The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk) (36 page)

Number 131 Providence Road was on the south side of Hartwell and it ran along the coastline. The homes varied from moderate to large there, and 131 was somewhere in between. It was a smaller version of Vaughn’s in style. The gardens and driveway were well maintained, and the white cladding had been repainted recently, because it was pristine and fresh.

I’d passed a For Sale sign as I drove up the driveway.

One thirty-one Providence Road.

George still lived in the same house.

One half of the double front doors swung open before I could knock and I found myself staring into the warm brown eyes of a tall, older gentleman. “May I help you, miss?”

Oh, my God.

Butterflies raged in my stomach as I clutched the purse that contained Sarah’s letters. “Mr. Beckwith. George Beckwith?”

“Yes?”

I thrust out my hand. “Jessica Huntington.”

Bemused, George shook my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Huntington. Now, how can I help?”

“This is strange,” I said softly. “I . . . uh . . . I guess I’ll start off by saying that up until a few months ago I was a physician at the women’s correctional facility in Wilmington.”

Immediate understanding dawned on him and I saw the warmth overshadowed by pain. “Is this about Sarah?”

Like the emotional nutcase I’d become, I had to fight back the strong urge to burst into tears. She was the first thing he considered.

He’d never forgotten her.

“Yes.”

George opened the door wider. “Then you’d better come in.”

“So . . .” George said a few minutes later, as he put down a tray of tea and biscuits on the coffee table in front of me.

I was sitting in a large, comfortable lounge, the furniture dated but of a quality that put my stuff now stored in Cooper’s garage to shame.

Shit. My stuff. Getting that back would be awkward.

“What do you have to tell me?” George said, pulling me from my thoughts.

He sat down on the sofa across from me as I reached for my cup of tea.

The letters were by my side. I’d gotten them out of my purse while he was making tea. Shaking a little— for him—I handed them over. “I found these, Mr. Beckwith.”

“Please call me George,” he muttered as he took the letters from me.

“They were sealed inside a library book. They’ve been there for forty years.”

His eyes washed over his name and address, and I heard the pain in his voice when he whispered, “This is Sarah’s handwriting.”

“She wrote to you . . . but unfortunately she passed away on the same day she wrote the last letter. She never got the chance to send them.” The tears I’d been holding back sprang free and I swiped at them, embarrassed.

George’s gaze turned kind at my show of emotion. “I’m almost afraid now to know what’s inside, if it has caused such a reaction in a stranger.”

“You need to know.”

“And you came all the way here to give these to me?”

I nodded.

He studied me. “How extraordinary,” he murmured.

Not really. Not if he knew me. He’d get it then. He’d understand why Sarah’s story had gotten under my skin.

“I can leave,” I said, “if you’d like to read them in private.”

“That’s alright.”

So I sat there, watching George read Sarah’s words, and my heart broke for him as he reached the last and his own tears began to fall. I watched him as he read them all over again.

And again.

Finally he looked up at me, his eyes shining, and he whispered, “I already knew. I already knew. God damn it, Sarah.”

With my chest aching so much for them both, I moved to sit beside him, to clutch his hand in comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

After a moment he took a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening so hard around the letters they began to crumple. “I found out about my father’s criminal activity a few years after Sarah married Ron. I was disillusioned, yes, but I still loved him. I couldn’t betray him. All I could do was stay out of it, let it all die with him.” He looked at me, regret in his eyes. “She should have trusted me. She should have trusted me enough to tell me.”

“Was I wrong to give you these? Have I made it that much worse?”

“No,” he said. “At least this way I know that she loved me like I loved her.”

A little sob escaped my mouth before I could stop it.

Looking concerned, George slid an arm around my shoulder. “Why does this touch you so much?”

It took me a minute before I could speak properly. “I feel like I understand her.”

His expression fell. “For your sake I hope that’s not true,” he said kindly.

I had to ask, had to know . . . “Do you still love her? Despite what she did? Do you forgive her? Do you still love her?”

George gripped my hand tighter and leaned in to me so I could see the absolution in his eyes. “I loved my wife. I did. But Sarah
Randall was the love of my life, Ms. Huntington. Yes. Yes to all of the above.”

I swiped at my tears and gave him a shaky smile. “You can call me Jessica.”

George smiled back. “Jessica. Somehow I think there is more to this story for you.”

I nodded and looked at Sarah’s crumpled letters. “You know, she doesn’t say it, but I think maybe she didn’t fight her life with Ron because you were lost to her once you married Annabelle.”

“Why do you think that?” he said hoarsely.

“Because you were her whole world, George. Maybe it wasn’t right, maybe it was stupid, but she made you her whole world. Once you were gone, she stopped fighting . . . until she realized not fighting was going to kill her.”

“She was my whole world, too,” he said quietly. “I thought she knew it.”

I gave him a sad smile. “Sometimes women in love are fools.”

“Not just women, Jessica.
People
. People in love can be fools.” He gave a heavy sigh. “Well, I need a stiff drink after all of this. What do you say?”

I nodded again, smiling through my tears. “That sounds just about right.”

The trendy bar just off Main Street was nice, but it lacked the coziness of Cooper’s. George had first suggested that we go to Cooper’s and as soon as he saw my face, realization dawned. “You’re the
doctor
?”

See—small town.

“And it all begins to make sense,” he’d said, giving me a smile.

So we’d ended up at Germaine’s. For obvious reasons I’d never been there before.

And by the time I’d made it on to my second Long Island (nowhere near as tasty as Coop’s), I’d made up my mind to tell Cooper the truth.

Cat’s words the other day had played a part in the decision. My thoughts of Julia and how much she’d like Cooper were part of the decision. So I’d already arrived halfway to the decision when George Beckwith’s love for Sarah saved me.

Yes.

I did consider it saving me.

Because even if I did tell Cooper and I lost him, at least I wouldn’t have to live with the kind of regret that Sarah had lived with. A regret that she found peace from but George never did.

I couldn’t do that to myself or to Cooper.

But I was terrified. I’d spent all these years creating barriers between me and everyone else, even Matthew, and I wasn’t sure what would happen to me once I tried to take those barriers down.

Without telling George the details I gave him the gist of my inner turmoil, while he regaled me with his fond memories of Sarah. He also talked about Annabelle, his late wife, and the fond memories he’d made with her, too, including their beautiful daughter, Marie. It was for Marie and his grandchildren that he was packing up his life in Hartwell and heading to Canada.

“Oh, excuse me.” George slid off the stool at the high round table we were sitting at. “Bladder isn’t what it used to be.” He winked at me, making me laugh.

I watched him walk away, still straight-backed, tall, and strong for his age, and I saw what Sarah had seen in him.

Only a few hours.

That was all the time I’d spent in George’s company, but I knew instinctively that he was a decent man, a kind man. A good man.

Like Cooper.

Suddenly the vision of George walking away was blocked by a man.

I blinked, as the man slid onto George’s stool.

I was about to tell him politely that I wasn’t interested, when I froze in recognition.

Jack Devlin.

Bailey hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d first told me about Jack. He was a handsome devil. The day I’d bumped into him at the music festival I couldn’t help but smile at him in return, he was so charming.

Of course I lost my kind thoughts as soon as I realized who he was.

Right then he wasn’t smiling at me.

He wore a cold, blank expression that I found more than a little concerning. “What do you want?”

He shrugged. “Just saying hello.”

“Hello. Now you can leave.”

That earned me a hint of a smirk. “Last I heard, you and Cooper were broken up.”

“So?”

“So that means we can talk.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You’re still loyal to him?” He scrutinized me.

“So loyal that if you don’t get your ass off that stool I’m going to make you.” I didn’t know how I was going to make him, since he had half a foot on me, but I’d try!

Jack took a swig of his beer in reply, looking around the bar casually as if I hadn’t just threatened him with bodily harm.

“Well?”

He flicked his gaze back to me. “You know, Dana came to me a while ago. Just after the music festival, actually.”

“I don’t care what you and Dana get up to,” I snapped.

He shrugged again. “Just thought you might find it interesting that the reason she came to me was you.”

“Oh?” I said, dryly, still not giving a shit.

“She wanted me to seduce you.” His eyes hardened with dark humor. “Seduce you. Those were the exact words she used.”

Fury moved through me, but before I could react he said, “My father isn’t going to use what he knows about you.”

I tensed, thrown by the sharp subject change. And then by the knowledge that
Jack knew, too
.

I started to tremble.

Shit. I had to get to Cooper. I had to tell him.

“And why is that?”

“You broke up with Cooper. You’re no longer of any use. That doesn’t mean my father doesn’t know a good resource when he sees it. He’ll keep that information on a back burner until it proves useful again.”

Disgust roiled through me. “You son of a bitch. Both of you.”

Jack shrugged, his eyes narrowing in the direction where George had gone.

Relief moved through me as I saw George making his way back to me.

Jack got off the stool but rounded the table to face me.

I tensed as he studied me, and then he offered quietly, “Cooper’s liquor license.”

“What?”

He gave me a pointed look, his face hard with frustration. “Cooper’s. Liquor. License.”

And that was when understanding dawned.

Jack was warning me.

He was gone before I could say anything else.

“Jessica, are you okay?” George said upon his return.

I shook my head. “No. I have to get to Cooper.”

You know that scene in the movies where someone who has done another someone wrong walks into a room and everyone in it goes quiet and glares at the first someone?

No? Yes?

Well, anyway, that was exactly what happened to me when George and I walked into Cooper’s bar twenty minutes later.

Every regular, every townie in the place, stopped talking and glowered at me.

I stared back, stunned.

Until I felt George nudge me forward and my eyes flew to the
bar, where Cooper was staring at me, looking as frozen and shell-shocked as I felt.

I wanted to run at him.

I wanted to launch myself over the bar at him.

I did neither of those things.

“Come on, Jessica,” George said in encouragement, “you can do this.”

With his hand pressed to my lower back, George led me over to the bar. My eyes were locked with Cooper’s the whole time, his head moving as I made my way closer to him. Until finally I was standing across the bar from him.

Neither of us said a word, just drank the other in like it had been years, not days.

“Jessica,” George urged.