As if what he’d revealed to her about himself had made him unlovable.
She curled her fingers into fists inside her coat pockets. When this was over, she’d feel like shattering into a million pieces, but not yet. She could do this. She had to. “Let me give it to you straight. I want a family. That means as long as I stay on the island when I don’t have to, as long as I keep entertaining myself with you, I’m basically wasting time. I need more discipline.”
“You haven’t said anything about this to me.” He seemed annoyed, maybe hurt, but definitely not inconsolable.
She pretended to be confused. “Why would I?”
“Because we tell each other things.”
“That’s what I’m doing. Telling you. And it’s not at all complicated.”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
The constriction around her heart tightened. He hunched his shoulders against the wind. “I suppose I’m being selfish wanting you to stay.”
She’d had enough misery for one day. “I’m getting cold. And you’ve been up all night. You need some sleep.”
He looked down at the wharf, then up at her. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me this winter.”
His gratitude was one more gash to her heart. She turned into the wind so he wouldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. “Right back atcha, pal.” She straightened her shoulders. “I have to pee. See you later.”
As she left him standing on the wharf, she blinked her eyes against the tears she couldn’t let herself shed. He’d given up on her so easily. Not really surprising. Duplicity wasn’t in his nature. He was a hero, and true heroes didn’t pretend to offer what they weren’t prepared to give.
She crossed the road to her car. She had to leave the island now. Today. This very minute. But she couldn’t. She needed her Kia, and the big car ferry wasn’t due for eight more days. Eight days, during which Theo could show up at the cottage anytime he wanted. Unbearable. She had to fix that.
As she drove back to the cottage, she told herself her heart would keep beating, whether she wanted it to or not. Time healed—everyone knew that—and eventually, time would heal her. She’d keep herself focused on the future and take comfort from knowing she’d done the right thing.
But for now, comfort was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Twenty-three
TO ANNIE’S RELIEF, LIVIA HADN’T fallen back into muteness, and she happily showed Annie a turtle she’d made from Play-Doh. “I don’t know what to say to her,” Jaycie whispered while Livia was occupied. “I’m her mother, but I don’t know how to talk to her.”
“I’ll get Scamp,” Annie said.
Annie fetched the puppet, grateful for the distraction from her own painful thoughts and fervently hoping Scamp could guide the conversation Jaycie needed to have. She propped the puppet on the kitchen table across from the two of them and turned her attention to Jaycie. “You are Livia’s beautiful mother. I don’t believe we’ve formally met. I am Scamp, otherwise known as Genevieve Adelaide Josephine Brown.”
“Uh . . . Hello,” Jaycie said with only minimal self-consciousness.
“I will now tell you about myself.” Scamp proceeded to lay out her accomplishments, calling herself a talented singer, dancer, actress, housepainter, and race car driver. “I can also catch lightning bugs and open my mouth really wide.”
Livia giggled as Scamp demonstrated, and Jaycie began to relax. Scamp continued chattering before finally tossing her yarn curls and saying, “I, Scamp, love free secrets because they help me talk about bad things. Like the bad things that happened to you, Livia, and to your mommy. But . . . Your mommy doesn’t know about free secret.”
As Annie had hoped, Livia butted in to explain. “Free secret is when you can tell somebody something, and they aren’t allowed to get mad at you.”
Scamp leaned toward Jaycie and said, in a stage whisper, “Livia and I would very much like you to tell us a free secret. We want to hear about that awful, terrible, horrible night you shot Livia’s father and he died dead. And since it’s a free secret, nobody can get mad.”
Jaycie turned away.
“It’s okay, Mommy.” Livia spoke as if she were the adult. “Free secrets are very safe.”
Jaycie hugged her daughter, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, Liv . . .” She pulled herself together. At first hesitantly, then gradually gaining strength, she talked about Ned Grayson’s alcoholism. Using language a four-year-old could understand, she explained how it made him violent.
Livia listened raptly. Jaycie, fearing the effect her words were having, kept stopping to ask if Livia understood, but Livia seemed more curious than traumatized. By the time they were done, she was on her mother’s lap getting kissed and demanding lunch.