29. Margot
TWENTY-NINE
Margot
T he coffee aroma filled the kitchen. The coffee bubbled and dripped in the carafe. It gave off the illusion that everything was fine. It was safe and normal inside these walls. But Caleb wasn’t here. He’d gone outside. He’d left me alone to deal with what I’d revealed in the yard. He’d seen what I’d been hiding—my grief and shame. Embarrassment. It was a clear and present unraveling. Maybe he had given me a way out to regroup. Refocus.
While he walked the perimeter of the cottage, I climbed the stairs to change clothes again. My shorts were dirty and wet from the books. No matter what I did, I wasn’t going to be able to escape the reminders. I wouldn’t be able to pretend it didn’t happen.
Caleb had seen the destruction and my devastation up close, and I couldn’t hide it any longer.
I pulled on a clean pair of denim shorts and a new tank top. In the corner of the room was the last remaining box Colleen had sent. I picked up one of the only copies of the book I hadn’t destroyed. I carried it with me to the kitchen and placed it on the counter. I poured a cup of coffee and waited for Caleb.
“A few shingles. Not a big deal. I can help you with those,” he announced when he strolled inside. “I only need a ladder and a hammer. If they aren’t here, I can run by my dad’s garage and pick them up.” I couldn’t believe he was willing to do so much to help me.
Our eyes met. I took a breath, wanting to hold that moment for as many counts as I could.
I slid the book in his direction. “This is it. The full book. This one isn’t watered down.” I tried to lighten the mood.
He flipped it over and read the back cover. The words were on his lips. I studied his face and every flick of his eyes.
“Does this mean I can read it?” he asked.
“What? No. Why would you want to read it? It’s terrible. I told you that.”
“I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks about your book. What do they know anyway?”
My shoulders sank. “Umm, only that they couldn’t sell it. That it’s not profitable. That it was a complete failure.”
“I don’t care what other people think about it. I want to read it. I can decide for myself if I like a book.” He looked determined. “I don’t think all that stuff you’re talking about is what makes a book good or not. That’s marketing and shit I don’t know about. It doesn’t mean this isn’t good.” He wagged the book in front of me. “I’m going to read it.”
I felt panicked. My palms became sticky. My heart raced. “What if you don’t like it?” I wanted to tear it out of his hands. I regretted showing him the last copy.
He leaned toward me, his elbows pressing into the counter. “Why wouldn’t I like it? You wrote it, Margot. I’m going to love this book.”
My stomach flipped. The butterflies did their tiny dance and floated through my veins. How did he do that? He didn’t know if it was the worst novel ever written. But staring in his eyes I believed he would love the book. I believed he would read it and study each word I wrote, every sentence. Somehow, I was convinced he would never think it was terrible.
“If you don’t though?—”
“Stop it.” Our eyes locked again. “The agent, the whoever who told you it wasn’t going to work for what they needed, they’re in your head. I’m going to read this.” He gripped his copy. “I guess it does explain a few things.”
“Like what?” I was trying to let go of the panic and focus on the trill of the butterflies still running through me.
“Like why you came back to Marshoak. You probably could have handled a lot of this estate stuff through the mail. You wanted to know, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” I knew he needed more answers than I had given.
“Have you gotten what you came for?”
I wasn’t ready to answer. “Coffee?” I offered, squeezing through the tiny space by the counter to reach the coffee pot. I poured a mug for Caleb. I placed it in his hands so he would finally let go of the damn book.
“Let’s sit on the porch. But, I’ve got to get those biscuits.”
I stifled a laugh, watching this strong, athletic man who was capable of almost any physical task wrestle with a potholder to get the tray out of the oven.
“This will have to do.” He piled them on a plate and we walked together to the screen porch, sitting next to each other. I put my feet up on one of the faded cushions.
“I don’t know the answer to give you about why I came,” I finally replied. “I got the papers from a messenger. I’d been kicked out of the apartment I lived in with my boyfriend. The book tanked. The tour was canceled. I drove here with everything I owned stuffed in my car.” I held the coffee to my lips. “I guess I did want to come back to the island.”
“I’m glad you did.” His smile was easy. Sexy.
“Aren’t you going to ask the follow-up question?”
“What’s that?” He played innocent well.
“The conversation we never had last night. The one I owe you.” Last night we were swept away in each other. But I knew we couldn’t push away the truth. I couldn’t cast it away any longer.
“I don’t know what else to say. Why don’t you start with why you left?”
I closed my eyes. I wanted him to know all of it instantly, but he was right. I had to start at the beginning.
“There was something I never told you that summer.”
“I’m going to listen to all of it.” He leaned back into the worn cushions.
I exhaled. “The reason my mom and I were here with Uncle Walt the entire summer was because my parents had separated. I was too embarrassed to tell you, I think. I didn’t want it to define my time with you. It didn’t feel real.” I turned to face him on the loveseat. “I should have told you. I should have told someone.”
“What happened? With your parents?”
“It was only for that summer. I don’t really know what happened between them. They didn’t talk about it. We went back to Virginia, and they acted like everything was fine and perfectly normal like Mom and I had been on a big summer vacation together.” I stared at my coffee.
“That’s kind of fucked up.”
“It is. It was.” I took a breath. Thinking about my parents in the past tense always made my stomach drop. “I kept the secret too. I’m not sure why. When I was with you, I only wanted it to be about us.” I turned toward him. “Does that make sense?”
“Mmmhmm.” His jaw locked the way it always did when he was thinking.
“Then one day, I woke up and Mom said she had packed the car, and we were driving to Virginia.” My palms became sticky. “Walt seemed annoyed. He went out to get more bait or something. I don’t actually know. But he hadn’t come back by the time I was packed. We left without saying goodbye to him.”
“What?” Caleb rubbed the back of his head. It still surprised me how short it was compared to when we met.
“Yeah. Something happened between those two. Mom didn’t talk about that either. I don’t know if I was in shock. I was angry. I was so angry at my mom for making me leave when I didn’t want to go home. And I had no explanation. No reason from her. From my dad. I screwed up everything with you.” My face fell into my hands. “I knew it. I knew what I had done, and I couldn’t deal with any of it. I shut down.”
“I want to tell you it’s okay.” He sighed. “But God, it messed me for a long time.”
I nodded, still unable to look at him. “It messed me up too.”
He gently tugged my hands away from my face. “I wish I had known what was going on with you that summer. It makes sense now. If I had known, everything would have been different.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. I had hurt him. Hurt us. We had carried the pain of my indecision for seven years. I never shook him. Never forgot him. Never could untangle him from my mind.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I had to choke down the sob that almost cut off the words. I owed him that apology for seven years. “I’m so sorry, Caleb. I should have said it last night and when I saw you for the first time and every day I had a chance. I should have said I’m sorry.”
We sat in silence, and I wondered if the apology had come too late. I worried last night hadn’t knitted us back together the way I thought but only made a temporary stitch.