Life and Other Near-Death Experiences(52)

Pointless. The song still ringing in my ears, I drove to Paul’s hotel. He was standing in the lobby, phone in one hand, luggage in the other. He immediately dropped both to embrace me.

He kept hugging me. And hugging me. “Are you already medicated?” I laughed.

“Little bit. But mostly I just don’t want to leave you. Are you sure you won’t come with me now?”

“You know I can’t,” I said, pulling back. “But we’ll be together soon.”

“We haven’t made definite plans, though,” he said as we got into the Jeep.

“Not definite, but what more is there beyond flying my butt to New York?”

“You have, what, six days to buy a plane ticket? You might want to hop on that.”

“Who says I haven’t already?”

He raised an eyebrow, and I laughed. “Okay, okay. Maybe I haven’t exactly been forward-thinking about this whole thing, but I’ll buy a ticket later today. By tomorrow at the absolute latest.”

“Be a peach and let me take care of it. My assistant can get it done in five minutes flat. And while we’re on the subject, why don’t you come to New York first, and figure the rest out once you get there?”

“Yes, I’m just dying to arrive in New York in the dead of winter.”

“Enough with the death puns already.”

“Too much?”

“Always.”

I steered the Jeep into the ferry parking lot. “I’ll take care of the ticket. Don’t worry.”

“You’d better.” He glanced at the ferry, which was just pulling into the dock, then turned to me. “As much as I’m itching to get back to Charlie and the boys, I wish I could stay here.”

“I know,” I said, opening the car door. “But you don’t want to miss the boat. There isn’t another one for five hours.”

Paul sighed. “Then let’s do this.”

We said good-bye roughly eighty-two times, each tearier than the last. After Paul boarded the boat, he leaned over the rail. “Libby!” he called. “I love you the most!”

I blew him a kiss, then waved until the ferry was a speck on the horizon. All the while, that stupid song floated through my head.

Please don’t take my sunshine away.



When I returned to the beach house, Shiloh was waiting for me on the steps. He had called the night before to see if he could stay with me for a few days, rather than at the company’s studio, and I’d happily agreed.

I eyed the large suitcase that was next to him on the cement stairs. “I had no idea you owned that much clothing.”

He winked. “I packed an extra pair of underwear.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have.”

“Anything for you. And I brought my telescope.”

“All that just to spy on the neighbors?”

“You would catch a lot more action in San Juan. But the stargazing’s far better here, and the moon is beginning to wane again.”

We dropped his bag off inside, then drove to the west side of the island to explore a small park he’d told me about. At the park, we came across a good dozen horses grazing: gangly things, all muscles and ribs, making their way from one cluster of long grass to another. After the horses broke through my panic attack on the beach, I could not help but regard them as a sign of something good—although what good this time, I couldn’t say. Afterward, we opted to have dinner at the beach house. As Shiloh grilled fish and onions for the tacos he was making, he told me about his childhood. His father had moved their family from Puerto Rico to the States again and again, always returning to the island within a year or two. It was the catalyst, he said, for his mother filing for divorce. Shiloh didn’t like constantly relocating, but he loved flying back and forth. He was hooked from his very first flight, he told me, and never considered being anything but a pilot. “Do you remember when we were in the plane, how you said you loved being away from the rest of the world?” he asked. I nodded. “When I’m in the air, I feel completely free. The average person hates takeoff. I live for those few minutes, when I hit the clouds and all my troubles are below me.”

He kept talking long after he put his spatula down, and throughout dinner I found myself staring at him, interjecting little more than the occasional question as I listened. How quickly I’d written him off at the airport; how easily I’d convinced myself that I was in it for nothing more than pure pleasure. But here before me was a good man. It struck me that I had yet to hear him say a negative word about another person. Even if he was describing a terrible action, like his father’s inability to care for his family in the way that they needed, he spoke in terms of the event, rather than blaming the person. I loved people like this, and encountered so very few.

As the sun began to set, we went outside to set up the telescope. While Shiloh positioned the tripod in the garden, he asked me about my mother. I didn’t usually like discussing her. There was the pity factor: Poor Libby, motherless at just ten years old. The larger issue was that there are no words to adequately describe what it is to lose the person who matters most to you. Though I’d had decades to ponder it, it still did not make sense. How can a person be with you one moment, and then one terrible moment later, just be—gone? Forever? Tom’s answer was always the same: “Your mother’s not gone, Libby. You’ll see her again one day.” I clung to this belief, even as I cursed its complete and utter inability to offer real comfort. I did not want to hear it, even from my own husband. Nor did I want to hear about God having a plan, or all things happening for a reason, or any other number of Hallmark sentiments that pinged against my heart like pebbles on a thin windowpane.