Chapter 18
For six weeks, Lucy measured every sunrise and sunset against Adam’s absence. He respected her space; there were no calls, no letters, no sudden appearances in the lobby, no flowers left on the doorstep, no deputizing a mutual friend to deliver an apology.
The only contact was a daily message from him asking her to forgive him and saying he was there when she wanted to talk.
Industry gossip blogs weren’t quiet about any of it. The headlines about Karina came next. Every article dubbed Lucy “a guest of Northstar executive Adam Shay,” as if a scandal could preserve her only as someone’s appendage.
Comments beneath the articles unfolded like a sideshow: strangers divvied up motives for each of them—Karina, the mastermind criminal; Lucy, the helpless fiancée who drove Adam’s aide to desperation; Adam, either the perfect monster or the naive wronged party.
None of these crowd-sourced diagnoses allowed anyone to feel whole, complicated, or wrong about their own instincts.
At home, silence settled around Lucy’s deadlines.
She’d missed two during the cruise fiasco, and both publishers had granted extensions when she’d supplied a terse letter from the Coast Guard confirming events.
The cover mock-up waiting on her tablet was for some breezy romantic comedy about a woman inheriting a marina.
Lucy scrolled through her own sketches for the book jacket—each one featured roiling water, emergency flares, a lone boat slipping through midnight shadows.
She tapped her pen against the screen, half-smiling at her own dark imagination.
Her editor’s note came in pale gray type: Perhaps fewer flares, he suggested beside a design she had nearly painted entirely in black.
Beneath a jaunty red speedboat, he’d written, Could we dial back the peril?
She closed the file and rose to stretch, aching for something—anything—that didn’t feel skewed by accusation.
In the kitchen, Adam’s ghost was most vivid.
Since his departure, the dishwasher filled itself correctly, the counters stayed bare, and Lucy realized she’d never been so lonely in a spotless room.
Every morning she reached for a cup of tea and found herself glancing at the yellow kettle standing perched on its perch, a dull dent along its spout where he’d once dropped it by accident.
The kettle dripped betrayal every time she poured.
Adam had sworn the dent was only cosmetic, then tried to fix it with a kit from the hardware store.
She’d teased him when that drip resumed.
After an hour-consuming crusade through online reviews, she’d replaced it with a sleek stainless-steel model that boiled water in half the time and poured without a single angry droplet.
Yet she couldn’t bring herself to toss the yellow kettle.
She tucked it on the stove decoratively, like a memory you refuse to erase.
Every Sunday, Steven arrived with battered takeout boxes in each hand and a grin.
His ankle scar, pale and curved like a sliver of moonlight, proved he’d healed, and he paraded it whenever conversation threatened to turn serious.
He complained about being demoted to restricted duty in the emergency department, how his colleagues mocked his misadventure.
Lucy carried the cartons into the living room. Steven’s gaze swept the apartment. He paused at the blank space where Adam’s award had once hung. The wall was a cleaner white there, a patch of untouched painting among more faded sections. He cocked his head. “Have you decided about the lease?”
“It ends in November,” Lucy said, as if stating the weather.
“That’s a date,” he pointed out, “not a decision.”
“You’ve grown awfully critical, considering I saved your life.”
He smiled. “I was critical before even before dehydration rendered me sentimental.”
She sank onto the opposite end of the couch. Rain had begun to spatter the windows, soft but persistent. Her body no longer trusted weather forecasts; she always carried a bottle of water, a flashlight, and a portable battery in her bag—just in case. “I’m not staying.”
He leaned forward. “Where will you go?”
“I put in an application for a place in Brooklyn. Smaller, but the second bedroom gets enough light for a studio.” She had toured it twice; wooden floors, wide stairs, a laundromat below, no concierge who would remember him carrying her across the lobby when she’d broken a sandal.
“If I accept Northstar’s financial payout, I can afford it. ”
“You should accept because their employee stranded you, and Adam used your ideas and artwork which you never got compensated for all these years,” he said, “not because you need new rent money.”
She met his eyes. “You’re right.”
“I often am.”
Lucy threw a wadded napkin at him. It bounced off his shoulder. He caught it. “You’re sharp today.”
Northstar’s licensing sum had been reviewed by a lawyer unaffiliated with any of them. The figure accounted for prior use, campaign profits, and future royalties. The terms were so scrupulously fair that Lucy felt guilty for feeling satisfied.
She signed the agreement two days later.
Northstar updated their website crediting her as the original artist and updated every campaign credit online, and sent her an email titled “Unqualified Apology.” No accompanying note from Adam arrived, but she knew his handiwork and knew he had initiated the correction.
Packing started slowly. She boxed up books and bulky winter coats first. The framed photograph of them at the beach, where he’d first pitched the idea of moving in together, she wrapped last. It felt too final to decide whether it belonged with her new life.
She tucked it into brown paper and left it for the end, an undecided question.
On a Wednesday afternoon, Marilyn Shay called.
Lucy was sealing the third box when her phone vibrated: “Lucy? It’s Marilyn.
” The background crackle of road noise and an impatient turn-signal click told Lucy her presence was unguarded by hotel-lobby formality.
Marilyn’s voice was brisk, unsentimental.
“I’m not calling for him. He doesn’t know I’m calling, and he’ll be furious when he finds out. ”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t,” Lucy said, safe behind a wall of books.
Marilyn sighed. “I considered that. It lacked appeal.” She parked, and the background faded. “I wanted to know if you’re all right.”
“I’m fine,” Lucy said, but added, “I’m sleeping, I’m working, I got a new apartment.” She let each declaration hang between them.
A pause. Lucy heard a car door slam. Marilyn’s tone sharpened. “Adam didn’t tell me you were moving.”
“I haven’t told him.”
“He hasn’t told me much of anything. He comes for dinner, tinkers with things that aren’t broken, then disappears before I can ask whether he plans to win you back.
” When Lucy stayed silent, Marilyn pressed on.
“I’m not calling for him to defend him, or to plead your case.
I’m angry with him.” The word arrived carefully, as if rage itself needed safeguarding.
“He lost the best thing that ever happend to him—you.”
Lucy’s breath caught. “Thank you,” she whispered, surprised to taste relief.
“I’m furious with him,” Marilyn repeated. Her voice softened, though no less impatient. “Is there any part of you that would consider reconciling?”
“I don’t know…” Lucy said slowly. “I don’t know how to trust him again. How will I know he’s changed?”
Marilyn didn’t have an answer for that.
When the call ended, Lucy remained on the floor among half-packed cartons. Rain darkened the windows, and the boxes around her took on a somber stillness. Marilyn’s words echoed in the hush.
On Friday, a plain cardboard package arrived. Lucy almost refused it—Adam’s handwriting loomed across the label—but the return address read “Queens Appliance,” and curiosity unsealed the box. Inside lay the yellow kettle. Tucked beside it was a note, three brief sentences on crisp stationery:
“I hope sending it doesn’t break my promise not to bother you. I saw this in the window, and it made me think of you. I think of you every day, Lucy. Please let me see you. Please talk to me, even though I know I don’t deserve it. I’ll love you forever, no matter what happens.”
Lucy carried the kettle to the stove, set it beside the dented model, and stared. For minutes she stood between them, furious at both objects for existing. Furious at herself, for still loving Adam so fiercely, even though she was not sure he deserved it.
Her finger hovered over her phone’s messaging app. The last text from Adam had arrived that morning: another invitation to talk, another declaration of love, another apology. She opened the thread, reread each line until the words blurred, and finally, she typed:
You may send me a letter. I will read it.
She hesitated, then pressed Send. Her heart pounded—half relief, half dread—until the reply pinged in three minutes later:
Thank you.
In those two small syllables, Lucy heard his respect for boundaries, or perhaps the faintest promise of repair.