Page 33 of One Last Gift

P.P.S. Life is but a dream.

Cassie stared at the little slip of paper as she finished reading. One spring day…That was now. Spring was now, and Tom would have expected her to have months to figure it out, would have enjoyed watching her try, maybe dropping annoying little hints along the way. This was out of character for him—she usually did the treasure hunts in a couple of days, max. Something epic, he’d said. Maybe making her wait was a part of that. A part of his grand plan, whatever that was.

She read the clue again, feeling her heart pick up speed, her fingertips twitching, unable to keep still. She didn’t know. She didn’t know what he meant, where he wanted her to go.

Life is but a dream. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Her foot started bouncing now, too, the energy rolling through her, the sounds of the restaurant washing over her, distant somehow. But no matter how many times she read it, she couldn’t get it.

One spring day…

She’d figure it out, she told herself firmly. Soon—before spring was over. She’d figure it out, because she had to. And that sense of determination, of need—it made her feel something she’d not felt since that call in December. It made her feel hopeful.

Chapter Fifteen

Sam leaned back on his hands, legs splayed in front of him, sitting on the front of the yacht, the early April wind biting his face, the sea a deep blue. The sun was out, the sky almost cloudless—cold, yes, but bright, a perfect day to be out on the water. He could hear the chatter and laughter behind him, where the rest of their little group were sitting under cover, out of the cold wind, drinking and playing cards. He picked up his beer, took a sip, the bottle icy against his fingers. A shiver ran through him, in a way that made him think he should have packed a better coat. But then, he hadn’t really been thinking when he’d stuffed clothes in a bag and bolted for the airport. Hadn’t been thinking when he’d opened his wallet, found the card there.

Toby Jenkins’s card. Toby Jenkins, who had been in Argentina, as Sam should have been. Had hung out with Tom, while they were both there alone, gone climbing with him. And had seen Tom’s fall, had been the one to call, relay the news. Toby, who had come to the funeral, had spoken to Sam. Had made a point of telling him that he was welcome to come and stay with him in New York at any time.

Sam hadn’t been sure if Toby had meant it—it was just the sort of thing you said in those situations—but he’d called, from the airport, and Toby had told him to get on a plane, to come. So here he was, sailing on a fucking yacht in the Hamptons, of all places, because Toby owned a property out here.

He’d been on a yacht a few years ago, when he and Tom had gone on holiday to Croatia. They’d been sitting out in the sun, the sea sparkling blue underneath them. Tom had managed to sweet-talk the owner of the yacht, whom they’d met at a bar the night before, into renting it out to them for a massive discount. Tom was driving the boat, having never done it before but deciding, in that easygoing way of his, that it would all be fine. Sam remembered Tom getting out his phone, smiling at something on the screen.

Sam grinned. “Based on the ridiculous dopey expression on your face, I’m guessing Amy hasn’t forgotten all about you yet.”

Tom just shot him a raised-eyebrow look.

“What?” Sam said, his voice full of mock innocence. “It’s just…” He made a point of searching for the right word. “Adorable,” he continued, making his voice all pompous, “seeing you loved-up like this.”

Tom snorted as he shoved his phone back into his shorts pocket. “You just watch, it’ll happen to you one day.”

Sam had brushed it off at the time, laughed at the idea of it. He still wasn’t sure he believed it, wasn’t sure that he’d ever gotten that same ridiculous expression Tom had when he read messages from Jessica. And could he have left Jessica like that, abandoned her on their wedding day, if he’d loved her in that goofy, all-encompassing way that Tom had seemed to love Amy? He didn’t think so. He just didn’t think he was built that way. He’d never felt so caught up in another person that he couldn’t stop thinking about them, that he was terrified he might lose them.

Though if he was totally honest with himself, he’d been on the edge of that, the closest he’d ever come, on that damn skiing holiday. He’d dealt with that the only way he’d known how to, and it had been the right thing, hadn’t it? Even if, now, the thought of Cassie sent a fist through his stomach: the idea—no, the fact—that he’d lost her, just as completely as he’d lost Tom. Even after what happened between them on that skiing holiday, even after she’d shut him out—shut him out because he’d forced her to—he’d still assumed she’d always be there, a steady presence in his life. And now she and Tom were both gone.

“There you are, Mr. Malone.” Toby came around the side of the boat, his voice booming in that way it always did. Sam glanced up as Toby walked over and sat down next to him, knees up, beer propped on one of them, looking out through the metal railings to the ocean in front of them. They were on their way back now, having done a loop, and Sam could see the green of the Hamptons coming up on their left, some of the million-dollar mansions on view from here, dotted among the trees. Quiet this time of year, which is why Toby had arranged the trip, apparently, whisking Sam off practically the moment he’d landed. No point having the place if we never use it, he’d said.

“Practicing for your next modeling shoot?” Toby asked, and elaborated when Sam frowned at him. “Sitting out here, staring out at the water, all moody-looking, on a yacht. It’s like something out of a music video.”

Sam snorted quietly. “A missed career opportunity. And the yacht’s not my doing,” he said pointedly.

“She’s a beaut, isn’t she?” Toby patted the boat fondly. He was wearing dark sunglasses, which sat atop his somewhat crooked nose—broken when he fell off a horse at a young age, apparently. Because of course Toby was the type to have had horses while growing up. He’d grown up in the countryside somewhere, splitting time between home and boarding school. They’d spent time in New York, too, as a family—just him, no siblings—and Toby had fallen for the place, so he said, and was spending a year out here full time.

“She is,” Sam agreed. And Jesus, this life—Toby’s life—this was what he’d dreamed of as a kid. Having the money to do what you wanted, jetting off to New York at the drop of a hat, going out sailing on a yacht, just because you could.

“You can take her out, you know, anytime you like. If you fancy having a spin or just getting away from the house or whatever while you’re here. Just say the word.” Toby clapped him on the back, as if to emphasize the point. He did this a lot, Toby—was always clapping him on the back or shoulder.

“Thanks, Toby.”

“Of course, my man.”

“No, seriously.” Sam took a sip of his beer. “I mean it. Thanks for, you know…” He waved a hand to encompass the boat, the surroundings, Toby himself, sitting there in his dark brown Burberry jacket, zipped three quarters of the way up, showing the checked shirt he was wearing underneath. The shirt which, like always, was unbuttoned just one button more than was totally normal, so that you caught sight of his chest hair. Sam had wondered a few times why Toby always wore his shirts like this, but it didn’t seem polite to ask. Maybe he just really liked his chest hair or something.

Sam blew out a breath. “Just…thanks.”

“Of course,” Toby said again, in that brilliantly posh voice. “Couldn’t leave you stranded at the airport, now, could I?” And he hadn’t asked why. Sam had called him—a man who was practically a stranger—and Toby had said yes, no questions asked, come and stay. So Sam hadn’t had to explain about Jessica. Toby knew about Tom, of course. They’d spoken about him a couple of times. Toby had only known Tom a few days, but, in that way of his, Tom had managed to form an impression in that short time. And Sam suspected that was part of the reason Toby had been so happy to put him up. Because he felt he owed it to Tom, somehow. And because he felt he needed to make something up, for being the one who’d seen Tom fall. Not that it was in any way Toby’s fault.

“So look,” Toby said, “I’m heading over to Brooklyn in a few days, wondered if you wanted to tag along? We could head into the city too, take in some of the sights. What do you say?”