The anguish in his voice brings tears to my eyes. “I was afraid,” I say softly. “Because of Zachary. I wasn’t prepared to have that conversation yet. But coming last night wasn’t a mistake, Hemi. I’m the one who made the mistake. What I did was unforgivable and I deserved everything you said.”
“It wasn’t unforgivable. I just . . . when you told me about Zachary, it was like I’d been kicked in the gut. I never thought anything could hurt worse than you not showing up that day, but I was wrong. All I could think about when you told me about Zachary was what I’d lost, not what I’d gained—a son and perhaps a second chance. I never imagined that kind of ending, but here I am, Belle. Here we are.”
We.
My heart is suddenly thrumming so loudly, I can scarcely hear myself think, and yet I’m afraid to let myself hope. “Is this about Zachary? About being part of his life?”
“It’s about everything, Belle. About Zachary, and you, and me. About finally having a life. Because up to now, I haven’t. Everything—the war stuff, the books, the awards—it was all just killing time. Until I could get back to you. We’re different people now. Older. Changed. But some things are the same. At least for me. And I thought . . . hoped . . . that maybe there was room for me in your life.”
There’s no mistaking the plea in his voice, and suddenly I’m afraid. That it’s moving too fast. That what we feel in this moment isn’t enough. That after everything we’ve lost, nothing will ever be enough. “We don’t know each other anymore, Hemi. You said it yourself—we’re different people now. We could be making a huge mistake.”
He nods. “You’re right. We could. But it’s a chance I’m willing to take. However slowly you need to take it. You were Belle then and you’ll always be Belle, but you’re someone else now too. We both are. And I’d like the chance to know who you turned out to be. I know we’ve left it a bit late, but I think it’s worth finding out if there’s a future for us.” He reaches for my hand then, searching my eyes. “Is it asking too much?”
I look down at our joined hands, those warm, familiar fingers winding through mine, and recall the advice I gave Dickey all those years ago—the same advice I gave Ethan a few nights ago—to let nothing come between them and love. Can I do this? Risk my heart again? I’ve made a good life for myself, a full life by almost any standard. I’ve raised good children and done good work. It should be enough. But I’ve always known there was a piece missing—and that that missing piece is Hemi.
“No,” I say at last. “It isn’t asking too much. It’s asking just enough.”
I open a bottle of wine and put together a makeshift supper of fruit and cheese, then carry it all to the parlor. Hemi builds a fire and we sit on the sofa to begin the business of picking up the loose threads of our lives.
Now and then, his hand wanders to mine, as if to reassure himself that I’m real, just as mine wanders to his cheek for the same reason. The connection we once felt is still there, like a current running between us, and each touch brings with it the temptation to abandon our stories and tumble into bed. How easy it would be to give in to those temptations, to consummate our reunion in the safe and wordless dark. But there are still too many years yawning between us, too many blank spaces that need to be filled. And so we keep talking.
He tells me about the war and the things he saw—some too horrifying to write about—and about his mother’s death. How he went home when she got sick and was there when they buried her beside his father, on what would have been their thirty-third anniversary. How, in his grief, he had married a woman who reminded him of me, only to realize on the night of their wedding that he’d made a terrible mistake.
I tell him about California and how it was without him, about how scared I was when I realized I was going to have a baby. I show him Johanna’s picture and tell him her story, how we became friends and then sisters, how when she knew she was going to die, she had gifted me with Ilese—and with a new name for the son I had borne out of wedlock.
The hours slip past as our glasses empty and the fire burns low. Over a second bottle of wine, I tell him about Ethan and Ashlyn. How they came into my life because of the books we’d written and already feel like part of my family. How Ethan is the spitting image of Dickey, right down to the size of his heart. And how Ashlyn pushed me to seek closure and finally tell him about Zachary.
And then suddenly, inexplicably, we seem to be out of words. There’s more to tell, for both of us. Forty-three years is a lifetime—two lifetimes in this case—but for now, we’ve said enough. I go to my room, drag the comforter from my bed, then return to Hemi. I say nothing as I extend my hand. He says nothing as he takes it. We head to the sunporch and down the back stairs to the beach below.
We perch on the rocks, silent as we watch the sun rise up out of the sea. The morning air is biting cold, sharp against our cheeks, but beneath the comforter, we’re fitted snugly, shoulder to shoulder and limb to limb—each other’s shelter. We stay until the sun is well up, the sea a slick of mercury-blue, the sand golden beneath our feet. Eventually, we climb down and stand face-to-face.
I had convinced myself that I was seeking closure, a tidy end to a messy past, but as Hemi pulls me into his arms, it doesn’t feel like closure. It feels like a beginning, and I’m suddenly reminded of another kiss, one that happened a lifetime ago, on a rainy day in a stable. That had been a beginning too. Hemi smiles, as if reading my thoughts, then pulls me into the circle of his arms. This is what it’s supposed to be like, I think as his mouth closes over mine.
This. This. This.
EPILOGUE
ASHLYN
December 7, 1985
Marblehead, Massachusetts
It was well past three, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds, painting the walls with soft amber light. Ashlyn ran a careful eye over her handiwork, packages wrapped in blue paper and decorated with curlicues of silver and white ribbon spread across the vintage quilt. Hanukkah gifts to be handed out during the first night’s festivities.
It was her second Hanukkah with Ethan’s new family but her first time participating in the gift-giving, and she was just the tiniest bit nervous. They’d been wonderfully welcoming, treating her like one of their own—and soon she would be. They’d been keeping the secret since just after Thanksgiving, because Ethan wanted to make the announcement when the entire family was together.
It was still hard to believe how much her life had changed in a year and a half. All because a pair of books had found their way into her hands. A seeming coincidence, but was it? Of all the shops in New England, Regretting Belle and Forever, and Other Lies had ended up in Kevin’s shop. And because they had, everything had changed. Not only for herself and Ethan, or even for Hemi and Belle, but for an entire family separated by a decades-old secret.
She thought of the books, now shelved side by side in Marian’s office, and recalled the last time she’d run her hands over them. Hemi’s first, then Belle’s, then both books together. How they had hummed beneath her fingers with the same curious energy. Cool and quiet and gloriously aligned, like notes resonating in perfect harmony.