Live to Tell (Live to Tell #1)(21)

“But if that were the case, Elsa, you must be aware that Jeremy’s no longer a little boy,” Joan pointed out gently. “He’s old enough to live on his own. He wouldn’t need to have a room in your house, or a yard to play in…”

Elsa nodded. She got it. Really, she did.

But a mother doesn’t give up, no matter what she senses in her heart.

So now they own a circa 1950 ranch with a perpetually overgrown lawn. It’s less than a mile from the golf course—a huge selling point for Brett, whose handsome face is ruddy, tonight, from playing eighteen holes before meeting her here for dinner.

Ordinarily, he’d have waited until Saturday morning to hit the links, but it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. And God forbid he begin a summer weekend without golf.

There had been a time, Elsa recalls, when he’d wanted Jeremy to learn, too. Brett used to fantasize about the father-son rounds they’d play in years to come. He even signed him up for junior lessons at the club when Jeremy was old enough, with encouragement from Elsa and whatever doctor they were seeing at the time.

It seemed like such a good idea to everyone, until…

Remembering the incident that had put an end to that venture, Elsa toys with her fork, poking at the wedge of salmon on her plate.

I should have known that wouldn’t work out. Maybe I did know. But it was so nice to see Brett enthusiastic about spending time with Jeremy…

Across the table, her husband crushes a crab knuckle with a crustacean mallet.

Jeremy…the golf club…those horrible screams…

Elsa sets down her fork, her stomach churning with the memory.

“What’s wrong?” Brett asks, but she can’t bear to meet his eyes.

He remembers that day, too, she knows, though they haven’t spoken of it since Jeremy disappeared.

The last straw, Brett had said at the time. But of course, it wasn’t.

“Elsa?”

She forces herself to look up. “The…the salmon. It’s overcooked, I think.”

“Send it back.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Want some of this crab?”

“No, thanks,” she says, and tries not to wince as he brings down the mallet with another sickening crunch.



“Long walks on the beach.”

Nick glances up at Beth, who stands by the king-size bed holding a pair of flip-flops. “What?”

“Long walks on the beach,” she repeats, a smile playing at her lips as she tucks the flip-flops into her open suitcase. “That’s what people say in all those personal ads—people who are looking for love.”

“Oh. Right.”

But he’s not following her train of thought.

A moment ago, they were surveying the pile of dirty laundry on the floor and discussing whether to throw a couple of loads into the washer, or just pack their bags with dirty clothes for the trip home tomorrow.

Now, out of nowhere, Beth has shifted to walks on the beach and personal ads. She has a habit of doing that—jumping from one topic to another—and he has a devil of a time keeping up.

With Lauren, Nick always pretty much knew what she was talking about—sometimes, even what she was going to say before she said it—and why. After all those years together, you learn to read a person.

That’s not necessarily a good thing. Or a bad thing.

It is what it is, as Beth would say. She’s fond of little catchphrases like that.

“I just think it’s interesting”—she stoops to pick up a damp beach towel—“that some people go to such lengths to find the perfect partner, and other people who are perfect for each other just kind of stumble across each other. Like we did. Is this yours, or did it come with the house?”

He blinks.

Oh, the towel.

He peers at it. “I’m not sure. Just leave it here.”

She nods agreeably and tosses it aside.

Lauren would have asked him how he could not be sure whether something belongs to him, and how he could so carelessly discard something that might be his without at least taking a closer look.

But then, Lauren would know whether the towel was his or not, because she always keeps—kept—track of things like that.

Not just household items, but his clothes, too. With his wife—ex-wife—around, he never would have managed to show up at a beach house for a week with only one pair of swim trunks because he had no idea what he’d done with the others and didn’t have time to hunt them down. Lauren would have packed his bag along with hers and the kids’, a few days in advance, the way she always did when they were going somewhere.

Sometimes, he misses that.

Misses her.

Sometimes.

But there’s Beth, self-assured and sexy in a short, flirty coral-colored sundress and a beaded ankle bracelet, bare skin golden brown from their week at the beach, blond hair long and loose. Even her feet are pretty—tanned, toenails polished to match the dress.

He can’t help but compare her to Lauren, the sunscreen queen, who freaked out a few years ago when the doctor removed a tiny precancerous speck from her shoulder. It wasn’t even the dangerous kind of skin cancer, but she’s doused herself and the kids in sunblock ever since.

“We can take another long walk on the beach tonight,” Beth tells him, “and maybe one more in the morning, before the ferry.”