A Nantucket Wedding(85)

But she could not forget the conversation when he’d said he wanted Felicity to cut connections with her family. With David. Ha. The irony. His relationship with Ingrid, whatever it was, and this bizarre swing from criticizing David to joyfully accepting his money, those matters were not so easily absorbed. She understood how significant David’s money would be to Green Food, but she could not understand Noah’s complete moral turnaround. Who was this man she was married to? What did he really want, other than to succeed at his work? How could he tell Felicity that only Ingrid could understand him, and then get rid of Ingrid, simply bat her away as if she were a flea?

And yet, was Felicity being a killjoy? Why couldn’t she, why shouldn’t she, help her husband rejoice in this miracle of David’s generosity? She didn’t hate Noah.

But she no longer loved him in the same way. It was not only Ingrid. It was not only his lack of any moral code.

It was that Felicity had changed. For so long, too long, she’d considered herself lacking in importance, in talent, especially when compared with her brilliant lawyer sister. Especially when her husband found another woman necessary to his life. It wasn’t Felicity whom Noah had chosen. It was David and his money. She had undervalued her own worth, and it was only when she interviewed for the job with the preschool that she realized what she could do, what she could offer, had enormous value.

    And maybe, with meaningful work, she could continue to stay married to Noah. For a while, at least, for the sake of the children.

Or maybe she would leave Noah. The thought shot through her like a beacon of light, illuminating possibilities she’d never seen before.

“Okay,” she said, standing up. “Let’s take the kids out for some ice cream.”

In two steps, Noah was across the room, folding Felicity in his arms. “And after they’ve gone to bed, you and I can have our own private celebration.”



* * *



—

Jane woke in a strange room. It took her a moment to realize she was in Wales. Scott was alive, and he wanted to have children with her! She was light-headed with jet lag and happiness. Hurriedly, she showered and dressed and checked out of the hotel and took a cab to the hospital. She laughed out loud when she realized she didn’t have to pass through the emergency entrance but could stroll through the main door. The sun was shining, but if it had been raining, Jane would still have thought: What a beautiful day!

She found Scott in his room, his arm in a sling, dressed and ready to go. She hugged him enthusiastically but carefully, not wanting to press any bruises.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“Lucky,” Scott said.

A white-coated doctor came into the room, a handsome man with a startling amount of curly gray hair.

“We’ve set your bones and enclosed them safely in your big white cast,” the doctor said in his thick Welsh accent. “You’re good to go, but you’ll experience some soreness from your arm and other bruises. Take paracetamol or aspirin. You should check in with your physician when you get home. You’ll need the cast for at least six weeks. I wouldn’t advise any mountain climbing for a few months.”

    “Thank you, Doctor,” Scott said.

They wanted to thank the doctor by name, but even though the name was on a tag, it was so very Welsh it was unpronounceable. Jane had found the Welsh for “Thank you” on her phone, and she and Scott both said, “Diolch. Diolch for everything.” The way the nurse grinned told her she didn’t have the correct pronunciation.

They took a cab to Scott’s hotel in Portmeirion because his rental car was parked at the base of the Watkin Path. The A487 meandered past sunny coastlines and through shady forests. Jane held Scott’s good hand as they rode along, looking out the windows at the lush mountainous landscape. Finally the driver turned onto a long private road and suddenly they were driving under an elaborate arch, entering the dreamlike seaside village created by the eccentric architect Sir Clough Williams-Ellis. They’d discovered this place online together when they researched hotels near Mount Snowdon. They’d agreed it would be fun to spend their days climbing a mountain and their nights in such a charming resort. But Jane had seen only pictures on a screen. The real thing was strange and wonderful.

“Wow!” Jane pressed her face against the window like a child at a candy shop. “How beautiful!”

The cab dropped them at the bottom of a hill, in front of the hotel.

“Do you like it here?” Jane asked as she helped Scott from the cab.

“I do. Very much, and I’ll admit I’m surprised. It’s outrageous, such a mixture of architectural styles, yet it’s beautiful. Magical.”

“It’s magical that you’re alive and safe,” Jane told him.

Scott’s suite was on the first floor of the hotel, the Peacock Suite.

“I remember reading about it on the website,” Jane said. “King Edward the Eighth stayed here in 1934, right?” She set her suitcase down in the bedroom and walked around, taking in the views. “Would you like to lie down? Rest?”

    “I’ve spent too much time lying down. Let’s walk around the grounds. They’re spectacular.”

She had never seen any place quite like this resort. It was a mixture of architectural styles and lush gardens. Here, a Greek temple with columns, there a great gold Buddha, statues and steps and everywhere an arch or a porthole showing a glimpse of yet another strange and beckoning landscape. There was a long, turquoise reflecting pool surrounded by pots of red geraniums, and farther down, a swimming pool not far from the estuary. They strolled along the paths, stopping in the temple, the grotto, the stone boat set in the estuary. The woodlands were as extravagantly ornate as the village with towering rhododendron, monkey puzzle trees, palm trees next to evergreens. They passed through the ghost garden and sat for a while at the overlook, watching the shining water of the Irish Sea slowly flow into the estuary.