Chapter 19 Esme #2
He reached for me, pulling me against his chest. “Robbie would be able to calculate that better than I. But you’re right.
It was many more than a thousand. I’ve thought of holding you in my arms multiple times a day for twelve hundred and thirteen days.
” His hand came up to my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.
“And now I’d like to do more than thinking. ”
“As would I.”
He surprised me by hauling me onto his lap, then stood up as if I weighed nothing and headed toward the bedroom.
“Bedroom it is, huh?” I asked.
He dropped me onto the bed, grinning. “Less talking. More kissing.”
“I had no idea you were so bossy.”
If I had planned on saying anything else it would have been in vain because my mouth was covered with his, and I could think of nothing but Grady Nash.
I woke to the sound of the ocean. For a disoriented moment, I didn’t know where I was. The light was wrong—coming from the wrong direction, too bright, too close. The sheets were soft and unfamiliar. And there was a warmth beside me.
Grady.
I turned my head. He was asleep on his stomach, one arm thrown across the pillow, his face turned toward me.
This was the face I’d seen nearly every day for three years.
I knew the lines around his eyes and the way his hair fell when it wasn’t pushed back and the small scar on his jaw from a surfboard fin.
I’d seen this face across my kitchen table, on my couch, at The Pelican, on the beach with my kids.
I’d looked at this face a thousand times and told myself I was only looking at a friend.
But now, in the early morning light with the sheets tangled around us, I could stop pretending. I could just look.
He was beautiful. And he was mine.
I slipped out of bed carefully, pulling on one of his sweatshirts, and padded to the kitchen. It was high-tide, with waves rolling in long and even not far from the cottage. A pelican skimmed the surface, so low its wingtips almost touched the water.
I scooped ground coffee into his machine and added water, then pressed the brew button.
While I waited, I looked around the cottage with new eyes.
The surfboard by the door, salt-crusted and sun-faded.
A framed photograph of a woman with dark hair and kind eyes, standing in a garden.
His mother. Whenever I’d asked about her, he’d always changed the subject.
But now, I hoped he would share more about his family. Maybe I’d get to meet his sister.
I wandered over to his bookshelves. There were surf magazines and paperback novels, but mixed in with them were books I hadn’t expected.
A thick volume on nonprofit law. A book called Trauma-Informed Care: A Practical Guide.
Two memoirs by survivors of sexual assault with dog-eared pages and cracked spines.
A worn copy of The Body Keeps the Score.
I pulled the nonprofit law book from the shelf. A business card fell out. Simple white card, plain font.
Harborlight Foundation Advocacy and Support Services Willet Cove, CA
Grady’s name wasn’t on it. There was no name at all. Just a phone number.
I turned the card over. Nothing on the back.
I slid the book back onto the shelf and stood there, holding the card, the coffee maker gurgling on the counter.
Harborlight Foundation. I’d never heard of it. Advocacy and support services for whom? Was this yet another thing I didn’t know about Grady?
“Morning.”
I turned. Grady was leaning in the bedroom doorway, wearing sweatpants and nothing else, hair wrecked, squinting against the light.
“Morning.” I held up the card. “What’s Harborlight?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets. “Not a big deal. Just a foundation I started for victims of assault.”
“How come you never told me?”
“Because I’d have to explain why I’d started it in the first place. The foundation was something I felt compelled to do. Even if I can’t help all of them, a few is better than nothing.”
“And a way for you to try to do some good after what your dad did to all those women.”
“That’s right. I started it when I first moved here. We help women and children who’ve been victims of sexual assault and abuse. Legal fees, counseling, rent, employment assistance. We work out of the basement of the Presbyterian church because the board there understands the need for privacy.”
I stared at him. “Grady, that’s … I had no idea.”
“It’s just a small thing. Like I said, not a big deal. The women who come to us are like the women my dad hurt. Women who didn’t have anyone to believe them or help them start over.”
“This is not a small thing. How many women have you helped?”
“We have a small budget. About a woman a month. I rely a lot on volunteers and grants that help women get back on their feet. I’m more of the conduit than anything.”
“I think it’s pretty wonderful. I don’t like that there were things you couldn’t share with me, but I understand now. I hope you’ll share every part of your life with me from now on.”
“That’s all I want.” He took my hands, kissed me, then wrapped his arms around me and spun me around the room. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”