‘Why New York?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Why would you choose to live in New York when you could live here?’
‘Because I want to live there.’
‘Don’t you like Pine Harbor?’
‘It’s not that I don’t like it.’
‘Then what is it?’
‘I had to grow up here, remember.’
‘You poor thing. Surrounded by all this beauty and nature right on your doorstep. Not to mention the tight-knit community of great people who, from what I’ve seen, look out for one another. I can see how that would be horrible.’
His sarcasm irked me. He sounded just like one of the thousands of tourists who poured into the place every year. Enchanted by the national park on our doorstep. The lighthouse that perched on the cliff overlooking the entrance to the harbor. The wharf covered in colorful fishing buoys. The picturesque town with its treelined streets and quaint buildings that looked like they were part of a rom-com movie set. The manicured park in its center with its colorful flower beds, water fountains, town clock and wrought-iron bench seats for resting. Blossom trees in spring, colorful oak leaves in autumn. Even the street lamps were the old-fashioned kind that looked like lanterns.
‘You’ve got no idea.’
‘Tell me.’
I resented the fact that he had so easily written me off as ungrateful for growing up here, but he knew nothing about it. ‘Why should I? I don’t evenknowyou.’
‘Isn’t that what we’re doing? Getting to know each other? I plan on staying here in your mother’s cabin for a while, so we’re bound to run into each other from time to time.’
I shook my head. ‘As soon as my mother comes back, I’ll be gone again.’
‘Yeah, but you’ll be back to visit your mom.’
I was instantly suspicious. Why did it matter to him if I visited my mother or not? ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’
‘Mm?’ His tone was faux innocent.
‘Let me guess. My mother complained that I don’t visit enough and made you feel sorry for her.’
‘She didn’t complain,exactly,’ he replied sheepishly. ‘But she did mention it when we first met. Only in passing. She seemed sad.’
Familiar guilt flooded through me, followed swiftly by anger that my mother had confided in a stranger who was now the one making me feel guilty.
‘I come home when I can,’ I snapped. ‘At least once a year, sometimes twice. But my life is in New York, and she knows that. I have my business there, a great apartment. Friends.’
‘And your husband,’ he added, when it was obvious that I had finished talking.
‘What exactly has my mother told you?’
‘Not much. Your mom just said you were married. Childhood sweetheart, or something like that.’
‘He wasnotmy childhood sweetheart. And you and my mom seemed to have talked about an awful lot of personal stuff.’
‘I didn’t pry, if that’s what you’re insinuating. Your mother is just very forthcoming.’
He had a good point. My mother liked to talk, and not only talk, but overshare.
‘Well whatever, I don’t have a husband any more,’ I said shortly. ‘Not really.’
‘Not really?’
