by Jill Cox
“So these letters you wrote me,” I murmured against his lips. “Are they, like, stream-of-consciousness ramblings about the copper highlights in my hair or more like a long list of grievances about my rigid personality?”
A tiny laugh vibrated against my lips. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
“I will?”
“Yes.” Pete leaned back, swiping the journal from my lap and tucking it back into his messenger bag. “Hey, no pouting. You’ll have plenty of time to read on your flight home tonight.”
“Tonight? But I’m not flying home until Saturday.”
Pete blinked. “But you… I mean, your website says you have to be in Boston on Monday.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Listen, stalker, while I appreciate your interest in my career, I’m a little surprised you think I’d rather head back home than stay in Paris. I mean, I know when you visited Doolin with me that summer it was the height of tourist season, but come on, Russell. Paris has all the things, including several direct flights to Boston in case I miss my flight back home on Saturday.”
Pete laughed a little under his breath. “Well, look at you, fancy pants – a whole week in Paris? What’s on the agenda – boutique shopping for your book launch ensemble?”
“Maybe. Or I could track down that grad student who crashed my event today. I got the impression he’d like to hang out.”
“Yeah?” He slid his fingers into my hair. “I bet Madame Beauchamp would give you his number.”
“Good, because if anyone knows where to find the best street tacos in Paris, it’s that guy. They have food trucks here now, right?”
“Sully?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want to talk about tacos. I want to talk about what I wrote on that note today. The one inside your book.”
“Pete, you don’t have to –”
“Let me say this, okay? You left this summer before I could finish my speech.” Pete’s fingers slid along my bracelet, landing at the Fee charm. “I’m sorry for all the stupid decisions I’ve made the last few years. I should have talked myself out of running away to Shanghai. Or else I should have moved back home that December after graduation. At the very least, I should have called you at the Juniper House after I heard you moved. My ‘should’ list is very long these days.”
“Is that why you flew to Ireland this summer?”
The color drained from his face. “Did Dan…? Aw, man! I can’t believe he broke his promise. Why would he betray me like that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Your boy Danny ships Luke and Allie hard.” I smiled, but a frown darkened his face. “Hey, don’t be angry. He didn’t divulge any specifics, which is why I’m asking now – why did you fly to Ireland? To apologize?”
“No, Sully.” He brushed his thumb along my cheek. “I flew to Ireland to tell you that I love you. I never stopped loving you. Not one single day since I left.”
“Oh.” A smile tugged at my lips as my entire body flushed pink. “That’s kind of romantic.”
“I thought so,” he smiled back. “Too bad I found you hanging off a cliff with some hipster dude wrapped around you like a backpack.”
I wanted to laugh, but instead, my heart swelled inside my chest. Despite every obstacle – despite Jack and Brooks and a million other things – here we were, right back where we belonged.
After Ian died, there was no way Pete and I could have navigated both our pain together. I realized that now. And if real-life Luke had never run away, I might never have written Night And Day.
I needed to write that book. And not just for Pete.
For my parents.
For Ian.
But most of all for myself.
Pete bent forward to kiss me, and when he did, his finger trailed along my collarbone until he found the padlock key. “Hey,” he said softly, tugging the silver chain free from its hiding place. “I can’t believe you still have this.”
“You want it back?”
“No. But I do have an idea.”
He wrestled the chain over my head, shimmying the key off the necklace onto his left palm. His right hand grabbed mine and we walked together to the balustrade where we’d stood two and a half years earlier.
“What do you think?” He inclined his head toward the river. “Should we throw it in the river? Leave our past in the past?”
I traced the outline of our key in his left hand. “You sure about this? We can’t take it back.”
“I know.” A soft smile spread across his face. “But it’s only a symbol, Sully. The real lock and key is you plus me. And that’s never going to change.”
I closed my hand over his. “I love you,” I said. “I never stopped loving you. Not one single day since you left.”
“Well, that’s kind of romantic,” he grinned. And with our hands clasped together, we leaned over the water and let the key drop into the Seine.
EPILOGUE
Around every curve in Ireland lies a postcard-worthy street or cottage or field. These were the things I’d forgotten in the eighteen months since I’d moved away. It’s hard to recall quaint villages after the clickety-clack of the Paris Métro or the frenetic jumble of Manhattan’s streets. A lot had changed since the last time I drove this road north from Doolin to Galway.
Not the least of which was my last name.
Pete had never questioned me much about the handful of months I lived in Galway. When I moved to Paris three months after we got back together, things were still tentative between us. I’d just found out at Christmas that Jack and Hannah had eloped, and the news had thrown me so far off my game that I was afraid I might scare Pete Russell away forever.
Instead, he went to work building new memories with me, each day a new plan. Museums. The ballet. Sometimes just coffee at La Rotonde when he wanted my help writing his thesis.
Anything to keep my mind in the present. And it worked, because from the second I moved back to Paris, my heart had never wobbled again.
But ever since we’d arrived in Ireland to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, Pete had suddenly become quite curious about the period he always refers to as The Dark Times. Somehow he’d found Jack’s leather-bound copy of The Long Walk up in my parents’ attic, and after he’d finished reading it one afternoon, my very jumpy husband had insisted we drive to Galway the next day. Which is how we found ourselves standing across from my old apartment building on Kirwan’s Lane.
I half-expected Emma to step out of the front door as we stood there, even though she and Super-Agent Michael had long since fallen in love, gotten married, and were now living in suburban Dublin. But she never appeared, so Pete and I ambled down to the river, then over to The Long Walk to see the print shop where I’d met Jack two and a half years before.
Pete was amused (and maybe a little relieved) to find it such a mundane sort of place. In Jack’s novel, O’Flaherty’s Print Shop sounded like an enchanted workshop – the sort of place where gnomes cavorted at night and infused the copiers with fairy dust and charms. As we stood there inside its walls, Pete shook his head and laughed, like he’d just found out that Narnia was inspired by a landfill or something.
We headed back along the River Corrib, past the Spanish Arch and the claddagh ring shops. I was shocked by how foreign Galway seemed through the lens of my current life. Maybe Jack had once cast a spell over me as well, because I could hardly believe I’d ever lived there. It felt as though I was taking Pete on a literary tour of The Long Walk’s locations, not my own past.
When the weather went soft, we ducked into the Cloak and Dagger to have lunch. Pete was sounding out the menu’s Gaelic words phonetically when in walked Jack Kelly with a tiny baby strapped to his chest and Hannah by his side.
“Is that you, Tink?” Jack laughed as he reached our table. I stood quickly from my seat and hugged Hannah while Pete watched us rather curiously from the table.
“This is my husband,” I said as he got to his feet. “Pete, this is Jack an
d Hannah Kelly.”
“I can’t believe it – this is All-American Luke?!” Jack shook his hand, beaming so brightly that Pete couldn’t help but smile back. “I am very pleased to finally meet you, Luke-slash-Pete. I must admit, I’ve always wondered if you weren’t a figment of this one’s imagination.”
Pete smiled, gesturing toward the baby between them. “And who is this little guy?”
“This wee little captain is Liam.” Jack grinned so widely I thought his face might crack. “Can you wave hello to Mummy and Daddy’s friends, love?”
The expression on Jack’s face as Liam giggled made me want a time machine. How insane it seemed now that either of us had imagined our futures with anyone else.
Pete invited the Kellys to join us, and for the next couple of hours, we caught each other up while little Liam slept sweetly in Jack’s arms. From time to time, I noticed Jack’s eyes flitting between Pete and me. One time, he caught me watching him, and just like that, I knew Jack felt that same full-circle-ish sensation. We’d set each other back on the right path.
Later that evening at the Juniper House, as we lounged in front of the fire with our arms and legs intertwined, Pete suddenly lifted his eyes to mine.
“I need to confess something to you, Sully.” I loved it that he still called me Sully, even though I was now Meredith Russell. “I never believed this was possible, but I’m about nine million times more jealous of Jack Kelly than I ever was of Drew Sutton.”
I ran my finger along Pete’s wedding band. “You know that’s ridiculous, right?”
“I know, but it’s still true. This whole time, I’d pictured him as some kind of Irish football hooligan, you know? Sleeve tattoos, leather jacket, spiky hair…”
“Really? You think that’s my secret type?”
“No, but should I be less intimidated by a wordsmith hipster? The only way I’ve survived the idea of this other guy by your side was by believing he was my polar opposite. Instead, he’s got old-world charm like all the other Irishmen in your life.”
“Pete Russell, the very first thing people notice about you is your old-school charm. Don’t act like you don’t know that.”
“I didn’t say ‘old-school,’ I said ‘old-world.’ Those are two different things, Sully. Why in the world did you let someone like that get away? He’s amazing.”
“Oh, no. Are you secretly in love with Jack? Because he’s married, you know.”
“I’m serious, Sully. I know you want me to believe The Long Walk was fiction, but today, I saw the truth behind that story with my own eyes.”
“Pete –”
“Let me finish, okay? Jack was kind to you. He helped you publish your book. Helped you believe in yourself again. And what was I doing all that time? Oh, you know, moping around, feeling sorry for myself. Acting like a victim when I was the root of my own problems.”
“Hi.” I extended a hand between us. “My name is Meredith Russell. That’s spelled: N-O-T-[space]-K-E-L-L-Y.”
“Sully…”
I lifted the same hand to Pete’s cheek and locked eyes with him. “I grew up in Oregon, then married my incredibly hot best friend in Paris. We lived in New York last year while he served as a substitute teacher at every high school in the five boroughs and I wrote a new novel. Now, here we are, in my parents’ living room, not making out like teenagers when we have a perfectly romantic fire burning before us. Any other questions?”
“No,” he smiled. “But thank you.”
“Good. And since you’ve just spent the last few days torturing both of us with the past, you owe me at least fifteen minutes about the future. Because as much as Molly and Jamie Sullivan love us, I don’t think the Juniper House is in the market for permanent guests.”
“Well, okay, since you asked nicely...” Pete sat up straight. “The thing is, I’m still not ready to start my doctorate. So I was thinking that if you agree, I’ll push back my matriculation to Columbia at least one more year.”
“Why?”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Look, I’m one hundred percent positive I want to teach, and maybe ninety-nine percent certain I want to teach college. But we’re so young, Sully. How will I ever tell amazing stories like Monsieur Ludovic if we don’t push our comfort zone a bit?”
“Are you under the impression that your life so far has been average?”
“No.” Pete searched my eyes for a moment. “Okay, look, here’s the deal. James e-mailed me last night. Sarah’s expecting twins. She’s due next month.”
Sarah was formerly Sister Sarah, as in the Sisters of the Holy Cross. Pete’s friend James had been in love with her for so many years that last September, she finally gave up her vows and became his wife in a small ceremony in Palo Alto. Pete was the best man.
“Well, hey,” I chuckled. “Why settle for one honeymoon baby when you can have two? Oh, man, I’m so happy for them. But what does that have to do with us?”
“Well, as you can imagine, they’re going to have their hands full for a while, and James was wondering, since we’re currently without domicile, if we’d like to move to Shanghai? The two of us could manage day-to-day operations of the Restoration Initiative while James and Sarah figure out life with twins for the first few months.”
I chewed at the inside of my lip for a moment. “You want us to move to China? Really?”
“Listen, I know Dan and Anne are buying a house in suburbia and pretending they’re grown-ups, but you’re a writer, Sully. Do you seriously think you’ll be more inspired in Picket-Fenceville than in the world’s largest city?”
“No, but…”
“Okay, I can see I need to sweeten the deal a little bit. What if we fly to Moscow first? We could check that Trans-Siberian Railway trip off your list. We could go to Beijing, visit the Great Wall…”
“Pete –”
“What? Now is the time! Someday soon, we’ll have kids, jobs, a mortgage – you know what that means? Zero freedom to gallivant around the globe. Imagine how you’ll feel when you’re forty years old if we don’t take this chance.”
I paused for a moment and imagined Future Meredith in the kitchen, cooking dinner while a red-headed boy and his curly-haired sister complained about homework. “But –”
“No buts! What would Ian Sullivan say if he were here?”
“Hey, now. Let’s fight fair.”
“Come on, Fee!” Pete’s voice was a perfect impression of my brother, slight brogue and all. “For once in your life, listen to this Russell fella. He may be the goofiest bloke you know, but there’s no denying he brings the adventure. What do you say, love?”
Despite the sigh on my lips, a smile broke across my face. “Shanghai, here we come.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Everyone knows sequels are tricky. That pretty little bow the author ties up at the end of the first book inevitably gets ripped to shreds in the next installment. Right? Ugh.
A few weeks after I wrote the first draft of The Bridge, I gave a copy to my best friend, Susan. She was the third person to read it, but the first to ask me what happened after the happily ever after. For several days, I ignored her, because sequels always break my heart.
But then one morning, six days after my twenty-year high school reunion, I was driving to school, thinking how my eighteen-year-old self wouldn’t even recognize my life. So many things have happened that she could never have predicted – teaching, living in Paris twice, friends who have come and gone, family members we’ve lost – and that’s when the idea for Chapter Five popped into my brain. (For the record, no one’s heart was broken more than mine by that twist.)
Eight years later, you’re holding The Long Walk in your hands. The following people deserve as much credit as I do for its existence, so read on, readers.
First and always, I thank my Heavenly Father for His grace and mercy in my life. May my words continue to be Your instrument of beauty and peace in this chaotic world. Sola gratia.
If you don’t know
my parents, you will have to trust me that they are two of the kindest, most encouraging people on earth. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for teaching me what true love really means. Thank you also for taking me on a million adventures, a.k.a. “research,” especially for the three trips to western Ireland that inspired the setting for this story. Most of all, God bless you for championing my dream and for reminding me – especially on the darkest days – why I’m compelled to show up at my keyboard, over and over and over again.
Whenever people say, “I loved [such-and-such detail or scene] in The Bridge,” I’m always quick to shout, “That was my editor’s idea!” Sharon Duncan, thank you for every second you have poured into this story and for all the behind-the-scenes pep talks you’ve given me over the years. Meredith’s story wouldn’t be the same without your gentle encouragement and creative genius.
Once upon a time, Sarah Huggins Oister and I sat down and brainstormed this book’s cover. The image you see today is exactly what I envisioned, right down to the snowflakes and twinkling stars. Bless you, Sarah, for your patient, steady soul. Thank you for being such an inspiring friend.
High five to Miranda Mabery for the marketing swag, to Tarran Turner for the Tower 19 Press logo, and to Eddie Renz of Stature Design for my website support (and The Bridge cover!).
Shout out to my early readers for strengthening The Long Walk and for protecting its secrets: Jennifer Allen, Kendra Ayers, Tracy Bickhaus, Cassie Brooks, Stephen Burger & Steph House, Stephanie Carrington, Kelsey Cooper, Susan Cordre, Richard & Mary Jane Cox, Brooke DeVore, Andi Hooker, John Huston, Alexa Kuffel, Lynley Nall, Stephanie Osborne, Rina Reynolds, Kelsea Riddick, Amanda Querner, Dianah Thelen, Tarran Turner, and Adrienne White.
The following people have inspired and directly influenced this novel simply by posting about their everyday lives on Instagram: Jean Butler, Mark Duffy, Maebh Fenton, Sean O’Grady, Sean Haughton, Dick Keely, Lauren Bryan Knight, Emma O’Sullivan, Christina O’Toole, Madison O’Toole, Tim O’Toole, O’Connor’s Pub, and the lovely Sea View House in Doolin, the canary yellow B&B just above the River Aille which I’ve called the Juniper House in this story.
