Page 40 of The Me I Left Behind (Tuckaway Bay #4)

Twenty-One

June, Tuckaway Bay Beach

An array of pinks drifted just above the horizon, teasing at the yellows flaring from the circumference of the sun, while lavender beams pushed through the haze and into the early morning light. The sun lifted gradually, painfully slow, and Maggie wished it would slow down even more.

She took a quick picture of the sunrise with her phone—but knew the colors wouldn’t be the same as looking at it with her raw vision. She loaded her brush with a bit more yellow and skillfully slid it along the surface of the canvas—blending the color with a little orange.

Standing back, she viewed her work from a short distance. It wasn’t bad, but not the best. Practice, Maggie. Keep at it. You’ll get better.

She stepped away, bringing her brushes and palette with her, then padded on bare feet across the porch and back into the cottage. After putting the palette in the freezer, she cleaned her brushes and set them aside to dry.

A good morning’s work. That made her happy.

Moving back to the porch, she stood against the rail and gazed out over the beach. The sun climbed steadily in the eastern sky, and the colors she’d used a few minutes earlier were lost now, no longer visible.

That’s okay. There will be another one tomorrow. Same sun. Different colors.

Breathing deep, Maggie closed her eyes and savored the quiet, the waves, the seagulls calling out to each other.

She always imagined the gulls telling each other about snacks left on the beach.

There’s bread over here , one would say.

Pizza on the deck there . An ice cream cone on the path.

She laughed to herself, just thinking about it.

Scanning the beach, she spotted Sam, Julia’s boyfriend, casting a line into the surf near the edge of the resort. He was there most mornings, sometimes with Julia. Today he was alone.

The kids would be up soon, although Jason and Chloe were sleeping later each day as the weeks rolled on. Carol would head to The Sandcastle in about an hour for her breakfast shift.

Glancing again at her painting, she remembered the day they left Rocky Mount. She’d stopped by the art supply store, wanting to pick up supplies to take with her—unsure what materials she would find in Tuckaway Bay—and had hoped to see Andy while she was there.

She did not—but asked about him when she checked out, and learned he’d taken the morning off. Her bad luck. Glancing at the counter, she noticed a stack of flyers with the fall class schedule.

Feeling brave, she asked the young girl behind the counter—the nice one, not the crabby one—if she could leave a note for him. Taking a flyer, she perused the class times and then circled the watercolor class. Thursday mornings, at ten o’clock, starting in September.

She scribbled her note: Andy, please add me to the roster for this class. Thanks. See you in September. Maggie Oliver.

Then she added her phone number for good measure.

Later that day, he texted.

Andy: Got your note, Maggie. I’ve added you to the class list.

Maggie: Thanks! I appreciate it.

There was a brief pause before the next text, and then….

Andy: Coffee again soon?

Maggie: I can’t, sorry. At the beach for the summer. See you in the fall.

He didn’t respond.

After a quick breakfast, they carted off sand toys, beach towels, chairs, and their big beach umbrella to their daily spot—halfway between the cottage and the surf.

Mid-morning was a good time to claim their place, although Maggie knew that as more vacationers invaded the Sea Glass Inn resort in July, they might have to settle in earlier.

But today, the beach was blessedly uncrowded. Sam was still fishing, although she knew it was about time for him to pack up and head home. She’d given him a wave earlier, and he’d given the requisite nod back.

I wonder if he’d teach Jason to fish one of these mornings? I’ll have to ask him.

Settling into her chair, Maggie closed her eyes and listened to the kids’ chatter, while Chloe played in the wet sand and Jason dodged waves at the shoreline.

Picking up her book, she intended to read, but knew she’d likely doze off, or let her mind drift….

Lately, peace and solitude often coaxed her brain into reflection—and she supposed that was a good thing. She needed time and quiet to process all that had happened over the past six months—and what was to come, she suspected.

She’d done some things right. Hadn’t she? In all the years of their marriage? As a wife? Mother? She’d not always been the total screw-up Max told her she was.

One look at the kids told her she’d not screwed up there, even though she’d sometimes wondered.

But her marriage? She would not blame herself any longer. That was on Max. She’d been gullible, yes, and na?ve, but also perhaps love-struck. And perhaps a little addicted to the sexual power Max had over her.

That was the really fucked up part, though—she’d put him up on a goddamn pedestal, hoping he’d do the same for her in return. Why? Because she’d needed to feel loved—and wanted and cared for and adored. All the things she never, truly, got from Max.

From anyone, really. Even her family. Especially her mother, whom she could never seem to please. But that subject was beach therapy for another day and time.

She’d kept Max up on that pedestal, even when she’d had to fake it. Isn’t that what she’d done all those years—fake it? She’d played the game because, on some level, she mistakenly thought he might actually care.

Might love her.

And love just might be the thing she had over all the other women.

Somewhere along the line, she’d confused his promise of security, his insatiable appetite for her body, for love.

Foolish.

She and Max had shared an intense, satisfying, and sometimes over-the-top sex life.

Max was aggressive, pursuing her when he wanted her.

Possessive of her body and jealous if other men looked at her.

Maggie learned to play that up over the years.

She’d dress sexy enough to please him while they were out, and alluring enough to catch the eyes of other men.

Other men looking at her, or flirting with her, would ramp up Max’s temper, and his libido, and by the time they got home, the sex they shared would be explosive.

Exhaustingly, naughtily, explosive.

And she had to admit, she had loved it.

He’d had her—and he’d had any other woman he’d ever wanted.

When he wanted. How he wanted.

She knew that early on and had agreed. It was transactional, in a way. That sounded cold and impersonal, but wasn’t that really how it was? She was pregnant back then, after all, with his child. Carol. While she’d wanted his love and affection, she’d needed his promise of security.

As the years rolled on, the kids needed the security, too—and even though she’d wanted to leave him, she couldn’t.

Until Christmas—when she found out about the family in Australia.

To be honest, she had to wonder about this woman—this Lilly who had given Max a bonus child. What was it that drew Max to her? What was she like? Was she young, old, thin, or thick? Was she blond or brunette, or maybe even a redhead?

Did she give blow jobs? Like to be bound and cuffed? Consent to a little risqué public display of affection, occasionally?

What did she have that Max wanted so damn much that he gave her a baby for?

She’d never know.

It didn’t really matter.

Because when she’d found out about his second little family—that’s when she’d known the end was near. When he assaulted her and Carol, she knew then the end had come.

Pushing up out of her beach chair, Maggie exhaled long, as if purging all those thoughts from her body, and meandered toward the kids. Poor Chloe, the tide would take her sandcastle away, sooner rather than later, she feared.

She chatted with Chloe for a moment, then strolled off to the surf and stared out at the sea.

She dropped her gaze as sea foam tickled her ankles, and a piece of seashell tumbled over her toes.

Dragging her big toe into the sand, she chased the shell fragment, then bent and picked it up, washing off the sand in the surf.

It was a shell fragment, the top of a scallop, pink and a little rosy on the edges. Her favorite shell. A gift from the sea.

Smiling, she cupped it in her left hand, then pivoted and headed back toward her chair and umbrella—glancing up at the Gull Cottage. She waved at Jason and Chloe as she passed and noticed that Julia had joined Sam down the way.

At the umbrella, she picked up her cell phone from where she’d hidden it under her book and noticed a missed call.

A tap on the call log showed an international call—from Australia. Odd.

It wouldn’t be Max. She’d not spoken to him since his surprise visit in May, which was their agreement. He would stay away. She’d refrain from pressing charges. For now. All communication was through their attorneys until the divorce was final.

Suddenly, the phone vibrated again. Australia.

“Hello?”

“G’day. Maggie Oliver?” The male voice spoke with a distinct Australian accent.

“Yes?”

“My name is Adam Barnett. I’m an officer with the Queensland Police Service. Your husband is Max Oliver?”

What the hell kind of trouble is Max in now?

“Yes. That’s right.” Her heart kicked into overdrive. She would not bail him out of some stupid situation in fucking Australia. “Until the divorce is final.”

His voice lowered. “I see. I’m afraid I have unfortunate news. Your husband…well he was….”

He rambled on, the words dipping in and out of his Australian dialect.

Maggie couldn’t grasp it all at first—unsure whether she just couldn’t hear him, wasn’t hearing correctly, or if her brain could not comprehend. Accident. Ravine. Air lift. The rest of his speech fell into an abyss of incoherent sentences and misplaced phrases.

Deceased.

A sharp pain pierced her left palm, and she looked down at it—blood. She was still holding the shell fragment, and she’d squeezed it so tight she’d cut herself.

Deceased?