Author: Kristan Higgins

My breath catches. I haven’t found a dime in a while. A couple of years, in fact. With fingers that shake just a little, I pick it up and examine it. A perfectly ordinary dime that could have, of course, dropped from a pocket or a purse or Corinne’s gigantic diaper bag.

Or not.

Back when Jimmy first died, it took me a while to notice the strange phenomenon of the dimes, but once I caught on, I started keeping them in a jar in my bedroom. I go there now and lean on the bureau, looking at them.

I don’t know if they’re from Jimmy or not, but it seems a stretch to think that I formed a habit of dropping rogue dimes. Not nickels, not quarters, not pennies…just dimes. I have no idea what they might signify, but I know that I believe—and want to continue believing—that they’re a sign that Jimmy’s spirit is still involved in my life.

I give the dime a kiss, then drop it in the jar with its eleven brothers and sisters. A minute later, I’m knocking on Ethan’s door, not quite sure what I plan to say.

He answers, not opening the door all the way or standing aside to let me in.

“Ethan, I’m so sorry for what I said,” I blurt.

He sighs, looks at the floor and folds his arms, Italian sign language for We got a situation here.

“Take me sailing tomorrow,” I say, surprising myself completely. And Ethan, too, it appears, since his head jerks up and his eyebrows raise. “Let’s get out of town for the day.”

“Really?” he asks, his eyes questioning. And hopeful. You’ve been hurting him for years, Parker said. That can’t be true, but my throat still tightens under the familiar clamp of tears.

“Really,” I answer thickly.

“Okay,” he says, as I knew he would.

Still, he doesn’t exactly look overjoyed that I’m proposing this little venture, so I stand on tiptoe and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“It’s all right,” he says, making me feel worse.

“Ethan, it’s not all right. If we’re going to have a real relationship, you have to let yourself be mad at me,” I say. “Especially when I’m a jerk.”

“I’m fairly helpless where you’re concerned, Lucy,” he says quietly.

That one takes my breath away. “Well, stand up for yourself, laddie,” I say after a minute, my voice squeaking a little.

He looks at me, his arms still folded. “Fine. You’re the one I want to be with, Lucy. Not Parker. Don’t try to get us together anymore.”

“Okay, fine, I do understand, and I am sorry.” I hesitate, then continue. “It’s just that, you know, when you guys were—”

“Lucy. Shut up.”

I obey. “Sorry.”

His smile starts at his eyes, like a candle being lit on a dark night, and sure enough, the corner of his mouth curls up. “Ten o’clock at the marina?” he suggests.

“Sounds great. I’ll bring lunch, okay?”

“Okay.”

We stand there another second or two, just looking at each other. “Well, good night, then,” I say a trifle awkwardly.

“Good night,” he echoes. But he stays in the doorway, looking at the floor, until I turn the corner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THERE’S A BRISK WIND THE NEXT DAY, and the boats bob on their moorings, the sounds of creaking wood and slapping water mixing with the cries of gulls as I approach the Marie, a sixteen-foot wooden sloop, its dark green hull topped with a stripe of maroon, the deck a caramel gold. The sails are tightly rolled, and the wind sings through the lines.

Ethan’s head pops out of the small cabin. “Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Ahoy,” I answer, feeling oddly shy.

His smile grows, and he steps out and offers me a hand. “Welcome aboard.”

I’ve never been on Ethan’s boat. He bought it when Jimmy and I had been married a couple of months, and I now recall that there’d been a little fraternal envy going on. Jimmy, who didn’t sail, had never sailed and didn’t much like being on the water, had stated that he, too, would have a boat someday. Marie had been quite charmed when Ethan named the boat for her and talked of it constantly at the restaurant. It was one of the few times, I imagine, that Jimmy had ever been shown up by his younger brother.

But although Ethan has invited me to go out many times, I’ve never said yes, and stepping onto the boat, which tilts precariously, that decision seems like a wise one now. The Marie is much less sturdy than Captain Bob’s forty-foot rock of stability, and sits quite low in the water.

“Here’s our lunch,” I say, handing Ethan the little cooler. Inside are two giant sandwiches on my best pumpernickel rye…turkey, avocado, bacon and mayonnaise flavored with dill and chives. Two little bags of Cape Cod potato chips. Four packets of Del’s Lemonade mix. And a slab of dark chocolate layer cake with a seemingly sinful hazelnut-cappuccino frosting half an inch thick, which I’d made last night.

“Thanks,” Ethan says.

“Can I peek inside?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, and I do. The cabin is snug and adorable…porthole windows where the ceiling curves up, miniature cabinets closed with brass fasteners. There’s a table, a sink and a small door leading, I assume, to the head. A couch lines one wall.

“Do you ever go out overnight on this thing?” I call as Ethan unties the straps around the rolled-up sails.

“I haven’t lately, but I used to,” he says. “The couch pulls out into a bed. But since Nicky’s been in the world, no.”

“Good,” I say. Ethan indulges in far too many life-threatening hobbies. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

A minute later, we’re heading away from the dock into the channel. Ethan tells me to sit and raises the first sail. The wind fills it immediately, and the boat leaps forward.

“Yikes,” I laugh.

He grins. “She’s a fast little boat,” he states proudly. He holds the tiller loosely, the wind ruffling his hair, looking like an ad for the idle rich in his thick Irish fisherman’s sweater, faded jeans and Top-Siders.

Ethan waves as we pass other boaters, occasionally tacking to give way. White sails dot the horizon, and seagulls wheel and turn overhead.

“Where are we headed?” I ask, gripping a cleat as we bounce over the wake of a motorboat.

“Where would you like to go?” he asks.

“Nowhere,” I answer. “I just like being out here with you.” My face grows hot. It’s not easy saying those words, but I’m rewarded with a smile from my captain.

For a while, we just sail out toward Point Judith, not too far off the coast, the slapping waves and wind a happy melody. The sun grows warmer, and I take off my sweatshirt. My heart thumps erratically, which has nothing to do with being in open water—I’m giving Ethan a chance. A real chance, not a token. Giving myself one, too, and it terrifies me. My hands tingle from time to time, the pebble seems firmly lodged in my throat. I look over at Ethan, who smiles. I smile back, and after a second, it becomes genuine.

We don’t talk much, and eventually, I stop envisioning his death (which, I imagine, would come from a rogue wave that tosses us from the boat into the cold Atlantic, where we’d bob helplessly until sharks came and feasted on Ethan’s beautiful olive flesh as I screamed helplessly). Okay, so maybe I can’t exactly stop, but my shoulders relax a little, and my heart rate seems to slow.

Somewhere off Point Judith, Ethan turns the boat into the wind and drops the sails, where they flap companionably. The boat bobs gently on the waves. “You hungry?” he asks. “I’m starving.”

“Sure,” I say, getting up to retrieve our lunch.

There are plates and cups in the cupboard. I make up two glasses of Del’s and unwrap the sandwiches. Ethan spreads a blanket on the deck. The wind has conveniently died down, and I pass the plates to him, then join him on deck, the shy feeling back.

“This is gorgeous,” he says, picking up a sandwich and surveying it.

“Thanks,” I say, flexing my hands.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yup,” I answer, swallowing. Then I decide to be honest. “I’m feeling a little nervous,” I admit.

“Afraid you’ll fall in?” he says with a grin.

“No.” I don’t say anymore, just look at him steadily, my hands buzzing.

He tilts his head, the wind stirring his hair. “It’s just me, Lucy,” he says gently.

“That’s the point.” I smile. “I’ll get over it. Don’t worry. This is great. Let’s talk about something else.”

He grins. “Sure.”

“How’s your job these days?” I take a bite of the sandwich. It’s awfully good, I have to admit.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I don’t love it.” He pulls his sweater over his head, revealing a white cotton oxford, a sharp contrast to his tanned skin.

“Why are you doing it, then?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away, just takes another bite and looks off to the horizon. “I want to be near Nicky,” he says eventually. “And the money’s really good. Which makes me a soulless corporate monster, according to my dad.” He grins. “But it’s nice to be able to give Nicky’s savings account a big check each month.”

“He doesn’t need it, you know,” I say, then bite my tongue. Parker once told me that upon his birth, Nicky automatically inherited ten million dollars from the family trust.

“I know,” Ethan says. “But I want to give something anyway. Even if it’s nothing compared to what Parker’s family has.”

“Well, the best thing you give him is you,” I say, earning another smile. My stomach flips, and my cheeks warm yet again. “And Ethan, you shouldn’t be in a job you don’t like.”

“Well, there is the torture-the-parents benefit. We can’t rule that out,” he replies, his voice light.

“Torturing your parents can’t feel good,” I say.

He takes a pull of his lemonade. “It feels okay,” he says evenly. “After all, they’ve tortured me a fair bit over the years, too.”

“How?” I ask.

He considers me before answering. “Compared with St. Jimmy, I’ll always be the next best thing.”

I swallow hard. “I’m sure that’s not true, Ethan,” I say. “You have to stop thinking that, because it’s just not true.”

He takes another bite of sandwich. “Well. You might be right. You talk to them more than I do.” He pauses. “Have you said anything to them about us?”

Once again, my throat works against the tightness that always seems to be there these days. “Um, no, I haven’t. Have you?”

“No. You said you wanted to wait, so I’m waiting.”

I take a deep breath. “Maybe I should be the one to say something. It might be easier, coming from me.”

“Sounds good.” A breeze ruffles his hair, and he says no more.

I realize I’ve finished my sandwich and start in on the chips. A seagull circles overhead, recognizing the label, apparently. I throw a chip into the water, where the bird instantly pounces.

“Now you’ve done it,” Ethan says. Sure enough, four more birds appear out of nowhere, circling and crying overhead. The boat rocks gently, and I lean against the mast.

“So what would you like to do for work?” I ask. “Go back to traveling and jumping out of airplanes and schmoozing?”

Ethan laughs. “Nah,” he answers. “Been there, done that.” He’s quiet a minute, tossing his own chips to the happy gulls, who wing in closer and closer circles to the boat. “I wouldn’t mind being a chef,” he says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.