He put his phone down and looked at her warily. He 100 percent did not want to be the guy people came to for free legal advice. “Yeah, that was me.”
She crumpled into the chair across from him. “I’m his girlfriend. Talia Morgan. I can’t even tell you... Just, thank you so much, sir.”
“Uh, you’re welcome.”
“It was so stupid,” she said. “A bunch of us were hanging out, and everyone always razzes Ethan that he looks just like Drew’s older brother, and we thought it would be funny to, like, dare him to take Drew’s brother’s ID and see if he could use it. We weren’t even drinking and we didn’t actually want alcohol, we just wanted to see if he could, like, do it, you know? It was so dumb.”
Jonathan folded his hands on the table. “Yeah, doesn’t sound like the smartest idea.”
“I was so freaked he was gonna actually, like, have to go to prison or something. And, then, when we heard you got him that deal, it was just, like, such a relief.”
“I can imagine,” he said mildly, “but he’s not out of the woods just yet. The Juvenile Diversion Program still has to make a determination about whether or not to accept him.”
“They will, though. I know they will, sir. And you’re, like, his hero now. We’re going to UMass together in the fall, and we don’t have to declare our majors until sophomore year or whatever, but he’s already totally decided that he’s going to do prelaw.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s got plans for the future,” Jonathan said, at a loss for how else to respond.
The girl stood up. “Do you, like, want a doughnut or anything with your coffee? My treat, totally.”
“I’m good, Talia. But thanks.”
“Okay, but the coffee’s on me, sir. Because you’re awesome. So, like, thanks again.” She gave him a thumbs-up and in return he gave her an awkward little two-finger salute.
“You can call me Jonathan.”
“Jonathan,” she gushed. “That’s so cool of you. I always thought lawyers were kind of stuffy or whatever, but you’re, like, totally cool.”
She walked backward for a couple of steps, grinning at him like a lunatic, until she bumped into another table and turned away with an embarrassed “Okay, then” and a wave.
He ducked his head and shook it, smiling. Teenagers were funny creatures.
Who did stupid things.
And often needed help.
He picked his phone up and typed juvenile law into the search bar. Then he started to read.
* * *
Two hours later, Jonathan still hadn’t moved from his table at the coffee shop. He’d been researching and making phone calls. The positions he was looking at paid crumbs compared with his current job, but his career had never really been about money for him—it had always been some combination of self-protection and perfectionism and prestige.
He kept thinking about what Brett had said last night: the question you’ve gotta ask yourself is whether or not that old life’s gonna keep you satisfied now that you’ve heard that call. Do you want to go back and pretend you didn’t hear it? Or do you have the courage to become a man after God’s own heart?
He picked up his phone again. He knew this might seem sudden, or out of the blue, to his colleagues, but the truth was he’d been feeling dissatisfied with his career for a long time now—if he’d ever really been satisfied with it at all.
Mike Roe picked up on the first ring. “J-Man,” he said. “What’s the word? You must have got that deal wrapped up nice and tight, huh, because I just got off the phone with the CEO of Carberry Hotels.”
“Uh...no, actually. The deal’s not going to happen. At least not until the fall,” Jonathan said, wondering what the church would do with the inn come September.
“Huh. Weird. Well, Carberry seemed very interested in retaining our services anyway, so whatever you did to convince them, well done.”
Jonathan scratched his head. Connor must have pulled through for him and put in a good word with his father, despite being upset that Jonathan hadn’t been able to get the job done. That was a first—someone who was so predictably unpredictable actually following through on his word.
“So, if the deal’s off the table,” Mike said, “when can I expect you back?”
“Actually,” Jonathan said, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been rethinking a few things, and I’m not so sure I want to come back at all.”
“Aw, come on, not you, too,” his mentor replied. “Don’t tell me. You want to join a Buddhist monastery? Travel around the world? Cure cancer? Save the trees?”
Jonathan laughed. “No, nothing like that.”
“So, what is it? You’ve been here long enough to know that if you leave, you’re not coming back.”
Jonathan nodded. He knew.
He’d always thought that those who left were weak and just couldn’t hack it. Now he could see that for a lot of them, it had probably been more a case of mismatched desires.
“Just time for a change,” he said lightly.
“Is this about what I said to you about making partner?” Mike asked. “Because we can work something out.”
Jonathan blinked. This wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. He’d figured that after Mike had told him he was a dime a dozen, he’d be happy enough to show him the door. “I appreciate that, and I value everything you’ve done for me, Mike, but I just don’t see myself staying at the firm long term.”
“Take some time and sleep on it, Masters. I don’t want you doing anything you can’t take back.”
Jonathan glanced around the coffee shop, which was pretty much empty now, then out the window at Wychmere Bay—its modesty, its charm. If becoming a partner didn’t hinge on bringing in new business, if he didn’t have to make a desperate final bid to close The Sea Glass Inn deal by any means necessary, did that change how he felt about staying on at the firm? Was now really the time to go?
“Honestly, Mike,” he said, “I’ve pretty much made up my mind.”
“You got something else lined up?” his mentor asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then take some time and sleep on it,” Mike said again. “You’ve got a bunch of unused vacation time, don’t you?”
“I do,” Jonathan said slowly. Using his vacation time would at least give him the opportunity to explore his alternatives in greater detail. Maybe he could even impose on Brett’s offer of hospitality, and stick around here for a while.
“You do good work,” Mike said. “I’d like to keep you around.”
“Well, gee,” Jonathan replied, knowing exactly what to say to keep Mike happy, “don’t get all mushy on me.”
Mike let out a bark of laughter. “What can I say? I’m a good friend—and don’t you forget it!”
Chapter Seventeen
Jonathan left the coffee shop after talking to Brett about moving in for a few weeks and walked to the sandwich shop on the corner. He ordered a turkey club and took it outside, where there were a few sidewalk tables.
He felt good about his plan to stick around Wychmere Bay. Laura had said there was nothing between them but chemistry, but she’d also said she couldn’t be with a man who was married to his job. Maybe when she saw that he was taking steps to disentangle himself from the law firm, she’d give him another chance.
He wouldn’t be a stalker about it, but he loved her. He’d seen her eyes when he’d told her he was falling in love with her, and it hadn’t been indifference he’d seen there, but fear.
And no wonder, with that deadbeat ex-husband of hers, and parents who’d left her to fend for herself while they’d jetted off to Hong Kong.
He could show her he was patient. He could show her he was trustworthy. He could be there for her, to whatever degree she was willing to let him in.
Because w
hile the reality of romantic love might be new to him, he understood that love wasn’t about what you got out of it, but rather what you put in. She was everything he’d ever wanted, and he was willing to give her whatever she needed in return—time, space, stability, support.
He’d give her anything. He’d give her everything. If she’d just give him one more chance.
“Deep thoughts, young man?”
Jonathan looked up. Irene Perkins was grinning down at him, a box of fudge in her hands.
He stood to greet her. “Hello, Irene. Nice to see you again.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Of course not.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Please.”
She opened the box of fudge and nudged it toward him. “You look like you could use some of this.”
He took a piece and popped it in his mouth. Chocolate Raspberry. It was ridiculously good.
“I heard Eleanor left this morning,” she said.
He swallowed his fudge, nodded. “News travels fast.”
“And you? Are you leaving, too?”
He shook his head. “No, not yet.”
She patted his hand. “Good.”
His phone rang. It was sitting faceup on the table, and he could see that the caller had a Cape Cod area code. His heart leaped. Was it Laura? They’d never exchanged cell numbers—why would they need to, when they were both staying at the inn?
“I’m sorry, Irene, I don’t mean to be rude—”
“Take it, honey. Go ahead.”
Jonathan picked up the phone. It wasn’t Laura. It was Dean, from the Beacon Light Mission.
He had bad news about Jonathan’s dad.
* * *
Laura made it to Boston in record time. Chloe had agreed to pick up Emma from preschool and keep her entertained for the afternoon so that Laura could track Jonathan down at Meyers, Suben & Roe.
The law firm was located in a high-rise on Boylston Street, a block or so down from the Prudential Center mall, right in the center of the city’s action. Strangely enough, it was the huge stone facade of the Boston Public Library, dubbed a “palace for the people” by its architect, that always captured Laura’s attention.
She used to study here on occasion when she was at Boston University, and she’d always found it soothing—the grand staircase with its murals, its stone lions, its arched windows and their filtered light. She’d spent many an hour in the Bates reading room, with its barrel-vaulted ceiling, endless bookcases and green reading lanterns spaced evenly on the long oak tables. The quiet in that room was purposeful, peaceful.
She tried to channel that feeling of peace and purpose, because now that she was here, she felt panicky again. What if he didn’t want to see her? What if she’d misunderstood him? What if she was too late?
She parked in the ridiculously expensive lot beneath Jonathan’s office building and took the elevator up to his floor.
She checked in with the receptionist, who fetched her a bottle of sparkling water and asked her to sit on the hard leather couch opposite the reception desk to wait.
After a few minutes, the receptionist beckoned her back to the desk. “I’m afraid Mr. Masters isn’t in the office today, Ms. Lessoway. He’s on sabbatical for the next few weeks. I’m sorry.”
“But... He was coming back today. I don’t understand.”
The receptionist smiled sympathetically. She was pretty and polished. She wore her headset like a crown. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“No,” Laura said, feeling deflated. Then, in a last-ditch attempt, she asked, “Do you have his personal number? Or his address?”
The receptionist’s smile hardened. “I’m sorry, but we don’t give out that information.”
“Oh. Of course not.”
Laura walked out of the office. Where was he? Why hadn’t they exchanged numbers? Why had he believed her when she’d said there was nothing between them except chemistry? Why hadn’t he known that she was falling in love with him, too?
Her phone rang as she got onto the elevator. It was Chloe, who’d just spoken with Irene Perkins. She had bad news about Jonathan’s dad.
Chapter Eighteen
Jonathan didn’t like hospitals. He didn’t like the fluorescent lighting, the laminated floors or the constant beeping. He didn’t like the lack of privacy, the flimsy curtains separating the beds, the drafty hallways, the doors that never closed.
He’d been hospitalized once at six or seven years old when he’d had a nasty bout of salmonella poisoning, and he remembered how hard it had been for the nurse to find a vein for his IV. He’d kicked and screamed so much that they’d had to call in a couple of orderlies to hold him down. He remembered his mom standing in the corner, watching, a smile on her face that was meant to be comforting but was anything but.
His primary exposure to hospitals, though, was the hospital in Rochester where his father had ended up so many times during his childhood. He remembered the maroon-carpeted waiting room with its boxy TV, the volume never turned up loud enough to entirely mute the noise from the intake assessments being performed by the social workers. After a while, perhaps by his father’s fifth or sixth admission, Jonathan had been able to distinguish between the families of the first-timers and those of the frequent-flyers—it was the difference between extreme anxiety and defeat.
Cape Cod Memorial Hospital, at least, was open and accessible. Visitors didn’t have to sign a log or wait for visiting hours, and they didn’t have to stay off the ward in a white-walled visiting room with orderlies who led in the patients and then stood watchfully by the door.
After ascertaining which room his father was in, Jonathan sprinted up the stairs to the third floor. He was still in his suit and tie and his shoes were smooth and a touch slippery, but he preferred the stairs to being trapped in a hospital elevator. He’d already been trapped in his car for what had felt like a never-ending, white-knuckled drive.
His father had been staying in one of the homeless camps in the woods. This morning, his friends had been unable to wake him. They’d had to call 911.
He skidded to a halt outside the door to the ICU. He pressed the buzzer. A nurse buzzed him in.
The nurse walked him to his father’s bedside, told him the doctor would be there shortly. He’d spoken with a doctor on the phone before he’d gotten behind the wheel to drive here, a doctor who’d said things like “untreated, late-stage pancreatic cancer,” “renal failure” and “prepare yourself for the worst.”
He’d been hoping that maybe there’d been a misunderstanding, a case of mistaken identity—even identity fraud.
There’d been no misunderstanding. The man unconscious in the bed looked old and haggard and dirty, but it was him—it was his dad.
Jonathan sat in the chair beside the bed, put his hand on top of his father’s blanket. “Dad,” he whispered. “Dad, it’s Jonathan. I’m here.”
He was hoping for a twitch, a movement, a sign that maybe his father knew he was there. He didn’t get one. He dropped his head.
“Dad,” he said, “I’m sorry I didn’t try to find you sooner. I could never understand why you wouldn’t just take the medication. It felt like you didn’t care enough about us to accept long-term help.” His voice cracked and he hated how broken he sounded, like a twelve-year-old kid instead of a thirty-two-year-old man.
He took a breath to steady himself, went on, “But that wasn’t it, was it, Dad? You cared about us, didn’t you? You cared about us, but you were just sick.”
He cleared his throat. He was staring at his father’s hand where it rested on top of the blanket. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I missed you. As much as we butted heads before you left, I missed you when you were gone.”
He took his dad’s hand and now he did feel a twitch. A jerk. A squeeze.
He looked at his dad’s fac
e. His eyes were open. “Jonathan?” his father whispered.
Jonathan leaned forward. He held his father’s hand tighter. His heart was beating very fast. “It’s me, Dad. I’m here.”
“Are you real?”
“I’m real, Dad. I’m here.”
“You’re all grown-up.”
Jonathan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“You’re a good son,” his father rasped. “You always were. Will you—” He coughed, a long, hacking cough that sounded painful. “Will you tell your mother I’m sorry? For everything?”
“I’ll tell her,” Jonathan said. There was a terrible pressure behind his eyes, a heaviness, a weight. He’d wanted to find his father so he could help him, not so he could say goodbye.
“And your sister—tell her I’m sorry, too.”
“I’ll tell her, Dad. I love you. We all love you.” He was clutching his father’s hand.
His father’s eyes fixed on a point over Jonathan’s shoulder. “Oh, look!” he said, and his face lit up. “Look!”
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing there. When he turned back to the bed, his father was gone.
* * *
Laura stopped in the doorway. She saw the man in the bed lying still, the monitors beside him dark and quiet. She saw the man sitting next to the bed, his back hunched, his face in his hands.
“Oh, Jonathan, no!” She ran to him, and then, somehow, she was in his lap.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stroking his hair, her face pressed up against his neck, wetting it with her tears. “I’m so sorry.”
And then he was crying, too, and holding her, his grief washing over her in a torrent that felt like it would never end.
Finally, a long time later, he drew back from her. “Laura,” he croaked. “What are you doing here?”
She touched his face. She had to touch his face. “Chloe called me. She said Irene was with you when...when you got the call.”
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