Chapter Eighteen Marigold
Marigold wasn’t surprised that she fell asleep during the short drive back to Hugo’s house.
It had been one of the most physically and emotionally draining days of her life—in the past fourteen hours, she’d learned she’d potentially sabotaged her own wedding, flown to another country without so much as a toothbrush, spoken to her ex-husband for the first time in four years, and had an embarrassing fan encounter at pub trivia, all while lying to everyone she loved most. She could’ve fallen asleep at a death metal concert.
But there was something particularly soothing about sitting in the passenger seat of Hugo’s truck at night, watching him drive with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting lightly on the gearshift.
Knowing that she was in such safe hands.
“Let’s get you to bed,” Hugo said as he opened the passenger door to help her out. She followed him up the front path while Humphrey ran circles around them, barking excitedly. “Just ignore him. He thinks it’s time for his walk. I’ll take him out after I show you to your room.”
“I’ll go with you,” Marigold said. The sharp scent of the sea had revived her like old-fashioned smelling salts. “I’ll sleep better after a little beach walk.”
“Let’s see how you feel in a few minutes.
” She followed him inside, through the living room, and into the small room she remembered being used for storage.
The last time she’d seen it, it’d been stuffed with suitcases, broken furniture, and battered cardboard boxes, but since then it’d been transformed into a proper guest room, with a cast-iron bed covered in a blue-and-white patchwork quilt, a wooden rocking chair with hand-embroidered cushions, and a small antique dresser with a vase of dried flowers on top.
What had precipitated all this? She remembered what Lauren had said about the intense efforts Hugo had devoted to his abrupt career change: He was like a man possessed. Did that have anything to do with his sudden interest in interior decorating? “Wow,” Marigold said. “It looks great in here.”
“Thanks, yeah, I thought about renting it out on Airbnb at some point, but the idea of strangers sleeping here just felt too weird.”
Marigold nodded seriously. “You gotta be on your guard around those Anne of Green Gables tourists. Who knows what they’re capable of?”
“Easy for you to say—they’re not staying in your house.” Hugo shuddered. “All those fake braids attached to those straw hats…”
“You know, it does sound kind of kinky, when you think about it. You’re right, I wouldn’t want them doing some Anne and Gilbert role-play in my bed.”
Hugo covered his ears. “No more, please!”
Marigold flung herself on the bed with a laugh. “Call me Carrots,” she said, trying to make her voice as husky as Richie’s.
Hugo dove onto the bed next to her, face down with his hands still covering his ears. “I don’t want to know what that means,” he said into the pillow.
Marigold sat up and stared at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve never read the book.”
“Nope,” he said, rising up onto his elbows.
“Your loss. It’s one of the only books I remember truly loving as a kid. My mom read the first two aloud to me and Olivia, back when we shared a room. Then we moved in with Bill, and I read the rest of the series on my own. They were my mom’s favorite, too, when she was growing up.”
Hugo watched her for a beat, then asked, “How’s she doing?”
“Great!” Marigold said automatically. “She’s starting this new miracle drug.”
But for some reason, the words didn’t give her the boost they normally did, and Marigold felt the familiar stirring in her chest, the one she’d become adroit at neutralizing with some kind of distraction—an extravagant shopping spree in SoHo, an impromptu drive to Montauk at two a.m., an evening that started with drinks at the Carlyle and ended with a sunrise photo shoot on an abandoned pier in New Jersey.
The dark thoughts only slipped past her defenses when things were still and silent, when she was afraid of waking Jonathan up after a long day.
She recognized the irony; there was no one better equipped to listen to her fears than an empathetic oncologist trained to have the most difficult conversations imaginable.
He wouldn’t flinch at the questions that filled the silence between heartbeats when there were no other sounds to drown them out.
Marigold pulled her knees up to her chest, and a moment later, Hugo sat up and scooched over so he was sitting next to her, just close enough for their upper arms to touch.
Without thinking, she leaned into him and stayed like that for a long moment, feeling the warmth of his body seep into hers.
Knowing that he wouldn’t move until she did, wouldn’t speak until she did.
After a few minutes, the knot in her chest began to loosen, and she felt she could breathe again.
The door creaked open, and Humphrey burst into the room, nails skittering on the hardwood floor. “Let’s take him out,” Marigold said, rising to her feet. “Can I borrow a jacket?”
They headed to the closet by the front door where Hugo produced a fleece for Marigold, and a black hoodie for himself. She watched him zip it up, then burst out laughing. “What?” he asked, confused.
“I didn’t realize you were such a big Nickelback fan.”
“Who isn’t? They’re one of Canada’s greatest treasures.”
“You have got to be kidding me. Tell me you’re kidding.”
“It was in the lost-and-found box at the boatyard for a long time, and I was cold one day, so I took it.”
“Hugo, you cannot wear that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s literally the most embarrassing sweatshirt I’ve seen in my entire life.”
“I literally couldn’t care less. It’s really warm, and I wear it to walk my dog. Who’s gonna judge me?”
“Oh, trust me, even Humphrey’s embarrassed.”
Hugo opened the door and Humphrey dashed out to run a few circles on the lawn while he waited for them to catch up. “You coming?”
“Yes,” Marigold grumbled. “But I’ll have you know, that sweatshirt alone is grounds for an annulment.”
“Who are you worried about impressing?”
“No one. I’m just giving you a little friendly fashion advice.”
Hugo began to sing quietly. “Save tonight, and fight the break of dawn. Come tomorrow, tomorrow I’ll be gone…”
“Okay, that’s not Nickelback.”
“No? Who is it, then?”
“Eagle-Eye Cherry, I think?”
“Guess I should probably get one of their sweatshirts.”
“Oh god, please don’t.”
“So what’s Nickelback’s big song?”
“I truly have no idea.”
“And yet you somehow find it embarrassing. That makes sense.” Hugo pulled out his phone and opened Spotify. “Aha, here we go.” The opening chords of a vaguely familiar song rang out as Hugo murmured along. “It’s not like you… ba doo dum… say sorry…”
Marigold covered her ears. “Please stop.”
“… this is how you remind me,” Hugo sang in that deep, slightly scratchy voice that had captivated her that night on the beach. Suddenly, Nickelback didn’t seem all that embarrassing.
But Marigold refused to let him get off that easily and made a show of running ahead.
“I refuse to stay within earshot of that,” she called over her shoulder.
Hugo’s singing got louder as he approached the chorus.
“I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVING MY EARS ACCOSTED BY NICKELBACK,” Marigold shouted, though in truth, she’d happily listen to Hugo sing anything.
His rich, gravelly voice was still one of her favorite sounds in the world.
She sped up, laughing as Hugo chased after her.
Without thinking, she turned around the side of the house and ran down the dirt path that led to the beach, guided by muscle memory and the scent of the sea.
“YOU CONSENTED THE MOMENT YOU LANDED ON CANADIAN SOIL!” Hugo rejoined, then started to sing again, even louder.
“Stop it!” Marigold tried to speed up, but her laughter kept throwing her off-balance.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed this hard.
This wasn’t the practiced, coquettish giggle she could produce on command—this was wild and genuine and was probably doing unattractive things to her face, but she didn’t care.
When the path began to slope down, she slowed to a walk, though she was still laughing too hard to catch her breath.
Her lungs burned, but the rest of her body felt strangely light.
Hugo fell in step next to her while Humphrey sprinted ahead, though he kept whirling around and running back to sniff Marigold, confirming she hadn’t once again vanished into thin air.
For Marigold, stepping onto the sand was like stepping back in time. Her skin tingled with the memory of emerging from the water—lost and shivering—until she’d been enveloped by the warmth of a fire, and the welcoming smile of a guitar-strumming stranger.
As though reading her mind, Hugo said quietly, “I think about that night every time I come down here.”
“How often is that?”
“Every day.”
Marigold came to a stop and closed her eyes as something in her chest tore open. The world seemed to swim around her, as if the stars themselves had slid out of the night sky and come tumbling down to earth.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“Why’d you leave, Mare?” Her eyes were still closed, but she could feel him standing next to her.
“I don’t know,” she said, voice cracking under the weight of all the other words left unsaid, the ones she’d been afraid to utter, even to herself.
The truths she’d buried to protect her heart, even when it meant breaking his.
Because deep down, she did know why she’d run away after the two happiest weeks of her life.
She’d always been told that she was reckless, that she didn’t consider the consequences of her impulsive decisions.
That she depended on others to clean up her messes.
And so, when she’d married a stranger after two weeks, it’d felt like she was proving everyone right.
But that was only half of it. The truth was, she’d been blissfully happy and utterly terrified at the same time.
She’d felt free with Hugo in a way she never had before; there’d been no pressure to maintain the charming party-girl persona that had defined and exhausted her back home.
But that’d also made her feel incredibly vulnerable—she’d never gone that long without her armor, and was terrified that Hugo would eventually lose interest once he realized she was just a girl like any other.
But how could she tell him all this? It sounded trite and ridiculous in her own head; how could she possibly say any of it aloud?
“Those two weeks felt like a dream,” she said finally.
“It was hard to believe that kind of happiness could be real. I figured I’d ruin it at some point, and you didn’t deserve that. ”
“I thought…” Hugo’s shoulders slumped. “I assumed you regretted marrying someone like me. No degree, no real career. I thought you were ashamed of me.”
“Hugo, no.” The word tore through her, propelled by shame. “You’re so completely, totally off base. I didn’t think I was good enough for you! You’re brilliant and kind and handsome, and I was this flighty girl who couldn’t stick with anything.”
She turned away, unable to bear the pain in Hugo’s eyes. “So that’s why you started the business? Redid the house? To prove you were ‘good enough’ for me?”
He reached out for her arm and gently pulled her around to face him. “I don’t regret any of it,” he said quietly. “Even if I was… misguided. It put me on the right track. And I’ll always be grateful to you for that.”
“Don’t say that.” Marigold shook her head just as tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I don’t deserve that.”
“Mare… You don’t need to beat yourself up. There were a million reasons why it never would’ve worked. Just because I didn’t see them at the time doesn’t mean you weren’t right.”
“Right to run off? And leave you a note?”
“No,” he said, wincing. “That wasn’t right. But you were scared and made a mistake. I forgive you.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself,” Marigold said, voice trembling.
Hugo reached out to wipe the tears off her cheek, then ran his fingers along the side of her face until his hand cupped her chin.
Gently, he lifted her face toward his. Marigold’s whole body went still except for her heart, which began to thump as manically as Humphrey’s tail.
This was it. The moment she’d longed for and feared since he’d first opened the door.
She closed her eyes and held her breath, then felt his lips brush against her forehead.
She wasn’t sure whether she was more disappointed or relieved.
Hugo let out a long breath, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her toward his chest, this time kissing the top of her head. “You have to,” he whispered into her ear. “We gave it a shot. Now it’s time to move on.”
Marigold didn’t answer. She leaned into him, pressing the side of her face into his shirt. Letting him hold her as they swayed to the rhythm of her last few sobs, and then when she’d finished, the crash of the waves against the shore.