Page 19 of Return to Whitmore (The Whitmore #2)

Chapter Fifteen

T he following morning over coffee, Charlotte caught herself gazing at Addison and trying to imagine the life she’d had with Jack, the life she’d had in the years since Charlotte had grown as thick as thieves with him.

It was true that they’d been close as kids and teenagers, that they’d played games and laughed.

But nobody had been closer than Jack and Charlotte in their early twenties.

Theirs had been a particular brand of magic that, once broken, had made the world less marvelous, less colorful.

She wondered if Jack had ever indicated anything like that to Addison.

“Did Jack ever tell you anything about New York?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

Addison, who’d been lost in thought, perked up. “Just that he lived there for a little while. He said he worked odd jobs, as he had always done in Hawaii. He mentioned that he worked at a movie theater and a froyo place. Also that he was a fitness instructor.”

Charlotte burst into nervous giggles. “Yes. We used to laugh about that. He said that he went into every session pretending to be a fitness instructor, like the ones you see on television. And that made him super popular with the people who came. That kind of energy is what they wanted from him.”

Addison laughed till tears were in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she breathed, dropping her head. “I miss him so much.”

“I miss him, too,” Charlotte whispered. There was a rock in her throat.

“I keep wondering if I should just go home,” Addison said. “It sounds like you and Nina don’t know where he is. Maybe he’ll show up here sometime, but who knows when that will be.”

“I haven’t seen him in years,” Charlotte admitted. “We used to text more often, but even that dried up.”

Addison nodded and rubbed her temples. “My kids need me. My parents need me.” Her eyes were wounded.

Charlotte reached over the table to touch her hand. “You always have a place here, if you need it.”

“And you should come out to Hawaii, if you want to,” Addison said, her voice shaking. “Nina’s kids are around my kids’ ages. And you can be everyone’s favorite aunt.”

“Everyone’s crazy aunt.” Charlotte tried to laugh.

Addison shook her head. “No. Nothing crazy about you. You’re cool. I watched one of your documentaries last night. The one about the baseball player who started a nightclub?”

Charlotte remembered it fondly. It had premiered in 2011, fourteen years ago, and there had even been whispers of potential awards, which never materialized.

“You didn’t have to watch that,” Charlotte said, feeling bashful.

“I wanted to,” Addison said. “Are you working on anything else right now?”

“I have a few finished documentaries, actually.” Charlotte winced. “But my funding keeps getting pulled, or I have problems with agents or producers or studios. It’s all a kind of nightmare. It’s sort of why I came to Nantucket in the first place. I wanted to hide out and rest.”

“And Seth, I mean Jack, said you could come here?”

“He always said I could come here if I needed it,” Charlotte explained. And then she remembered. “But truth be told, this is your place. Legally.”

“Who knows what the legal situation is,” Addison said. “Technically, I married a man who doesn’t exist.”

“You married Seth Green. It’s Seth Green’s name on the paperwork,” Charlotte reminded her. “It’s as real as anything else.”

After Addison went to her bedroom to call her children and say good morning, Charlotte got in the shower and stood in the steady, hot stream. What she had to do today terrified her. But if she didn’t go, if she didn’t push herself, she knew it meant she had no hope for her future.

Before she left, with her hair styled and curled and her makeup done, she called Nina. For some reason, she needed to talk this through with someone, and Nina was the only real friend she currently had. She could hardly breathe.

“Hey,” Nina answered.

“Hey.” Charlotte hated how weak she sounded. “I wanted to tell you. I’m going to meet Vincent. Like right now.”

Nina gasped. “What? When did this happen?”

Charlotte explained as quickly as she could—that she’d seen him at the restaurant, that he’d contacted her via her website, and that she’d gone back to see him. “We’re meeting at our secret place,” Charlotte said. “It’s where I told him to meet me the day we all left Nantucket.”

It had been the day that Great-aunt Genevieve had taken Nina away.

“I don’t know if I can do it, Nina,” Charlotte whispered. “Like I’m so old, now. He’s so old. What if we look at each other and decide too much time has passed? And the Whitmores are in the middle of a family drama the size of the Atlantic Ocean. I don’t want to invite anyone else into this mess.”

“You’re just going to meet up with an old friend,” Nina said softly. “Think of it as something easy, a first step. It’s up to you whether you want to keep seeing him or not.”

It’s up to him, too , Charlotte thought.

“How did you move on so quickly after Daniel?” Charlotte asked. “I’ve been so broken for so long.”

Nina thought for a moment. “I feel so broken. I don’t know if I’ll feel unbroken soon. Daniel did a real number on me. But in a way, what he did is helping me get over him quicker. For our entire marriage, he was angling for the made-up Whitmore treasure. He was waiting in the wings, using me.”

Charlotte winced. “It’s awful.”

“It’s life.” Nina shrugged. “People will wrong us at every corner. We have to get better at protecting ourselves, but we also can’t stop ourselves from living.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. Not for the first time, she thought that Nina was the wisest of all the Whitmores, perhaps only because she’d been raised away from them. Also because she’s the only Whitmore who isn’t Francesca’s child. But that’s another factor entirely.

After the call, Charlotte checked her lipstick a final time and drove out to Vincent’s and her secret spot, blinking quickly to keep from crying.

Throughout, she paid attention to the speed limit, suddenly terrified that she wouldn’t make it, that she’d make Vincent wait in their secret spot all by himself again.

She’d never forgive herself for abandoning him like that.

The so-called secret spot was just off Cisco Beach, tucked in a quaint cove that, it seemed to them as teenagers, had never been discovered by anyone else.

It had almost felt like another dimension, a place that they were sure their parents couldn’t fathom.

(In reality, it was probably just another beach swarming with tourists by now.) Charlotte parked in the lot nearest the beach and walked ten minutes, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and wondering if she was a fool for bringing a picnic.

The Vincent she’d known back in the nineties had always been hungry, but the Vincent she was meeting now was a top chef and probably had higher standards, standards beyond the nostalgic food she’d packed.

Oh, she was nervous. Her stomach was in knots.

When she reached the secret spot, she was surprised and grateful to find that it was mostly empty, save for an older guy far down the sand who alternated doing yoga and throwing a stick for his dog. Charlotte hoped he was far enough away not to ruin her reunion.

Charlotte was three minutes early, which gave her plenty of time to obsess and fear for the worst: that Vincent had decided to pay her back by not showing up.

More than that, she was terrified that, in the midst of their “date,” she’d blurt out everything that had happened to her over the past twenty years and terrify him enough to run away.

If Charlotte met Charlotte and learned everything she’d gone through and everything that was currently on her mind, wouldn’t she run away? Probably.

At first, Vincent was two minutes late, and then he was three, and then he was five.

Charlotte checked her phone perpetually before remembering they hadn’t exchanged numbers and had only communicated via her website.

She wondered if Vincent, like Addison, had watched any of her documentaries.

Maybe he hadn’t liked them? That felt fair.

Charlotte wasn’t sure she liked anything she’d made, ever.

Wow, her opinion of herself was in the dirt.

Just when Charlotte thought she would run away, leap in her car, and speed back to Madequecham Beach to drown her sorrows in ice cream and wine, a shadow fell over her.

She turned to find Vincent, shoeless, coming down the sand.

He’d come from another direction, a direction they’d never come as teenagers.

He wore a handsome and heart-opening smile.

“You’re here,” he said.

Charlotte stood before him, her hands clasped. Vincent read the fear on her face and pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time.

“Six minutes late.” He wrinkled his nose. “That isn’t a good look, is it?”

“It’s nothing,” Charlotte assured, waving him off. “It nearly gave me a heart attack, though.”

Vincent laughed good-naturedly and pressed his own heart with his hand. “It would have done the same to me. In fact, just being back here reminds me of that day.”

Charlotte couldn’t believe he brought it up immediately. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve thought about it over and over again. I hope you’ll let me explain.”

But it was clear that Vincent was teasing her. He stepped closer, drawing a backpack from his shoulders and dropping it on the sand. “We were kids, Charlotte,” he reminded her. “We were kids in love experiencing extraordinary circumstances. It’s a miracle we got through.”

Charlotte thought she was going to weep.

Instead, when Vincent suggested they hug a proper hug, she wrapped her arms around him and let herself burrow her face in his chest. It felt like a miracle that he smelled the same.

But he didn’t hold her for as long as she might have liked.

It wasn’t appropriate, she knew. They were strangers.

“I packed a picnic,” he said, stepping back to draw a blanket from his backpack.

“I did, too! Oh, but I’m sure it’s garbage compared to yours,” Charlotte said.

“I’m just as hungry as I used to be,” Vincent promised her. “And if I remember correctly, you always pack the very best snacks.”

Charlotte sat on the flannel beach blanket and opened her tote, watching out of the corner of her eye as Vincent unpacked his bag.

He’d made what looked to be a Middle Eastern salad with feta and tomatoes and cucumbers and tabbouleh, plus hummus and pita bread and baklava.

Charlotte’s mouth watered. “Did you make all of that?” she asked.

“I did,” he said, not bothering to look bashful about it. He was a chef, after all. “I never get to include these kinds of flavors at the restaurant, but they’re some of my favorites, especially in the summertime. It makes me want to open another restaurant. Something more experimental.”

“It seems like people would go for it,” Charlotte said. “You’re beloved in the culinary community.”

Vincent laughed. “I don’t know about that. I’ve had my share of bad reviews. Whereas you, Charlotte Whitmore? Your documentaries have only gotten acclaim, as far as I can tell.”

Charlotte’s eyes smarted. She couldn’t look at him. She was too afraid she’d tell him that her funding had been pulled, that her career had very suddenly taken a nosedive.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, echoing him. “Maybe we can lighten up on the compliments?”

“You’re right,” Vincent agreed with a laugh. “It’s getting too intense.”

Charlotte pulled what she’d packed from the tote bag, feeling sheepish but smiling to herself all the same. “I opted for snacks I remember us eating back in the nineties,” she said. “Fruit Roll- Ups, Gushers, and of course, Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies. What do you think?”

Vincent cackled and picked up an oatmeal creme pie as if it were the most treasured thing in the world. “To be honest? I’m still obsessed with these. My kids won’t eat them because I raised them on really good food, and they’re snobs now. But I love trash, and I will forever love trash.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Charlotte declared.

For a little while, they talked about easy things like the weather on Nantucket, the restaurant, Vincent’s children, and the dynamics of his new arrangement with Jamie.

Vincent asked a few questions about Charlotte’s career, and Charlotte answered as best as she could without getting into details, namely that she’d been taking a break and that she was hoping to get back on the film festival circuit soon.

“You’ve had such an incredible life,” Vincent said, startling her. She didn’t feel that way about it in the slightest. “You’ve been all over, premiering your documentaries. You never had to diminish yourself for any husband or children. You’re never stopped. I admire that.”

Charlotte felt it like a sword through her heart. It felt so remarkably false. She hoped she didn’t betray anything on her face.

But goodness, so much had happened since she’d last seen Vincent. Back then, she’d wanted so much. She’d been building so much. How could she possibly tell him everything, without sounding like a broken woman, a woman he should run as far as he could away from?