All I Want Is You Page 19

  Yep, he could do this—­he could get back to where he should be with her. I like it here. And I like her. And the rest of this trip is going to be . . . a lot easier. Because I’m done mucking it up with my own shit.

  As he walked on, small pastel cottages came into view on his right, dotting the higher ground beyond the beach with structures of sea green and pale blue, sunny yellow and faded melon. The sound of wind chimes echoed from somewhere, their music filling the air. Two rows of slanted white beach fencing created a twisting trail toward the cottages, along with a sun-­washed signpost that said: Sea Shell Lane.

  Jack smiled upon realizing he’d found his way to Fletcher McCloud’s house without even trying. So he followed the fencing up the sand until he passed through some sea oats and low sand shrubs, and then headed up a few weathered wooden steps to emerge onto the end of the street.

  He’d just begun wondering how he’d figure out which house belonged to Fletcher when he saw a ponytailed man watering hanging pots of flowers at the very first house, on a wide side porch overlooking the beach.

  As he started in the direction of the little blue cottage, Fletcher spotted him. “Jack, my friend!” he said, a smile unfurling as he stopped watering. “Good to see you. Noticed you and your lady hadn’t been at the pier the last few nights.”

  Stepping up onto the porch, Jack explained about Christy’s consignment opportunities—­then complimented Fletcher on his home. It was modest but sunny and airy, with French doors that faced the water open to let the sea breeze waft through.

  “Come on in,” Fletcher said. “It’s almost lunchtime—­we’ll make ourselves a ­couple of sandwiches, grab some beers from the fridge, then eat outside.”

  Jack thought the bright colors inside Fletcher’s house suited him—­maybe they made him think of carnivals and circuses, places Fletcher would fit well.

  It was as he passed back through the living room a few minutes later, lunch plate and beer can in hand, that he noticed the little bag in which Christy had placed the bracelet Fletcher had bought for his wife. It lay on a table against a wall with other small bags and boxes, alongside a little stuffed parrot, a glass seahorse figurine . . . and more. Whereas the rest of the house appeared tidy, the pile of small items made this area feel messy—­creating question marks in Jack’s mind.

  So as they sat down at the round wicker table on Fletcher’s side porch, Jack asked, “Did you, uh, give your wife the bracelet yet? The one you bought from Christy?”

  Fletcher bit into his ham and cheese sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before replying, “No, can’t yet. She’s not here.”

  “Traveling?” Jack inquired.

  “In a sense,” Fletcher said with a light nod.

  And Jack raised his eyebrows. “A sense?”

  “She’s been gone for a while now. Two years this September.”

  Whoa. Jack had no idea how to reply, so he didn’t. Other than an, “Um . . .”

  “Used to move the show around,” Fletcher began to explain. “We brought it south for the winter—­hopping around to different beaches every ­couple of weeks. Stayed an entire season in Key West once, but mostly we drifted from place to place, wherever the street performers brought out the most tourists. In summer, we headed north, working street fairs and festivals from the Great Lakes to Cape Cod.

  “She was my assistant,” he went on, offering a wry grin. “Yep, I used to have someone to toss me my knives and torches. And we traded banter back and forth, she and I—­the crowd loved our banter.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his eyes filled with a certain wistful joy as they met Jack’s. “It was a fine life, my friend, a fine life indeed. Walking a tightrope for an hour or two each afternoon or evening—­and the rest of my time left for exploring the world and making love to my soulmate. Doesn’t get much better than that.”

  Jack had to admit Fletcher made it sound pretty amazing. And so he almost didn’t even want to hear what was coming. Or question how a woman who was Fletcher’s soulmate was no longer here.

  “Then one afternoon I came back to our motel room and found . . . this.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wallet, and from it a small piece of worn paper, folded.

  Jack took the slip of paper from Fletcher’s outstretched hand, then opened it to read the handwritten message inside.

  I’m sorry, Fletch. I love you, but I just have to go. Don’t let this hurt too much. Everything will be okay.

  Kim

  “Wow,” Jack mumbled, quietly refolding the note and handing it back. He felt the words in his gut—­maybe because he, too, had once gotten his heart broken with a shocking jolt.

  Then the obvious question finally hit him. “But . . . why did you buy a bracelet for her?”

  And that was when he realized Fletcher didn’t seem the least bit fazed—­by any of this. He’d relayed the whole story in the same matter-­of-­fact, wisdom-­laced tone he always used. “Because she’s coming back,” he said now as easily as if his wife had just taken a stroll up the beach to look for sand dollars.

  “You’ve heard from her then?” Jack ventured uncertainly.

  But Fletcher shook his head, taking another bite from his sandwich.

  Whereas Jack had pretty much forgotten about lunch at this point. He squinted slightly, lowering his chin. “Then . . . what makes you think so?”

  “She loves me,” Fletcher said simply, lifting a napkin to wipe crumbs from his mouth. “And you have to have faith.”

  Jack fiddled with a potato chip on the plate in front of him, and put forth his next question cautiously. Because he didn’t want to be a downer, but . . . “Even in something you have no evidence for?”

  “Isn’t that what faith is?” Fletcher replied easily. “If you don’t have faith in something, if you don’t believe things can work out the way you want them to, then what do you have in life?”

  Jack took that in. And fought with himself between wanting to explain to Fletcher that perhaps his hopes were unrealistic and impractical—­and wanting to believe that maybe his simple sureness would be enough to bring her back somehow. Even though it had been two years. It sounded crazy, of course, but something about his certain attitude made Jack feel bad for doubting him.

  That was when it hit Jack that Fletcher had a house here, had made a home here. “So you don’t move around anymore?”

  “Can’t,” he said after crunching a chip in his mouth. “We were here when she left. So this is where she’ll come back to. If I go anywhere else, she won’t be able to find me.”

  Jack resumed eating at this point, mainly because he needed a minute to quietly absorb all he’d just learned. He continued to feel torn inside—­now between pitying Fletcher’s sad denial and admiring his calm fortitude. He just couldn’t decide which one made the most sense, especially since Fletcher had struck him as a pretty wise dude up to now.

  “I know, I know,” Fletcher said then, reading his thoughts, “I seem naïve. But whatever it is she’s looking for, the road will bring her back to me. She said in her note that everything will be okay, and the only way everything will be okay is when she comes home—­so that’s how I know she’s going to.” Then he smiled out over the ocean as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Faith, my friend, that’s what life is all about. You have to believe in what you want. Because why would you even want something if it wasn’t meant to be yours? That’s how I’ve lived my life and most of the ride for me has been . . . almost effortlessly smooth. This is but a hiccup. A bump in the path. There’s something I’m supposed to learn, and when I do, that’s when she’ll come back and things will be normal again.”

  “What about . . . a new normal?” Jack dared to venture. “I mean, you have yourself a nice little home here, in a great place. You still have a great life as far as I can see. So . . . do you ever think about just making a new kind of nor
mal for yourself instead of waiting for her to come back?”

  Fletcher looked introspective as he considered Jack’s words. “I suppose I’ve done that in a way. But nothing else is as normal as love. Nothing else is as good.” Then he lowered his thinly bearded chin just slightly to add, “You shouldn’t run from it.”

  Jack flinched, feeling accused. When had they started talking about him here? “Me? Who said I’m running from anything? I’m just on vacation here, man—­I’m just taking it easy, trying to unwind.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come with a girl you’re so clearly enamored of. Hard to unwind when you’re fighting what your soul wants.”

  If Fletcher wasn’t such a wise-­seeming guy—­it was something he gave off, almost like a scent, even now, after what Jack had just found out about him—­Jack would have started getting pissed at this point. “How are you so sure you know what my soul wants, dude?”

  But Fletcher brushed off the inquiry by saying, “The real question here is—­why does anyone run from love?”

  “Who says I’m running from—­”

  “Or whatever you feel for her. Because there’s something there—­a blind man could see that.”

  “Maybe it’s complicated,” Jack argued.

  “I’m sure it is,” Fletcher said. “But what if . . . what if you just shoved those complications aside? What if you just pretended they didn’t exist? What would happen then? And how good might it be?”

  And when Jack started to form a reply, Fletcher held up a hand to stop him, saying, “Don’t answer me. Just think about it. Turn it over in your head and let yourself feel it. Because I know how amazing love can be, and if I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t pass up the chance to explore that.” Then he pointed up the street. “There’s a good ice cream place around the corner. I suggest we go grab a ­couple cones—­what do you say?”

  ANNA slid into the cracked vinyl booth at the Hungry Fisherman across the table from Christy. Christy had called her cell and gotten lucky—­she was free for lunch. “What’s your news?” Anna asked, wide-­eyed.

  Christy had filled her friend in on her consignment deals by phone a few days ago, so all she had to say now was, “It’s selling! My jewelry is selling! Even at those crazy prices!”

  And Anna beamed. “That’s fantastic, Christy! I’m so happy for you! And you know what? Those prices aren’t crazy if ­people are paying them.”

  Christy leaned her head slightly to one side, taking in that concept, and began to feel even more fulfilled. Then she told Anna the rest. “I stopped by both places just a little while ago to drop off some new jewelry and each has sold several pieces already, in just these past few days! And they were excited to get more.” She stopped, sighed. “It’s just so amazing to be appreciated for something I work hard at and love doing, you know?”

  Anna smiled in understanding. “I’ve never been an artist or anything, but I feel the same way when someone compliments some part of the bed-­and-­breakfast that I remodeled or designed myself. And though he’d never admit it, I know when ­people love Duke’s furniture, it really makes him feel good.” Then she gave her head a playful tilt and leaned forward just a bit across the table. “So you’re suddenly doing great with your jewelry—­that’s fabulous. But . . . what’s up with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Hot?”

  Christy bit her lip. “Well, to be honest, I’m not totally sure.” Then she filled Anna in on what she’d missed, leaving out the embarrassing details, and concluding with, “But I guess I’m going to let it all go and just see where things lead. Hope he doesn’t hurt my feelings again. Hope he gets that I’m a good person.”

  “How could he not get that?” Anna asked, her eyes softening. “And if he still doesn’t, let me know because I might need to beat him up.” After which she looked around the Hungry Fisherman. “That said, if I have any criticisms of you at all, it might be that you picked this restaurant.” She lowered her voice. “It’s kind of freaky. I mean, did you see the scary life-­size fisherman at the door?”

  Yet Christy just laughed. “It’s kind of a wacky place, I know. But I’ve started getting weirdly attached to it.”

  Just then, Abner exited the kitchen wearing a plastic king’s crown. And Anna silently switched her gaze from him back to Christy as if to say, Come on, really?

  To which Christy replied by explaining, “That’s Abner, the owner. He likes hats.”

  AFTER they ate and Anna left to go meet Duke at the beach, Christy stuck around the Hungry Fisherman a little longer. The small lunch crowd had dwindled, and over time she’d come to find the rustic, seafaring ambience of the place surprisingly relaxing. Despite the statue of Abner—­and, well, Abner himself.

  After texting Grandpa Charlie to say hi, she did a search on her phone for local thrift shops, to stock up on her supplies of outdated jewelry. And she found several within easy driving distance. A few minutes later, she said goodbye to Polly near the front door.

  Though as she opened it to step outside, a fluffy white cat came slinking in, weaving a path around her ankles. “Oh my—­who are you?” she said, staring down at the affectionate kitty.

  “Good heavens, shoo,” Polly said, waving a hand down at the cat. “She’s a stray we’ve been tryin’ to get rid of—­or, well, hopin’ she wanders away, I guess. But it’s hard to drive a cat away from a seafood restaurant, let me tell ya.”

  “She’s certainly friendly enough,” Christy remarked as the cat continued rubbing against her ankles, purring slightly.

  “We’ve been callin’ her Dinah,” Polly said.

  And a tingle ran down Christy’s spine. “Because of the cat in Alice in Wonderland?” she asked. She recalled Alice owning a white cat named Dinah, and given all the ways her life seemed to echo the story lately, this seemed like too big of a coincidence. Talk about falling down the rabbit hole.

  But Polly just shook her head, looking a little bewildered. “No, because she’s always tryin’ to get into the kitchen. So we named her from that old song—­“I’ve Been Working on the Railroad”—­because of the part about someone bein’ in the kitchen with Dinah.”

  And as if to prove that Polly’s answer was the more logical one, just then the cat took off like a bullet toward the swinging door that led into the kitchen. After which Polly yelled in that direction, “Cat coming!” and Christy heard a ­couple of the cooks begin to sing the line from the song.

  “They’ll grab her and put her out back with some scraps,” Polly said, returning her attention to Christy. “Please don’t tell ­people we let a cat in our kitchen. Business is slack enough as it is.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t,” Christy said. “And it’s nice of you to feed her.”

  Though Polly looked doubtful. “Keeps her hangin’ around is what it does. But I don’t have the heart to throw away food when she’s hungry. I tried to get Reece over at the Happy Crab to take her, but he claims cats and iguanas don’t mix.”

  “Well, Fifi seems like a lot to manage.”

  “Agreed. For the life of me, I don’t know what he sees in that creature. A cat’d be a heck of a lot easier if you ask me.” Then Polly got a scheming look in her eye, narrowing her gaze on Christy. “Wouldn’t you like a nice cat?”

  And Christy drew back slightly. “Who, me? I’m just here on vacation.”

  Yet Polly tilted her head. “Nothin’ says the cat can’t travel. Probably been through worse than a little trip.”

  Christy still balked, though. “The thing is—­I’m broke. I can barely provide for myself, let alone a cat.” And even if she was suddenly making unexpected money from her jewelry, she had a million other things to spend it on—­like Grandpa Charlie for one. And for another, a better life for herself.

  Even if . . . the idea of having a cat around suddenly sounded kind of nice. She still didn’t think a cat could ever complete her, but she couldn’t help thin
king of Amy back in Destiny—­who would be pressing Christy to give the cat a loving home if she were here. If she ever got a cat, though, she wanted to be in a better, more stable position in life, where she could be a good cat mom, but . . . maybe someday.

  “Well, you keep an ear out for anyone who might want a nice cat,” Polly said, and Christy promised she would.

  CHRISTY shoved her key into her door at the Happy Crab, turned the knob, and realized how happy it made her every single time it opened with ease—­unlike her apartment door at home. Sometimes it really was the little things in life.

  Or . . . maybe she was happy about more than the simple turn of a lock. She suddenly had a lot more to be happy about these days than she had in quite a while. She couldn’t help her Grandpa financially yet, but seeing so much of him lately was good for her soul—­and his, too, she thought. And she wasn’t making a living from her jewelry, but achieving that dream seemed way less far-­fetched than it had just a week ago. And she might have gone through a lot of pain and embarrassment with Jack, but . . . maybe that was over now.

  “Hey, Alice—­how was your day?” Jack greeted her with a friendly grin as she stepped in the room.

  She knew he was hoping to encounter the gentler, kinder Christy she’d been with him until the last few days. And, well, she was going to give him his wish, put the recent unpleasantness behind them. She smiled back—­and then couldn’t contain her enthusiasm. “It was pretty great. Some of my jewelry sold already! Like—­hundreds of dollars’ worth! And both shops were happy to get more.”

  He stood up, his own smile widening. “Wow—­that’s absolutely fantastic, honey!” And as he stepped forward to give her a warm hug, she realized how naturally he’d done it, that they knew each other so well now that a hug at a moment like this made total sense.

  So she let herself hug him back, let herself feel how good and warm it was to be in his supportive embrace. The fact that her whole body tingled—­that was just a perk. She still wasn’t sure where things would go with Jack now, but she instinctively knew they’d be . . . better.