Chapter Thirty-Six
Ciara
It’s another beautiful afternoon the day I drive Sam to the graveyard.
It does not put me in a good mood. It’s been a week since the storm, and we’ve been promised a break in the weather, but, so far, it hasn’t happened.
No winds come from the ocean, no clouds drift in the sky.
Nothing to give us a break from the heat and the humidity and the increasing underboob sweat.
“I’m getting real sick of this shit,” I say as we get out of the car. “It’s August. I’m supposed to start wearing my coats soon. That’s the whole point of coat season.”
“You have more than one coat?”
“Of course I have more than one coat. You only have one coat?”
“I think so.”
“I have three coats,” I tell him. “I have my raincoat, my fancy coat, and my day-to-day coat. And I’ll have you know I look great in all of them.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen me in my day-to-day coat,” I mutter, kicking the tire of my car. We’re the only people around, which should give me a sense of space but only hammers home the solitary feeling I get whenever I come here. “Want to go to the beach instead?”
“What?”
“Maddie always needs help these days.”
Sam just gives me a look. “You’re procrastinating again.”
“Yes,” I say. “Obviously.”
“Come on.” He takes my hand and all but drags me through the gates, ignoring my grumbling.
To be honest, Carrigwest’s graveyard has never looked so good. The sunlight’s streaming. The birds are chirping. Someone’s cut the grass recently, and the gravel paths crunch pleasantly under our steps. I feel places like this shouldn’t be so cheerful, but here we are.
Despite rarely coming here, I could walk to my dad’s resting place with my eyes closed, and I lead Sam over to the shadow of a small yew tree, where I said my final goodbye to him.
The grave is simple, just like he requested.
A modest headstone with his name and dates engraved in neat, clear lettering.
No one but his family and friends know he’s buried here, so the place is left untouched except for a small bouquet.
It looks fresh, not dried out from the sun, and a glance at the note tells me Ronan left it there.
My previous sarcastic chipperness falters at the sight, and I turn to Sam, suddenly nervous.
“I’m not really a grave person.”
“Okay…,” he says slowly.
“Like, I don’t believe he’s in there,” I say, trying to explain. “Or anywhere. I just believe he’s…” I wave my arms around. “Energy or something.” Ugh. “This was a bad idea. Let’s go.”
He grabs my arm before I can leave, tugging me firmly back into position. “You wanted to do this,” he reminds me.
“And now I don’t.”
“I’ll give you a minute.”
“No.” I grasp his hand so quickly that he looks at me in surprise, but he doesn’t move. “I want you to meet him.”
“Then I’ll follow your lead” is all he says, and turns back to the grave expectantly.
I take a breath, feeling like an idiot. If Sam so much as looks at me weirdly, I’m abandoning this thing altogether. But he doesn’t. He just waits. His hand in mine.
“This is Sam,” I announce. “He’s a big fan of yours. The biggest, actually. And secretly a giant nerd.” I nudge him. “Say hello.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam says to the headstone.
He somehow makes it sound not stupid, for which I am eternally grateful.
“I sent you a letter when I was fourteen. You probably don’t remember it, but Ciara tells me that you read every single one you got.
Knowing you saw mine means the world to me. ”
Oh God. There’s a burning in the back of my nose that won’t go away no matter how much I tell it to, and see? This is why I don’t come here. This is why I am not a grave person. I am not—
Sam clears his throat.
“Sam’s a workaholic,” I say abruptly. “And an early riser. He’s also a brilliant editor and a cheap drunk.
He makes me laugh, and he’s kind, and I’m in love with him.
And I think you would have really, really liked him.
I think you two would have been friends and I wish you could have met him.
But you should know that it was your books that brought us together.
It was because of you that we met. So thank you for that. ”
I pause, and Sam squeezes my hand.
“So yeah,” I add. “I love you. And I miss you. I miss you every single day and I don’t know if that’s ever going to stop, but I’m okay. I’ve got lots of people to look after me and we’re going to fix the house and I’m going to write your book and it’s all going to be fine. I promise.”
I fall silent, letting the words hang in the air. I feel as if I’m expected to say more, talk about how much he’s missed in the last year and how much I wish he’d seen, but when I search my soul for more, nothing more comes.
“You all right?” Sam murmurs.
“Yeah.” The word comes out like a sigh of relief, and I lean against him, exhausted. “All done.”
“That was nice, Ciara.”
“I’m actually extremely sentimental.” I fold my arms across my chest, hugging them in tight. “He’d probably laugh if he heard that.”
“I don’t think so,” Sam says. “I think, if he could, he’d tell you he was proud of you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
And then, in a moment of such perfect timing that it could never, ever be repeated, my phone starts to ring.
Both of us freeze.
“Do you think that’s him?” I whisper, and Sam frowns. “Oh, who are you, the graveyard police? I’m allowed to make jokes.”
“Will you just see who it is?”
“You’re going to look so stupid if it’s my dad,” I warn, digging it out of my pocket.
I’m expecting Maddie, so I’m surprised when Casey’s name flashes up.
Sam just shrugs when I show him the screen. “Answer it,” he says, but I hesitate.
“What if he asks for an update about the book?”
“Then pretend you’re going through a tunnel.”
“Oh, now who’s making— Hey!”
Sam taps the accept button on my screen, and I hit him on the shoulder as I answer it. He doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Hi, Casey.”
“Ciara.” He pauses. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect you to pick up.”
“Yeah, well, I like to keep people on their toes.” I squint at the sky as a lone bird soars by. “How are you?”
“Busy,” he says. “Busy chasing you. Frank’s solicitor has been trying to get in touch. He’s sent you several emails over the past few days.”
“I’ve been a little distracted.”
“Which is what I told him. I said I’d pass his message along.” As he talks, I put him on speaker so Sam can hear. “Have you been online recently?”
“As in, have I logged on to the World Wide Web? Your editorial director won’t let me.”
“Then I’ll get straight to it,” he says. “Some of Frank’s readers want to contribute to rebuilding the house. They launched a crowdfund in your name when news of the storm hit, and they want to help.”
“They don’t have to do that,” I say awkwardly.
“And I’m sure they know that, but they’d like to. They’ve written you an open letter explaining why.”
“Oh. All right.” I look at Sam, but he shakes his head. He didn’t know anything about this either. “That’s nice of them. How many fans?”
“Twelve—”
“Okay, great. I—”
“—thousand.”
I blink. “Pardon?”
“Twelve thousand or so,” Casey continues. “The number keeps going up every few minutes, but that’s where they were the last time I checked.”
“I…what?”
I must look as helpless as I feel because Sam takes one look at me and steps in. “Casey? It’s Sam. Care to elaborate on that?”
“I don’t know how much more there is to say,” he answers, and I get the sneaking suspicion he’s enjoying himself.
“Amy informed me it started after people found out about the damage. At first they wanted to contribute to the repairs, but the more it grew, the more people talked about what else they could do with it. Those behind the initial fundraising have now approached your solicitor with an offer.”
“Which is?”
“To buy it from you.”
“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see it. “I’m not selling it to one of his fans. Or to twelve thousand of them or whatever.”
“It’s not for them to live in,” he says. “They want to turn it into a museum. Or a museum slash writing retreat, if I’m reading it correctly.”
“But what does that even mean?”
“Ciara, the money raised is a significant amount. We’re talking a couple of million dollars already.
Enough to buy it and rebuild it and more.
They’ve proposed turning part of the house into a museum where people can learn about Frank, and the rest into an educational space.
They’ve already approached a few of the colleges taking part in his creative writing scholarships, and they’ve agreed to contribute to a summer program, should you agree. ”
“Like, a school?”
“Frank loved to teach.”
He did. He loved it almost as much as writing.
“What they’re suggesting is pretty sound,” Casey continues carefully. “I was as surprised as you were when I first heard it, but the more I read the proposal, the more I was convinced. I would give it some thought if I were you.”
“I will,” I say, too baffled to say anything else, and we exchange goodbyes before hanging up. “Holy shit.”
Sam looks as stumped as me. “You okay?”
“That was not what I expected that phone call to be about.”
“He said they wrote you an open letter?”
He did.
I fumble with the phone, but my fingers are being weird and trembly and when I hold the thing out to him with a helpless grunt Sam takes it from me and looks up the fundraising site.
The letter is right there on the front page.
Dear Ms. Ciara Sheridan,
You do not know me and I do not know you, but as a member of the small group that first launched this crowdfunder, I have been asked to write on behalf of all of us.
I think I must have read every Ravian book at least fifteen times.
I read them when I was happy and when I was sad.
I read them when I was heartbroken and when I was ill and when I was so homesick I thought I might cry.
I took them with me to college and then to my first apartment, my second apartment, my house.
I read them while I stayed up nursing my first child and, twelve years later, I got to pass the same copy on to my son so that he could discover their magic as well.
I never had the chance to meet your father, but I never felt I needed to. I met him through his words, and I want you to know that he brought me so much comfort that it was like he had gifted me a second world I could escape to.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am to hear that you are finishing these stories for us. He always spoke so warmly of you in interviews, and I hope you know just how excited we are for this book and for you.
When we heard the news of the house, we knew that we wanted to do something to honor your father and all that he’s given to us. We cannot imagine what you are going through, and we won’t try to, but if we may, we would like to share our proposal, which you can read in full below.
On behalf of fans everywhere, for the future of Ravian,
Angela Baxter
I read it three times before I scroll down, only able to skim through the following documents as my mind starts to spin.
“This is…a lot,” I finally say as Sam stands silent by my side.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now. Take all the time you need to—”
“I think I should do it.”
“Or that.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you sure?”
“No. Yes. I think so. I mean I obviously have to read it through and get someone who knows what they’re talking about to look at it, but I think…it makes the most sense, doesn’t it?”
“It’s up to you.”
“I know that.” I let my head drop and Sam palms the back of my neck, drawing me into him. “I think it makes sense,” I say. “Do you think it makes sense?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“But it does if it means…” I pull back, and his arm falls away. It becomes difficult to meet his eyes, so I stare at the base of his throat instead. “If it means that I go with you.”
The silence is broken only by the sound of birdsong in the distance, and I feel so nervous that it takes everything in me not to just laugh and pretend I was joking. To take it all back. To run and hide. But I don’t. I stay right where I am.
“With me?” Sam asks.
“If the offer’s still on the table.”
I lift my gaze to find him staring right at me, his brown eyes as warm as I’ve ever seen them.
“It’s still on the table,” he says, his voice low and serious. “It’s definitely still on the table.”
“Okay,” I say, and the word comes out like a chirp. “Great. Good to know.”
“Ciara—”
“It might be different living together.”
“We already live together,” he reminds me, and yes, point taken.
“I bet your apartment is smaller than my house.”
“You would bet correctly.”
“And that you live up three flights of stairs.”
“Five. No elevator.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter, but he just smiles. Smiles because he knows he has me.
“Come with me to New York,” he says softly. “Come be with me.”
“All right,” I say, as his hands go to my hips. “But only because you asked so nicely.”
I rise up to press my lips to his, and when I try to pull away he chases me, kissing me until I’m laughing. Or at least I think I’m laughing. There are tears in my eyes, but they’re not sad. There’s a tug in my chest, but it’s not painful.
Instead, it feels like I’m filling my lungs for the first time. It feels like I can finally breathe.
And when he tucks me into him, resting his chin on my head, it feels like I’m finally home.