Page 18 of The Words We Lost

The question churns my insides, harkening back to Joel’s plea on the beach and then even further back to SaBrina’s ultimatum in my office at Fog Harbor Books. “I haven’t set a date quite yet, but I would love to see you, too. I can work around whatever hours you’re keeping at the hotel.”

Her eyes water again. “You’re my priority. Whenever is good for you will be good for me. I’d actually like to get your professional opinion on something when you come over.” As Wendy plucks a tiger lily from the arrangement, my mind is still stuck onprofessional opinion. What would she possibly need an editor’s opinion on? Curiosity worms its way into my subconscious and I store my brewing questions away for later.

She lifts a single bloom in her hand, and I know immediately what she’s thinking. I bend my head toward her and she slides the stem of the tiger lily under my hair pin. “It’s a perfect match.” She swipes her thumb across my cheek in a maternal gesture that causes me to blink away tears. “You’ve always been stunning, but especially so tonight.”

By the time Stephen returns to grab the last arrangement of Cece’s favorite lilies, Wendy and I are cleaning up the remainder of the floral scraps and sweeping them into a large trash can. I trail behind her as we climb the concrete stairs, and I’m as vigilant of every step she takes as I am about the frailty of her thin frame. By the time we reach the top stair, Wendy has been swept away by a sea of well-meaning guests, yet my anxiety over her fragile state doesn’t dissipate.

The party is fueled by moody jazz, seafood skewers, and heartfelt birthday tributes given by the same family and friends I saw ten months ago at Lighthouse Community Fellowship. Surprisingly, Joel isn’t among them. I haven’t seen him since the broken plates.

By the time the sun starts to set, I’ve been pulled into all sorts of conversations, asked dozens of questions about the future of Cece’s books, and deflected giving my opinion on the memorial landmarksscheduled to be voted on at city council next month due to the large donation Cece gifted her beloved community. Opinions belong to residents, not to sporadic weekenders like myself.

As soon as the cupcakes are served, I begin to contemplate making the trek to my car when I feel the familiar tug of an invisible tether. My attention sweeps the deck until I find a man dressed in a sky-blue shirt whose expression suggests our last interaction has left him as unsettled as it has me. Perhaps he’s reconsidered his emotion-packed request for me this morning. Perhaps he’s realized, as I have, that we’re both better off leaving the past in the past.

Joel makes no effort to break his concentrated stare, not even when Madison taps his bicep and blinks up at him with those innocent doe eyes of hers and the kind of smile that doesn’t need practice to maintain. Waitstaff and mingling guests cut a path between us, allowing me a reprieve, but I’m unnervingly aware of Joel’s exact location from that point on.

As Stephen and Patti conclude the evening with their standard benediction blessing and excuse themselves to escort Wendy home, my high-heel-hating back begs me to follow their lead and do the same. But instead, I slip off my shoes and take a path I’ve walked hundreds of times on cool summer nights just like this one.

I’m halfway down the floating dock, following the blue sheen of an almost full moon out to sea, when I hear him behind me.

I expected he would follow. But this is record time, even for someone as studiously observant as Joel.

As soon as he settles beside me, my voice falters to a whisper. “You should have told me about Wendy.”

“You haven’t exactly made yourself available to us.”

I rotate just enough to see a silvery reflection of moonlight dance across Joel’s strong jawline. “I would have come back for her.”

The shift in his stance is unmistakable, and it’s not difficult to deduce how he’s interpreted my comment:I would have come back for her, but not for you.

His next words are so quiet I strain to hear them above the wavesthat roll beneath us. “What did you decide about the memoir, Ingrid? Are you staying or are you leaving?”

A question I’ve asked myself at least two dozen times since the beach this morning and yet still don’t have a final answer for. If I stay and read the memoir with him, it will offer me the time I need to search forThe Fate of Kings. But the risks to that option are high and uncertain. Yet if I go back to California emptyhanded, there is no doubt about the certainties I’ll face there. In a matter of days, I’ll be without a job, and soon thereafter without an apartment or any of the life I’ve built there from the ashes.

So instead of answering, I deflect back to him. “Where were you tonight? You missed more than half the party.”

“I didn’t realize you were monitoring my whereabouts so closely.”

“Everyone else in your family gave a speech in Cece’s honor. Your absence was obvious.”

“I was dealing with a guest dispute inside the hotel.”

So none of them would have tois what I know he doesn’t say.

A suffocating silence descends over us then and I refuse to be trapped in it for another second. “I know you expect an answer from me, but I don’t have one yet.”

“Why not? I don’t understand what more there is to think about. Either you’re willing to stay and honor Cece’s request or you’re not.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it. I need to be sure I can process this memoir in a healthy, logical way. I can’t afford to let emotion drive this decision.”

“Wow.” He whistles low. “And to think, I actually thought I saw a glimpse of the Ingrid I knew all those years ago out on that beach today.”

“She’s the last person I want to be again.”

“You’re right.” The bite in his tone has crested the edge of his impatience. “Because this guarded and cynical version of you is far superior.”

“Not superior, just necessary.”

And then, more gently than I expect, he speaks again. “I’m sorry ... that was careless of me.”

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