Клео Коул - Murder Most Frothy

“Can’t. I have a life in New York. But you can send me a postcard from paradise.”

“Maybe you’ll visit? I’m going to miss your coffee, you know?” He nuzzled my hair.

“Well, you know where to get a good cuppa,” I reminded him. “Manhattan is a port city, too.”

“Okay, that’s a deal. Just remember one thing, okay?”

“What?”

“I’m guessing solving murders is a bad little habit you’re not going to give up anytime soon. So if you get into trouble—”

“Just whistle?”

“No.” He sat up, reached for his jeans on the back of a nearby chair. After fishing in a pocket, he pulled out his card, pressed it into my palm. “Use the cell phone.”

I laughed. Frankly, I didn’t know what good a cell phone call would be to a man one thousand miles away, but I tucked the card into my wallet anyway, like a souvenir. On some gray winter day, I’d probably pull it out by accident and suddenly remember the time I’d spent on this desirable bit of acreage, this irresistible little plot someone like me could visit but never own.

I smiled at Jim, snuggled under the covers, and pulled his arms back around me. What was owning anyway? I found myself wondering. You couldn’t own a person. You couldn’t even own land, really. The Earth itself was just a rental. Our time on it was basically one big share. I thought of Bom and David, Kenny and Jim, Marjorie and her ocean view, even myself and Matt.

“Why so quiet all of sudden? What are you thinking?” Jim’s voice sounded tense.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was just wondering if the quality of our lives doesn’t simply boil down to whether or not we can all get along in the same house.”

“Excuse me?”

“Forget it,” I told him. “Explaining would take too long. And we only have a few more hours until sunrise.”

After a pause, Jim whispered, “Clare…”

“Yes?”

“Now that I’m leaving…are you sorry? Sorry we got together?”

There was defensiveness in his tone, as if he expected me to turn on him now. As if he’d gone through some ugly good-bye scenes with women in the past, and he expected the same from me.

He wasn’t going to get it.

There comes an age in life when you realize that blaming and regretting are a waste of precious time. Some thrills were worth weathering the inevitable crash. And in the end, as Madame and Joy had tried to tell me all season long, a summer fling didn’t have to be a crime.

“No, Jim, I’m not sorry,” I said. “After what we’ve both been through, don’t you think the time we have, whether long or short, is something we should just make the most of?”

“I do, Clare,” he said, turning me in his arms. “I do.”