Two From the Heart

by James Patterson

  I interrupted her. “Just because the gallerist said he liked my photos doesn’t mean he was going to give me a solo show. Anyway, brides and dogs paid the mortgage. Not my art photography.” I put my face in my hands.

  “We’ll help you get back on your feet,” Lorelei said gently. “Everything’s going to be okay. Seriously. Someday this’ll be just another story you’ll tell.”

  “Everybody has a storm story,” Sam added. “Do you have any idea how many times my dad told about the time he went fishing during Tropical Storm Charlie, got swept off his boat, and spent twenty-nine hours in the ocean, clinging to a cooler? When the Coast Guard finally rescued him, the first thing he did was open that cooler, crack a Budweiser, and ask those heroes if they had any chips.”

  “He dined out on that story for years,” Lorelei said, rolling her eyes.

  I laughed, despite myself. “I guess some people just know what they want,” I said. “I wish my problems felt so simple.”

  “Well what do you truly need, hon, besides a new roof over your head and a bit of insurance money?” Lorelei asked.

  I thought for a moment. I’d come here to make a fresh start after my divorce—and I had. But it took only one single night to wipe it all out. “I think I need to get away for a little while,” I said.

  Lorelei frowned. “Anne,” she said, “you need to stay and deal.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll put Bill in charge. He’s dealt with hurricane damage before.”

  “You can’t just leave your house half wrecked,” Sam said.

  But why not? I certainly couldn’t live in it. And the more they tried to persuade me that it was crucial I stick around, the more certain I was that I’d be leaving in the morning.

  “My couch is your couch,” Sam was saying. “And Lorelei’s got a spare bedroom.”

  “You guys really are the best,” I said.

  “So you’ll stay?”

  I smiled again, and this time I felt what might have been a tiny sliver of hope. “I’ve got other plans,” I said.

  Chapter 4

  ALL RIGHT, so calling them “plans” was something of a stretch. I’d decided to go visit my brother in Roanoke, but after that? I didn’t know. I figured I’d see where the winds took me. I’d just hope they wouldn’t be gale force, because I’d had enough of those.

  By some miracle, my car—a formerly gorgeous vintage Mercedes I’d named Beatrice, now salt-streaked and rusted—still ran.

  I quickly loaded it with things I’d need for the trip: inland clothes (no flip-flops, no baggy beach dresses), a few slightly soggy books I’d been meaning to read, and my laptop and phone. Though it wasn’t particularly practical, I took my spider plant from its place on the windowsill and set it on the front seat. I’d had it since I was a freshman in college, and it seemed cruel to leave it behind. It was the closest thing I had to a pet.

  “I guess you’ll be riding shotgun,” I said, and then I laughed a little crazily because I was talking to a plant.

  I grabbed a red coral cameo that had belonged to my mother, and a little jar of fossilized sharks’ teeth that I’d found on my beach. I’d moved around a lot since college—from New York City to Long Island, and then to Boston, then Raleigh—but this tiny little North Carolina island was the first place that had felt like home.

  While I gathered my things, I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the intact part of my house. But right before I was ready to go, I let myself creep toward the remains of the darkroom, which I’d built myself. The shelves were broken, the enlarger crushed, and the bottles of developer and stabilizer spilled onto the ruined floor.

  The question was: If that was gone, what, really, was worth saving?

  When I went back outside, Bill was standing in the driveway with three cans of motor oil, a first-aid kit, and a tuna sandwich from Zell’s Café. “Thought you could use these,” he said.

  I took them gratefully. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” I said. “Overseeing the… whatever?” I gestured toward the house. Whether it’d be patched back up or torn down entirely was an open question, and the insurance company was in charge of the answer.

  “Course not,” he said. “What else do I have to do? Can’t run the charters when the tourists aren’t here.”

  I reached out and pulled him to me in a hard hug. He was surprised, obviously, but eventually he sort of hugged me back.

  “You be careful,” he said.

  “I will,” I promised.

  “Maybe you want to take this,” he said. And then he handed me my beloved Nikon, its lens missing and its body gritty with sand. “I found it underneath my house.”

  I took the camera from him gently, as if it were alive but gravely wounded.

  “Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

  And then I got in my car and drove away.

  Chapter 5

  I HADN’T seen my brother, Ben, in three years—not since our dad’s funeral. But after only five hours of driving, there I was, standing on his front porch, wondering why I hadn’t made the trip sooner.

  When I knocked, the door flew open and a giant Labrador came barreling out, nearly knocking me back down the steps. Ben stood in the hall, grinning and shaking his head. “Sorry about Stanley,” he said. “He’s sweet, but he’s crazier than a squirrel on speed.”

  The dog was now racing around the yard in ecstatic circles. “No kidding,” I said laughing and stepped inside.

  I followed Ben into his cozy kitchen and sat down at the same pinewood table we’d eaten dinner around when we were kids. He brought us each a beer.

  “It’s so good to see you,” we said simultaneously. Then, quick as we could, “JinxyouowemeaCoke.”

  Ben clinked my glass with his. “Cheers, big sis,” he said. And then, “I’m really sorry about… Claire.”

  “Both of them, right?” I asked wryly. Until I could make those two disasters into a good story, they could at least be a punch line.

  “You know you can stay here for a while if you want,” he said.

  “I know—thank you. But I’m going to do some traveling.”

  Then I explained what I’d realized on the drive up: After Patrick left, I’d moved to Topsail Island and basically gone into hiding. Even before that, I’d lost touch with a lot of people—which was a problem. “Take Karen Landey,” I said. “She was my best friend for sixteen years, and now I see her only on Instagram. So sure, I know what she ate for dinner last night—but I haven’t met her baby.”

  “Um, didn’t she have that baby five years ago?” Ben asked.

  “My point exactly,” I cried. “It’s time to go see a few old friends.”

  Ben nodded thoughtfully. “Have you mentioned that to them?”

  “Not yet,” I admitted. “But cut me some slack, I only figured it out an hour ago. I’ll write Karen tonight.”

  He laughed. “It’s a great idea. Take pictures, okay?”

  My shoulders immediately slumped.

  Without saying anything, Ben got up and walked down the hall, and when he returned he set two boxes in front of me. “It’s a Nikon D5300 DSLR with a portable photo printer. I bought them for you last Christmas—”

  “Oh no!” I interrupted, horrified. “That was when I told you I’d rather cut off an arm than go digital. I’m so sorry! I had no idea!”

  Ben shrugged. “No big deal. But maybe you can use this stuff now.” Then he snorted. “Annie, stop looking at it like it’s going to bite you.”

  “I’m not—It’s just…”

  “It’s like giving a girl who’s only ever ridden a donkey the keys to a Ferrari?” he asked.

  I laughed. “I’m going to try not to take that as an insult. And thank you. I’ll… I’ll try these out. Really, I will.”

  He got up again. “You hungry? I made spaghetti. Homemade sauce, noodles, everything.”

  “Considering I’m barely past opening cans of SpaghettiOs, that sounds amazing.”

  The dinner was even bette
r than I expected: San Marzanos in a buttery sauce over hand-cut tagliatelle, and a kale Caesar so good it nearly brought tears to my eyes. I was helping myself to round two when Ben caught sight of the coral cameo, hanging on a thin gold chain around my neck.

  “Where’d you get that?” he asked.

  “It was Mom’s,” I said. “Isn’t it beautiful? Dad gave it to her.”

  Ben held out his hand and I put the necklace into his big palm. He turned the cameo over and back.

  “What?” I asked. “You have a funny look on your face.”

  “Dad might have given it to her. But he didn’t buy it for her.”

  I set my fork down. “What do you mean?”

  “He bought it for Kathy Pasters. But Mom found it in his sock drawer, and she assumed it was for her,” Ben said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Ben looked at me in surprise. “You really didn’t know? Dad and Kit were a thing for a while.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I had no idea what to say. “Mom and Dad, Kit and Joe—they all used to play euchre together,” I cried.

  “Yeah, and Dad and Kit were playing footsie under the table.” He ripped a piece of garlic bread in two. “Everybody has secrets, Annie,” he said. “You were just probably too busy messing around with your camera to notice what Dad’s was.”

  Suddenly I felt confused and sad. Was I really so blind? This new story of my parents’ marriage wasn’t the one I wanted to be true.

  “But I think, in the end, they were happy,” Ben added, as if he could read my mind. “I really do.”

  Okay, maybe, I thought—because I wanted him to be right. But how did their marriage survive an affair when mine went belly-up?

  The world was full of mysteries.

  I wondered if Patrick Quinn could help me solve that particular one. Had we made the right choice? Were we, in the end, happy—apart?

  Ben hoisted steaming strands of spaghetti with a pair of silver tongs that also used to belong to our parents. “Thirds?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No thanks.” I wasn’t hungry anymore. I was busy calculating how long it would take to get to my ex-husband’s house.

  Chapter 6

  A BETTER person might have warned him—I know. But this wasn’t going to be an emotional ambush. As the saying goes, I came in peace.

  I called Patrick from the historic main drag of Ellicott City, an affluent town just outside of Baltimore. “I’m across the street from a place called Renard—is that French for fox? Duck? I forget. Anyway, would you like to meet me there for dinner?” I asked.

  “Anne? Wow—uh, hi,” Patrick stammered. He’d never been the world’s most articulate person. “Yes. I mean, of course. It’s… really good to hear your voice.”

  “I’ll see you in twenty,” I said, exhibiting a firmness I never had in our marriage.

  I ordered a bottle of sparkling wine while I waited at a window table, watching people pass by outside. A little girl stopped and waved to me, and I waved back, noting her darling smile and her obviously DIY haircut.

  I wondered if her mother had committed that crime against her bangs or if that pixie had sneaked into the bathroom with a pair of scissors. Probably there was a funny story about it.

  As a photographer, I’d spent so much time focusing (no pun intended) on people’s looks: on the way a bride squinted in direct sunlight or how a groom’s boutonnière complemented his bowtie.

  But what if I started really paying attention to people’s words?

  It had begun to seem like everybody had an incredible story—whether or not it was happy or if they ever even wanted to tell it.

  And here I was, revisiting the plot of Patrick’s and mine.

  What if I could collect those stories—into some kind of a book? It was a crazy idea. But then again, so was moving to an island I’d only been to once before. And that had worked out beautifully.

  At least it had until two days ago.

  I was busy contemplating this possible new project when Patrick breezed into the restaurant, wearing a slightly rumpled shirt and a pair of obviously expensive blue jeans. I felt the same flutter of nerves I had when I first met him near the 79th Street entrance to Central Park.

  “You look beautiful,” he said as he sat down across from me. His eyes were as blue as ever.

  “Flatterer,” I said. My smile was genuine. I really was happy to see him, despite everything. Honestly, this surprised me a little.

  “What in the world brings you to E.C.?” he asked.

  I poured some brut into Patrick’s glass. “You,” I said simply.

  He looked slightly alarmed, and I couldn’t help laughing.

  “I’m not here to ask for you back if that’s what you’re worried about,” I assured him.

  He ducked his head. “I wasn’t worried,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I think I just want to know what happened. I mean, besides the obvious.”

  The obvious was that I’d found another woman’s underpants in the laundry, mixed in with the towels. They weren’t hot pink satin or crotchless lace—nothing dramatic like that. Their only distinguishing feature was that they weren’t mine.

  Patrick gazed into his wine. “I guess I got scared,” he said finally. “About what marriage meant.”

  “You mean the bit about until death do us part?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Aha,” I said. “So instead of death, it was Claire’s panties.”

  He flushed and nodded again, almost imperceptibly this time.

  I leaned forward. “Do you think you were the only one who was scared? Did you think it was easy for me, standing up in front of all those people in that church and basically saying ‘I, Anne McWilliams, have been wrong about many, many things in my life, but this one thing I am not wrong about’?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not.”

  “How is Claire, by the way?” I asked—not that I particularly cared.

  “You’d have to ask her,” he said. “She’s in Atlanta now.”

  Well, that was interesting news.

  Patrick leaned forward. “You know what, though, Anne? You’re up there on your high horse like I’m the one who screwed everything up. But you have some responsibility here, too. You could have been willing to try to work it out. I wanted to, remember? But you wouldn’t do it. You just left.” He shrugged. “You think I’m the one who threw everything away,” he said quietly. “But maybe that distinction belongs to you.”

  I sucked in my breath sharply. This was a new interpretation of events. And maybe, just maybe, there was some truth in it.

  What if, in the end, I’d been the one who was truly scared of commitment? And how had I never figured that out before? I just didn’t know what to say.

  “I have something to show you,” Patrick said. He pulled out his wallet, dug around in it, and then extracted a small envelope, which he placed on the table between us.

  When I opened it, I saw the engagement ring he’d given me, with its rose-gold band and its bright, tiny diamond. I’d wanted a ring from him so badly.

  Or at least I’d thought I had.

  “Are you giving this back?” I whispered.

  “No. I assumed when you threw it out the window and into the yard that you didn’t want it anymore. I just wanted to show you that”—he stopped and shook his head, as if he needed to clear it—“that I carry it around. That it still means something to me.” He looked up at me. “And so do you.” He reached for my hand. “I made some mistakes,” he said.

  No kidding, I thought. But then again, I’d clearly made some, too.

  “We all do,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  As I held Patrick’s warm hand, I suddenly seemed to remember everything: the surprise snow on our wedding day, the epic dinner parties we hosted, the crazy road trip to Glacier National Park, how he sang “Hey Jude” when he shaved, the way he alwa
ys put his arm around my shoulders as we walked.

  What if I could have it all back, just like that?

  It was so very tempting.

  But it wouldn’t work, I knew it. We were too different, too stubborn—maybe even too damaged. But, I hoped, we were on our way toward healing.

  Patrick’s fingers gently stroked mine. “So what do we do now?” he asked quietly.

  I smiled at him. “We order dinner,” I said.

  “And then?”

  “We kiss each other sweetly,” I said. “And then we go our separate ways.”

  This was how a lovely French meal became the epilogue to the story of Patrick Quinn and Anne McWilliams.

  They might live happily ever after, I could write, just not with each other.

  Chapter 7

  THE FIRST pictures I took on my digital camera were of my ex-husband as he walked away down the lamp-lit street, under the green boughs of an elm tree. It felt achingly sad, but somehow fitting, too—a way of closing one door and opening another.

  But what that new door led to—besides no longer living in the photographic dark ages—well, I didn’t really know. I had no job and no home, and not very many prospects, either. On the bright side, though, I had a credit card and a book idea. Was that enough to carry me forward?

  Tomorrow I’d start driving to Iowa City, where my best friend, Karen Landey, lived with her husband and the daughter I’d never met. It was nearly fourteen hours away, and Karen had told me to hop on the next flight. But I had Beatrice, my plant, and way too much luggage to stuff in a 737 overhead compartment.

  I told her I wanted to take the slow route anyway, though, because of my crazy new idea. Seatmates notwithstanding, it’s hard to gather stories when you’re soaring thirty-five thousand feet above anyone who might tell you one.

  After a good night’s sleep on a cushy feathertop in an overpriced Ellicott City inn, I bought the world’s biggest coffee and hit I-70. I cranked the radio up as loud as it could go and opened all the windows to let in the late August air. With my big black sunglasses and bright red lipstick, I felt freer than I had in ages.