slacks, his sandy hair tousled. He’s even more beautiful than I
remembered. His eyes light up with surprise, and then a heartbreakingly joyful smile.
“You came back!”
I rush to him, unable to speak. Lawrence closes the gap
between us. All I can feel is the thud of my heart. All I can
see is the faintly blurred print from the Crest Harbor Sentinel:
“Following the tragic murder of his nephew, Lawrence Foster,
on the property’s private beach.”
“I can’t believe it,” he says, beaming. “I came every day,
hoping against hope that you’d change your mind.”
Tears sting my eyes. Keep it together, Cass. Keep. It. Together.
Lawrence grips my arms. “Is it really you? Or are you some
beautiful vision coming to torment me?”
This makes me smile, in spite of the agony inside. “It’s almost
like you’re happy to see me, Lawrence.”
“Happy is an understatement,” he says, beaming.
I should go. I’ve seen him now, and every second that I stand
here in front of him, I feel the weight of the information I
know. I should walk away while I still can.
“What made you change your mind?” he asks.
“It’s a long story.”
“I know what you mean.” Suddenly his expression shifts to
seriousness. “I thought about you every day, Cassandra. You
have no idea how glad I am that you came back.”
I’m not sure how much of this I can take. I’m going to break.
Any second, I’m going to break.
“Cassandra.”
“Yes?” My voice breaks.
“Will you walk with me for a bit?”
Once again, logic is shattered by the hammer of emotion. “Sure.”
Lawrence holds out his forearm for me. I’ve seen enough old
movies to know why. I lace my arm in his. He tucks it close.
A rush of pleasure zips through my stomach. Being around
him again, touching him, smelling the faint tinge of his vintage
cologne, fills me with a dangerous amount of happiness.
It’s still a beautiful morning. Perhaps a bit cooler than it
should be at the end of July. Two gulls cry at each other as
they swoop overhead. I wonder which world they come from,
Lawrence’s or mine. Or are they also separated by a century of
time? For some reason, thinking about it depresses me.
Lawrence leads us toward the far point, where the waves are
most tumultuous.
“I don’t think a week has ever felt so long,” he says as we
walk slowly.
“I know what you mean.”
He smiles, but this only twists the blade deeper in my gut.
He doesn’t deserve to die. Not in a homicide. It can’t be true.
Why does it have to be true?
We come to a rocky ledge at the base of the point. Lawrence
climbs up, then holds out his hand to help me up. I wobble
a little on my climb, nearly slipping. He grabs for my other
hand. As he helps me to the higher ledge, we’re face-to-face for
a moment. Separated by little more than a breath. My eyes fall
to his lips, but I force myself to step away.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Lawrence says as we head to the end of
the point. “Is something wrong?”
Yes, Lawrence. Yes. The worst possible thing. The words
scream in my head: “following the tragic murder of his nephew,
Lawrence Foster, on the property’s private beach.”
“I’m fine,” I say weakly.
His eyes sweep over my face. He can see I’m holding something
back. I force a little smile and lead on, inwardly kicking myself. I
can’t be weak. I’ve been through this in my mind, assessing every
possible path. You can’t cheat Death. It’s a fact. And you can’t
mess with fate. Telling Lawrence that he’s going to die in a week
could set into motion the very events that will bring it to pass.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. I will be strong. I’m not
going to tell him. I’m just going to spend a little bit longer with
him, say good-bye, and move on with my life.
Waves slam against the craggy rocks at the tip of the point.