“Which is?”
“That I’m spending tonight driving down one of the most beautiful roads in the world with one of my favorite people. And I’m heading to one of my favorite places on this planet…” He pauses. “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time. I really am. Tell her that. Tell her that I’m good for now.”
“Nicholas…”
He reaches out, touches my hand. “Hannah. I’ll take now.”
He looks at me, but he doesn’t have to say it. This is a bargain he’s happy to make. He would have given up more than that for one more day with his daughter. For the last day that he just got with mine. He would give them both everything he had. So would Owen. So did Owen. They had that in common.
Nicholas turns toward the window, and we are quiet, both of us, because suddenly there is too much to say. Too much to say, and not enough time.
I drive into downtown Antibes, into the city center, and turn down a side street, pulling into the parking garage. I drive toward the spot in the corner where the other car is waiting—the car Owen left here.
The engine is running. Seth is sitting in the driver’s seat. And two people, dressed exactly like us—the woman in a black dress, and the man in the same sports jacket—are waiting in the back seat.
In a moment, I’ll hand them the keys to this car and they’ll getinto it and pull out of the parking lot and head down the highway toward the airport in Nice.
Just in case they are following us, we will give them someone else to follow. They can follow them back to that airport in Nice, where Nicholas Bell is scheduled on the first morning flight back to America, ultimately landing him in Austin, Texas. A flight he will of course never get on.
His plan, both of our plans, leading us somewhere else. Nicholas will get into the car with Seth. Seth who will drive Nicholas the six hours to Tuscany. To tend to his wound. To walk with him around the farm where he will be now. Where he will be buried now. Where, for as long as possible, we can hope that he stays safe.
And I’ll head out to the street here and take a short walk to the hotel three blocks over—where I’ll get in a taxi to Old Town. To the marina. To where Bailey is waiting for me. And her father. Her grandfather made sure of it. The three of us will be together again and safe to be together again because of what he is willing to do here. What he has insisted on doing here. For his family.
“You know, maybe it’s not my place…” I say.
“When has that stopped you before?”
I give him a smile. “You should try to forgive yourself, Nicholas, if you can. You deserve it.”
“Come on, I…”
Nicholas starts to argue, but his voice catches in his throat and he just shakes his head. Because he can’t hear that. Of course he can’t. None of us can hear anyone else when—despite our best efforts, despite all evidence to the contrary—we still think we’ve failed our children.
“I think maybe that takes a bigger person than me.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “I mean, at the end of the day, you’ve forgiven him, haven’t you?”
“Owen?”
“Owen.”
He tilts his head, back and forth, as if to say sort of. And we both laugh. I’ve come to love it. That laugh.
“Have you?” he asks.
For which part?I want to say. The list is long and involved, the way it gets to be when you’ve been apart longer than you’ve been together. I can cull it down to the few largest injuries, as if those encompass all of it, anyway. As if it’s really possible to encompass what it means to have the person you love disappear (even if he had to); to leave you to relive the time you were together (as if it didn’t count); for thinking your life was safe when it wasn’t.
For the knowledge you carry now—that you will always carry now. That we’re never safe, not when we love someone. That, one way or another, we’re always waiting for someone to disappear.
Seth gets out of the car, nods toward Nicholas. He wants to get going. They need to get going.
Before they do, I want to try again to get through to him. I need to say it in a way that he will hear it. Because this may be my last chance. It may be my last chance to tell him what I’ve come to believe. About him. About Owen.
That maybe, at the end of the day, it’s not even about forgiveness. Or, at least, it’s not only about forgiveness. It’s about something deeper than that. Deeper than any limited understanding of being angry or hurt or deceived. Deeper than any understanding we may have of what we’ve gotten right and wrong. It’s about our effort. The effort is the thing, isn’t it? What effort will you make to be forgiven?What effort will you keep making, regardless of the cost, to show up for the people who need you?
I put my hand on his forearm, hold him there. He puts his free hand on top of mine, his eyes bright with tears.
“We’ve got her,” I say. “I promise you. We’ve got Bailey forever. And that’s thanks to you.”
