Page 36 of Return to Whitmore
Nina gasped. “What? When did this happen?”
Charlotte explained as quickly as she could—that she’d seen him at the restaurant, that he’d contacted her via her website, and that she’d gone back to see him. “We’re meeting at our secret place,” Charlotte said. “It’s where I told him to meet me the day we all left Nantucket.”
It had been the day that Great-aunt Genevieve had taken Nina away.
“I don’t know if I can do it, Nina,” Charlotte whispered. “Like I’m so old, now. He’s so old. What if we look at each other and decide too much time has passed? And the Whitmores are in the middle of a family drama the size of the Atlantic Ocean. I don’t want to invite anyone else into this mess.”
“You’re just going to meet up with an old friend,” Nina said softly. “Think of it as something easy, a first step. It’s up to you whether you want to keep seeing him or not.”
It’s up to him, too, Charlotte thought.
“How did you move on so quickly after Daniel?” Charlotte asked. “I’ve been so broken for so long.”
Nina thought for a moment. “I feel so broken. I don’t know if I’ll feel unbroken soon. Daniel did a real number on me. But in a way, what he did is helping me get over him quicker. For our entire marriage, he was angling for the made-up Whitmore treasure. He was waiting in the wings, using me.”
Charlotte winced. “It’s awful.”
“It’s life.” Nina shrugged. “People will wrong us at every corner. We have to get better at protecting ourselves, but we also can’t stop ourselves from living.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. Not for the first time, she thought that Nina was the wisest of all the Whitmores, perhaps only because she’d been raised away from them. Also because she’s the only Whitmore who isn’t Francesca’s child. But that’s another factor entirely.
After the call, Charlotte checked her lipstick a final time and drove out to Vincent’s and her secret spot, blinking quickly to keep from crying. Throughout, she paid attention to the speed limit, suddenly terrified that she wouldn’t make it, that she’d make Vincent wait in their secret spot all by himself again. She’d never forgive herself for abandoning him like that.
The so-called secret spot was just off Cisco Beach, tucked in a quaint cove that, it seemed to them as teenagers, had never been discovered by anyone else. It had almost felt like another dimension, a place that they were sure their parents couldn’t fathom. (In reality, it was probably just another beach swarming with tourists by now.) Charlotte parked in the lot nearest the beach and walked ten minutes, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and wondering if she was a fool for bringing a picnic. The Vincent she’d known back in the nineties had always been hungry, but the Vincent she was meeting now was a top chef and probably had higher standards, standards beyond the nostalgic food she’d packed. Oh, she was nervous. Her stomach was in knots.
When she reached the secret spot, she was surprised and grateful to find that it was mostly empty, save for an older guy far down the sand who alternated doing yoga and throwing a stick for his dog. Charlotte hoped he was far enough away not to ruin her reunion.
Charlotte was three minutes early, which gave her plenty of time to obsess and fear for the worst: that Vincent had decided to pay her back by not showing up. More than that, she was terrified that, in the midst of their “date,” she’d blurt out everything that had happened to her over the past twenty years and terrify him enough to run away. If Charlotte met Charlotte and learned everything she’d gone through and everything that was currently on her mind, wouldn’t she run away? Probably.
At first, Vincent was two minutes late, and then he was three, and then he was five. Charlotte checked her phone perpetually before remembering they hadn’t exchanged numbers and had only communicated via her website. She wondered if Vincent, like Addison, had watched any of her documentaries. Maybe he hadn’t liked them? That felt fair. Charlotte wasn’t sure she liked anything she’d made, ever.
Wow, her opinion of herself was in the dirt.
Just when Charlotte thought she would run away, leap in her car, and speed back to Madequecham Beach to drown her sorrows in ice cream and wine, a shadow fell over her. She turned to find Vincent, shoeless, coming down the sand. He’d come from another direction, a direction they’d never come as teenagers. He wore a handsome and heart-opening smile.
“You’re here,” he said.
Charlotte stood before him, her hands clasped. Vincent read the fear on her face and pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time.
“Six minutes late.” He wrinkled his nose. “That isn’t a good look, is it?”
“It’s nothing,” Charlotte assured, waving him off. “It nearly gave me a heart attack, though.”
Vincent laughed good-naturedly and pressed his own heart with his hand. “It would have done the same to me. In fact, just being back here reminds me of that day.”
Charlotte couldn’t believe he brought it up immediately. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve thought about it over and over again. I hope you’ll let me explain.”
But it was clear that Vincent was teasing her. He stepped closer, drawing a backpack from his shoulders and dropping it on the sand. “We were kids, Charlotte,” he reminded her. “We were kids in love experiencing extraordinary circumstances. It’s a miracle we got through.”
Charlotte thought she was going to weep. Instead, when Vincent suggested they hug a proper hug, she wrapped her arms around him and let herself burrow her face in his chest. It felt like a miracle that he smelled the same. But he didn’t hold her for as long as she might have liked. It wasn’t appropriate, she knew. They were strangers.
“I packed a picnic,” he said, stepping back to draw a blanket from his backpack.
“I did, too! Oh, but I’m sure it’s garbage compared to yours,” Charlotte said.
“I’m just as hungry as I used to be,” Vincent promised her. “And if I remember correctly, you always pack the very best snacks.”
Charlotte sat on the flannel beach blanket and opened her tote, watching out of the corner of her eye as Vincent unpacked his bag. He’d made what looked to be a Middle Eastern salad with feta and tomatoes and cucumbers and tabbouleh, plus hummus and pita bread and baklava. Charlotte’s mouth watered. “Did you make all of that?” she asked.
