would distort her feelings. We wouldn’t be “D’Arcy and Bennet” anymore; we would be “Katherine and Andrew’s brother.” If she learned the truth too early, I would have had no chance—still, I need to try to explain.
My own selfish motivations will come as no surprise to her. It was selfish, and it was dishonest. I know that. But if I had to do it again, I doubt I would have played it any differently. I would have grabbed on to any chance, any opportunity, to be with her.
It’s hard to justify any of that now.
“Fuck!” I punch the wall. The sheetrock buckles with the impact and seeing the dent brings me back to myself. There’s got to be something I can say, something she’ll stand still long enough to hear. It can’t just end like this.
I sit, then force myself to stand. The floor is covered in discarded clothes. Dirt from my shoes. One more time, I think. I’ll go up one more time. Try to explain myself. Say my peace.
I scrub water over my face and grab my pants off the foot of the bed. They’re still damp. The belt hangs limp from the loops. I fasten the buckle and grab a T-shirt. I check the clock and don’t take time to look for socks.
“Sam!” I call, slapping my thigh. I wait for the sound of his toenails on the wood floor, his huffing gallop. But the house is silent.
And I remember.
I gulp down a painful lump and blink furiously.
Right, I think. Right.
Outside, the air is cold and the morning dew soaks through my shoes. I don’t take my truck because I can’t bring myself to go through the trees. Better to stick to the beach where the memories of last night can’t press in.
As I run, the sand shifts under my feet. My balance falters. Twice, my knees buckle. Prickly beach thorns stab at my palms when I fall. I understand, without having to think, that this is my last shot. I pray the words will come to me. That in the moment, when it really matters, words will not fail me.
Like an animal, using hands and feet, I climb the embankment to the lighthouse. It looks the same. After everything, how does it dare to look the same? The Vega is parked in the driveway. Broken shingles snap against the wind. The green shutters creak on their nails. It’s as if last night didn’t happen. For a second, I allow myself to believe it didn’t.
I run up to the house and bang on the door. There are no coherent thoughts in my head; there is still no eloquent speech on my lips. But the words will come. They will come.
Please let her be the one to answer the door this time.
If it’s Buddy…Andrew… I’ll curb my instincts. It won’t help my cause to get into another fight. I’ll just hope it’s Katherine. What will her face look like when she sees me? Angry? Relieved? I dare to dream… Forgiving?
The door whips open. “Yeah?”
It’s not Andrew.
But it’s not Katherine, either.
Calloway squints at me. His thick gray hair stands up wildly at its roots. His usual grizzled face is now bearded.
Beyond him, on the table, is Katherine’s copy of Pride and Prejudice. The last time I saw it, it was in her hand. Seeing its battered cover is like finding a long-last friend. My chest inflates. She’s still here. “May I speak to Katherine?”
“Who?” Calloway looks at me as if I’m lost.
I blink. And my mouth falls open.
Impossible. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
“Katherine D’Arcy. Is she here?” I swallow audibly. I should have never left her last night. I should have tried harder. She has to be here. She wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye.
“Oh,” Calloway says, finally comprehending. “The summer girl? Soon as I got here, her and some fella took off like a shot. Got the eight o’clock ferry off the island.”
I stagger backward. I understand. I apologize for the intrusion.
The morning air is cold. Too cold for August. I wrap my arms around myself. I move away from the lighthouse. More slowly now. There is nothing to run toward. There is simply nothing. The beach is empty. No Katherine. No Sam.
In truth, I’m not even here. Not really.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Katherine
The car ride home is excruciating, but order and security and predictability are the itinerary for the day. Going home is the logical thing to do. I’d been wrong about Bennet. Apparently we weren’t based on anything real. There would