Page 112 of Out of the Blue

“I wish I could’ve met her.”

His eyes bounce to mine. “Maybe you can. I have all her diaries. You can get to know her through them.”

“I’d love to read them. Thanks.” I twist the end of my ponytail around my finger. “She may not have told you the truth about your father but did try to reach out to Brax the only way she knew how. When those events were, uhm, not fruitful, she figured there was no reason to tell you the truth. As far as you were concerned, your father was Marine Rory Chamberlain who died in combat.” I move my hand down and fiddle with the straw in my drink. “How would you have reacted to knowing about Brax back when you were growing up?”

He frowns. “Dunno.” He circles the top of his pilsner with his index finger. “What could I have done?”

I nod. “Right.” I bring my drink to my lips, sipping while he ponders what I said. Returning it to the table, I continue, “I think it’s time you let your mom rest in peace. Forgive her.”

His finger pauses on top of the glass. He clenches his jaw. Please, please, take my advice.

Trent’s tongue slips past his lips, then disappears back into his mouth. He drops his sunglasses into place and rises to his feet. He holds his hand out to me. “Come with me.”

Unsure of his mood, I join him at his side. Hand-in-hand, we walk toward the beach and stand as the warm water covers our feet. He scans the horizon while I watch the waves buffet a few pieces of seaweed.

He finds his voice. “She loved the beach.” At my nod, he continues, “It’s the reason I use it as my calming place when I do my exercises before taking the stage. She was freer every time we visited the Jersey Shore. She would’ve loved it here, though.”

“I bet.”

He pulls me to him, and I wrap my arms around his waist, the sun glinting off his cross necklace. His body’s rigid. “You’re right. When Braxton Hunte didn’t respond to her letters—or pick her out of the crowd again—she made up her mind to raise me as a single parent. And she even gave me a father, or at least the image of one.” He sighs. “She was a great mother, and I miss her.” He ends his sentence on a sob.

“She loved you.” I pause. “You loved her.”

He holds me tighter. “I will forever.”

Relief pours through me. He’s healing. “She needs a song.”

“You may be right.” He holds onto me as if I were a lifeline saving him from going down with the Titanic. “I want you to meet her.”

I lean my head back.

“I want to bring you to her grave.”

Understanding pours through me. “I’d really like that.” Tingles race up my spine.Take your own medicine, Cordelia.I’ve already shown him the photos I found in Mamá’s dresser and shared the wonder that he loved me. “But only if I can introduce you to my father.”

My husband’s response is immediate. “I’d be honored.”

With my nose pressed against his suntan-lotioned pecs, I ask him something that’s been kicking around my brain for a while. Ever since I visited Papá. “Although do you think I could maybe move him to be near your Mom? And give him a real tombstone?”

His arms tighten. “Of course. It’ll be perfect for them to watch over us, together.”

Waves crash against the beach, seagulls fly overhead. The smell of the real beach mingles with Trent’s scent. We remain locked together, water lapping at our feet, for a long while. When the same group passes us for a second time, I tilt my chin back. Time to lighten the mood. “Want to go back to the room? I need to shower before dinner.”

“I might be persuaded to join you.”

I step out of his embrace. “Who says I need help?”

He pushes his sunglasses on top of his head, squinting at me while his smile turns wolfish. “Bet I can make you sing a different tune.”

I offer him a cheesy grin. “Oh no. No betting on our honeymoon!” I take a step and toss, “And you’re the only one doing the singing around here!”

I rush toward our chairs, but am swept off my feet, literally, as his arms grab me around my waist. My legs go straight out as he spins us around. People around us watch our antics and smile.

Laughing, I yell, “Stop! Trent!”

He does another one-eighty and stops. Lowering my feet to the sand, we face the ocean. He tugs on my ponytail, making my neck arch backward. In my ear, he whispers, “I’ll always catch you, Cordy.”

“I believe you.”

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