He paid for the drinks and went outside. The portico of the hotel was crowded with people—tourists, guests, liveried bellmen. He barely noticed them.
As he reached the street, rain hit him in the face and made him think of Oregon. Of home.
He understood his love for Elizabeth now. It wasn’t a skin-deep emotion like so many others. It was in his bones and sinews; it was what had kept him standing straight and tall for all these years.
They’d said the words to each other every day for years, but they hadn’t meant it often enough.
He knew where he wanted to be right now, and it wasn’t in his empty apartment, surrounded by too many regrets. He’d already lost the ability to see his wife whenever he wanted. He didn’t want to make that mistake again. Once, he’d imagined that the opportunities in a man’s life were endless; now he saw how easy it was to make a wrong turn and lose everything. There wasn’t always time to make amends.
For the first time in years, he prayed: Please, God, don’t let it be too late.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Elizabeth sat on her favorite beach rock, staring out at the view that owned such a piece of her heart. She was alone out here today. There were no seals lazing on the rocks along the shoreline, no otters zipping back and forth. No birds diving down into the water. Waves washed forward, a foamy white line that pushed her back, back.
All last night she’d tossed and turned in bed, unable to find the sweet relief of sleep. She’d thought of so many things. Her mother and the terrible price she paid for love. Her daddy, her children, her marriage, her art.
Her whole life had been in bed with her, crowding her with memories of times both good and bad, of choices taken and roads not taken. For the first time, perhaps, she saw the big picture. She loved Jack. True, she’d let weakness in, and loss and regret, and those emotions had tainted her view of herself, but her love had run deep and been honest.
Her biggest failure had been an inability to love herself as well as she’d loved her family.
Then she’d finally taken the wheel and changed her course. She’d put her needs first and left Jack and dared to dream her own dream. She’d worked hard for it, painted until her fingers cramped up and her back ached.
But at the first bump in the road, she’d crumpled, pure and simple.
One little setback and she’d folded into the old Birdie. She’d considered quitting. As if the point of art could be found in supply-and-demand economics.
That pissed her off.
She stood up, walked forward. The tide tried to stop her. Water lapped over her rubber gardening clogs; icy water slid inside, dampened the hem of her pants. But nothing could push her back anymore. She’d never quit painting again. Even if no one ever liked her work. It would be enough that she did.
She ran forward suddenly, splashed into the freezing cold surf. It wasn’t until the very last moment, when the water hit her full in the face, that she realized she wasn’t going to turn around.
She dove headfirst into the next wave—something she’d never had the courage to do before. She came up on the other side, where the water was calm.
Life, she realized suddenly, was like this wave. Sometimes you had to dive into trouble to come out on the other side. That was what she’d learned at her failed art show: perspective. She needed to work harder, study more. Nothing in life came easily; it was time she said okay to that.
A big wave scooped her up and sent her tumbling toward the beach. She landed spread-eagled on the shore and burst out laughing.
When Elizabeth came home, soaking wet and freezing cold, the house smelled heavenly, of vanilla and cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee. It reminded her of her childhood. Anita had always made wonderful Sunday brunches after church.
She kicked her wet clogs into a corner, where they hit with a splat. “Breakfast smells great,” she said, shivering.
Anita was at the stove, cooking. Her face was flushed from the heat. “What happened to you?”
Elizabeth grinned. Water ran in icy squiggles down her forehead. “I started over. Again.”
Anita smiled back. “Well, start for the stairs and change your clothes. I’m starving. And don’t give me any of your new calorie crap, either. I’ve been dying for French toast.”
“I’ll eat anything someone else cooks, you know that.”
Elizabeth ran upstairs, dried off, and changed into a pair of fleece sweats, then hurried back downstairs. By the time she got to the kitchen, Anita had already dished up—French toast soaked in Grand Marnier, fresh strawberry slices, and soft-boiled eggs—and was sitting at her place. Half of Anita’s toast was missing.
“I waited for you like one pig waits for another.”
Elizabeth laughed and sat down. “Daddy used to say that.”
“I dreamed about him last night.”