Page 163 of Never Forever

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Stocky?” Gran said, stopping dead in her tracks.

“Bernadette,” Stockard said. “Nice sweater.”

She wore a sweater with the Mona Lisa wearing a mustache.

“I better get going,” Bernadette said, turning like she was going to leave.

“Oh,” I gasped and grabbed my stomach again. I might go to hell for this, but it was worth it to see Matt’s face.

“She needs to sit,” Mom screeched, and Stockard, roped back in, led me to a long formal sofa in the living room.

“Thank you,” I said and sat down. I pulled my hat off and unwound the scarf from around my neck. “I just need a second.”

“I will leave you-”

“Stocky, is that really you?” Gran said.

“Hello Bernadette,” Stockard said, lifting her chin like she was daring Gran to say something.

“Mom, this is Stockard Bartlett,” I said. “She’s an incredible author of a very popular series of books. She’s Matt’s favorite author-”

“We were also lovers for one summer,” Gran blurted.

Mom staggered against the wall. I was so stunned I forgot to pretend I was in pain.

“My father found out and sent me to those awful nuns,” Gran said. “If I wanted to come home, I had to disown her, so I stopped returning Stocky’s letters.”

“You know I despise that nickname,” Stockard said.

“What is happening?” I whispered to Mom.

“I don’t know,” Mom whispered back.

“There,” Gran said to Stockard like Mom and I weren’t even in the room anymore. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to tell the truth. It’s why you keep coming out here every year? Don’t think I didn’t know.”

Stockard opened her mouth and shut it again.

“Carrie!” Matt’s voice came from the back where he would have tied up the boat in the little cove with the boat house. He’d fixed that old Chris Craft up and then taught all of us how to drive it so we could get on and off the island anytime we needed.

He was the best.

“Carrie. Where-”

He came in through the kitchen, his cheeks red, his hair full Viking. His chest was heaving like he’d run the whole way.

“Oh my,” Stockard said.

“Where’s your coat?” I asked him.

“Are you all right?” he asked, sliding to his feet beside the couch. “You can’t do that to me. I swear to God.”

“Patrick,” Mom said. “What are you doing here?”

“The boy was half-cocked,” Patrick said, walking at a more sedate pace into the living room, more sensibly bundled in a coat and hat. “Couldn’t let him come out here by himself.”

“Matt,” I said, stroking his face. “I want you to meet Stockard Bartlett.”

---