The One That Got Away (9 page)

Marcus laughed. “She’s a vegetarian.”

West grinned. “Then we’ll teach her how to pick a cabbage. How’s that?”

“I appreciate it,” he said, not voicing his preference to keep her away from boys until the age of thirty.

“And don’t sweat it,” West continued, as if reading Marcus’s mind. “Soleil runs this place with an iron fist in a velvet glove. You don’t have to worry about the kids getting into any trouble.”

“Has having a daughter given you any gray hair yet?” he asked West with a wry grin.

“I’m finding new ones every day.”

“What wrong?” she croaked. “Is Izzy okay?”

“She’s fine. Can I come in?”

“Um, yeah,” she said, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly midnight.

She sat up, leaned over and switched on a light, wondering for a brief moment of panic if her hair was a mess or if she had any dried-up drool on her chin.

Stop that
. She wasn’t the same foolish girl who’d pined after Marcus. She was a grown woman who understood that they’d never be more than friends.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Sort of.”

He entered, filling up the room with his oversize masculine form. It was the first time she’d had a man in this bedroom, she thought with a hint of regret.

“I just finished your book,” he said, smiling as he sat down on the end of her bed and faced her. “I couldn’t wait until morning to talk to you about it.”

“Oh,” she said, stunned. “You already finished it? I just gave it to you this morning.”

“I’ve been reading it all evening. It’s so damn good, Ginger. And I’m not just saying that. The way you wove the stories of the three girls together, and the spells. Brilliant. I really mean it.”

She glanced away, uncomfortable with the effusive praise, even if he was just saying it to be nice.

“Are you sure you didn’t crack your skull when you got shot? Suffer a brain injury, too?”

He shook his head, looking incredulous. “I’m serious, Ginger. I don’t understand how that book went unnoticed, but it’s one of the best things I’ve read in years. You should be very proud of yourself.”

It wasn’t like Marcus to gush. At least not the old Marcus. But this new guy who’d arrived on the plane from Amsterdam—she wasn’t sure she knew all the rules when it came to him. He didn’t behave in predictable ways. He didn’t act like the guy she used to know.

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you think you could get together some short stories for a collection? Something we could send to my agent?”

“No way! That’s really nice of you, but—”

“Don’t tell me you’re not interested in publication anymore.”

She shrugged, the movement making her conscious of how thin her blue silk nightgown was. One strap slipped off her shoulder and she grabbed it and put it back in place.

“I mean, of course I could use the money.”

“Good. Then why don’t I help you decide which stories to send?”

“Marcus…”

The prospect of letting him peruse her unpublished works left her feeling far more naked than the nightgown did. He knew her better than most people. Or at least she used to think. He knew which parts of a story were from her own life and which were made up. He could see through her fiction to her truths, and maybe that’s why she was reluctant to have him read her work.

Or perhaps she was giving him too much credit.

“I can choose them myself,” she finally said. “And then you can read them and see what you think.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I don’t know when I’ll find time to look through everything. How many should I pick?”

He shrugged. “Just put together a few hundred pages worth. You don’t have an agent now, do you?”

“No, we parted ways a few years after my book was published. She wasn’t interested in representing short fiction.”

“And you weren’t interested in writing any more novels?”

“No.”

“You really should. I mean, someday. When you’re ready. The world needs your voice.”

She sighed, trying not to laugh. “Don’t you think you’re laying it on a little thick? You don’t have to say nice things to get me to let you stay here. I’ve already said yes, remember?”

He placed a hand on her leg, just below the knee, and the contact, even with a sheet between them, sent a shiver through her. “All kidding aside, okay?” He was gazing at her so earnestly she had no choice but to nod.

“Okay.”

“I’m totally in love with your book. I’m going to let Izzy read it next, if that’s fine with you.”

“Oh. Wow. Do you think she’s ready for it?”

Ginger had written the book as an adult novel, even though the three main characters were teenagers throughout much of the story.

“I think reading it will be good for her, yeah.”

“Okay, but just wait until I talk to her about it first.”

The protagonist lost her parents at the beginning of the story, and while Ginger was reluctant to introduce the subject to Izzy, she knew it was one that needed to be dealt with.

She was all too aware of Marcus’s proximity and an awkward silence fell between them. She caught his gaze straying to her chest, if she wasn’t mistaken, and her treacherous body tingled in all the wrong—right—places.

“In the novel, what did you intend for the reader to think when you had Greta and Jane disappear?” he asked, his eyes intent.

Ginger could hardly believe Marcus was sitting here acting as thought her unnoticed little book was the most important literary work to come along since the Bible.

“It was the spell. It worked.”

“That’s what I thought.” He smiled, apparently satisfied. “Hey, I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have woken you. I was just so excited to finish the story and…”

“And what?”

“I’m not kidding. It’s a beautiful book. Almost as beautiful as you.”

With that, he stood up and headed for the door, leaving Ginger to ponder his words.

Just before he walked out, he turned and said good-night, and she murmured a faint reply.

As she switched off the light and tried to go back to sleep, she wondered again if this seemingly new attraction he had for her was the real Marcus talking or the heady aftermath of his near-death experience.

And what if it wasn’t false? What if he meant it?

It didn’t matter.

She wasn’t a big enough fool to love him again.

Ginger strolled past the grove of redwood trees, past blackberry bushes heavy with ripe fruit, past the mighty oak that stretched its branches over most of her backyard, and down the sloped path toward the lake. Up ahead to the left, she could see Izzy sitting on the beach, Lulu prancing around her, begging for attention.

Izzy’s attention was elsewhere, though. She was staring out at the lake, or maybe past it to the horizon, her expression dark. A gentle breeze caught her long, dark hair and sent it fanning out slightly over her shoulders. She wore a gray T-shirt stretched tight over her thin frame, with a pair of faded jeans and white flip-flops.

And she appeared not to notice Ginger’s approach. When Ginger finally sat down beside her and Lulu focused all her efforts on getting the attention of her owner, Izzy responded by glancing at Ginger. It was easy to see that the girl had been crying. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red and still damp.

“What?” Izzy said as a greeting.

Ginger tried to remember what it felt like to be thirteen. All she could recall was the utter misery. Awkwardness, self-consciousness, lack of confidence… She hadn’t truly recovered from those same afflictions until her late twenties or early thirties. But then, she hadn’t been nearly as naturally graceful as Izzy.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” she said.

The girl exhaled, clearly not interested. Ginger gave Lulu a thorough tummy rub, and the little dog edged her way onto her lap, clearly in ecstasy over the attention.

“Did Marcus tell you why he thought I’d be a good person for you guys to stay with this summer?”

“No.” There was no hint of interest in the single-word response.

Ginger had hoped for a friendlier start to their conversation. She’d hoped to ease into the things she wanted to say, cushioning them with kindness. But Izzy was having none of that, so she decided to get to the point.

“One reason he brought you here is that I lost my parents when I was a kid.”

Izzy glanced over at her, her expression more hostile now. Then she looked away again, back to the horizon.

“I was nine when it happened.” Ginger could tell the story now without getting knocked down by grief, but for years she couldn’t speak about it.

For years she hadn’t talked about it. She’d simply gone about her life, knowing that people whispered about her behind her back. She’d endured their pitying looks—reveled in them, at times—but on the rare occasions when she’d opened her mouth and tried to tell the story to some curious person who asked about her family, her throat would close up and she couldn’t get a word out.

She didn’t cry, though. People always seemed impressed by that, as if her stoicism was some kind of virtue. Actually, the opposite was true, she’d found out during therapy. She’d been unable to grieve for her parents as a kid because the loss had been too big.

It had taken a therapist to point out that the reason she couldn’t get close to men romantically was because she hadn’t grieved for her parents yet. And that had finally set her on the path to crying the river of tears she needed to release.

“You mean like they died or what?” Izzy finally asked, her voice barely audible above the lapping of the water against the shore.

“Yes, they died.”

“How did it happen?” Again, the quiet voice, though this time it was slightly more audible.

“They were in a car accident. A drunk driver—a car full of teenagers on their way to a party after the prom. My parents had gone out for dinner and were on their way home, but they never arrived. I was woken up later by the babysitter and the police knocking on the door.”

Ginger stared out at the horizon, too, her chest tight. She didn’t usually go into any details when she told people this story, but she’d vowed to give Izzy as much detail as she wanted if it would help her.

“So, what happened to you? Did you have to go to a foster home or something?”

“My grandmother was still alive. She took me in and raised me.”

Izzy sat silent for a while. Ginger focused on the little dog, who lay contentedly in the crook of her crossed legs. She stroked her light brown fur, paying special attention to her favorite spots behind the ears and at the base of her spine.

“I know this sounds weird, but…did you ever get mad at your parents?”

Ginger knew she had to tread carefully here. “For leaving me behind?” she asked.

“Yeah.” Izzy sounded a little defensive, as if she were embarrassed now that she’d dared to ask the question.

“Sure,” Ginger told her. “And then I’d feel guilty for getting mad, and then I’d hate myself.”

“Yeah.” Izzy gave a heavy sigh.

“That’s normal, Izzy. It’s totally normal. We spend our whole childhood knowing it’s our parents’ job to take care of us, and it’s hard to accept that they’re not going to be around anymore to do it.”

“It’s stupid.” Izzy sounded angry now. “It’s not like my mom wanted to get cancer.”

“No, she didn’t. And she didn’t want to leave you.”

“But she never even thought of finding my dad for me before she died. That makes me mad, too.”

It made Ginger mad, as well, but she would never tell Izzy that. “Maybe she did think of it, but figured he wouldn’t be able to help.”

Izzy rolled her eyes.

“How did Nina become your guardian?”

“She was my mom’s best friend and my godmother. They thought since I knew her and grew up around her, I’d be okay with going to live with her.”

“And were you?”

She shrugged. “I’m not okay with any of it.”

Ginger wasn’t quite sure what “any of it” referred to, exactly, but she didn’t think now was the time to press for details. She would try another tack.

“It was brave of you to contact Marcus like you did.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said flatly.

“He’s a good person,” Ginger said, hoping to reassure her, “but it’s going to take him a little time to learn how to be a father.”

“Are you, like, his girlfriend or something?” There was an edge in Izzy’s voice.

Ginger, inexplicably, felt her face flush. “No, it’s like he told you—we’re old friends from college.”

Izzy studied her closely. “You don’t look at him like he’s just an old friend.”

Ouch.

Ginger’s first instinct was to deny, deny, deny, but she didn’t want to lie to Izzy. The girl would see right through her, and they’d never establish any kind of trust.

“Well, however you think I look at him, all we’ve ever been is friends.”

“You like him,” she said, and this time it was a clear statement of fact. “And not just as a friend.”

Ginger laughed. The last thing she wanted was hostile, manipulative Izzy going back Marcus to report that Ginger had a crush on him. But the teenager had managed to back her into a corner, and she didn’t see any way out. “Why do you say that?” she asked in as neutral a tone as she could.

“I’m not stupid.”

Ginger shrugged, giving in to defeat. After all, hadn’t she invited Marcus to stay with her in order to get over her old feelings for him?

Lulu, spotting a small bird nearby, jumped up from Ginger’s lap and pranced over to investigate.

What was she about to say to Izzy was probably too mature for the girl to understand, but she had vowed to be honest with her.

“Okay, well, here’s the deal,” Ginger said. “I have a long history of going for emotionally unavailable men. My therapist says it’s my way of not having to get too close to anyone. Self-sabotage, basically. I fear abandonment, since my parents abandoned me in a sense. So I fall for men who won’t ever fall for
me,
since that means they’ll never get close enough to leave me.”

“What’s self-sabotage?”

“It’s when your subconscious—the part of your brain that you’re not aware of—leads you to do things that are in conflict with what your conscious mind thinks it wants.”

Izzy scrunched up her forehead. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. I agree.”

“I guess it’s the same for me—like, how being mad at my mom for dying makes no sense.”

Lulu barked at something in the woods, and Ginger turned to see that the bird she’d been pursuing a few moments ago had perched on a nearby tree branch, frustrating the dog.

“We all want to feel there’s someone to blame for the bad stuff that happens,” Ginger said, relieved that the conversation had neatly traveled away from her feelings for Marcus, and equally relieved that she’d managed to both distract Izzy from her sadness and chip away at a bit of her hostility.

“So you like Marcus because he’s emotionally unavailable? What does that mean?”

Okay, so she’d congratulated herself too soon. Ginger sighed.

“In your dad’s case, it just means that he’s always seen me as a friend, not a potential girlfriend.”

“But people can go from being friends to boyfriend and girlfriend, can’t they?”

Marcus’s daughter was certainly persistent. “Sure, it happens.”

“So why couldn’t it happen with you two?”

Ginger wanted to tell Izzy it wasn’t any of her business, but she was scared of ruining the little progress she’d made in gaining the girl’s trust.

“Good question,” she said vaguely.

The wind was starting to pick up. At this time of day, the change of temperature often caused a strong breeze to sweep across the lake and chase away those who, like Ginger and Izzy, hadn’t brought a warm jacket along for the evening.

When Izzy shivered, Ginger took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Would you like to come back to the house and help me make dinner?” she asked.

“I don’t like to cook.”

“Really? Have you ever tried?”

The girl shrugged. “I’ve made eggs, but I burn them.”

“Maybe what you need is a little instruction so you can enjoy the process.”

For a moment Ginger was sure Izzy would refuse, but instead the girl stood up and caught Lulu in her arms to put her leash back on.

“I thought we could make a few pizzas. Sound good?”

“Whatever. So long as they’re vegetarian.”

They headed back toward the cottage in silence until they reached the oak tree.

“When your parents died,” Izzy asked, “did you have nightmares?”

Ginger stopped walking. “Are you having insomnia?”

The girl nodded, staring down at the dirt path.

“I did. I had horrible nightmares, and I had a hard time sleeping.”

She chose not to add that they’d gone on for years, that even in her twenties she’d slept with the lights on because she was so scared of what awaited her in her dreams. But she made a mental note to talk to Marcus about making an appointment for Izzy to see a therapist as soon as possible. Maybe she could prevent Izzy’s grief from warping her life as much as Ginger’s had warped hers.

“What kind of nightmares?” Izzy asked as they began walking toward the house again.

Lulu, sensing familiar territory, tugged against the leash and Izzy released it so the dog could run up onto the rear deck and wait at the door. She pranced there in excitement, brown eyes cast back at them in eager expectation of dinner.

“One of the most recurrent dreams was that I’d be crossing a bridge on foot,” Ginger began. “Sometimes it would look like the Golden Gate Bridge, sometimes the Richmond Bridge, sometimes the Bay Bridge—but there wouldn’t be much of a bridge to cross. There’d just be a few rickety boards on metal supports, and I could see the water down below, and every time I moved, one of the boards would feel like it was giving way and I’d almost fall.”

“Oh.”

They reached the back door, where the rickety screen reminded Ginger of yet another repair that needed to be made on her money-sink of a home, and went into the house. While Izzy fed the dog, Ginger got out the fixings for dinner.

She hadn’t thought about those dreams in at least a few years. Relatively benign as they sounded when she described them, they’d always made her wake up with a scream caught in her throat, her body drenched in sweat.

In real life, she had no fear of bridges, but in her dreams they were objects of sheer terror. And when she thought of Izzy, her young life caught in that same cycle of sleepless hell, Ginger vowed she’d do whatever she could to make things easier for the girl.