"Her exact words. Well, she used a few more colorful descriptors, but wanker was the main thesis." He looks ahead before a wicked smile crosses his face.
Not the kind of guy I could picture Nora tolerating, let alone marrying. But then again, I don't know who she is these days.
"Camilla gives it a year, tops."
The words land somewhere complicated—half hope, half guilt.
"That still doesn't change anything, Jay," I say finally. "She made her choice."
Jay is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is gentler.
"You want my advice?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." He shifts to face me more directly. "I watched you nearly die trying to outrun what you felt for her. Watched youput yourself back together piece by piece, and yeah, you did it without her. You should be proud of that."
He pauses.
"But don't confuse doing it alone with having to stay alone. I'm not saying storm in there and make some grand gesture. I'm not even saying you should talk to her today. But if you're still carrying this all these years later—and clearly you are—then maybe it's worth finding out if she is too."
"And if the truth is that she's moved on? That she's happy?"
"Then you'll know and you can finally stop carrying the 'what if' around. Because wondering is its own kind of suffering, and I think you've had enough of that."
I sit with that.
"When did you get so wise?"
"Camilla doesn't tolerate emotional avoidance. Says it's bad for my complexion."
Despite everything, I laugh.
Jay claps a hand on my shoulder.
"Come on. Let's get to your mom's before all the good food is gone."
I follow him toward the parking lot, toward the reception, toward whatever comes next. My hands are in my pockets. The afternoon sun is warm on my shoulders. The cemetery stretches out behind us, quiet and still.
CHAPTER 14
THE DOCK
NORA
The driveto the lake house is muscle memory.
I could do it with my eyes closed—every turn, every landmark, every carefully maintained curve of road that leads to the lake house.
Driving past the boutique hotels with their pristine landscaping and discreet valet stands. Past the artisan coffee shop that replaced the old diner but somehow kept the same red leather booths. Past the general store that's now a curated marketplace selling organic produce and imported olive oil, but still has Mr. Radley behind the counter like he has been for forty years, still wearing the same Red Sox cap, still knowing everyone's name.
Eden has money now. Old money mixed with new money mixed with people who bought vacation homes and decided to stay.
The storefronts are immaculate, the sidewalks swept, the flower boxes bursting with seasonal blooms that someone is paid to maintain.
But underneath the polish, there are still traces of the town I grew up in—Corrigan's, the bakery where Mrs. Corrigan still makes the Cinnabons she's been making since before I was born. The marina where families who've lived here for generations stillkeep their boats. And Gracies’ store that Alfie built with his own hands.
It's strange, this version of Eden. Prettier, wealthier, more careful.
