remote. The quiet was like a palpable force, and I felt my soul unfurl a little. Surely Martha’s Vineyard was one of the loveliest places on earth, but it wasn’t like this—majestic, endless and harsh, a place where you could be killed by nature in a hundred different ways at any given moment. For some reason, the thought was oddly soothing. Out here, you were just part of a bigger plan, one you didn’t get to control. Be eaten by a grizzly, have a glacier fall on your head, drown in an icy river—it wasn’t up to you.
“Makes you feel a little…irrelevant, doesn’t it?” Nick asked, indicating the view as he set down my pink drink. “In a nice way.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said, a little disturbed that he’d just about read my mind.
“So you found out Willa’s working for me.” He took a sip of his beer.
“Yes, I did.”
“She asked me not to tell you.”
“And when would you tell me? During our weekly chats? Don’t worry, I’m not mad.”
“Sure you are.” He flashed his lightning smile.
I looked away. “So Jason’s here, huh? I didn’t picture that.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
“How about your father and Lila? Coming in tomorrow?”
Nick’s dark gaze dropped to the table. “No. Dad’s got early onset dementia. He’s pretty out of it.” He began folding the corners of his cocktail napkin.
“Oh, Nick. I’m sorry to hear it.” Without thinking, I reached over and put my hand over his.
“Thanks.” He didn’t look up.
“What about Lila? I can’t imagine she’d want to miss her son’s wedding.”
“Actually, she planned a cruise a while back and didn’t want to cancel.”
That summed up the memory I had of her pretty well. I didn’t know the woman, but I always had the impression there wasn’t a lot to discover.
“So does your dad live near you?”
Nick nodded. “I got him into this pretty nice assisted-living place on the East Side. I can check on him that way.”
“That’s…that’s good.”
I’d met Ted only three times. He was a consultant to large corporations and Republican politicians, though what exactly he consulted on was never fully explained. Very successful, very smug, very oily. After rescheduling four times, he took Nick and me out to dinner when we were engaged. “Harper, call me Ted. You are stunning! I can see my son inherited his old man’s taste in women.” (I know. Nasty.) The next time I saw him was at our wedding, where I was too busy panicking to pay him much attention. The last time was at a Labor Day picnic at his sprawling, soulless McMansion in Westchester County, where Ted invited me to come riding with him sometime. Apparently he was once an alternate on the Olympic equestrian team and said he could tell I had a beautiful seat. (And again…nasty.)
I’d hated the guy, his easy affability with his stepson and younger child, either ignoring Nick altogether or asking him awkward questions that revealed just how little he knew his firstborn. He’d reminisce fondly about Nick’s soccer days when Nick had in fact played baseball. He referred to Nick’s days at UConn when Nick had gone to UMass. Once he mentioned their fishing trip to Maine, as if he’d ever taken Nick anywhere…Jason had been the son on that trip.
Inexplicably, Nick held no rancor toward him; instead, he’d watched his father with hopeful eyes, waiting for something more than a slap on the back and a “Hey, sport, how you doing?” Whatever Nick had waited for never came. At least, not in the time we were together.
I guessed now it never would.
Nick was staring at me.
Oh. I was holding his hand with both of mine, my thumbs stroking his knuckles. I jerked my hands back, then gave his an awkward pat. Took a sip of my cosmo. Note to self: don’t touch Nick. The buzz was quite unsettling, and it wasn’t caused by alcohol.
“So. A divorce attorney.” His hands busied themselves with the napkin. A structure was appearing, Nick’s own brand of
“Makes you feel a little…irrelevant, doesn’t it?” Nick asked, indicating the view as he set down my pink drink. “In a nice way.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said, a little disturbed that he’d just about read my mind.
“So you found out Willa’s working for me.” He took a sip of his beer.
“Yes, I did.”
“She asked me not to tell you.”
“And when would you tell me? During our weekly chats? Don’t worry, I’m not mad.”
“Sure you are.” He flashed his lightning smile.
I looked away. “So Jason’s here, huh? I didn’t picture that.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”
“How about your father and Lila? Coming in tomorrow?”
Nick’s dark gaze dropped to the table. “No. Dad’s got early onset dementia. He’s pretty out of it.” He began folding the corners of his cocktail napkin.
“Oh, Nick. I’m sorry to hear it.” Without thinking, I reached over and put my hand over his.
“Thanks.” He didn’t look up.
“What about Lila? I can’t imagine she’d want to miss her son’s wedding.”
“Actually, she planned a cruise a while back and didn’t want to cancel.”
That summed up the memory I had of her pretty well. I didn’t know the woman, but I always had the impression there wasn’t a lot to discover.
“So does your dad live near you?”
Nick nodded. “I got him into this pretty nice assisted-living place on the East Side. I can check on him that way.”
“That’s…that’s good.”
I’d met Ted only three times. He was a consultant to large corporations and Republican politicians, though what exactly he consulted on was never fully explained. Very successful, very smug, very oily. After rescheduling four times, he took Nick and me out to dinner when we were engaged. “Harper, call me Ted. You are stunning! I can see my son inherited his old man’s taste in women.” (I know. Nasty.) The next time I saw him was at our wedding, where I was too busy panicking to pay him much attention. The last time was at a Labor Day picnic at his sprawling, soulless McMansion in Westchester County, where Ted invited me to come riding with him sometime. Apparently he was once an alternate on the Olympic equestrian team and said he could tell I had a beautiful seat. (And again…nasty.)
I’d hated the guy, his easy affability with his stepson and younger child, either ignoring Nick altogether or asking him awkward questions that revealed just how little he knew his firstborn. He’d reminisce fondly about Nick’s soccer days when Nick had in fact played baseball. He referred to Nick’s days at UConn when Nick had gone to UMass. Once he mentioned their fishing trip to Maine, as if he’d ever taken Nick anywhere…Jason had been the son on that trip.
Inexplicably, Nick held no rancor toward him; instead, he’d watched his father with hopeful eyes, waiting for something more than a slap on the back and a “Hey, sport, how you doing?” Whatever Nick had waited for never came. At least, not in the time we were together.
I guessed now it never would.
Nick was staring at me.
Oh. I was holding his hand with both of mine, my thumbs stroking his knuckles. I jerked my hands back, then gave his an awkward pat. Took a sip of my cosmo. Note to self: don’t touch Nick. The buzz was quite unsettling, and it wasn’t caused by alcohol.
“So. A divorce attorney.” His hands busied themselves with the napkin. A structure was appearing, Nick’s own brand of
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