Truth was, it wasn't the memories that were sick and hurting. It was Griffin himself.
On the way down in the elevator, he had company. A couple were talking in low tones to each other. The man of the pair had a little girl's hand in his. Maybe...three, four years old? She had dirty-blond hair in pigtails tied with red ribbons. Her white dress was dotted with red cherries, and the poofy skirt belled around her knees as she swung her body back and forth. On her feet were white socks and little red patent leather shoes that were tied on with more ribbon.
Jane would have loved the outfit.
Jane would have looked just like this when she was a kid.
This kid noticed Griffin staring at her, compelling him to make a stab at conversation. "Uh, you have very pretty shoes," he said, feeling awkward.
She responded to the compliment by lifting the hand not clutching her dad's. Four tiny fingers waved in his direction. "I'm this many."
He nodded, acknowledging the unsolicited intel. Then the elevator stopped, the door opening with a ping. With a gesture, he indicated the family should precede him. As the little kid crossed into the lobby, she glanced over her shoulder at Griffin. "It's my birfday."
The three words shot through him like an arrow. It froze him for a moment, thinking of Jane's recent birthday, of all the birthdays he'd miss of hers. Another sharp-edged ache. The elevator doors started to close, and it galvanized him to move, but there was still the hurt.
And an idea. He wasn't any good for Jane, true, but he couldn't leave without first letting her know she'd meant something to him. That he wouldn't forget her, even though he couldn't love her as she deserved.
* * *
MOONLIGHT POURED OVER the cove, and at her place on the cliff just south of Beach House No. 9, Jane watched a series of incoming waves ripple forward, as if someone on the horizon had snapped an immense gray sheet. The night was warm, the breeze mild, and she let the calming sound of the water wash over her. With the seabirds asleep, there were no raucous high notes to nature tonight, just the constant wet wash that, while not unchanging, was unceasing. A reminder to take the next breath. To put your next foot forward.
To toughen up and get on with your life.
She'd been doing that ever since the final confrontation with Griffin on the beach that afternoon. Even with his "I don't want to ever love anybody" still echoing in her ears, she'd marched back to Captain Crow's and given Ian Stone the big heave-ho in no uncertain terms.
"For the record," she told him, standing beside his table, her arms folded over her chest, "I'm not now and not ever going to work with you again."
He'd blinked at her, looking bewildered behind the blossoming facial bruises. "But...but it sounded like you were considering my offer."
She'd been goading Griffin was what she'd been doing. And maybe giving Ian some momentary false hope in the process, because she was a little mean that way. "I don't work with cheaters. And I don't work with people who try to blame their failures on someone else."
"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked, like a kid who finally had to do his own homework. "I haven't written a word since we've been apart!"
"Not my problem, Norm," she'd said, then strolled away.
His career could stay flatlined, for all she cared. As for her...she'd find another author to work with, or a new line of work if it came to that. She had great confidence in her ability to overcome - even with her heart broken, she was still breathing, wasn't she?
And though a certain blue-eyed reporter might be out of her life, he'd left her with something. When he'd taunted her about trying to please her father, it had been the boot she needed to get her butt to Corbett Pearson's place again. Once there, she'd ticked off three points on her fingers. One, never give her personal information to anyone; two, never get involved in her professional life again; and three, she loved him despite what she considered to be his faults and she expected him to do the same when it came to her. No more interfering and disapproval or no more daughter Jane!
Her dad had stuttered, he'd stumbled, he'd even managed to give her an awkward pat on the back. Progress.