Cara stepped closer and cupped his face in her palm. “I love you. You know that.” She let her hand slip with a slight shrug. “I’m just feeling a bit unmoored about the direction my life is taking.”
“It’s your business, too,” he said as though trying to convince her. “If it weren’t for you, it never would have grown the way it has. It was entirely your advertising plan. Your PR ideas. Your business sense.” He ventured a half smile. “Did you forget my accounting system?”
She laughed shortly and shook her head. Brett’s idea of accounting before Cara came along had been shoving records, bills, and receipts written on yellow sticky notes into a file drawer.
“It’s still your business. Your dream. I just helped. You could have hired anyone to do my job.”
“I hired you.”
Cara smirked. “You married me.”
Brett smiled smugly and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Call me lucky.”
Cara wanted to smile as she kissed him back, wished she could cast off the heaviness in her heart—but she couldn’t. Her feelings went deeper than just the fact that she worked for Brett’s company. Far deeper.
Cara reached for her wineglass and took a long swallow. She felt the liquid slide down her throat, reviving her. “The ecotour business was never my dream,” she began. “It was something I could do while raising our children. That was the plan.” She paused and looked up at him, gauging his reaction. “But that plan didn’t pan out, did it?”
Brett’s eyes reflected his sorrow as he took a long drag from the beer bottle.
She turned away and walked toward the bottle of wine on the side table, needing to create a distance between them. She didn’t want to hurt him. Didn’t want to fight. They both knew that the subject of children was their trigger point. Bad feelings quickly ignited after years of heated arguments and shouting matches that left them drained and desperately sad. Though it had been years since they’d stopped trying, the hurt and frustration still bubbled under the surface like hot lava ready to spew out.
She poured a second, generous serving of wine into her glass, spilling some in her haste.
Brett released a long sigh, then pulled out a chair from the table and lowered into it, stretching his long legs out. Catching her eye, he held out his hand, indicating a chair across from him. Cara hesitated. She really wanted to take a shower before the pizza arrived, ached for the swell of warm, soothing water to wash away the sweat and dirt from the day’s exertions. But she saw the vulnerable look in his eyes—and the determination—so she obliged and slid into the chair.
“Okay,” Brett said in that tone that told her he was being serious and wanted to get to the heart of the matter. “You’re not happy.”
It sounded horrible when he put it like that. “I’m happy with you,” Cara amended. “Let’s say I’m not content with my career.”
“Okay,” Brett said, accepting her clarification. “You’re not content with your career path. So, you’re considering selling the beach house. Right?”
Cara nodded.
“What would we gain by selling it? Aside from money, of course.”
Cara took heart that he was open to discussing it. She often found that if she could air out her thoughts, it released tension and frustration, allowing her to think more clearly.
“Well,” she began, leaning forward against the table. She set her wineglass down and let her fingers tap against the surface. “For starters, I’d quit Coastal Ecotour. It’s a great company and I’m mad about the boss.” She gave him a little wink, and Brett allowed a small smile in response. “But I want to do something that I am passionate about. If I’m going to choose what I want to do for the next twenty years, I figure I damn well better love it.”
To his credit, Brett nodded in understanding. “Agreed. Okay. So . . . what would that passion be?”
“That’s the problem,” she said hesitantly. “I don’t know. I—”
The doorbell rang.
Cara’s mouth snapped tight.
“That’s the pizza,” Brett said, and pushed back from the table to amble toward the door, pulling out his wallet en route.
Cara leaned back against the hard chair, oddly relieved at the interruption. She had no clue what her passion was. None whatsoever.
The aroma of hot cheese, oregano, and sausage sparked a sudden ravenous hunger after the day’s physical labor. The red wine flowed while they ate, and as the evening darkness deepened, the candle she’d lit at the center of the table glowed brighter. Cara felt the tension of her worries lessen as her stomach filled and the wine swirled through her bloodstream, and decided to put the conversation on hold for the time being. Maybe this new feeling of being unmoored, of lacking purpose, would right itself after a hot supper and a good night’s rest. Going around and around in her head—or with Brett—would just make her crazy.
Instead, she tilted her head and listened as Brett talked about two young boys on the ecotour that week. Brett was a natural storyteller. He related in colorful detail how he’d taken a family from Ohio out to Capers Island and taught the two little boys how to fish for crabs using nothing but a string and a chicken neck. The older brother, ten years old, attracted the first crab. When he pulled the chicken neck out of the water, however, the boy freaked at seeing a crab clinging to it with a claw and let go of the string. But his six-year-old brother was fearless. With Brett’s guidance, he caught four crabs and was proud as a peacock.
“A born fisherman,” Brett concluded with a soft smile.
Cara saw the pride in Brett’s face that he’d taught the boy how to catch his first crab. Brett’s ability to instruct was almost as innate to him as his storytelling gift. It was that passion thing again, she realized. He truly loved his work as a naturalist. For him, heaven meant being out on the water with his boat filled with tourists who hailed from all over the world, including those from South Carolina who’d simply never been out on the ocean. He loved to reveal the secrets of the sea, bringing people up close to crabs and shrimp, to sharks and dolphins. To reveal the majesty of the tides, the mysteries of the mudflats, and to impress upon adults and children alike a reverence for the natural world, believing that if his students experienced the wonder of the wild, they would carry that revelation in their hearts and fight to protect it.
She thought again what a wonderful father Brett would have made. Cara took a deep, slow breath, then leaned back and watched while Brett ate the last of the pizza. She glanced at the wine bottle and noted that they’d finished it off. They were both tired. Cara knew if she lingered any longer, they’d slip back into the conversation that they’d both assiduously avoided during dinner. She loved Brett, but she wanted time to herself to figure things out. Maybe she’d skip the shower and instead soak in a hot, scented tub, letting the aches of a day spent painting ease away.
“Thanks for ordering the pizza, hon. Did the trick,” she said, and began gathering the dishes.
But when she reached for Brett’s plate, his hand rose to clasp her arm.