This Is Not How It Ends(50)

“Why not?”

I stalled. I had a thousand reasons why not, and none of them I could say out loud. Philip was scheduled to return that evening, and a paradise beach without phones sounded enticing.

“Just come,” he said. And I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no either.

Because there wouldn’t be phone service on the island, I dialed Philip to let him know where I’d be. He answered on the fourth ring sounding wispy and quiet. “Did I wake you?” There was a steady beeping in the background that sounded oddly familiar. “Philip, where are you?”

“Sorry, I have to whisper,” he explained. “At a ceremony for a new hospital wing in Atlanta.”

“I thought you were in New York,” I said, confused.

He blew me a kiss and said he had to turn off the phone. “I love you, Charley.” And he was gone.

Ben asked if everything was all right, and I didn’t have an answer. “I thought he was in New York. He’s in Atlanta.” This had been happening more and more frequently, and I made a mental note to call Elise for an updated itinerary.



The drive down to Little Palm Island was mostly quiet. I pressed my nose against the window and watched the intermittent glimpses of ocean pass by. “Jet Ski Rentals.” “Shell World.” “The Best Key Lime Pie in the Florida Keys.” “You know the Keys have more dive shops in this one stretch than the entire country,” I said. “A Philip factoid.”

“Sari and I were certified together,” he said, his voice trailing off. “In Hawaii.”

I faced him. “I’ve upset you.”

“It’s fine, Charlotte. It’s worse pretending she didn’t exist.”

“But I don’t want to upset you.”

He took his eyes off the road to glance in my direction. “You’ll know when you’ve upset me. Have you spoken to your father yet?”

“No. He’s called. I’ve avoided. He doesn’t leave messages. I don’t know what to say to him.” I searched out the window for the answer, speaking the questions out loud. “Does he want forgiveness? How can I forgive him? Do you think there’s anything he can say that could make up for the years he was gone?”

He was thinking about this. Thinking how any parent could just walk away from a child, rip the anchor and plant it somewhere else. It was unnatural, but it occurred. “I’m not one for forgiveness,” he began.

“Entirely different scenarios.”

“Let me finish. I’ve thought a lot about the letter.”

I was relieved to hear this.

“When life throws a curveball, you have a decision. You can go on being angry and empty, or you can move toward peace. It’s living or dying. Choose the path that makes you feel alive.”

“I’ve already lived without him for so long.”

He looked over at me with deep sincerity in his eyes. “Then let him be a part of the next chapter.”



Little Palm Island was the kind of astonishing that almost seemed fake. A small boat took you to the private island surrounded by turquoise ocean. Palm trees dotted the white-sand beach, and thatched-roof bungalows (without telephones or TVs) were tucked away among the island’s tropical flowers. But the true charm of the island was the bare beauty: the peaceful quiet, the key deer that pranced along the sand, dining under a dazzling sky at a beachside table for two.

The staff greeted Ben and his guest, offering us access to the island’s many amenities. While he participated in meetings, I found a hammock nestled in the trees overlooking the ocean and sat with my book. The heat disappeared in the gentle breeze, and I eventually closed my eyes and fell asleep.

The delicate touch of a flower petal across my arm roused me. “Can I join you?”

I moved over, and Ben slid beside me.

“I love it here,” I told him.

“I had a feeling you would.”

The beauty of our surroundings made it so we didn’t have to talk. Instead, we watched the ocean, and the birds fly overhead. A waiter came by and offered us a drink. And the more we lay in quiet, the closer we became.

Later we were invited to a tasting at the restaurant with some other chefs, and Ben took turns feeding me with his fork. “Close your eyes and tell me what you taste.”

I followed his directions as he spoon-fed different flavors into my mouth, some of which I knew right away—strawberry . . . cilantro—and others that were a mystery.

“My turn,” I said, as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth for a helping of honey-glazed snapper. I spent more time than I should have on his face, tracing his lashes, the shape of his jaw, the texture of his lips. He opened his eyes and found me staring. A faint blush dusted my cheeks, and we held on like that until he broke into a smile.

I liked watching how Ben changed around food. He became more animated. His eyes lit up. One of the chefs, a woman, approached me. “I’ve never seen him happier . . . not since . . .” And I didn’t correct her. I let his happiness be because of me. Even if it was short-lived. Even if we were going to cross the water and return to our separate lives.



Hours later we were approaching Islamorada. Philip called and we put him on speaker. It was remarkable to me how he didn’t balk at our spending the afternoon together on a romantic, secluded island, and an uneasiness spread through me.