Authors: Kristan Higgins
“Here’s a sight for sore eyes,” she said. “How’s by you, Harper darlin’?”
“Hey, BeverLee,” I panted. The radio played some country-and-western ballad; static crackled the reception, but Bev didn’t seem to mind. She stubbed out her cigarette, knowing I hated her smoking.
“Have a seat, take a load off. Want something to eat?” She made a move to stand.
“No, no, don’t get up. I’m good,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Is Willa here?”
“Well now, she was, but she and your daddy are out in the woodshop, I think.”
Now that I was here, I wasn’t exactly sure what to say. I bit a cuticle, then put my hands in my lap.
“So how you been after seein’ Nick and all?”
I looked up sharply, getting a small smile in response. No one else had asked that question. “Um…I’m doing okay, Bev,” I said. “But I don’t…well, I’m not…How are you, Bev? How are you doing?”
“Well, now, I guess I’m doing all right.” She straightened the napkins in the holder, a hideous plastic molded thing depicting a royal flush, then looked back at me. “I heard you and Dennis split up, and I have to say, I was sorry to hear it. But I guess if y’all weren’t married after all this time, that said something. Your daddy and me, we only knew each other a week—Well. Maybe not the best example, since we’re partin’ ways and all.” She gave me a halfhearted smile and shrugged.
“Bev, about that. I have to tell you something,” I said. “I…” Well, crap. I had no idea what to say. I swallowed; Bev waited; the static crackled and rain hissed against the windows. Some familiar chords were discernible from the radio. “Sweet Home Alabama,” the famous Southern rock anthem.
“Oh, I just love this song,” Bev said, her eyes taking on a far-off look. “I got this cassette stuck in the tape player in my car, remember? This here was the only song that played all the way through.”
A memory drifted to the surface…me watching as Bev pulled into or out of the driveway, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s song like a soundtrack for her comings and goings.
“You never wanted to come with me if you could avoid it,” Bev said with a faint smile. “But there you’d be, standin’ at the window, makin’ damn sure I came back. Then you’d run off and hide in your room and stick your nose in a book and pretend you didn’t know I was home. Poor little mite. Always so afraid of someone leavin’ that you never let anyone get close.”
There it was, my emotional failings in a nutshell.
Enough.
“Bev,” I said again. I reached out and gripped her hands in mine. “BeverLee, listen. I…” The lump in my throat choked off the words.
“What is it, sugarplum?” She tilted her head and frowned. “Oh, my Lord, are you crying?”
I just clutched her hand more tightly. BeverLee had loved me from the first day she saw me, a wretched, sullen teenager who viewed her as a joke. She thought I was brilliant, beautiful…she thought I was lovable. She thought I was the
best
, despite the fact that I’d done everything I could to keep her at arm’s length.
But twelve years ago, when I was a huddled mess on a kitchen floor in New York City, she was the one I called. And I’d known without a whisper of doubt that Bever-Lee Roberta Dupres McKnight Lupinski James would come through for me. And she had. Without hesitation, she’d driven five hours straight, through Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York, found her way to my apartment, taken me in her arms without one single question or recrimination and brought me home.
“BeverLee,” I whispered, because my throat was locked. “Bev…you’ve been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was.” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t have to love me, and God knows I didn’t give you much to love, but you did. You’ve always been there for me, always taken care of me, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see it. And I want you to know that even if you and Dad get a divorce…” I broke off and squeezed her hand harder. “I will always be your daughter.” Because
this
woman was my real mother. For twenty years now, she’d loved me despite myself, and that was what real mothers did. That was what unconditional love meant.
Bev’s mouth opened in shock. “Oh, baby,” she whispered. “Oh, my baby, I love you, too.”
Then we were hugging, Bev’s massive chest oddly comforting, the smell of Jhirmack Extra Hold and Virginia Slims the smell of home. She wept and stroked my hair, and I let her, and discovered that it felt pretty damn wonderful.
A
N HOUR LATER, AFTER
a cup of tea and a quart of tears, I hugged BeverLee once more. It was a little awkward, all this physical affection…but it was worth it. I could get used to it. I wanted to get used to it.
With a promise to call tomorrow, I went out the back to my father’s workshop, a place that smelled of wood and oiled power tools. He was talking to Willa in a low voice, arms folded, face serious. I felt a little pang of envy—Dad had always gotten on better with Willa. She was, of course, much more likable than yours truly, but still.
At the sight of his biological child, Dad broke off, and both of them looked at me.
“Can I have a word?” I asked.
“With me?” Dad asked.
“Um…actually, with both of you,” I said, taking a breath. “Okay. Um, Willa. Listen.” I bit my lip. “I’m not going to handle your divorce this time. In fact, uh, I don’t mean to sound too harsh here, but I can’t really bail you out on anything anymore. You’re twenty-seven, not seventeen. No more loans, no more credit cards. And I’ll just…shut up on the advice front, how’s that? You never take it anyway.”
“Well, I—” Willa began.
“Actually, one more bit of advice,” I interrupted. “Commit to
something.
Whether it’s Christopher or a job or a place or school…stick to it, Wills. You don’t want to end up just drifting around like milkweed seed, with a bunch of stupid relationships behind you and a whole lot of nothing in front of you. That’s what my mother did, and now she’s a waitress in South Dakota, with nothing and no one. You don’t want that, Willa. Trust me.”
There was a heavy silence. My father had frozen at the mention of my mother. Willa just looked at me for a long second. Then she smiled.
“Funny you should say that,” she said. “Chris and I are back together. He’s gonna work for Dad. So…we’re moving here.”
My mouth opened. “Really? What about the… Thumbie?”
She shrugged. “I called him that day…the day Nick showed up. He’s not going to give up on his inventing, but he sees the upside of regular work, too.”
“Oh. Well, that’s…great. Good for you, Willa.”
She raised a silky eyebrow. “Maybe I don’t need your advice quite as much as you think.”
I took a breath, then nodded. “Maybe not. Which is a really good thing, Willa. Sorry if I sounded like a pompous ass.”
“Why would today be any different?” she asked, mugging to our dad.
“Very funny. Cut me some slack,” I muttered. “I’ve had a rough week.”
With that, Willa bounded over and wrapped her arms around me. “So I hear. If you want to talk, I’m around.” She smooched my cheek. “Thanks for all the loans and advice and free divorces. I hope I’ll never need any again.”
“Ditto,” I said.
“Gotta run! Thanks, Dad!” Willa blew him a kiss, which he dutifully pretended to catch, and bounded out the door, leaving my father and me alone, twenty feet of wood and machinery between us, the smell of sawdust thick in the air. Rain pattered on the tin roof and the wind gusted outside.
“Crazy weather, huh?” I said, though it was nothing more than a typical rainstorm. “Yeah.”
The silence stretched between us.
Now or never, Harper.
“I saw Linda last week,” I said.
“So you said. How was that?”
“It wasn’t good, Dad. Not good.” I took a deep breath. “She pretended not to recognize me, and I let her.”
Dad looked at the floor and said nothing.
“Dad,” I said slowly, “listen. I—I always blamed you for not keeping Mom happy enough to stay, or not fighting to get her back when she left. And I hated that you married BeverLee and just stuck her in my life.”
Dad nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes still on the sawdust-covered floor.
“I want to thank you for that now.”
He looked up.
“My mother is obviously a self-centered, shallow, heartless person. And BeverLee is not.”
“No,” he said. The wind gusted, rattling a shop window.
“I’ve never asked you for much, have I, Dad?” I asked gently. “Never asked for money, went through college and law school on scholarships and student loans. Never lived with you after college, never asked for advice.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’ve never asked for a thing.” A flash of regret crossed his perpetually neutral face.
“I’m asking for something now, Daddy. Don’t leave BeverLee. Get some counseling and figure things out. You’ve got twenty years invested here, and Dad…She loves you. And she…believes in you. I don’t think it gets better than that.”
He didn’t move or say anything for a long moment. “You know BeverLee’s fifteen years younger than I am, of course,” he said slowly. I nodded.
He paused, weighing his next words. “Harper, I had a heart attack in July.”
My knees gave a dangerous buckle. “What?” I squeaked.
He shrugged. “Doctor said it was minor. But it got me thinking about…the future. I don’t want Bev to have to take care of me.”
“She doesn’t know, Dad?”
He shook his head. “I told her I was fishing with Phil Santos.”
“Dad…” My voice cracked. If my father died…
“I don’t want her saddled with a sickly old man.”
“She loves you, Dad! If she got sick, would you feel saddled with her?”
“Of course not. But…well. I see your point.” He didn’t say any more. “Still. She deserves someone who can keep up with her. Not a sick old man.”
“Are you doing okay now?” I asked.
“Oh, I guess. I take a pill every day. My cholesterol’s way down. It’s just…you look at your life and wonder what you can do for your family. Seemed like cutting Bev loose was the right thing. If I’m gonna die in the next year or so…”
“God, you men. You’re all so melodramatic,” I said, though my legs were still shaking at the thought of my dad being sick. “If you take care of yourself, you’ll outlive us all. But Dad, cutting Bev loose is not the right thing to do! Nor is keeping your children out of the loop!”
He gave a half shrug. “Well. You’re probably right.”
“So will you talk to Bev?” I asked. “Because I’m not keeping this a secret from her, Dad.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll talk to her. Been dragging my feet on moving out. Guess that says something.”
“It says you love her and don’t want a divorce.”
He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Your day to fix lives?” he asked, a hint of humor in his voice.
“Everyone’s except mine, I guess,” I said. We looked at each other a long minute.
“Harper, I…You know…well, here it is. I know I haven’t been the best father.” He sighed. “With Willa, it’s easy…she…She’s always making mistakes or needs something I can help her with…money, a place to live, whatever. But you…you never needed anything.” He paused. “Except a mother. A real mother, that is. The truth was, I was glad when Linda left. I was afraid she’d ruin you.”
“Is that why you married BeverLee? To give me a mother?”
“That was part of it. A big part.”
God. The past was never what it seemed to be. “Dad,” I said after another few beats, “can I ask you something?”
“Is there any stopping you?”
I grinned a little at that. Dad, making a joke. To me. “Well…no. But I always wondered about something. Did Mom name me after Harper Lee?”
“Who’s that?”
“She wrote
To Kill A Mockingbird
.”
Dad frowned. “Far as I know, you were named after some fashion magazine.”
Oh, crikey.
Harper’s Bazaar
. Well, hell. I guess that made more sense. And for some reason, it was oddly comforting—my mother had never had hidden depths.
“Can I ask you something else, Dad?” I asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Well…” This one was harder. “Dad, if I’d asked for advice all those years ago, what would you have said about me marrying Nick?”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at me as if judging whether or not I wanted the truth. “I guess I would’ve said I thought that boy was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
My heart clenched. “Really?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
“You never said anything. I wasn’t even sure you approved.”
Dad gave a half shrug and looked at the floor once more. “Actions were supposed to speak louder than words,” he replied gruffly. “I let him marry you, didn’t I? Wasn’t about to give my daughter to just anyone.”
Then my father looked up, held out his arms, hesitantly, self-consciously. “Come on,” he said. “Give your old man a hug.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
O
N
F
RIDAY EVENING
, I left the office around four and went home to pack.
That took all of fifteen minutes. To stall a little longer, I went to my computer and checked my list.
1. Make plane reservation. (I’d done that already, as well as confirmed it. Twice.)
2. Make hotel reservation. (Also confirmed twice.)
3. Pack. (Just finished.)
4. Write speech. (Done, if highly unsatisfactory and far too long.)
5. Deliver speech. (Not done.)
6. Get Nick back. (Not done.)
“Crotch,” I whispered, suppressing a dry heave of terror. Because here was the thing. I may have resolved that I didn’t have to be stunted any longer…I may have opened my heart to BeverLee…may have had a little better understanding of my father…but I had no idea if Nick would give me another chance.
I can’t do this anymore,
he said just before he got into the cab.
Ah, hindsight. All those times back then, when I’d pushed him away just enough to try to save that most essential part of myself, to wall him out of my heart in case he left me, to preserve myself from damage…I’d hurt myself, and I’d hurt Nick, too. BeverLee was right. I was so terrified of people leaving me that I never let them in.
Add to this fact, I didn’t even know if Nick was on American soil…I seemed to remember a trip to Dubai (or London, or Seattle) on his calendar. I was too cowardly to call his office and ask for his schedule (not that anyone would give it to me, of course), and far, far too nervous to call him. No. Better if I appeared on his doorstep. If he closed the door, I could always yell up at the windows until the police came.
Theo had clutched a fist to his heart when I’d asked for the time, but when he heard my mission, a rather appealing light came into his eyes. “Take all the time you need,” he said, twinkling. “I’m a sucker for true love. I’ve been married four times, after all.”
My plan…well, it sucked. But at least it was something. If I had to drop by his apartment every four hours until I found him, so be it.
It was, of course, the final step in the “Harper is a Human” campaign. In this past week, I’d babysat for Kim (I now sported two bruises on my shin and a bite mark on my wrist, but had also learned what Pikachu was). I took Tommy out to dinner and picked up the tab, bought Carol a Dustin Pedroia poster. I even cooked dinner and had Bev, Willa and Kim over for a girls night.
And I wrote a letter of apology to Jack and Sarah Costello, telling them how much I had always loved being included in their family gatherings, and how much I regretted causing Dennis any pain. And yes, I’d checked in with Dennis. He was doing A-okay, it seemed. Good old Dennis. He’d been sweetly surprised that I wasn’t back with Nick.
Not yet, I wasn’t. But I was going to try. And if Nick wouldn’t forgive me, or didn’t want me back…the thought caused another dry heave.
“So you’re going?” came a voice. Kim, little Desmond on her hip, smelling of sunscreen and salt water.
“Yeah.” I pulled a face and zipped my suitcase closed.
“It’s good, Harper. It’s really romantic, actually.”
“Right. Even if it does have that restraining-order feel about it. But I guess it’s worth a try.”
“’Do or do not. There is no try,’” she intoned.
“Who said that? Winston Churchill?”
“Yoda. Please. I have four sons.
Star Wars
is my life.”
“So now the Muppets are giving me advice?”
“Count your blessings. It could be TeleTubbies.” She leaned down and gave me an unexpected kiss on the cheek. Desmond kicked me in the ribs, then smiled angelically. “See you when you get back,” my friend said.
“Thanks, Kim,” I replied. I looked at her and forced a smile, which became genuine after a second. “Thanks.”
“Go get him, sister!” she called as she left the room. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Worst-case scenario, you’ll be right back where you are now.”
That was another thing. Here…here was no longer what it had once been. The contentment (the smugness, let’s be honest) I used to feel with my life had evaporated like the morning mist, and I was just like the rest of humanity—all of us poor, pathetic dopes battered by the storms of love. Utterly clueless.
I glanced at my watch, tried not to puke, succeeded and got up to find Coco’s crate. At the sight of her carrier, she immediately put on her Chihuahua-orphan look. Took a step forward, then held up her front paw as if wounded.
“Your paw is fine,” I told her. “What’s the problem? Don’t you want to see Nick? You love Nick, remember? Is this a sign? Are you trying to tell me not to do it? Speak, Coco. You’re much smarter than I am, God knows.”
She hunkered down and gave her tail a little wag—
See? I’m so cute, remember? Don’t make me go into the evil crate! I’m not a city girl!
Who could blame her? Air travel was punishing enough without being caged. And she’d been so stressed in New York…all those horns and sirens, that eternal roar. With a sigh, I sat down next to her.
“Okay. You can stay. But I have to go, baby. You understand, right? Want to go to Kim’s?” Then, thinking of Kim’s litter of male children, I winced. “How about Willa’s?”
My plane left in an hour and a half. Plenty of time to swing by Willa’s—she and Chris had rented a place in Oak Bluffs. I’d seen them a couple of days ago; they still had to get their furniture and stuff from New York, but it was a cute house. Chris seemed good; mentioned AA and the balm of steady work. Willa, for her part, had enrolled in an online class…anatomy. She wanted to be a nurse. It seemed like a good fit for her sunny personality.
I called my sister’s cell. “Hey, you,” I said. “I need a favor.”
“Sure!” she said.
“Can you babysit Coco for a few days? Actually, it might be longer.” My legs gave a watery wobble. “Maybe a week, even.”
“You bet. Where are you going?”
“New York,” I said, swallowing sickly. “Say again?”
“New York City.” I took a breath. “I’m…I’m…I’m going to see Nick.”
“Um…Harper? Nick’s here.”
“What?” I squeaked. “Here? What do you mean, here? Where’s here? At your house?”
“Calm down, calm down,” she said. “He’s on the island.”
“What’s he doing here?” My heart clattered.
“Chris rented a U-Haul yesterday, drove down to the city and packed up our stuff. Nick drove back with him to help unload. So he’s here. But Harper, he just left, like, ten minutes ago. He wanted to catch the seven o’clock ferry out of Oak Bluffs. Then, shit, he’s getting a car service to Logan and going to Seattle or something.”
I looked at my watch. It was 6:22. “I’m on my way,” I blurted.
“Should I call him? Tell him to wait?”
“No! No. Um…he might not want to see me.”
I flew out of the house, leaving my dog yapping a reproach for not taking her. In a spray of crushed shells, I peeled out of my driveway, cutting off an earth-raping Hummer with Virginia plates and earning a few enraged shouts. I ignored them, my little yellow car eating up the road. The route from Menemsha to Oak Bluffs usually took about half an hour, more with tourist traffic. Which we had in droves, it being Columbus Day weekend. I’d never make it if I went through Vineyard Haven proper, so I went down past Fiddlehead Farm, through Tisbury, my hands clenched on the wheel. Past the airport. Onto Barnes Road, where I got stuck behind a minivan from New Jersey.
“Come on, come on, come on, don’t you have your own shore?” I muttered, chewing my cuticle. When the coast was clear, I passed them, flooring it. Hey. I was from Massachusetts, thank you very much. Speed limits were for other states.
But I hadn’t counted on traffic being so damn thick as I came into Oak Bluffs. Short of driving on the lawns (a definite option) and vehicular manslaughter (not so much), I wasn’t going to make it. Tourists decked out in Black Dog hats and T-shirts milled around, and the road was packed with cars.
I glanced at the clock. 6:56.
I wasn’t going to make it. Not on my own, anyway.
I snatched up my phone and pressed the number of someone known and liked by virtually everyone on this island, someone with friends in high places. “Pick up. Please, please, please,” I chanted. My prayer was answered.
“Dude, how’s it hanging?”
“Oh, Dennis, thank God. Listen, I have kind of an emergency. I need to stop the ferry.”
“Why?”
I hesitated. “To stop Nick. To try to get back with him.”
“Awesome,” Dennis said sincerely, and I felt such a rush of affection for him with that word, because Dennis’s heart didn’t have room for resentment.
“But I’m stuck in traffic, and I’m not gonna make the ferry. I thought about calling in a bomb scare—”
“Uncool.”
“—I know, and I don’t want to get arrested. So. Can you help me? I just need a few minutes.”
“Let’s see.” There was a thoughtful pause. “I think Gerry might be working tonight. I’ll make a call, sure.”
“Really?” Hope, that thing with feathers, gave a healthy flap.
“I’ll give it a shot.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“You bet, dude.”
“Dennis, you’re the best.”
“Yeah, whatever. Hey, Harp, listen. You should probably know…I’m back with Jodi.”
“Jodi-with-an-I?” I said automatically, veering around a Mercedes whose driver clearly didn’t know ass from elbow and was trying to turn onto a one-way street.
“Yeah. We hung out the other night, and it was like old times.”
I laughed. “Invite me to the wedding, okay, Den?”
“Dude. Totally.” There was a pause. “Good luck, Harper.”
My throat tightened abruptly. “Thanks, Dennis.”
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally drew within view of the ferry landing. Unfortunately, there was a concert at the gazebo in Ocean Park, and we were inching along. But the ferry was in, even though it was 7:09. Maybe I’d make it after all, and God bless Dennis Patrick Costello. I’d pay for his honeymoon with Jodi, I vowed I would.
Then the air tore with the sound of the ferry’s horn. “No!” I groaned. “Oh, damn it.” I was still two blocks away, there was nowhere to park, dang it all, and my teeth ground in frustration. But then again, if I didn’t catch Nick today, and it was looking as if that was a very real possibility, I could always try some other time.
Except that some other time didn’t have the same appeal as right now. Now. It had to be now.
I pulled over, double-parking next to a red Porsche, and hurtled out of the car.
“You can’t park there!” called a cop.
“Emergency!” I said, bolting across the street. The ramp to the ferry was a long post-and-beam structure, and tonight, it was full of people taking in the sights or seeing off their friends. “Excuse me, excuse me!” I called, pushing through the crowd. “Stop the ferry! Hold the ferry, please!” My feet thudded along the wooden slats as I ran, then jumped over a coil of rope. A radio was playing somewhere, and my busy brain registered the lyrics. “Sweet Home Alabama.” It had to be a sign from God, or Bev, or the universe.
The horn sounded again.
“Stop the ferry!” I shouted. “Please!”
“Too late, lady,” said one of the ferry workers as he tossed a rope to one of the men on board. “No one past this point.”
Then I saw Nick. He stood on the lower deck of the boat, staring out at Martha’s Vineyard as the ferry inched away, the ever-present wind ruffling his hair, his gypsy eyes distant and…sad.
Well. He wasn’t going to be sad anymore, damn it.
“Nick!” I bellowed. “Nick!”
He didn’t see me.
“Nick!” I turned to one of the ferry workers.
Leonard
was embroidered over his pocket. “Leonard!” I barked. “Stop this ferry.”
“Unless this is a medical emergency lady,” he said in a thick New Bedford accent, “or you’re packed with explosives, no can do. Sorry.”
“Stop it or I’m jumping in!”
“Don’t even joke about it, okay?” he said, doing something to the control panel on the boat slip. “You can get arrested for that. And if you get close enough to the propeller, you’ll get sucked right under.”
The propeller was in the back of the boat. I’d aim for the side.
Do or do not. There is no try.
Egged on by Yoda and the surefire knowledge that I loved Nick Lowery more than anything, I ran as fast as I could for the end of the dock, and when the end came, I kept running, and for one incredible second, I was airborne and weightless, flying through the air.
Then the outside world went silent as I went under, bubbles roaring past my ears, and, oh,
crotch,
the water was frigid! I kicked to the surface and emerged, sputtering, salt water stinging my eyes, my skin crawling in a wave of goose bumps. I coughed and looked up at the boat. I couldn’t see Nick, just the massive hull of the boat about twenty feet away. People on the dock yelled and pointed. Treading water, I pushed the sodden hair out of my eyes.
“Gawddammit!” bawled Leonard the dockworker. I glanced back at him as he pulled out his radio and barked into it. “Hughie, we got a fuckin’ nut in the water! Kill the engines!” He looked at me. “Idiot!”
Then there was a splash as a life ring was thrown down from the ferry. I looked up at the boat again. A crowd had gathered, dozens of faces looking down at me. “Nick?” I called. The roar of the engines cut out abruptly, and it suddenly seemed very quiet. “Nick Lowery?” I called again.
There he was, gripping the railing with both hands. “Jesus, Harper, are you all right?” he called.
“Um…sure,” I said, though my teeth were starting to chatter.
“Take the life ring, idiot!” Leonard the dockworker ordered. I ignored him.
“Harpy, what are you doing?” Nick asked. “Are you insane?”
“Um…a little?” I kept treading water, though I was now shuddering with cold. “Nick…I had to see you.”
“Yeah, I got that,” he said.
“Ma’am? Please get out of the water.” Great. There was the cop who told me not to double-park.
“Nick…see, the thing is,” I began swimming a little closer. Then I stopped. I never did get to memorize that horrible speech I’d been working on.