He’ll worry if you don’t answer, I chide myself, connecting the call with a terse finger-tap. Don’t be selfish, Jo.
“Hi.”
“Hey, darlin.’” His warm, faintly accented voice blasts into my ear canal. “Home safe, then?”
“Standing in my kitchen as we speak.”
“How was the flight?”
“Long. Uneventful.” I lean back against the edge of the countertop. “I slept almost the entire way.”
“I still wish you’d taken the jet. Absolute nonsense to fly commercial like a commoner when your parents own a Gulfstream, if you ask me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t want to fight about this again, Ollie.”
“Fine, fine.” He sighs deeply, no doubt remembering the massive row we got into about this very topic before my departure. “I won’t open a can of worms. I only want the best for you.”
“I know you do.”
“You sound tired, darlin.’” He pauses. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Of course. It’s just… being home after all this time away. It’s an adjustment.”
“I bet. Everything as you remember?”
“A bit dustier, but I’ll manage.”
“I thought you had staff on the property to deal with the upkeep?”
“We used to. They’re…” I struggle to keep my voice steady as Flora and Miguel’s faces flash inside my mind. “They’re gone. They left.”
“I didn’t realize that. I don’t like the thought of you being there all alone.”
“I have a state-of-the-art security system, Ollie. That’s all I need.”
“Is that so? A security system won’t keep you warm at night.”
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Beaufort?”
“Always.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “You should get some rest. It must be late there.”
I glance at the grandfather clock in the hall off the kitchen. Ornate gold hands inch slowly around its face, marking each passing second with an audible tick.
“Nearly two.”
“Mmm.” I hear the muffled sounds of keys jangling, a door swinging shut. I picture him locking the deadbolt of his luxurious apartment in Eaux-Vives, stepping out onto the quay that runs along the lake. Strands of his blonde hair catching the morning sunlight as he takes a sip of his coffee. “It’s not quite eight here, but I’m already on my way into the office. I’m meeting with your father in twenty minutes. You know how he feels about tardiness.”
“I do, unfortunately.”
“He’ll be in fine form today, seeing as his one and only daughter has effectively fled the country under the cover of darkness. I assume by now they know that you’re gone?”
“I left a note.”
He snorts. “Blair must be apoplectic. Should make for a lovely work atmosphere.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m a big boy. I can handle whatever fallout your parents throw at me. You know I fully support you taking some time for yourself.” He pauses. “Not that I’d object if you changed your mind and came back…”
I glance up at the ceiling, studying the decorative crown moulding. It, like the rest of the house, dates back nearly two hundred years. “I told you, I need a little time to figure out my next steps.”
“How much time?”
“I’m driving down to Providence later this week to meet with an academic advisor at Brown and discuss my options. After that, I’ll have a clearer picture of the future.”
“A future that still involves me, I hope?”
I press my eyes closed. “Ollie…”
“Okay, okay, I’ll stop pushing. I miss you, that’s all.”
“I’ve been gone less than a day.”
He’s silent for a long beat. So long, I think maybe our connection has cut out. Finally, in a quiet voice, he says, “I just… I want to make sure I didn’t scare you away the other night… with the key thing…”
He trails off, clearly nervous. It’s uncharacteristic of him. Oliver Beaufort is one of the most articulate men I’ve ever met. In the ten months I’ve known him, he’s never once been at a loss for words — not the warm autumn afternoon we first met in a VALENT conference room, not the cloudy November evening he asked me to dinner after a late marketing meeting, not on New Year’s Eve when he told me he’d fallen in love with me as fireworks exploded in a star-studded sky, the Swiss Alps providing a dramatic, snow-capped backdrop.
To hear him like this — fumbling for the right thing to say to me — stirs an uncomfortable amount of guilt inside my stomach. Silence blasts over the line, broken only by the background noise on his end — tourists laughing in the park, a tram screeching to a halt, the sharp beep of a taxi horn. I tell myself to say something, anything, to reassure him.
Of course my future involves you.
Of course I’m in love with you.
Of course I’ll be back soon.
For whatever reason, my stubborn mouth refuses to form the words.
“Josephine,” he murmurs into the receiver. His slight Southern twang, a remnant from his upbringing in North Carolina, tugs at each vowel. “Running away from your responsibilities for a little while is fine. I get it. So long as you’re not running away from me.”
“I told you, I just need some time.” My teeth grind together. “This isn’t about you — or us. It’s about me.”
“Okay, darlin.’ Whatever you say.” There’s another long beat of silence. “Call me tomorrow, after you’ve gotten some rest.”
“I will.”
“I love you.”
I force my teeth to unclench. “You too.”
Only after I’ve disconnected the call do I realize my hands are curled into fists at my sides, so tight my knuckles have gone white.
TWO
archer
I chase the dawn out to sea, already well beyond the outer reaches of Gloucester Harbor by the time the sun makes an appearance on the eastern horizon. The ocean’s surface is stained red as blood; the western sky still blanketed by a dense gray cloud cover. We chug northward along the craggy Cape Ann coast, headed toward Rockport and Ipswich. The steady hum of the boat engine buzzes between my ears.
Most people ashore are still sound asleep in their beds, but I’ve been awake for hours — loading barrels of fresh bait from the supply docks, refueling the diesel tank, repairing a few busted traps. The Ebenezer — the mustard yellow lobster boat rumbling beneath me — is older than I am, and her age is apparent in every fiberglass crack and paint-chipped plank. Even after all these months, I haven’t fully sorted out her many idiosyncrasies.
“Put a little speed on, kid,” a gruff voice orders from my left. “I’m not paying you to take me on a cocktail cruise.”
“Wasn’t aware you were paying me at all, seeing as my last two checks mysteriously got lost in the mail,” I mutter under my breath. My left hand tightens its grip on the wooden steering wheel as my right punches the throttle into higher gear.