chapter 35

An envelope from Black Dog Bay arrived four weeks later.

Brighton rushed into her building at seven thirty on Friday evening, her feet blistered from a new pair of pumps, her stomach growling from a workday so busy that she hadn’t eaten lunch, and her eyes itchy and dry from hours of staring at a computer monitor. She was desperate to go to the bathroom, eat something, and make sure that the dog walker had taken Rory for the extra afternoon outing she’d requested.

But first she had to get the mail. That was her daily routine, the one she was trying so hard to resume. If she could get her body and brain back into her old schedule, her heart would follow. Eventually. Hopefully. Frazzled and impatient, she stopped at the bank of little brass doors in her building’s lobby and twisted her key in the lock. Amid a stack of bills and credit card offers, she found a lavender envelope sealed with purple wax and bearing a Delaware postmark.

She didn’t recognize the shaky, spindly handwriting. Someone in Black Dog Bay was reaching out, but not the person she most wanted to hear from. A month after she’d left the town limits, little pieces of her screw-up summer were still drifting back, reminding her of everything she’d left undone.

Jake hadn’t contacted her since she’d sent the text informing him she’d absconded with Rory. His silence could be interpreted in a million different ways. Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was mounting a high-powered legal defense team to reclaim his dog. Maybe he’d already moved on to the next woman at the Whinery.

Most likely, he’d taken the next logical step and followed up with the divorce attorney. Every day, she expected a process server to arrive at her office with the separation papers, but nothing so far.

He didn’t file and she didn’t file, and so they remained in marital limbo. Not together, not apart, with no resolution in sight.

As always, Rory greeted her at the door with frantic, slobbery enthusiasm. While he shed all over her suit and sat on her briefcase, Brighton kicked off her shoes and prepped a high-protein dinner of chicken and goat cheese vinaigrette. After she brought her dishes to the sink, she grabbed the lavender envelope, settled into the sofa, and kicked her feet up on her IKEA coffee table. She broke through the wax seal and pulled out a clipping from a publication called the Wilmington Social Record. The paper was thick and rich and featured a black-and-white photograph of a dark, handsome groom and a beautiful blond bride on a beach.

“A Whirlwind Romance,” the caption read. “Ms. Genevieve Van Petten, daughter of Russell and Jacqueline Van Petten, married Javier Mendoza of Mexico City after a brief courtship. The couple met when the bride, a philanthropist with a degree in art history, agreed to consult with Mr. Mendoza’s resort development firm. ‘As soon as we locked eyes at the airport,’ the bride gushed, ‘we just knew.’ The couple plan to move to Manhattan, where they will host a reception for family and friends.”

After rereading the announcement five times, Brighton snatched up her phone, dialed Kira, and relayed the story to her friend. “She went down there four weeks ago and they’re already married!”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around,” Kira observed.

Brighton rolled her eyes. “When I do it, it’s different.”

“Oh, okay.”

Brighton squinted down at the photo, trying to discern the details. “She has a veil and a bouquet and a diamond ring that could plug the hole in the ozone layer. This was not some drunken night in Vegas. Someone coordinated this whole thing with military precision.”

“She moves fast,” Kira said. “Guess she’d rather marry the guy than work for him.”

“Hasn’t she heard the expression ‘Marry for money, earn every penny’?” Brighton tsk-tsked.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say she doesn’t care. But I do wonder what the guy was thinking. He’s a friend of Jake’s, right?”

Brighton had an immediate physical reaction to the mere mention of his name. She closed her eyes against a wave of loss and longing. “He did mention that Javier was hell-bent on breaking into East Coast society. And now he’s married to a Van Petten who will get him into every polo tournament and yacht club. He got the society connections he wanted, she got the cash flow she needed. A win-win transaction.”

Kira’s tone softened. “So how’s your reentry to the real world?”

“Everything’s just the way I left it: a slow, gray march toward death fueled by coffee and fluorescent lighting.” Brighton heaved a melodramatic sigh, then laughed. “No, it’s fine. It’s nice to see my work friends again, and I’m up for promotion. How’s everything in Black Dog Bay?”

“Everything’s just the way you left it. Small-town scandal galore.”

Brighton’s smile faded. “I miss it.”

“Come back anytime,” Kira offered. “My house is your house.”

“I can’t. I’ll relapse.” Brighton knew she shouldn’t ask the next question, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Do you ever see him?”

Kira paused. “Who?”

“Who do you think? Jake Sorensen, my legally wedded husband.”

“I see him around from time to time.”

Brighton put her feet on the floor and sat up straight. “And?”

“I have to go, Brighton. My next client’s here.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.” Brighton hung up, but she couldn’t seem to put the phone down. She wanted to call him; she wanted to hear his voice. Her chest literally ached from missing him.

But nothing had changed. He still couldn’t love her and she still couldn’t trust herself not to love him.

She put the phone in the kitchen so she wouldn’t be tempted, then retreated to her bedroom and pulled the antique Patek Philippe watch out of her nightstand drawer. Every night before she went to bed, she cleaned and calibrated, but it still wasn’t perfect. The stainless steel case had a chip on one edge of the dial casing; the piece would never look brand-new again. But it was still beautiful. She’d poured her heart and soul into the project, attending to every detail and using the polished steel as an outlet for all the words she couldn’t bring herself to say.

The time had come to let go and give this piece of his past back to him. She would return his priceless antique Swiss watch—the Jake Sorensen equivalent of returning a T-shirt and photos after a breakup.

She packed the watch carefully in layers of tissue and cardboard and Bubble Wrap, then addressed the package to Don’t Be Koi. She hoped he would wear it and appreciate it.

She hoped that he would remember the good when he saw it, even though it meant good-bye.