*
I trudged back along the road toward the restaurant. The sun had come up while I was at the police station. Gus would be busy with his early morning crowd. I had to have one more conversation I dreaded this morning.
What I had done to Chris might be unforgiveable. Why hadn’t I trusted him enough to tell him my plan? Was there a problem in our relationship?
No. There was a problem with me. Somewhere deep in my brain I had known the plan was stupid and I hadn’t wanted anyone to tell me so. Especially not the person whose opinion I most valued. The person who would tell me the truth.
I thought about the couples in the Rabble Point set. Each of them had been together for decades. And though they’d lived lives haunted by the fire that killed the Lowes, within their marriages they had supported one another. Sheila and Michael had become grown-ups together. Caroline had supported Henry’s career, despite the disruption the frequent moves caused in her own life. He, in turn, valued her sacrifice and had brought her back to Busman’s Harbor as she wanted. Fran and Barry were good parents to Quinn and good grandparents. They still loved each other, despite the challenges, financial and otherwise, in their lives. Phil and Deborah had overcome her alcoholism and injuries and the demands of his career and stayed together throughout. There was a lot of resilience there. I thought if I could achieve a relationship like that in my lifetime, I would have a good life.
And yet, love wasn’t quite enough. Caroline, Deborah, and Sheila, all strangers in a new town, longed for friends. Despite the trauma caused by the Lowes’ deaths and awkwardness of the changing partnerships, Phil had sought out both Barry and Michael, and neither had turned him away. Even people in good relationships needed friends.
At Gus’s, I entered through the kitchen door and snuck up the stairs to the apartment. It had been a morning full of painful conversations, and I had to have one more before I could sleep. Part of me hoped Chris had gone back to bed after our crazy night, but he was sitting on the couch, waiting.
“I thought we weren’t going to have any more secrets.” The hurt in his deep voice stabbed me in the heart. I’d been so focused on proving I was right about the murder, I’d done the one thing we’d promised each other we’d never do. Kept secrets. I was ashamed of myself.
“Forgive me,” I pleaded. “I’ve been such an idiot.”
He rose from the couch and turned toward me. “Do you know how you keeping things from me made me feel?”
I shook my head. The long, sleepless night; the embarrassment; and now the regret at how I’d treated Chris took their toll. A tear slid down my cheek.
“It made me feel shut out and not trusted. I was hurt that you were keeping a part of yourself from me. I was scared, after all we’ve been through, that we weren’t going to make it.” He took a breath. “In other words, it made me feel exactly what you felt last summer when I was the one keeping the secrets. Secrets about things that put me in danger. Secrets about stupid, wrongheaded, bullheaded stuff I did.” His voice was ragged. “I can’t believe you stayed. Or that you forgave me. Or that you still love me.”
“Of course I do.” I could barely breathe. “Now you need to forgive me.”
In three long strides, he took me in his arms. “You are the smartest, bravest person I know. There is nothing to forgive. But we have to promise, whenever one of us is going to do something stupid, we have to tell the other. Full disclosure.”
“I promise.” We kissed, a deep and satisfying kiss. My heart pounded and my knees went weak.
No end of that in sight.
Chapter 30
They stood in a circle on Rabble Point Road. The mid-December wind cut through the vacant land, sucking out our breath. Everyone was bundled in heavy winter coats, scarves, and gloves. Deborah’s face was hidden behind enormous dark glasses, even though so near the winter solstice, the sun barely crept over the horizon.
Jamie and I stood outside the circle, a few yards back. We wanted to show respect and acknowledge their loss, but we didn’t want to intrude. He was off-duty and we’d ridden out to Rabble Point together in his pickup. As the miles had rolled along on deserted Eastclaw Point Road, I thought about my friend. I couldn’t get the image of him, alone in his patrol car on Thanksgiving Day, out of my head. I hadn’t valued our friendship enough. I hadn’t even called him when I first got back to town. And then this summer . . .
“I miss you,” I said. “I want us to be friends again.”
“Oh, Julia. Me too.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened this summer. If I hadn’t kissed you, we’d still at least have what we had.”