights to make for the wedding order that’s due the day after tomorrow.
“Oh, look! A firefly!” Trixie says suddenly, looking up.
“Hey, there’s another one!” Milo reaches into the air with a cupped hand to catch it.
They head home along the sandy lane through the rapidly falling dusk, the moist air heavy with the scent of brine and somebody’s freshly mown grass. Annie leisurely kicks the stone along as she walks, the children scampering in front of her, chasing fireflies and chattering happily about the evening ahead. Their disappointment about the treasure has given way to excitement at the promise of pizza and cartoons.
As Dr. Leaver said, children are remarkably resilient.
“I’ll race you to the front steps!” Milo shouts, abruptly breaking into a trot up ahead.
“No fair!” Trixie whines, running after him. “You got a head start!”
Annie follows along at her own pace, kicking the stone and thinking about Thom.
Maybe she should give him a call sometime. Just to say “hello.”
But then he might think you need him. He might think you’re opening the door to a relationship. He might think you’ve changed your mind . . .
And she hasn’t.
Absolutely not.
Andre was your one true love, she reminds herself determinedly. Andre didn’t want you to fall in love again.
At least, that’s what he said.
But he didn’t mean it . . . People say things . . .
Annie shrugs off the echo of Erika’s voice, telling herself that Andre did mean it. At the time, he meant it.
But he never suspected he was actually going to die. If he had . . .
With a fierce jab of her sandal, Annie sends the stone skittering along in front of her, and winces. Not just because the tip of her toe painfully made contact with the stone, but because she suddenly finds herself wondering what Andre would have told her if he knew they weren’t going to live the rest of their lives together.
What does that matter, Annie? What happened, happened. What was said, was said.
She made a vow, a vow as permanently etched in her heart as it is in the gold of her wedding ring.
But Erika’s words suddenly come back to her, just as permanently etched in her memory.
Are you sure you’re not just using Andre as an excuse? Some kind of twisted rationalization for your reluctance to get involved with somebody new?
Annie kicks the stone again, so emphatically that it veers off course, vanishing into the grassy scrub brush along the path.
The instant Thom steps out of the elevator and onto a patient floor of Cornell Medical Center, a desolate feeling sweeps through him.
It’s just because of the smell, he assures himself, pausing to turn off his cell phone, per the large warning taped on the wall outside the elevator. He tucks it back into his pocket and strides down the tiled corridor beneath dreary fluorescent lights.
All hospitals smell exactly the same: disinfectant, steam-table food, climate-controlled indoor air that has never been stirred by a refreshing cross breeze. He got used to i
t back in the bleak months when his father was wasting away at Sloan-Kettering.
Now it triggers memories so dispiriting that it’s all he can do to propel himself forward.
This is different, he reminds himself. This isn’t Father, and it isn’t going to end that way.
Please, God, don’t let it end that way.
If anything happens to Susan . . .
No. She’ll be fine. She has to be fine.
Yet the message Wade left on Thom’s answering machine was uncharacteristically terse. Not frantic, but definitely laced with enough concern to send Thom rushing back down to the street for a cab uptown.
It was long past rush hour, but as they headed east, traffic became snarled due to an accident on the nearby FDR. Finally, in utter frustration, Thom paid the fare and jumped out of the gridlocked cab. He ran the last few blocks on foot, racing along the steamy Upper East Side streets in his jacket and tie.
Now, soaked with sweat and sick with worry, he careens around a corner and expertly sidesteps two orderlies pushing a pregnant patient on a gurney. All three are joyless enough to remind Thom that this isn’t the wing of the hospital where radiantly healthy mothers give birth to bouncing full-term babies.
A scrubs-clad female sentry stops him as he passes. “Which patient are you looking for?”
“Susan Brannock.”
She consults her clipboard. “I’m afraid—”
In that instant, Thom’s heart stops.
“—there’s nobody here by that name.”
Nobody here.
Oh, God.
Does that mean . . . ?
Oh! By that name.
I’m not dead, brother dear; I’m married.
“Ellington!” he blurts in relief. “She’s Susan Ellington. I forgot.”
The woman offers a brief smile and points him in the right direction.
Moments later, he’s walking into a small private room alive with beeping monitors, all of them connected to his wan-looking sister. Mother hovers grimly on one side of the bed, Wade on the other.
“What’s going on?” Thom asks, his voice cracking.
“It’s her heart.” Wade’s tone is matter-of-fact, but his face is ravaged with concern.
Her heart. Of course. Thom knew it must be her heart.