“Have you been over to Saint Helena’s churchyard to find your grandfather’s grave yet?”
His question startled me. “No. I’m not . . . I mean, maybe eventually. I’m just focused on other things now, taking it one day at a time. I plan to give the suitcase to the police, but not yet. I need a little more time to think things through.” I stopped walking, making him stop, too. I looked up into his eyes, still hoping I could find answers that were more palatable than the ones I already had. “Do you remember anything about the day Cal left? Anything he or your grandmother said to you?”
He looked away for a moment, the sun shining in his eyes. “I remember mostly how I felt—lonely. And unwanted.” The light made his eyes almost translucent, and I imagined I saw clouds moving behind them. “But like I said before, being in the house so much lately has helped me remember other things, too.”
“Like what?” I asked, trying to hold my breath, trying to see Edith not as an accessory to a crime, but as an abused woman who’d sought love and restitution in a world she didn’t fully understand.
“My grandmother told me to be happy.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “But it’s what Cal told me that I’ve been thinking about lately. ‘Never let the fire get behind you,’ he said. I haven’t thought about that for a long time, and I guess I’m still trying to figure out what he meant.”
I remembered what he’d told me as we stood outside the Heritage Society. “And you said Cal called Edith a murderer.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I can’t figure that one out, either.”
Tell him now. It wasn’t Loralee’s voice in my head this time, but my own. I didn’t want to be like Edith, dwelling in the past and living in exile in the old house on the bluff, with only my guilt and secrets to keep me company. And I had Owen to think of, the brother I’d happily pretended didn’t exist for ten years but who’d now become so precious to me. You can’t move forward with one foot always on the brake.
I tilted my head back, his name on my lips. “Gibbes . . .” I began.
I hesitated, my old fear of stepping past my boundaries, of swimming away from the safe place, paralyzing me, making me think of Cal and the coward he believed me to be.
But then Gibbes kissed me, his lips soft and warm against mine, and I stopped thinking about Cal, and my fears, and everything else except the feel of Gibbes’s hands gently cupping my head as if I were a rare and precious treasure.
He lifted his face away from mine.
“Why did you do that?” I asked, breathless.
He didn’t remove his hands. “Because you’re a beautiful woman and it’s a warm summer night, and you’re wearing that dress. And because I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time, and I think I might just do it again.”
And he did, but this time I put my arms around his neck and let him draw me closer, kissing him back. I felt wanted and desirable and even pretty. I imagined curling up with Loralee later and telling her thank you. Mostly, though, I felt the long-dormant stirrings of desire, and want, and gratitude to this man who’d never demanded more from me than I was ready to give.
“Get a room,” somebody from a crowd of teenagers called out as they passed us.
We broke apart and I was sure my face matched the color of my dress.
“You ready to cut some rug?” Gibbes asked, reaching out his hand.
“Excuse me?”
“Dance. Are you ready to dance?”
“Only if you’re ready for a good laugh,” I said, putting my hand in his.
“I’m always ready for that,” he said, leading me down the boardwalk and the grassy area to where bodies were already moving in tandem and the music seemed to dance across the water like a skipping stone, rocking the anchored boats with its rhythm.
I found that I recognized a lot of the music as old standards like “Double Shot (Of My Baby’s Love),” “Too Late to Turn Back Now,” and “Band of Gold.” Maybe it was my ability to sing along with the lyrics and anticipate the beat that saved not only my pride but also Gibbes’s feet. I made sure we stayed in a back corner, far away from the very experienced dancers—whom I’d have been content to just sit and watch all night—as I counted out loud to the eight-beat count, “One-and-two, three-and-four, five-six,” always reminding myself that each beat meant a different foot.
His left hand held my right, giving me a firm, guiding pressure to remind me when to turn and when to avoid an oncoming pair of dancers.