At every impassable peak, unfordable stream, and impossible canyon, in the moments when I had been most tempted to turn back or give up, there had always been a rope, a boat, a bridge, an ever-present help in times of trouble, a means of moving on.
Sometimes I got stuck, or traveled in circles, or lost my way. When I did, it was only because I distrusted the path, refused to grab hold or step out. But at every crossroad and crisis, the rescue always arrived, just in time, at the instant I needed it most, not a moment before.
When I thought I was nothing and no one, invisible and unlovable, Jamie stepped into my path, walked by my side, and exposed the lie. When I was going under for the third time and didn’t even know it, Nan and Monica pulled me into the boat. Losing the job I hated, I stumbled upon my purpose. Believing that love was behind me, Luke came along to prove I was wrong, that it really was possible to find the love of my life, twice in my life.
Nan was right—every love story turns sad eventually, but if you love, truly love, then it’s worth it. Looking back, looking forward, it’s all worth it. And when the hard road comes, help will, too, just in time. Sometimes I will need a bridge. Sometimes I will be a bridge. I see that now.
* * *
The time is short, the day is ending. Only a sliver of sunlight is visible above the horizon, just a small and succulent slice, a last brilliant blaze of orange and gold, a sunset I will never forget, a love I will always cherish.
“Let’s stay here forever.”
I came to grant his final wish. But as I climb to my feet, open the box, tip it forward, and watch as the wind carries away what remains, I realize that the part of Jamie that was Jamie, that soul and spark, doesn’t reside in this box, this ash.
We can’t stay here forever. Staying is not what we are created for.
I lower the arm holding the box, now empty of ash, and I catch a glimpse of my watch, Jamie’s final gift to me, strapped to the wrist that hit the rock in the dark of the night. Its hands are moving again, steadily ticking the passage of time. I lift my face skyward, to the orange, gold, red of the fading day.
Message received, babe.
Two Years Later
Chapter 43
Monica
Twenty-two hours in transit is enough to take the shine off any bride. But when the bride is almost old enough to be the mother of a bride? Well, it’s not pretty.
“Oh, geez. Look at me,” I said, staring into the compact I’d pulled from my carry-on bag after Bob and I stepped onto the first of many moving sidewalks that would carry us to baggage claim, and seeing my own bloodshot eyes staring back.
“Why did I bother to bring a suitcase? I could have packed two weeks’ worth of clothes in the bags under my eyes. I look like a bride all right. Bride of Frankenstein.”
“So that makes me the monster?” Bob asked as we stepped onto the next moving sidewalk.
I lowered the mirror and looked at my husband. His chin was stubbly, a chunk of hair was sticking out at a weird angle from the top of his head, and his rumpled shirt, sporting a stain from marinara sauce he’d consumed somewhere between Rome and New York, looked like he’d slept in it—which he had.
“No, you look great. And very handsome,” I said. And to me, he was.
“Well, I think you look beautiful,” Bob said. “Like the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo rolled into one. Except with arms.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said, wrapping both of mine around his neck before giving him a kiss. “I love you, Mr. Smith.”
“And I love you, Mrs. Smith. In fact, I love you so much,” he said, lowering his voice into that sexy little growl that he knows melts my butter, “that when we get home, I am going to make mad, passionate love to you. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”
“Really? Better than that first night in Rome? Better than the boat on Lake Como? Or the balcony in Portofino? Better than in Naples, in Florence, in Milan, in Venice?”
“Better than all of them,” he said, pulling me close, staring hungrily into my bloodshot eyes. “Better than all of them put together.”
“Wow,” I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “And when are you going to do this?”
“Right after I get home,” he said, “and sleep for a week.”
He groaned and all but collapsed in my arms, limp as a rag doll. I laughed out loud and kissed him again. And when we exited the door from the gate area to the terminal, I laughed again. We both did, so hard.
Alex, Zoe, and Jean Smith, Bob’s mom and the best mother-in-law on earth, who had come up from San Diego to keep an eye on the kids and Desmond while we were on our honeymoon, were standing just outside the door, wearing bedsheet togas over their clothes and waving little Italian flags over their heads. Desmond was there, too, panting and thumping his tail, wearing a circle of plastic leaves on his head that was supposed to be a crown of laurels.
They were so cute and funny and silly. And, best of all, they were mine. My family. My kids.
Seventeen-year-old Alex, now two heads taller than me and with legs that went on forever, had survived his morose and moody phase. He and Bob went running together every Saturday morning, then went to the Screen Door for fried chicken and waffles. Alex still ran cross-country and had qualified for regionals in his
