and today she knows this is why her marriage failed.
And she misses it. She misses her marriage, and she misses Adam.
She misses lying in the bath and having someone to talk to. He used to grumble about having to stay in the bathroom, perching on the one uncomfortable chair in the corner, but he would stay as she luxuriated in the bath and chatted to him about whatever was on her mind.
She misses taking the kids to the diner every Saturday, a tradition they had since Tory was a baby. Misses hugging the owner when they walk in, knowing all the waiters and waitresses, having them crowd round the table to coo over how big Tory and Buckley have become.
She misses having a family, because without Adam it doesn’t feel complete, doesn’t feel like a whole family. And it’s not just her. Buckley has commented on it too.
“One day,” he told her, “I’d like to be a whole family again.”
“What do you mean? ” Kit asked, horrified.
“I mean whole. With a mommy and a daddy.”
“But you do have a mommy and a daddy, who love you very much. We’ll always be your family.” She smiled.
“No. I mean a mommy and a daddy in the same house. That’s what makes a whole family,” he said.
She tried to tell him that wasn’t the case, except she knew it was. She felt the same way.
She has been trying to tell herself that she isn’t missing Adam, she is just missing someone. Someone to help, someone to be a sounding board, someone who will ensure she won’t have to do everything, absolutely everything in her life all by herself.
But that isn’t true. She has Steve, but she doesn’t want him. He won’t make the family whole. The only person who can do that is Adam. And as hard as it is to admit it, there is no question now that it is Adam she misses. She misses the way he makes her feel safe. He is the only person in the world to ever make her feel that way, the only person who has ever sheltered her from the storms of life.
Especially now. She walks around much of the time feeling horribly unsettled, a great cloud of anxiety resting on one shoulder. The only times she doesn’t feel it weighing on her are when she is with Adam.
But her marriage is over. She forces herself to remember why they divorced; although it’s hard to remember precisely why. He wasn’t around, she reminds herself. He worked all the time, wanted a different lifestyle.
He wanted the big house, the fancy cars, the fast friends. She hadn’t been interested in all of that.
He probably hasn’t changed, she tells herself. People rarely do, unless they experience an event that is so traumatic, so life-altering they find they are different, through to the very core.
Would their divorce have done that for him? And even if that were the case, the likelihood is that he wouldn’t want her back. There is too much water under the bridge. Too much Annabel.
There’s no point even thinking about it. Not any more. It’s just too damn late.
Robert McClore puts a coffee on Kit’s desk, smiles at her and leaves the room. He is in a great mood. Come to think of it, he is in a great mood most of the time these days.
He is just a couple of chapters away from finishing the book. In one way it has been the easiest book of his life, but at times it has drained him emotionally. He realizes that he should have written it years ago. It has been cathartic, healing, has finally given him closure on something he has been trying to put behind him for years.
And now he is on the home stretch. His editor will be thrilled, his agent delighted, and he will be able to move on to the next book, the storyline of which is already brewing, the notepad he carries everywhere already starting to fill with scribbled notes as more and more of the story, more pieces of the puzzle start to come together in the most obscure of places.
Standing in line waiting for a taxi in New York City, an image comes to his head. He grabs a pen and writes it down. The villain’s early life starts unfolding as he’s sitting in a tiny, claustrophobic stockroom, waiting to sign stock at a bookstore in Cherry Hill.
The motivation behind the hero coming back appears as he’s sitting