the side of Jack’s face. “I’m so sorry you went through so much bad stuff. I just figured you’d moved on with your life and totally forgotten about . . .”
“I never forgot.” His voice came hoarse.
I thought of the Claddagh ring at home. I wished I could raise my hand and show it to him, and we’d laugh about it. “How about a girlfriend, wife, fiancée?”
“It’s hard when all I do is . . . leave. We don’t stay in one place for very long—like that country song, ‘Lot of Leaving Left to Do.’ ”
“Leave,” I said, and tasted the word, its meaning. “Isabelle?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve tried.” He leaned over the railing, tossed a rock into the water. “It’s easier, and it’s also harder than it used to be. But . . . really, you don’t want to hear about it.”
“I guess you need to get back to the concert. . . . Doesn’t it start”—I looked at my watch—“in less than an hour?”
“Yes . . . but I need to hear about you. Where have you been? What’s shaped your life until now? And how in the hell did you end up in a café in Savannah?” He leaned toward me. “And did you find me or did I find you?”
“Neither . . . just coincidence. Well, sort of.” I felt an inner quiver, as if I’d had too much caffeine. “Part of my job at the PGA TOUR is to plan a benefit event after the tournament.”
“You work for the tour?”
I nodded. “Yes, and I thought that maybe, just maybe I could talk you and your band into playing at the benefit. So I did come to Savannah to hear your concert . . . and I’ve just had a lot of weird things happen that pointed to you.” I said it, then turned away, shook my head. “We’ve got to get you back to work, right?”
He placed his hands on my shoulders, twirled me around.
“Nice blow-off there. Okay, let’s go.”
There was so much about him that was familiar: the same grin and tilt of his head, the golden specks in his eyes in the exact same pattern—like small internal bursts of light. His shoulders had remained broad: a restful place. He still had his walk, a relaxed gait with long strides that reminded me of a Southern drawl . . . easy, slow, and yet you get there in the same amount of time.
Yet there was also unfamiliarity now: his long wavy hair, his partial beard, muscles that had only been hinted at back then. His voice was deeper now, fuller, as if it hid secrets.
We were walking toward the auditorium when I stopped, touched his elbow. “I do need a band for my event. . . . I know you guys are way too big now. I guess it was an excuse to see how you were doing.”
“As if you need an excuse. You did promise that you’d find me. Remember?”
“I think you promised to find me,” I said, and then in an instinct I thought long gone, I reached up and touched his hair, ran my fingers through it.
“I remember all of it,” he said.
“Me too.” I nodded toward the coliseum. “Let’s get you back to work.”
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s. But, Kara, if you need a band—give me the date, I’ll do the best I can to work it in.”
“You’d do that?”
He nodded.
“You’d be a lifesaver.”
“I do believe I’ve been that before. Why stop now?”
I took a quick breath; my eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my God, the day the boat tipped and hit me on the head . . . you pulled me out.”
“Oh, how easily you forget the things I’ve done for you.”
“Oh, please. . . .” I tilted my head back and rolled my eyes. “Must we now talk of all you’ve ever done for me?”
“No, we don’t have that much time.” He walked ahead of me and waved toward the coliseum. “The show must go on.”
I caught up to him, and we strode in silence, and I understood that seeing Jack was nothing more than a nice reunion, visiting an old acquaintance. Leaving was inevitable; it loomed before us as it had that summer morning thirteen years ago. Life, like the river, had moved on, and so would we.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The concert exceeded my expectations in every way. I’d believed that true beauty resided only within the tumul tuous natural world outside my door, or within classical music and the