It wasn’t because I liked the way he moved and he was a guy you didn’t mess with.
It was because, when I called Lonnie a dick, he’d backed that play.
I didn’t see a lot of that with guys and chicks of my acquaintance.
And it was crazy awesome.
“Probably a good idea. The Jell-O shots started getting passed around while you were gone so I’m thinkin’ it’ll be about fifteen minutes before that backyard isn’t a place a girl like you’d want to be.”
I took a mental step away from common sense and self-awareness and slid closer to denial at knowing he thought I was a girl like that.
But I’d said I had to go and he was there probably to hit the bathroom, so I’d look like a moron if I didn’t make a move.
“Right then, perfect timing,” I replied.
“Yeah,” he agreed.
“See you around?” I asked, pleased with myself that it sounded curious rather than hopeful.
“Not sure,” he answered, making me even more hopeful than it was healthy to be and only because that “not sure” I decided to read as him not being sure he was part of this crew. “Maybe.”
“Oh,” I mumbled.
“Oh.” He grinned then ordered, “Go, Cady. Get home safe. You good to drive?”
I was and for the first time that night wished I wasn’t.
But I totally loved that he asked that.
I nodded.
“Good. ’Kay. Later,” he said, turning from me, lifting a hand not very high at his side in a careless wave, and he trudged down the empty hall like he was clearing it for a celebrity.
“Later,” I called to his back.
He turned the corner and disappeared without glancing back at me.
And suddenly I said a new prayer to God with a promise of being a good girl until I died (and this one I might keep).
That just seeing Tony disappear did not mean Tony had disappeared.
After I said that prayer, I went to the backyard and made my excuses to extricate myself from a party that had grown in my short absence, and grown an astonishing amount more rowdy.
Fortunately, Lonnie and Maria were engaged in making out so my effort was not as prolonged as normal.
I wanted to wait until Tony reappeared.
But with Lonnie and Maria all about each other, I figured it would seem to Tony when he came back that I was waiting for him to reappear.
So I took off.
And I did it repeating my prayer.
Even if I worried doing it actually made me the bad girl I promised I wasn’t going to be.
Former Glory
Present day . . .
I SAT ON MY BED at the Chickadee Inn in Magdalene with the lovely, elegant, large red wineglass the folks at the inn gave me to pour in the fabulous Malbec that I’d found at Wayfarer’s Market in town.
I stared at the fire the young man had come up, laid and lit.
I was assured by their website that this wasn’t preferential treatment considering I was in the White Pine Suite, the only suite in this small, spectacularly charming, ten-room inn. As the website proclaimed, most of the rooms had fireplaces, and if you put in the order in the morning that you’d be staying put in the evening to relax, they sent the young man up to lay and light your fire.
I’d been in Magdalene now for fourteen days, and I’d had a good many fires and a goodly amount of (exceptionally delicious) room service because I was laying low.
It wouldn’t do for a certain someone to see me around while I was writing the outline to what would be the last chapter of my life.
I had taken a necessary trip up north, but just to get the lay of the land. I hadn’t made contact.
That would come later.
It would all come later.
My eyes shifted to the papers strewn on the bed.
Now I was outlining.
The inspection on the lighthouse had been done.
It was, as suspected, a complete disaster. Every building (except the lighthouse itself) needed a roof-to-roots facelift—new shingles to re-stabilizing foundations. The lighthouse itself needed a new furnace, new plumbing, new electric, cable laid for TV and Internet, all new bathrooms and a new kitchen.
It was going to be a project of epic proportions, which was further fettered due to the fact the seemingly only local contractor had Yelp reviews that were so abysmal, I wondered why he was still in business. Even Rob (the real estate agent and my new friend) said he wouldn’t recommend the guy.
So I had to go farther afield, find someone outside the county, and the three I’d contacted to look over the inspection report and property told me flat out they’d have to charge a travel fee.
That was not optimal.
But I wanted it perfect.
It would need to be.
It was where I was going to spend the rest of my life. It was where the family was going to stay when they visited me (or the studio and loft were).
It was going to be mine and Patrick had taught me not to accept anything but the best.
The family who owned the lighthouse had not been best pleased I’d deducted ten percent off the asking price when I’d made my initial offer, because even with that inspection the land alone was worth double what I’d offered.
But I felt they shouldn’t get any hint of a reward for what they’d done. None of them had taken care of their father’s legacy, shown it (or him) the least amount of respect, never mind love. They’d just left it to rot like it meant nothing when it was a beacon of safety (primarily) but mostly it was a memory of the man who had a hand in making them.
I’d learned in beautiful and hideous ways how important it was to respect someone who carries your blood, and do that no matter what.
No matter what stupid things they did, what toxic people they spent their time with, what drastic decisions they made.
We’d settled on five percent below the asking price and I was signing the papers in four days.
Then it would be done.
No going back.
No matter what, I was not going back.
I sipped my wine with one hand, gathered the house papers with the other, shoving them into a manila folder (except the inspection report, which was a whole binder worth of grim information).
I got up, set the folder and binder on the dresser and moved back to the bed, turning to the nightstand and setting down my wineglass in order to pick up a cheese knife (kindly provided by the inn) in order to slice into an extraordinary camembert (not provided by the inn, which made the knife another kind gesture) and slathering it on a hunk of fresh French bread (all this also from Wayfarer’s).
I shoved it into my mouth and chewed, barely able to stop myself from closing my eyes to better enjoy its scrumptiousness.
It was all coming together.
I loved Wayfarer’s.
I was being cautious about being seen, so I was careful how much time I spent in it, but regardless, I’d fallen in love with the town of Magdalene and couldn’t wait to spend more time in the shops, not to mention experience the restaurants.
The contractors would be meeting me to go over the property and then they’d be getting back to me with their plans and bids very soon, so I’d need to make a decision and start that long process moving.
Now it was necessary I find an interior decorator. I was hopeless at that kind of thing.
What I wasn’t hopeless at was knowing what I liked. I wasn’t the kind of person who vacillated about making a decision.
Patrick had always loved that about me.
“You’re a joy to go to dinner with, darling girl,” he’d say at many a restaurant table after I’d open my menu, skim and make a decision within a minute.
Yes, I knew just scanning if I wanted seared tuna or steak Diane.
So I’d be able to pick between different comforter covers and wall hangings without taking six weeks to do it.
The outline was coming together. The framework was getting set.
It was going to be other things that would be difficult.
And as if the cosmos wished to remind me of what one of those things were (as if I’d forget), my cell on the nightstand rang.
When I saw who was calling, I not only grabbed the phone, I grabbed my wine because I figured I’d need it.
I took the call and put the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Pat.”
“Hey, honey. How’s things?”
It was not surprising to me that Patrick’s eldest son, in four words, could communicate the depth of concern he had for me at the same time sharing how he wanted me so far away from Maine, if he could, he’d put me in a rocket ship and launch me to the moon.