This Is Not How It Ends(36)

“Thank you,” Mom said. “I raised Charlotte to be independent, though extenuating circumstances gave me no choice.” Now she was the one reaching for my hand. “I’ve always warned her about finding herself before giving herself away. To trust who she is and what she wants out of life.

“Let’s be clear, Mr. Stafford,” she said, placing a second helping of cauliflower on his plate. “Charlotte’s my only child. It was a mistake not to have more. I’ll be a grandmother . . . so help me God.”

“Mother,” I exclaimed, her threat reddening my cheeks.

Philip laid a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Charley. Your mother’s right to want the best for her child.”

And then Mom burst out into laughter. “Oh my goodness, Philip, you should see your face.”

“Touché!”

The two of them giggled while I fell back in my chair. And though I managed to enjoy the rest of the night, I was plagued with doubts. They didn’t ease up while we sang “Happy Birthday” around the creamy buttermilk cake with white frosting, or while our eyes locked, as he made a wish.

It was only when we returned to his hotel and he drew me a bath in the spacious tub that the tension began to evaporate. He sat perched on the marble tile with an after-dinner drink nearby, and I scooted close to him. His hands massaged my shoulders, and he didn’t even flinch at the bubbles that covered his shirt and tie. He held me, my damp hair soaking his clothes, telling me all the things I’d dreamed of as a little girl. “Of all the things I’ve ever held, Charley, the best by far is you.”

I nuzzled closer. “Remember those words, Philip.”

And then I dragged him into the tub with me, shirt and tie and all.

Children were far from our minds as we snuggled in the warm water. Philip and I had plenty of time to consider the big decisions, plenty of time to choose the pieces and parts that would complete our story.





CHAPTER 17

August 2018, Present Day

Islamorada, Florida

It was a stalemate. The box determining my future beckoned from the plastic Publix bag on the kitchen counter. I’d come close, just enough to see the blue letters beneath the plastic wrap, but then quickly retreated. It had been hours since I’d returned from the store, hours since I reached for the predictor of fate. I hadn’t even told Philip I bought the test.

Shoving the box to the back of my mind, I fumbled around the kitchen, cursing myself for attempting meat sauce from scratch. Even if it was a trial for Philip, I was failing miserably, and spending more time choosing the recipe than I did on the damn pregnancy test had to be a bad sign. Too much salt. Too much pepper. Not enough garlic. Too much onion. I’d burned my tongue, and when I saw my reflection in the boiling pot, my face was blotted in tomato.

The intercom buzzed, signaling an arrival at our gate. I pressed the button to talk. “Hello?”

For a split second, I thought it could be my father. Would he dare reach out after all this time? His potential return made an already nerve-racking situation worse. I had spent the morning flipping through my mother’s weathered albums, analyzing our features, searching for a sign that connected us.

The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t my father. “I brought food.”

I stalled before replying, wiping my stained fingers on a dish towel and pressing the “#” key. “Come in.”

Ben would be climbing our steps in a minute, and I smoothed my hair and wiped my hands on my jeans. Sunny heard him first and ran toward the knocking sounds. He didn’t bark when I opened the door to the man holding two large brown bags. Some guard dog he turned out to be. Just show up carrying food, and suddenly he was your best friend.

“Charlotte, Philip said you might be hungry. You never came in for the recipes.”

The smell of delicious food filled my nose. My mouth watered. “How nice of you,” I began. “Thank you, Ben, or is it Goose?”

He was standing over me, searching my eyes. “Whatever you’re comfortable with.” His pause was long. “Can I bring these in? It’s ricotta and asparagus with a fig salad.”

“Sure,” I said, opening the door wider to let him pass, glimpsing the tattoo on his left hand. “I’m actually trying out a recipe for Philip . . .”

A piercing sound sprang from the kitchen along with a stinging, pungent odor. Ben thought nothing of sniffing rather loudly. “Is everything okay in there?”

I smiled up at him and nodded, pretending that my kitchen wasn’t about to explode beneath a spray of marinara.

“Charlotte, I think something’s burning.” He was casual about it, as though we hadn’t already experienced life and death together.

“Oh that”—I waved my hand in the air—“that’s nothing.” He dropped the bags in the entryway and ran toward the kitchen. And the smoke.

“What are you doing in here?” he asked, fanning out flames and moving a pan off the burner. The meat I’d been browning had turned a smoky, charcoal black. The smell stung my eyes.

Ben opened a window and turned on the exhaust above the stovetop. He held up the pan of charred meat, and I refused to look. “You won’t be needing this.”

Embarrassed at my ineptitude, I slunk out of the room and went to retrieve his offering. Sunny followed me, all perked up and focused on the pleasant smells drifting from the bags. When I returned, I noticed the mess. There were seasonings and utensils all over my countertop, plus tomato halves, garlic cloves, onions, and an array of balled-up paper towels. Ben was wiping the countertop and asking me where the garbage can was before I could set his meal on the table. It smelled wonderful, and I realized how hungry I was. “You don’t have to do this.” I slumped down at the table. It was like being with a famous painter and having HomeGoods reprints on my walls.