He studies me in silence long enough that I begin to wonder if this sounds silly. But then he says, “I want what I do and who I’m with to be deliberate. My choice.”
“Me too,” I say softly.
He takes my hand and starts pulling me toward the sea in front of us. “Let’s make that first memory.”
I laugh, following him across the warm sand. “I can’t swim in this,” I say, waving a hand at the skirt and blouse I’d traveled in.
He loops an arm around my waist and lifts me up, walking into the water. “You sure can’t,” he says, setting me down at a point where the water laps at the back of my legs and reaching out to undo a button, pushes my blouse off my shoulders. He touches his thumb to the scar near my collar bone, leans in and gently presses his lips against it.
I lift his T-shirt, run my hand along his waist and find the scar from the bullet he’d taken in helping me save Mia. I lean down and press my lips to it, lingering for a long moment.
I hear his intake of breath, raise my head to look up at him.
“I can help you with this clothes problem you seem to be having,” he says in a voice laced with desire.
“You’re a master problem solver, aren’t you?”
“So I’ve been told. How am I doing?”
“So far, very good.” I reach out to pull his face to mine, kissing him, deep and full while the Caribbean Sea laps at the back of my legs and a blazing sun shines down upon us.
Dear Reader
I would like to thank you for taking the time to read my story. There are so many wonderful books to choose from these days, and I am hugely appreciative that you chose mine.
Please join my mailing list for updates on new releases and giveaways! Just go to http://www.inglathcooper.com – come check out my Facebook page for postings on books, dogs and things that make life good!
Wishing you many, many happy afternoons of reading pleasure.
All best,
Inglath
About Inglath Cooper
RITA® Award-winning author Inglath Cooper was born in Virginia. She is a graduate of Virginia Tech with a degree in English. She fell in love with books as soon as she learned how to read. “My mom read to us before bed, and I think that’s how I started to love stories. It was like a little mini-vacation we looked forward to every night before going to sleep. I think I eventually read most of the books in my elementary school library.”
That love for books translated into a natural love for writing and a desire to create stories that other readers could get lost in, just as she had gotten lost in her favorite books. Her stories focus on the dynamics of relationships, those between a man and a woman, mother and daughter, sisters, friends. They most often take place in small Virginia towns very much like the one where she grew up and are peopled with characters who reflect those values and traditions.
“There’s something about small-town life that’s just part of who I am. I’ve had the desire to live in other places, wondered what it would be like to be a true Manhattanite, but the thing I know I would miss is the familiarity of faces everywhere I go. There’s a lot to be said for going in the grocery store and seeing ten people you know!”
Inglath Cooper is an avid supporter of companion animal rescue and is a volunteer and donor for the Franklin County Humane Society. She and her family have fostered many dogs and cats that have gone on to be adopted by other families. “The rewards are endless. It’s an eye-opening moment to realize that what one person throws away can fill another person’s life with love and joy.”
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That Month in Tuscany
Excerpt from That Month in Tuscany
Lizzy
IF I’M HONEST with myself, truly honest, I will admit I knew that in the end, he wouldn’t go.
But to leave it until the night before: that surprises even me.
Here I sit on my over-packed suitcase in the foyer of this too large house I’ve spent the past five years decorating and fussing over — picking out paint colors and rugs, which include the exact same shade, and art that can only be hung on the walls if it looks like an original, even if it isn’t.
I stare at the pair of tickets in my hand, open the folder and read the schedule as I have a dozen times before.
Departure Charlotte, North Carolina 3:45 PM
Arrival Rome, Italy 7:30 AM
Departure Rome, Italy 9:40 AM
Arrival Florence, Italy 10:45 AM
My name on one: Millicent Elizabeth Harper. His on the other: Tyler Fraiser Harper.
I bought the tickets six months ago. Plenty of time to plan how to get away from the office for a month. Make whatever arrangements had to be made. Didn’t people do things like that now and then? Check out of their real lives for a bit? Let others take over in their absence?
Tyler’s response would be, “Yeah, people who don’t care about their careers. People who don’t mind risking everything they’ve worked for by letting some Ivy League know-it-all step into their shoes long enough to prove that they can fill them.”
Our twentieth anniversary is tomorrow. I’d imagined that we would arrive at the Hotel Savoy and celebrate with a bottle of Italian champagne in a room where we could spend the next month getting to know one another again — the way we had once known one another. Traveling around the Tuscan countryside on day trips and eating lunch in small town trattorias. Exploring art museums and local artisan shops.
I shared all of this with him, and he had done a fine job of making me believe that he found it as appealing as I did. It felt as if we again had a common interest after years of a life divided into his and hers, yours and mine.
Then, a little over a week ago, he’d begun to plant the seeds of backpedaling. I had just finished putting together a salad for our dinner when my cell phone rang.
It lay buzzing on the kitchen counter, and something in my stomach, even at that moment, told me that he would back out.
I started not to answer, as if that would change the course of the demolition he was about to execute on the trip I had been dreaming of our entire married life. Actually, maybe the trip was a metaphor for what I had hoped would be the resurrection of our marriage during a month away together. The two of us, Ty and me like it used to be when we first started dating, and it didn’t matter what we were doing as long as we did it together.
Ironically, we’ve had the house to ourselves for almost two years now. It’s hard to believe that Kylie’s been away at college for that long, but she has. Almost two years during which I’ve continued to wait for Ty’s promises of less time at the office and more time at home to actually bear fruit; only they never have.
And I guess this is what it has taken to make me see that they never will.
Me, sitting on a suitcase, alone in our house, waiting for something that’s not going to happen. Waiting for Ty to realize that we hardly even know each other anymore; waiting for him to remember how much he had once loved me; waiting for him to miss me.
I feel my phone vibrate in the pocket of my jacket. I know without looking that it’s Ty. Calling to make sure I’ve canceled our tickets and gotten as much of a refund as I can, considering that it’s last minute. I know that he’ll also want to make sure I’m back to my cheerful self. He’ll be waiting for the note of impending forgiveness in my voice, the one that tells him he doesn’t need to feel guilty. I’ll be here, as I always have. Things happen. Plans get changed. Buck up, and move on.
I pull the phone from my pocket, stare at his name on the screen.
I lift my thumb to tap Answer. I’m poised to do every one of the things that Ty expects of me. I really am. Then I picture myself alone in this house every day from six-thirty to eight o’clock at night. And I just can’t stand the thought of it.
I actually feel physically ill. I realiz
e in that moment that I am at a crossroad. Stay and lose myself forever to someone I had never imagined I would be. Go and maybe, maybe, start to resurrect the real me. Or find out if she is actually gone forever.
The moment hangs. My stomach drops under the weight of my decision. I hit End Call and put the phone back in my pocket. And without looking back, I pick up my suitcase and walk out the door.
~
I PARK IN THE long-term lot and not in the back, either, where Ty would insist that I leave the BMW. I park it smack dab up front, tight in between a well-dented mini-van and a Ford Taurus with peeling paint. It is the very last parking space Ty would pick and petty as it sounds, I get enormous pleasure from the fact that my door has to touch the other vehicle in order for me to squeeze out.
I get my suitcase out of the trunk, letting it drop to the pavement with a hard thunk. I roll it to the white airport shuttle waiting at the curb. An older man with a kind face gets out and takes my bag from me, lifting it up the stairs with enough effort that I wish he’d let me do it myself.
Then he smiles at me, and I realize he doesn’t mind.
There are two people already on the shuttle, sitting in the back. They are absorbed in each other, the woman laughing at something the man has said. I deliberately don’t look at them, keeping my gaze focused over the shoulder of the driver who is now whistling softly.
“What gate, ma’am?” he asks, looking up at me in the rearview mirror.
“United,” I answer.
“You got it,” he says, and goes back to his whistling.
I feel my phone vibrating in the pocket of my black coat. I try to resist the urge to look at who’s calling, but my hand reaches for it automatically.
Ty. It’s the third time he’s called since I left the house. I put the phone back in my pocket.
When we arrive at the United gate, the whistling driver again helps me with my suitcase. I drop a tip in the cup by the door and thank him.
“You’re most welcome, dear. Where you headed?”
“Italy,” I say.
He lifts his eyebrows and says, “I always wanted to see that place. You going by yourself?”
“Yes,” I answer. It’s only then that I’m absolutely sure I am really doing this.
I am doing this.
~
THE CHECK-IN process is lengthy. When the woman behind the desk asks me about my husband’s ticket, I tell her that he will be along shortly. Lying isn’t something I’m in the habit of doing, but I don’t think I can admit to her that he isn’t coming without unraveling an explanation that might keep us both here way past the plane’s departure time.
“Hopefully, he’ll be here soon,” she says. “Don’t want to cut it too close. These international flights leave promptly.”
I simply nod. She asks to see my passport, compares the picture with my face, and types a whole bunch of things into the computer. What, I cannot imagine because they already have all my information. A full five minutes tick by before she hands me the boarding pass.
Taking it from her feels like the closing of a door that I will not be able to reopen. As metaphors go, I have to think it’s pretty accurate.
The security process is almost reason enough for me to stop flying altogether. If I could get to Italy by car, I would most certainly drive.
The underwire in my bra instigates a pat-down by a woman who looks as if she’s no happier about the procedure than I am. She asks me in a cigarette-roughened voice if I would rather have this conducted in a private room. Since I suppose that means she and I would be the only two occupants, I choose public embarrassment instead.
Once my bra passes the feel-up check, I am directed through the booth where I have to spread my legs and raise my arms in the same posture criminals are told to take by their arresting officer. Not for the first time, I resent the heck out of the bad people who caused all of us trying-hard-to-be-good ones to have to go through this.
An oversize purse is my only carry-on and once my laptop and camera come through the conveyor belt, I stick them back inside.
I head for the concourse that my plane will be leaving from. Boarding begins in less than an hour, so I buy a few snacks and use the ladies room. I find a seat in the chairs by the gate. It looks as if the flight will be full, based on the number of people already here. The thought of an overbooked, way-too-full flight makes my stomach drop.
I cannot remember the last time I went anywhere by myself. I’m used to Ty carrying the tickets, checking in the luggage while Kylie and I hover in the background, handing over our identification when prompted, and checking email on our phones.
I pull out my phone now and glance at the screen, noticing a text message. I click in and see that it’s from Winn.
Lizzy!!! U and Ty have the time of your lives. I CANNOT wait to hear all about it. I just know u 2 are going to come back like newlyweds. Shoot, Ty might even leave the firm, and y’all can travel around indefinitely the way u always dreamed about.
The message blurs before my eyes, the tears there before I can even think to will them away. I tap in a response.
Ty’s not going.
I hit send, and it seems as if the reply is nearly instantaneous.
What?!!?
The phone vibrates. Winn’s name pops up on the screen. I hit answer and put it to my ear. “Yes, I know. I was a fool to think he really would.”
“Lizzy.” My name is drawn out into at least six syllables. I hear her devastation. It’s nearly as thick and heartbroken as my own. “What? Why?”
“A new case,” I say.
“Are you kidding me?” she asks, the question lit with instant fury. While there’s really nothing to be gained from it, it kind of feels nice to have someone see things from my point of view.
“I can’t believe he would do this to you. It’s your twentieth anniversary.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
“He doesn’t deserve you, Lizzy. He never did.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re mad. No one wanted us to be together more than you.”
“Well, I was wrong. I’m a big enough person to admit that.”
I almost smile at this. Ty has never had a bigger fan than Winn. In fact, I think she’s been a little secretly in love with him since the day we both met him in English Lit at UVa.
“And what do you mean,” she asks suddenly, “Ty’s not going? Are you going?”
I glance around at the other passengers, and the whole thing feels surreal, like a dream I’m going to wake up from at any moment. “Yes,” I say, again making my decision reality.
At least three seconds of silence tick by before she says, “Wow.”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“I think you’re right. It’s exactly what you should do. But I can’t believe you’re actually going to.”
“There’s something in there that should make me feel less than good.”
“You know what I mean. How many times has he done this to you? That trip to the Caribbean after our ten-year reunion. The ski trip last winter—”
“I know,” I say, stopping her. “I don’t need to hear the list of times Ty has disappointed me. Because if I do, I’m also going to remember that I’ve pretty much been a doormat for him to wipe his feet on.”
“I wish I could go with you,” Winn says. “Are you staying the whole month?”
“That’s my plan.”
And then as if she remembers the reason I’m going alone, she says, “I’m really sorry, Lizzy. You don’t deserve this. You deserve so much better.”
“Spilled milk and all that,” I say.
“It’s his loss. One day, he’s going to realize that. What did he say when you said you were going without him?”
“Um, he doesn’t know yet.”
Again, silence, processing, and then, “Are you sure this is Lizzy Harper?”
I actually laugh at this.
“I am incredulous. It’s what you should have d
one a long time ago, you know,” she says softly.
“Probably no denying that.”
“He needs a good wake-up call.”
“You know, Winn, it’s not even about that. I’m doing this for me.”
“Good. Good,” she repeats. “How do I get in touch with you?”
“Once I leave the states, my phone will be useless. I didn’t sign up for the international plan because I thought it would be nice for the two of us to cut off all communications from home for the time we were there. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“But how will I know how you’re doing?”
“I’ll check in by email, if I have wireless.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“I love you, Lizzy. I’m proud of you.”
“You’re just saying that because I’m so pathetic.”
“Pathetic would be you canceling the trip.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“And don’t spend all of your time walking through museums and old churches and stuff. Find something fun to do. Someone fun to—”
“Winn!”
She laughs. “It would serve him right.”
“You know that’s not me.”
“Maybe it should be you.”
“Like that would fix my life.”
“Might not fix your life, but it would definitely fix the moment.”
I smile and shake my head. “You’d make a terrible shrink.”
“But an excellent friend.”
“I’ll give you that.”
“Roanoke won’t be the same without you.”
“It’s only a month.”
“Let me hear from you.”
“I will,” I say, adding, “Be good.”
“Only if you promise not to be.”
Books by Inglath Cooper
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