Chapter 12
twelve
SADIE
The first thing I do when I walk back into my apartment later that night is pour myself a glass of wine. I’m not a big drinker. The bottle’s been in the fridge for months. A ‘just in case’ Chardonnay for nights when my thoughts refuse to switch off.
Not that I’m spiraling. I don’t know what I’m feeling, if I’m being honest. Confused, maybe.
My apartment came with the shop, and although it’s small, I fell in love with it as soon as I saw it.
Whoever was in here last renovated it tastefully, keeping the original features where they could, adding modern conveniences like a compact laundry room tucked beneath the sloping roofline, and wide plank pine floors that creak softly when I walk.
At night, it feels like the whole world narrows to this one warm space, the sound of the ocean muffled by the old glass windows.
The air smells faintly of paper and salt, a mix that clings to the shelves stacked high with books waiting to be catalogued.
It’s imperfect and a little uneven, but it’s mine, and that’s enough.
Nobody can hurt me here. Unless I want them to.
That confidence wobbles a bit as I take my first sip of wine, and think about the way Zach Fitzgerald looked right through me tonight. Like I was a stranger.
I remind myself that I’m the one who told him to cool it at the beach. It was supposed to be a one and done. A challenge. But it still stings a little.
I take another sip, the smooth dryness coating my tongue. He’s only doing what we agreed to. He chased me, he caught me, and nobody will ever know.
They won’t know that I shattered into pieces in his arms. Or that I crave something… more. I don’t know. All I do know is that the last thing I need is whispers about me going around town. I would hate that.
I press the glass to my lips again, trying to drown out the heat curling low in my stomach.
But before I can take a second sip, my phone buzzes. I grimace because I never like getting messages or calls at this time of night. My mom always said phone calls after ten only meant bad news.
When I slide my finger across the screen, bad news has a name.
Zach Fitzgerald.
My pulse stutters. For a second I consider putting the phone back down, pretending I didn’t see it. But curiosity wins, because tonight I really am a glutton for punishment.
Did you get home safely? - Zach
That’s it. Five words. They’re simple. Almost polite. The kind of message a first date would send to you after you promise to be careful when you take the subway home alone.
But why now after he ignored me? Why so late at night? Is he expecting me to reply? For things to descend into sexting?
Oh God, I’m so out of touch with dating. Not that being chased by him is dating, unless you have a warped sense of how a gentleman should treat a woman.
Which obviously, I do.
It takes me finishing the glass of wine to decide whether to reply. And in the end – because part of me is apparently a petulant teenager – I send a one word answer.
Yes.
And then I shove my phone in my pocket and stand up, because every part of me is starting to ache.
Leaving my empty glass on the kitchen counter, I head into the bedroom and prop my phone on the nightstand, kicking off my slippers. My gaze is caught by the only piece of art I have on the bedroom wall. And one of the only things I brought with me from my old life.
There’s something about the painting that meant I couldn’t leave it behind, even though the plan was to escape with one bag and nothing else. I took her off the wall of my old apartment, and brought it with me.
Everything else that belonged to my ex went into storage, prepaid for the length of his prison sentence. I sent a letter with the details and promised myself I’d never talk to him again.
The painting shows a woman standing on a widow’s walk, staring out to sea, her face soft but sad. As if she’s watching for her husband’s ship, searching and waiting every night in the days before phones or telegrams or anything that might have brought him home.
But he never comes.
The brushstrokes are confident and visible, giving texture to the air and movement to the sea. The woman’s dress ripples around her legs, a pale blur against the darker sky, her hair swept back as though caught in a storm she doesn’t seem to feel.
There’s a yearning to her, that I can feel deep in my stomach, pulling at me every time I look at her. I don’t know her name, I don’t know if she even existed.
But from the moment I bought it at a yard sale – as a gift for my ex, because I’m an idiot who thought he loved me – I felt like she could read my mind.
Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t have taken her. It’s his painting. It should be in storage with all his other things. But he never appreciated it the way I did.
When I pull my eyes away from the canvas, I see the two ticks lighting up my phone screen, bookending the message I just sent.
Telling me it’s been read.
He hasn’t replied. Of course he hasn’t. I didn’t leave him the slightest way back in.
I take a breath, turn off my phone, and pull out a pair of fluffy pajamas from my drawer. If I’m going to lose sleep tonight, it’ll be because of a good book, not a man.
And tomorrow, I’ll be fine. The way I always am. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last few messy years, it’s that the only person I can rely on is myself.
ZACH
A few days later, I’m ignoring the messages from my sister reminding me about tonight’s committee meeting – this one at the hotel – and tackling the inbox that seems to be fuller than Yankee Stadium on a summer night.
That’s when I see the message from Dr. Rogan. Or rather, from his assistant. Thanking me for contacting them and giving me a date for the final batch of tests and a follow up meeting. I get a throb at my temple even thinking about that, so I shut my laptop before the pain starts to land harder.
It’s easy to shift my thoughts. Has been for the past few days.
Larry’s hit another wall in his search for the painting, so I’ve been coaching him through the options going forward.
If it was me, I’d probably fly to the last known location, but Larry won’t leave the building, let alone get on an airplane.
Instead, he’s arranging a zoom call with an art contact I have, and hopefully that will open things up for him. It’s funny, trying to mentor him. I have to hold myself back, as to not take over.
And that’s not something that comes naturally to me.
My thoughts segue to Sadie. Not that it’s hard because she’s been constantly on my damn mind. Her one word response to my message made her feelings clear. She doesn’t want me to check on her. Or call her. Or do anything other than leave her alone.
But fuck if I can’t stop thinking about her. And I guess tonight, I’ll see her too. If I get there early, Autumn will be delighted.
So I push back from the desk, grab my keys, and head for the door, walking along the oak hallway of the private offices toward the Grand Liberty Hotel Lobby.
It’s thronging inside. Full of people checking in for a long late spring weekend, and others heading to the Sun Room Bar and Liberty Restaurant for social gatherings.
When Hudson opened the hotel, he headhunted a Michelin starred chef to run the kitchens, and now people travel here specifically to eat, even though we’re a ferry-ride away from the mainland.
“Dear God, you’re actually early,” Autumn says, when she spots me striding toward her.
She has a tablet in her hand, a stylus between her fingers, and her hair is up, like she means business.
“Is that a Tom Ford shirt?” She reaches out with her stylus-filled hand to touch the cotton.
“Ooh, that’s nice. I’ve been trying to persuade Parker to dress up a bit more.
The man thinks gray sweats are formal wear.
I swear he’s one hoodie away from forming a boy band. ”
I laugh, but then my attention is pulled away by the door opening. I let out a disappointed breath when Jesse walks in.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the guy. He’s like another brother, having grown up on the island with us. But still… wrong person. Wrong gender.
He’s followed by Bennett, West’s assistant who’s here to help with any staff needed from the resort. Then Mylene walks in, looking harassed as usual. Before long, there’s a whole crowd of people standing around Autumn, who looks in her element as the center of attention.
“Sadie’s late,” she says, frowning. “She’s never late.”
“She was late for the last meeting, actually,” Mylene points out.
“Has anybody heard from her today?” I ask, my voice thick. I’m about half a second away from calling her, which is a very bad idea.
“I saw her earlier. She was carrying a massive box,” Mylene says, exhaling hard. “Said something about reorganizing her stockroom before the new shipment buries her alive.” She glances toward the doors. “She looked a bit of a mess, she probably wanted to clean up before she joined us.”
The words are barely out of her mouth before the lobby doors sweep open again, and there she is.
And I forget how to breathe.
Sadie strides in like she owns the place, wearing a black dress that skims her thighs. Her hair is loose, the copper spilling over her shoulders. The early evening sunlight catches it through the doorway, making it almost look like she’s on fire.
Autumn spots her first, of course. “Finally! We were about to send out a search party.”
But I’m not paying attention to my sister. I’m too mesmerized by the click of Sadie’s heels sharp against the marble floor.
My mouth dries as I imagine her trying to run from me in those shoes. I’d catch her in seconds. And I’d make her fucking delighted I did.
There’s a murmur of laughter from across the way. A cluster of businessmen near the concierge desk glance over.
They’re all staring at her. At the way her dress clings to her perfect curves. My jaw tightens.