“Not sure what you’re talking about,” I say, inhaling the smell of her shampoo.
“You’re lying,” he says, and I often forget how well he knows me. “You sound like you did after Victoria.”
The name hasn’t been spoken in years. Victoria, who I came home, only to find her cheating on me. She cried when I caught her. It’s been nine years, and Louis still knows it’s the wound that’s never fully healed.
“Don’t speak her name,” I say.
He lets my annoyance linger. “When does your vacation end?”
“August 3.”
Saying it out loud changes the weight of it, and Wendy shifts against me. It’s one thing to think about it, but saying it makes it real.
“Coming to visit me after? I hope we’ll have a baby by then,” Louis says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Of course. I’ll see you in Montclaire.”
“Can’t wait, my old friend,” he tells me. “Anyway, if Addison doesn’t have breakfast, she’s going to get cranky. I’m happy for you. Bring your girlfriend to Montclaire. I’d like to meet the woman who’s changed you.”
“Goodbye, Louis,” I say, and the call ends. I set the phone on the table.
Wendy is warm against me. The stars shine over the water.
“Who’s Victoria?” she asks.
“A woman I thought I’d marry,” I say, gulping down the rest of the wine in my glass.
“And what happened?” she asks.
“She cheated and tried to ruin my life,” I say.
“I’m sorry that happened. Selfishly, I’m glad it did,” Wendy says, capturing my lips and making me smile. “Because you’re here. With me. Right now.”
“Me too,” I tell her.
Even after the nap, I drift off with her in my arms. Surfing exhausted me, and Wendy’s been working nonstop to get ready for the event. She shifts which causes me to wake up. I carefully carry her to bed, placing her on the mattress before sitting on the edge. I reach for the lamp and stop to pick up the box. I sift through the postcards, reading the dates, realizing some of these were postmarked fifty years ago.
I open the browser on my phone. The screen glows, and I type into the search bar.
Historical designation for coastal properties in Florida.
The state’s historic preservation office is the first link, so I click it. The property has to be at least fifty years old, retain its architectural integrity, and hold significance to the local community. I scan the rest of the rules, and Seaside qualifies. A designation would put guidelines on what developers could do with the land, and no one wants it for the building. The application requires a lot of documentation that I don’t have access to.
I exhale, wondering if I should get Gale involved. The guest book Wendy showed me has fifty years of letters, proving how much the B&B means to this community. Every postcard is testimony. Every guest book entry is proof. The application practically writes itself.
I read for an hour and save several links before locking my phone. When I turn around, Wendy has rolled onto my side of the bed. Her face is pressed into my pillow, and her arm stretches across the space where I was. I climb back in, and she moves toward me, holding me.
I almost told her the truth, and then Gale called, and I let the moment pass. It felt like a sign, but I know better. It wasn’t some divine intervention, protecting me. It was me protecting myself.
I want more time with her as Carter Banks, but every day she doesn’t know the truth feels stolen.
chapter eighteen
Wendy
The farmers market is twice as crowded as usual because of the holiday weekend. The week of and after Fourth of July is the busiest time on the island. Vendors I’ve never seen before are crammed between regulars who have been set up every weekend for the past decade.
The street smells like grilled corn and fried chicken, and if I hadn’t eaten lunch a couple of hours ago, I’d grab something. I weave through the crowd with Josie’s fruit list in one hand and an iced coffee in the other.
