Home to the Riverview Inn

by Molly O'Keefe

“To whatever’s next.” She reached out to him, touched his fists, where they were balled at his sides. He felt her skin, her heat in his heart, in his head, down to his feet.

  “I love you, Patrick.” She smiled as though loving him was something joyful. Yet she stood there nearly crying. “I never stopped. And I know you love me, but you are so angry with me, so tied to the idea that I’m going to leave you again, that you can’t let go of the past.”

  “And taking responsibility for those letters is going to change that?” he asked, incredulous. He’d already done that and they were no closer to a future. They were still in limbo.

  “Taking responsibility for your part in the mistakes we both made. Yes, I think so.”

  “You wanted me to divorce you?” How could she talk of love and divorce in the same sentence? It went against everything he felt. Didn’t she understand that? Didn’t she know that he could only divorce her if he didn’t love her anymore?

  “I’m saying you should have set me free if you didn’t want me. I didn’t need a promise to be your lover, Patrick. But if I’m going to stay here now, I am going to need one. And if you can’t do that, you have to set me free.”

  Free? he thought, panicked and angry. As in, she would leave?

  “What kind of promise?”

  “The kind we made on our wedding day. That we’ll see each other through the good times and bad, that we will forgive each other the big and small mistakes we make, the hurt we might cause. That we will love each other without rancor or grudge.”

  She’d reiterated their vows perfectly and he couldn’t say anything. His whole body was stone, unfeeling and heavy. Thick.

  “Can you do that, Patrick?”

  He knew she would walk out if he didn’t say something. He opened his mouth but there was only the rattle of his own fear, the gasp and sigh of his cowardice.

  Her tears fell, silver streams down her face, unending, like blood from a wound. And still he couldn’t say anything.

  “I think you better leave,” she said, her voice broken. Weak.

  “Iris, I can’t just—”

  “You’ve had thirty years, Patrick. Please go, I have to pack.”

  “You’re leaving?” he yelled, anger rushing in to strengthen his legs, add fuel to his fire. “Just like that? Oh, I forgot, that’s what you do.”

  Color blanched from her face and her eyelids flinched. “Do you want me to stay so you can keep hurting me like this?” she asked. “Because I can’t do it. I won’t let you ruin what I feel for you. What we had. You either grow up and deal with your part in this, or leave.”

  He found the strength to stand, to walk past her without touching her. To do what she wanted, even though he knew it meant she would go.

  But despite the agony ripping him apart, he couldn’t find the strength to change himself so she would stay.

  Daphne woke up in a rush, her heart thundering in her ears. Sweat trickled down her chest under the old Farmers Do It In The Dirt T-shirt she’d worn to bed.

  “It’s a raccoon,” she whispered to her knotted stomach and empty room. The answering silence was so thick she could actually feel it pressing down on her.

  Of course, it was a raccoon. She took a deep breath, almost laughing as her muscles relaxed. What else could it be at—she checked the clock on her bedside table—3:00 a.m.?

  She really didn’t want to think about what else it could be at 3:00 a.m.

  Rattle. Clang.

  That raccoon was trying to break in the screen door, she realized and pushed the thin sheet off her body, unwilling to really consider that the raccoon might be something else. Something human.

  She grabbed the old Louisville Slugger Helen had left in the hallway—despite being threatened with grounding if she didn’t return it to the garage. Now, of course, Daphne was glad that Helen hadn’t listened.

  She crept down the stairs, hugging the shadows.

  Please be a raccoon. Please be a raccoon.

  She tightened her sweaty grip on the bat and peered over the top of the gingham curtains.

  The raccoon was a man.

  She could see a head of brown hair in the shine of the light over the kitchen door.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God. She paused, standing on one shaking leg.

  She thought of her daughter, her baby, asleep upstairs and knew she and this bat were the only things between Helen and whatever lunatic was trying to break into their home.

  Adrenaline surged through her system.

  Before she could second-guess herself, she lunged across the mudroom and whipped open the door, bringing down the baseball bat, one-handed, with all of her might.

  Jonah grabbed the bat before it connected with his forehead.

  “Jonah,” she snapped, her stomach dropping to her feet. “What are you doing here? I almost killed you.”

  “No, you didn’t,” he said, his face in the shadows beyond the light. “You swing like a girl.”

  Heat and joy and a strange foreboding filled her like helium in a balloon. She tugged on her end of the bat, pulling him under the light.

  Jonah had been crying. At her gasp he pulled away back to the shadows but she couldn’t let him go. She dropped the bat and grabbed his arms.

  “What’s wrong, Jonah? What happened?”

  He shook his head, looking at his feet like a boy caught doing something wrong. Whatever had happened had hurt him terribly. Or was hurting him terribly.

  “I know it’s late,” he said, “but I wanted to see you. I—”

  He was here to say goodbye. He didn’t have to say anything, she could smell it on him. She nearly doubled over from the pain.

  Don’t do it! part of her yelled. You can’t bring him into your home, make love to him in your bed and watch dry-eyed when he walks away. You can’t do this, Daphne. This will hurt.

  “Jonah.” She sighed, torn. But then he dropped the bat and pulled her into his arms as though she was the only thing that could save him.

  His breath shuddered in his chest. His hands fisted her hair.

  She could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against hers. And she knew whether she let him in right now or sent him away, she wouldn’t be dry-eyed.

  It already hurt, how could it hurt worse? The damage was done.

  And her decision was made. She pulled him into her home, the one she bought herself and shared with her daughter. She led him up the stairs to her bedroom, with its flowered cotton sheets and sensible cotton underwear in the dresser.

  She laid him down in her bed. Without the gloves or the champagne. With just her heart bursting with love for him, she pulled off his shirt and kissed his chest. Pressed her hands to his heart.

  Goodbye, her body sighed.

  “Do you regret…this?” he whispered, as if they were in a church. “I mean, do you wish we hadn’t made love?” And she knew what he was asking, it was there in his eyes, the sad set to his lips. Are you happy even though I’m going to leave? he was asking. Are you happy despite knowing that unhappiness is coming?

  “No,” she whispered. “I’m glad.”

  He groaned and sat up, pulling her across his lap, so she straddled him. She could tell something was running loose in him and all the careful seduction of the night in New York was gone, the measured roughness, the erotic game-playing eroded under whatever demons were riding him.

  It was just him, Jonah, vulnerable and naked.

  And it was just her, Daphne, vulnerable and stupid.

  But she was okay with that if it gave her one more night with him.

  She opened the fly to his pants and found him with her hand. He was already hard, hot, his blood beating just as heavy in his erection as it was in his chest.

  He groaned at her touch, his hands sliding under her shirt to find her waist, her breasts.

  “I don’t have a condom,” she said, almost willing to risk it. Almost hoping she might get pregnant.

  Her entire body contracted hard at the thought. Longing
rippled down her spine. A baby. Another baby. How wonderful would that be?

  But Jonah was digging into his back pocket, pulling his pants down to his knees as he retrieved the condom.

  Better this way, she thought, taking it from his hands. Better to be safe. But part of her wanted that baby. That chance. Who knew when it would come again? Prince Charmings weren’t just lying around her pumpkin patch waiting for her.

  Lifting herself, she sheathed him in the condom then slid down, stopping halfway, the sensations almost too much. Loving him almost seemed to hurt. Panicked, she gasped, shaking and clutching at his shoulders. Not sure if she was pushing him or pulling him, afraid of what she felt and afraid of never feeling it again.

  It was as though he was already gone, and the pain was stunning.

  How can I do this to myself?

  “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here, Daphne.”

  The strength of him grounded her. His arms at her waist supported her. His blue eyes glowed in the moonlight, holding her as surely as his hands did, as carefully as her body held his.

  “Take me,” he groaned.

  Her muscles relaxed, the pain eased and it was only bone-deep pleasure. She sank all the way down, taking him in so deep, so hard she knew even when he was gone, she’d feel him there.

  Probably for the rest of her life.

  Daphne’s skin was silver in the faint light, the fine muscles of her back stood out in erotic relief. She was so beautiful. And he’d never expected this to hurt so much. He’d never expected to be so damn sad.

  He stroked her spine and rolled so he could see her profile. He was surprised by the stream of tears that rolled down her face. The sobs that began to rack her naked body.

  “Oh, Daph—”

  “Go,” she whispered. “Just…leave. Don’t say anything.”

  Not wanting to hurt her more, he did as she asked. He pulled on his pants, his shirt. Shoved his bare feet into his shoes because he knew the longer he stayed in this room with her the worse it would be.

  He crept down the hall past Helen’s room and wanted, stupidly, to say goodbye to the girl. But that was the last thing Daphne wanted, so like some kind of thief he skulked down the stairs and slipped out the back door, feeling with every step, every beat of his heart as though he was leaving some unknown part of himself behind.

  The new part. The laughter and the fun that the Larson girls had mined out of him. That fleeting sense of happiness. Of rightness. Those weren’t going with him back to the city.

  But he couldn’t stay. Not so close to the Mitchells and not after what he’d done to Daphne tonight. His life wasn’t here.

  He started the Jeep, his duffel bag in the back, and drove toward the highway and the city. Away from Daphne.

  The highway was practically empty and he headed south. Caught the Jersey turnpike toward New Brunswick and was home in record time. He parked in the underground lot and waved at the security guard.

  He lived on the top floor of his first condo development. Riding up the steel and glass elevator that ran up the side of the building usually stroked his ego. The view was incredible. Everything as it should be.

  But this time it was hollow. Empty. The Manhattan skyline was too jagged. Too sharp. It didn’t have the rounded big muscles of the Catskill Mountains and the Hudson River was different down here. Foreign.

  He stepped into his condo, dropped the duffel on the marble tiles, and for the first time, realized how quiet his condo was. How utterly still.

  It’s like a tomb, he thought, and a chill ran up his spine.

  Glancing into his kitchen, outfitted with all the top-of-the-line appliances he didn’t use, he knew there was no food for him to eat. His freezer utterly devoid of Popsicles.

  His walls were covered in black and white photographs that someone else took, of places he’d never been, of people he didn’t know.

  There were no scrapbooks, no pictures on his fridge, no clutter, no mess. No nothing.

  This was his home and it looked as though no one lived in it. Certainly not him.

  God, what am I doing? A panic so profound, like running headfirst into a brick wall, tightened his throat. Luckily his inhaler was in his pocket and he took two quick puffs before the attack got worse.

  He left Daphne behind for this? For an empty home and work that he could do from anywhere?

  He stepped to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the skyline that used to excite him. Challenge him. He felt nothing. They were just buildings.

  Is this what I want? It had been so long since he’d thought about what he wanted that he wasn’t even sure he knew.

  He used to want to make money so his mother would be taken care of. Then he’d wanted to do a little bit of good for the planet. Then he’d thought of Haven House. But even Haven House seemed like a burden at the moment.

  Everything was a chore. Something to get through. And suddenly his life stretched out in front of him. Every day something to survive, an ordeal to endure.

  “I’m never going to jump in an inflatable castle again,” he said aloud. I’m never going to see Daphne again, much less have sex with her.

  That thought had him reaching for his inhaler.

  How was it possible that it took more courage to choose to be happy? To swallow his pride and fix what was wrong in his family so he could be with Daphne, than to live the sort of mundane soulless existence he’d been living? His life was a prison and he’d stupidly just incarcerated himself again.

  Jonah would have done anything for his mother, except forgive his father. It dawned on him, that in order to have Daphne, he was going to have to do the unthinkable.

  Let go of all his anger at his father.

  Otherwise, how was he ever going to live?

  What was his life without Daphne?

  Giant, immovable objects that had been crowding his chest since he was a boy, shifted. Anger and hate and resentment were pushed aside by a courage he didn’t know he possessed. And suddenly, where he didn’t think there was room, there was a vast cavern and Daphne just moved right into his heart.

  He saw his father more clearly—his motivations, confused and compounded by love and desperation, had forced him into mistakes he clearly wished he could take back.

  The man wanted to do the right thing and Jonah, in order to have Daphne in his life, would let him.

  He rested his head against the wall and stared at a black and white photo of a sailboat under full sail.

  Jonah had never been on a sailboat.

  “Oh my God,” he muttered, pushing himself into action. “This is ridiculous. I love her and I left her.”

  He grabbed his duffel bag, his keys and walked out the door.

  He’d be back at Daphne’s by sunrise.

  “Mommy?” At her daughter’s voice Daphne’s eyes snapped open. There Helen was, wearing her pink and purple pajamas, her messy hair haloed by the early morning sun. That was normal.

  Daphne was in her bed. Normal.

  Birds sang outside. Normal.

  But her heart lay in pieces in her chest. Her body so cold she’d pulled on two sweatshirts during the long night, and she still wasn’t warm.

  “Hi, Helen,” Daphne said. Longing for her daughter hit her in the sternum and she lifted the covers so Helen could scramble into bed with her. Helen curled into her like a kitten against her belly and Daphne sighed. She would survive this. She had her daughter, her work, her mother, good friends. What did she need love for? The body went on without a working heart—she was proof of that. “What’s going on?”

  “Was Jonah here last night?”

  Daphne stroked her daughter’s hair. “Yes, honey, he was.”

  “But he left?”

  For a second she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even breathe. But then her daughter’s little hand patted her face, wiping away the tears Daphne had been leaking most of the night. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really liked him.”

  “So did I.” Daphne si
ghed through the pain.

  They lay there quietly and Daphne again thanked the powers that be for sending her this little girl. This miracle with blond hair and sticky fingers.

  “There’s a man at the For Sale sign next door. He’s putting a Sold sign on it,” Helen said after a while.

  Daphne sat up. “Is it Sven?”

  Helen shook her head. “Nope. It’s a man and a woman. The woman was throwing up. Can we have pancakes for breakfast?”

  “Sure thing, honey.” With her foot, Daphne dug at the bottom of the bed, finding her underwear. Maybe she could talk to the new owners, find out about buying just half an acre of the land. “See if you can find the mix and I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

  Helen leaped off the bed and beat feet for the kitchen and Daphne shoved her feet into flip-flops. At the very least she’d find out what kind of person spent far too much money for land like that and whether or not they’d be good neighbors.

  Of course, the added benefit of their arrival was forcing her to get out of bed, where she could have stayed for the next ten years. Nursing her broken heart.

  She took the shortcut through the trees and ran out onto the road right beside a red convertible, surprising the hell out of two people leaning against it.

  “Hi,” the man said, looking at her then at the tree line she’d escaped from. He sort of resembled what Einstein must have looked like when he was younger. Rumpled clothes. Hair on end, small glasses in front of incredibly shrewd eyes.

  “Hi,” she said, catching her breath. “I’m Daphne Larson. I own the farm next door to this land.”

  “Oh, great,” the man said, pushing away from the car. They shook hands and she had to admit he had a good shake. “My name is Gary. My business partner and I just bought this land.”

  Strange that he referred to the woman beside him, who looked decidedly green around the gills, as a business partner. But maybe that’s what young Einsteins did.

  “Nice to meet you,” Daphne said, holding her hand out to the woman.

  “Oh,” she said, smiling. Sort of. “I’m not his business partner, I’m Gary’s wife, Carrie.” Carrie pushed off the car but the motion must have set something off inside of her and she detoured sideways to throw up at the back bumper.