Page 54 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

I want to stand here forever, soothed and reassured by my surroundings, but I know now that I need to act. I have to find a way to speak to Lauren. I may not be able to control her reaction to what I have to say, but I can’t let her leave without saying it.

With new resolve I turn and head back up the beach, my eyes scanning the horizon as my brain sorts through possible courses of action. The most immediate challenge will be getting her to agree to see me.

I’m almost home when a man comes down the Sandcastle steps and walks toward the water so that our paths will intersect.

“I thought I might find you out here,” Jake says as I approach. “Not right away, of course. But after I searched your unlocked house for signs of foul play.” His smile is the crooked wry one that’s like an arrow through the heart.

“I took a walk to try to clear my head.”

“Did it work?”

“I think so.”

“So what happens next? Now that you’ve made it off the couch?”

“First of all I need to apologize. I’m so very sorry, Jake. Based on what Aunt Velda shared about your wife and your family life, I truly thought I was protecting both of you.”

He remains silent and I know he has every reason to hate me. I also know that he, more than anyone, should understand why his wife’s instability kept me from making contact.

“The thing is, I don’t even know if Lauren will ever forgive me. She has very strong opinions and reactions. And she isn’t one to change her mind easily.”

He flinches at the reminder of how well I know the daughterhe’s only just met. And I think of all the times I regretted running. How often I wished he were here. And not just because being a single parent was so hard. But because I loved him so much.

His jaw hardens and it’s my turn to flinch. Because of the hurt I’ve caused him. And because the person I’ve been closest to since her birth forty years ago doesn’t even want to be in the same room with me.

“I can’t let her leave without one last attempt at a conversation. But I’m not even sure I can find a way to get in front of her.”

“I can make it happen.”

“How?” I keep thewhyto myself. I am not going to look this gift horse in the mouth.

“I’m taking her and Spencer and Bree and Clay to Blue Point tomorrow night.”

“You want me to come for dinner?” I search his face, trying to read what’s there.

“Truthfully, no. I’d actually like the meal to happen and it’s possible that Lauren would insist on leaving when you arrive.” He looks me in the eye. “I think you come over to the table as we’re finishing dessert. Maybe you can act as if you’re just stopping by for a drink and happened to see us. That way it won’t feel like a conspiracy.”

“And it leaves you off the hook if there’s a blowup.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t look away, but I can’t read his true motives. I don’t know if he’s setting me up for a fall or is only watching out for our daughter’s best interests. “Yes,” he says again. “It does.”

Twenty-five

Lauren

Blue Point is one of my favorite Outer Banks restaurants. Just past the Duck town center, it sits on the northern end of a boardwalk of shops that overlooks Currituck Sound. This makes it a perfect place to watch the sunset and get a great meal.

Unfortunately, I’m still so wrung out that food of any kind remains totally unappealing. I have no idea how I’m going to swallow even a bite.

Expanses of window bring in light and frame the spectacular water views. The decor is contemporary upscale yet cozy. The food is Southern, coastal, and seasonal. They were farm-to-table before the phrase became popular. Spencer’s been happy to try the food everywhere we’ve been but his foodie “antennae” begin quivering the moment we walk in the door.

It’s not full season yet so the BackBar outside isn’t open and the crowd is largely local. Bree and Clay nod and smile at people they know. I recognize a few friendly faces and even more curious ones.

We leave early tomorrow morning to catch a threeP.M.flight out of Norfolk, so this is our last meal. No sooner do I think this than my brain calls up images of the Last Supper. I’m certainly not picturing myself as you-know-who here, but if I painted my mother into the picture she’d be Judas. I still can’t grasp how greatly my life has shifted. How little I knew the person I thought I knew best. My stomach roils. Like everywhereI’ve been since last Saturday I’m afraid I’m going to run into her and that when I do I’ll burst into tears. Or shout like a crazy person. And, of course, I’m aware that the truth about my past is now common knowledge.

Heads bend and people whisper as we walk by. I don’t have to guess who and what they’re talking about. To be fair, if it weren’t me this happened to, I’d be talking about it, too. It would be a great plot twist except I’m sure there are those who would call it contrived or far-fetched. Maybe even outside the realm of possibility. Because who on earth would live a lie of this magnitude for forty years?

We divide our attention and conversation between the sunset and the food that keeps arriving. First come shared appetizers of cornmeal fried wild Virginia catfish, creamy burrata and minted spring pea, and a “taste of Southern goodness,” tiny servings of which I put on my plate but cannot eat. I watch Spencer practically inhale his main course of pan-fried local jumbo lump crab cakes. When he catches me pushing my seared sea scallops around my plate, he first tries to convince me to eat them. When I don’t, he ends up eating them, too. The others sample one another’s dishes. Jake made it clear that we’re his guests. Spencer only agreed if the wines were on him. I’m grateful that they’ve reached a détente about the bill. I don’t think I could take another ounce of conflict without fleeing. Fortunately, the more wine I drink the more able I am to breathe and at least act like myself.

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