Beneath the Lights

by Taralynn Moore

  He nodded, trance-like. “I bought the car. It’s not a lease.”

  “Oh. Okay.” This was odd. Very odd. He knew we couldn’t afford it.

  “How did we end up here?” He gripped the steering wheel.

  I said nothing, because I didn’t know either. We were borrowing our current life. This car, these trappings, weren’t meant for us long-term. We were playing pretend.

  Weren’t we?

  He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “I got another promotion.”

  “Okay,” I breathed.

  “A big one.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yay, Daddy! Good job!” Alex was sweet as she reached up to squeeze his shoulder.

  He stayed half-frozen, no response.

  I turned around and swept my hand along the flush of her cheek, her happy little face. “Thank you, baby girl.”

  Finn smiled the same lopsided grin that Marc often gave, Sasha’s head rested against the seat, chasing dreams.

  “Todd sold the company.” Marc’s whisper was barely audible.

  My head whipped back his direction.

  “The profit sharing he promised?” He finally looked at me. “It’s not small.”

  My eyes widened. “It’s not small?”

  He shook his head. “No. No, it’s not.” A half-smile finally formed on his face.

  My hands went to my mouth. “How not small?”

  He motioned to the car. “And the house? We can stay. If you want to.”

  I froze. “Stay?” We’d spent the last several months wrapping our heads around another move, trying to plan our next steps, watching the market for just the right time to list. The finish line was in place. Room to breathe. Marc home. Some money in the bank.

  “As in not move.” He nodded. “Stay.”

  “Move?” Alex piped up. “I don’t want to move.”

  “Me too.” Finn’s little voice echoed. “I like my room. And our fort.” Marc had put together the perfect treehouse fort in one of the backyard trees. Finn spent half his weekend climbing up and down with varied numbers of toys.

  Marc looked back at them, attempted a smile. “It’s okay.” And got out of the car.

  I followed. “Marc, get back in. The people who live here are going to think we’re crazy. We’ve already been camped out front long enough.”

  He sat on the curb, patting it for me to join him. I sat, the lights from the house forming a kaleidoscope of colors in the reflection of the shiny, new hub caps.

  “I’ll have to stay on. Cover the operations. Open new locations. Travel a lot.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “More. Travel a lot more.”

  I rubbed my palms on my jeans, waiting, just waiting. I had no idea what to say. Him being gone more was the last thing I wanted. It honestly made me sick to think about it. And I knew it wasn’t what he wanted either. Not the forever we’d planned. But how could I ask him to pass this up, say no?

  And stay in the house? I couldn’t imagine.

  “I never thought I’d be able to—” He looked back up to his old home. “There’s nothing wrong with this life.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “It’s just—I never thought I could give them more.” He turned his eyes to Finn and Alex’s face peeking through the window and made a goofy face.

  Their little smiles brightened. Daddy was okay.

  I smiled too as they started making goofy faces back. “They deserve everything we can give them, don’t they?”

  “Yes. They do.” He took my hand. “And I want to give it to them, want us to give it to them.”

  When I looked his way, the certainty in his eyes was overwhelming. He wanted this.

  And I wanted to ask how long. How long would we go on this way? Could we go on this way? But I didn’t.

  Maybe I was a coward.

  Maybe I’d spent my life sweeping absence under the rug.

  But maybe I knew there was no right answer to the question. There was only support. Support for him for as long as I could. Until I had to finally say . . . enough.

  My fingers found his and laced through. “Okay.”

  “Okay?” His breath hitched.

  I nodded. “We stay.” This time I’d remembered for him, for us. A snowy morning, against the siding of a house, beneath the glow of Christmas lights, our lifetime promise to each other.

  He swept a hand across my cheek. A glimmer of the memory, flashing across his face. “You. Me.”

  I rubbed my nose against his, a cool wind whipped, mixing with our warm breath. “We stay.”

  Chapter 12

  Present Day

  Marc rambled out of the office. His two-hour-nap refreshed face had been replaced with a dazed look, Santa hat all awry. “Old Man Jones.”

  I was sifting through scattered papers and wrappings on the floor, making sure the tiny pieces from newly gifted toys didn’t get tossed out. “Did he call?”

  “No.” Marc stared. “He died.”

  The bag of trash fell from my hands, spilling back to the floor. My gaze shot up to the balcony, peering at the kids where they played. They hadn’t heard. “What?”

  “Heart attack.” He blinked.

  “No one called us.”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  My eyes filled. “Was he alone?”

  Marc gave a slow, sad nod. “Except hospital staff.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t have wanted spectators anyway.”

  “I know, but, still.” I sniffed back my tears. It was Christmas. Marc was home. It was supposed to be a happy day.

  And Grandpa Jones was supposed to be coming for dinner.

  A rumble of tearful laughter rose from Marc’s chest, so much so he could barely speak. “They said—they said he woke only once. He woke once. Barked a few orders. And then—” He quieted abruptly. “And then said his final words.”

  I waited.

  He swallowed, eyes filled more. “Tell Hockey Boy, Ms. Skating Lesson, and my grandkids to enjoy the ice.”

  I frowned. “Wait? What?”

  “His will. He left us everything.”

  My mouth fell open. “He what?”

  “The house. The rink. The tree lot. The shop. The . . . everything.” His eyes went wide.

  Mine too. “What—what do we do with it?”

  We stared at each other. Speechless.

  My brain took off at highspeed, plans, arrangements to be made. For the legacy of his property. For the sweetest curmudgeon known to man. I shook my head. “Let’s just focus on Jones for now. His services.”

  He nodded. “Yes.” His eyebrows knitted, then fully relaxed. “It should be there.”

  A slow smile fell across my lips. “In the clearing. Overlooking the pond.”

  His face lit up, distant memories flickering in his eyes. “Perfect.”

  One week later, sunset gave way to twilight as the service came to a close. I hugged my arms around my chest, probably stretching out the delicate green fabric of my sweater. But I didn’t care. Not anymore. Perfection was an illusion. One I was ready to let go of fully.

  Looking out over the property, high above from the pine-circled clearing, so much was coming into focus. We’d spent five days elbow deep in overgrowth, fixing, rebuilding, reframing the land to what it once had been. There was still a long way to go, but it was a sight to be proud of, one that Jones would’ve loved.

  Marc’s heart had been heavy. He hadn’t realized the work had fallen so far behind, hadn’t realized it had been so long since he’d offered to help. His one-time boss. His friend. His family.

  Old Man Jones had left detailed parting words, part love, part lesson, as if he knew there was still one thing yet to teach us.

  We were to cling to each other. Always. Our moms, my dad included.

  They stood just below the drop off, chatting away, already having made the hike down, the kids running circles and giggles around them. My dad stood tall, with the customary bald head of age and wisdom, Marc�
�s mom with the golden-brown curls of both Marc and Sasha blowing in the wind. And my mom aglow with the peace of a settled past, a hopeful future.

  Marc walked up beside me and took my hand, lacing his fingers in mine. “It’s a beautiful piece of land, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” I blinked, a mix of heavy sadness and hopeful light rolling through my chest. I’d never really seen it before. Even when we lived here. I was too busy with the kids, with work, with making other plans. I never saw the beauty of this simple construct, the sturdy tree trunk fences, the pebbled paths, the epic expanse of the family cabin. This home. This space of nature and family, rest and hard work . . . and promise. So much promise.

  Of a life.

  A beautiful life.

  The wind rustled the trees, sending the smell of Christmas swirling stronger around us, and I snuggled into Marc, smiling against the warmth of his red sweater, the sound of his heartbeat.

  “I don’t want to leave it.” He whispered, heavy with the resonance of realization.

  A warmth built in my core, a sense of relief and wild wonder.

  It was time to say enough. For him. For me. For the kids.

  It was time for him to come home. For all of us to, really.

  My heart skipped.

  I peered up at him, taking his jaw in my hands. “I don’t either.”

  His brown eyes flashed their happy flicker. “Really?”

  “Really.” I kissed his lips and pulled him in closer, resting my head back against his chest, looking out across the property. “I think it’s missing one important thing, though.”

  “Oh, yeah?” His voice was soft. “What’s that?”

  “An apple orchard.”

  The laugh that rumbled from his chest was delicious. Sweet.

  Free.

  “We’ll have to see about that.” He squeezed me in tighter. “Right after I give notice.”

  I couldn’t contain my smile. “Tomorrow?”

  “No.” He leaned in for another kiss. “Today.”

  Alex squealed as a bike came into view down the path. “Camden!” She went running his direction. His grin was ear to ear as he dropped the bike, held his plate of cookies stable, and braced himself for the hit of her hug. Her hair flailed behind, a blonde wave of energy as she tackled him to the ground. I loved her freedom, how little time she spent in the pent-up box of my childhood, my adulthood.

  “Let’s go ice skating!” She gripped his hand and tugged him toward the pond.

  The boys sprinted off that direction, excited to join in. The trio of grandparents trailed behind just as the lights above the pond flicked on, their timer perfectly set for impending dark. As if the cantankerous ghost of Christmas past himself knew we needed their glow, or the ghost of New Year’s past at this point. Either way, his spirit lingered everywhere.

  No doubt in my mind that he couldn’t have wanted anything more.

  I took a deep breath, a mix of cool air and Marc’s cologne. What a New Year indeed.

  Marc kissed the top of my head. “Ready to skate?”

  I smiled. “Absolutely.”

  We reached for each other and raced down the trail, hands and hearts entwined, pebbles crunching beneath our feet like we were kids again, ready to spin in circles on the ice, ready to give our kids—our parents—the life we never had. All because, years before, we’d chosen to spend our Christmases together. All because, along the way, we fought to find our way, together.

  All because, despite it all, every high and low and heartbreak . . . we stayed.

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  “Not just a story; an experience! Crystal clear and perfectly executed, this book dazzles and delivers.” – Erin Knuth

  CHAPTER ONE

  I threw my hands in the air, forming the heart shape above my head in an instant. It was how we’d always said hello. And goodbye.

  Grandfather.

  But this wasn’t him. He’d long gone. His old soul taken by age, mine left behind to drift without him. My hands dropped, small remnants of grief tugging at the fingertips.

  I let out a breath. This was good, being here. Facing the memories.

  Color flooded into view as I lifted my sunglasses, still captivated by the helicopter hovering in the distance. I blinked back a glare dancing off the waves below and leaned out against the balcony railing to get a closer look. As if curious too, the beating blades swept nearer, churning the wind, my hair, into a frenzy.

  Who are you?

  The passenger, sat on the other side of the windshield, his calm a relative balm to my restlessness, tilted his head in my direction. His brow, set so serious above the glint of mirrored aviators, dipped further still. It caught me. What could be so troubling in the middle of paradise? I nearly turned to look behind me, until I noticed the small tease of heart hands he’d flashed in my direction. I erupted in laughter, and he broke into a smile, so bright it rivaled the sun.

  My heart flickered a beat.

  Then he was gone.

  The helicopter cut away, veering across the horizon, splitting cloudless sky from cerulean sea. My pulse raced after as the palms dotting the edges of the white sand shore bent in the wake, waving him goodbye, beckoning me forward.

  What I wouldn’t give to disappear too.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in deep, the salt, the sunshine, heavy on the wind. My mother would be lecturing me about the whole exchange; about my posture, about my bag, my hair, my clothes.

  I smiled. My mother wasn’t here.

  Having visited this beach since childhood, I made my way easily through the maze of resort pools, my dated swimsuit and cut-offs a curious contrast to the half-clothed spring breakers writhing to the music pulsing overhead. The air, buoyant and light, ushered in thoughts of my grandmother and the lilt of her voice urging me forward. Go, be free while you can. This brought another smile to my lips as I twirled and danced my way through the crowd, enjoying their energy as I headed down the path.

  It drove my mother crazy that I visited Mexico so often. Every time I returned, she marked it as a lost opportunity to further my exposure to different parts of the world. Correction. Her self-designated and pre-approved parts of the world. She’d worked—no, clawed—her way to the top of a society in which I had no desire to be a part. The money, the politics, I turned away from it all as much as possible except in the case of Mexico. One of her contacts offered us unlimited resort access, and I visited as often as possible. It was an escape.

  My only escape.

  I veered off the public path, pushing past the greenery that hid the entrance to the trail I’d carved out long ago with my grandfather. My backpack, filled with worn-covered favorite books, grew less heavy as I neared my destination. Brushing a curl from my face, I reached up and yanked at the purple ends of my bandana, tightening it into place. My hair was ridiculously knotted, but I didn’t bother to detangle it. This was the one place I didn’t have to worry about how I looked, how I presented myself to the world.

  A blush pulled at my cheeks. What had the helicopter passenger thought of me, standing barefoot on that warm stretch of patio, my mass of blonde curls whipping wildly in the wind? I couldn’t escape the gnawing notion that somehow, in that instant, he’d seen more than most.

  I was used to being looked at, but rarely seen.

  My mother was a near mirror image of my grandmother, glowing warm brown skin, flowing ebony hair. While I too had my grandmother’s wide smiling lips and rounded cheekbones, I favored my father, though I’d never met him, and my grandfather, having inherited not only his jade green eyes but his fair hair and complexion as well. Growing up with my grandparents, I’d learned to embrace my ambiguity—liked not fitting a label—even if people spent more time trying to figure me out than they ever did getting to know me.

  I stomped down the trail, heels dig
ging into the sand. Not that there was much to know.

  Except . . . Except I wanted there to be.

  Wasn’t that worth knowing?

  My grandfather always thought so. It had been two years since he passed, since my quiet nature became a shell of books and my mother tore me away from my grandparents’ home in Brooklyn and into her well-staffed Manhattan brownstone and the most elite private school in New York. No looking back.

  I had so many happy memories on these beaches, running and laughing with my grandparents. This outdated resort and my grandmother’s apartment were the only two places I truly felt at home.

  Well, and the community center with the kids. My normal Saturday haven. The sound of their energy-fueled chatter stayed with me, carried me through the scathing halls of school each day, the obligatory social engagements at night, the weighted vest of my mother’s life fastened tight.

  But not there. And never here.

  I walked into the opening of my cove, with its perfectly lit sand and pockets of heavy, shade-bearing palm trees. The deep blue waters had long been my own personal paradise, an escape of peaceful solitude, encircled by craggy rocks and tall tropical brush. Carlos, the resort manager, had staged the area with beach chairs and tables, bottles of chilled water, all ready and waiting. He knew after so many years where I would spend my time and never disappointed in his preparations.

  I’d no sooner settled into a chair, book in hand, when a melodic whistling came close and a guy appeared on my beach, from my path, wearing basic black swim trunks, a messenger bag hanging at his hip. He strolled toward the opposite side of the cove, unrolled a towel onto the sand, and lay down, his already tan back gleaming in the sun. I couldn’t help but stare, certainly because he was beyond attractive, but also because he had such an ease about being in what I thought had been my secret spot.

  Reading soon became impossible. I couldn’t keep my eyes on the page and kept glancing over at my uninvited guest. He lay near motionless, soaking up the sun, his broad back rising with slow even breaths. It was a little odd being alone on a distant beach with a stranger. He seemed harmless enough though. And Carlos knew I’d be here. I left my chair and went to wade in the water, turning my face to the sun, cooling my body with the gentle waves.