Page 80 of Vivacity
‘It’s a lovely place. But I’d lose my edge here. London gives it to me.’
He doesn’t sound happy about that, merely resigned.
‘Right now, having an edge sounds overrated.’
‘It probably is.’
‘But how the hell did you end up with this place? I thought you’d have some kind of Bond villain lair, all bunker-style, built into the side of the mountain. Nothing frou-frou. Like an Aman resort.’
That puts a smile back on his face. ‘I love Aman.’
‘Of course you do. I’m more of a Beverly Hills Hotel kind of girl.’
‘Nothing surprises me less.’ He sighs and pushes his aviators up onto his head. ‘And you’re right. This isn’t me. I bought it when I was married to Elena. We rented it one Christmas when Jamie was a baby, and she fell completely in love with it. And, honestly, I fell more in love with how we were here. Relaxed. So when it came up for sale, we jumped on it. I thought maybe it would be good to have something in our lives that was more… chaotic. Not chaotic, but organic, maybe. Softer. More fun, I suppose.’
He smiles softly, wistfully. He’s remembering. He’s remembering a tiny, chubby version of Jamie toddling around this place. Him and his wife when they were presumably happy, in love. My heart squeezes for him, and for the happy little version of Jamie who seems to me to be long gone, and for Elena, too. I think I feel most strongly for her, oddly enough, because she’s the one into whose shoes I can put myself most easily.
Imagine walking away from this man. From this life. From a house you fell in love with, a house full of memories. I don’t know how she felt when she asked Ethan for a divorce. I don’t know if she still loved him, if she made the ultimate sacrifice for her son, or if she was so disillusioned by his shortcomings as a father that it killed that love.
Either way, it must have been horrific.
I put a palm to his face and stroke it softly. ‘Sometimes, a little chaos and colour and fun can be good for you,’ I whisper.
‘I’ve worked that out.’ He raises his hand, his fingers closing over mine. ‘It’s exactly how I feel about you.’
I’ve beento the Caribbean several times before, but never to Mustique—never to any of the Grenadines, actually. My parentsfavoured the BVIs for winter getaways when we were kids, and Thad was a fan of St Barths, but I’m quickly falling for Mustique’s particular brand of Sixties-style sugared-almond chic.
Trouble is, I could also fall hard for the magic this place seems to hold over Ethan, for the version of himself he is here. Before we’ve even finished our delicious late lunch of pineapple and spiny lobster salad, served by Esmé on the shady veranda with the killer view, I’m marvelling at the lightness of his demeanour, at the easy smile that plays on his lips. Mustique is the polar opposite of his London lifestyle—all colour and warmth and relaxation—and I’d say it’s damn good for him.
‘Try this.’ He holds what looks like an arancino ball up to my mouth. I take a bite, and delicate flavours explode on my tongue. I moan in delight.
‘Oh my God,’ I say when I’ve swallowed. ‘What the hell is that?’
‘Squash and coconut arancini. They’re a speciality down at the Cotton House. You can try their version tonight, but Jamie loved them so much when he was little that our chef, Irving, was determined to master them.’
‘I’d say he succeeded. They’re incredible.’ It strikes me once again that this past life Ethan has painted with the broadest brushstrokes of happy family memories is so vastly different from what I’ve observed of the Kingsleys’ lifestyle these days—the carefully drawn custody agreements, the tension between father and son.
‘You know, maybe you should bring Jamie back here if he likes it so much. Do you bring him here often?’
‘Not really.’ He removes his gaze from my face and pushes a piece of pineapple around his plate. ‘I only get a couple of weeks a year of holiday time with him, so this year we did active stuff—a week of skiing at Easter and water sports this summer.’
I nod, even though he’s not looking at me. ‘Makes sense.’ But it’s so sad. Two weeks a year and occasional weekends is nothing, even without Ethan’s particular issues. No wonder they’re disconnected.
He clears his throat. ‘Elena asked me if they could come here next Christmas. I said of course. It’s a good idea, I think. They both love it. But it’s only been a year since—since we finalised the divorce, so we’re still finding our feet, all three of us.’
‘Of course you are.’ I grab his hand on the table and brush my thumb over his knuckles. ‘And you’ll figure it out. You’re doing great.’
He smiles, but it’s forced. ‘Thank you, but that is most definitely not true.’
‘How long were you and Elena married for?’ I venture.
‘Almost fifteen years.’
‘Wow.’ Fifteen years is a heck of a long time. I take a sip of my sparkling water. Ethan strikes me as such an isolated figure. I can’t really imagine him living in matrimonial bliss, with a wife and a kid, even if it all ended badly. At the same time, I can’t think of anyone I’d love to see happy more than him. Under all that trauma and all those walls, he’s such a decent guy. He’s a man of extreme integrity, even if he doesn’t want people to know that.
‘Yeah. Wow.’ He looks bleak, and I don’t want that. Not here. I’ve put that look on his face with this line of questioning.
‘You must have some very happy memories of this place,’ I say softly, still stroking his hand.
