Chapter 6

By evening, we reached the lighthouse town on the northern coast.

The town was small. One main street, two rows of wooden houses, the church steeple pricking the low-hanging clouds. The air smelled of seawater, diesel, and fried clams.

Julian parked in front of a nautical-themed inn. The exterior was painted deep blue, the shutters white. The landlady was a plump woman in her fifties, and she kept looking at the two of us while we checked in.

"One room or two?" she asked.

Julian glanced at me. "Two."

She slid two brass keys across the counter.

I took one and went upstairs. The room was on the second floor, the window facing the harbor. The harbor lighthouse stood right across the bay, white tower, red top, like a silent sentinel in the dusk.

I sat in the window and felt no urge to sleep.

I thought of the moment I had woken at the bottom of the cliff seven days ago. Gravel digging into my back, the blizzard already stopped, the moon emerging from behind the clouds. Then I had heard that voice. "You're dead. The Devil has given you seven days. Go and lay yourself to rest."

The first person I thought of was him.

The first time I came to Maine was our third year together. We passed a nameless fishing port, and on the shore an old boatman was pushing a small white boat into the sea, a person lying on it. The boatman rowed out toward open water and gently sent the body into the sea. I asked him where the people went, scattered into the water. He said, "The water carries them very, very far. To the places they wanted to go their whole lives and never did."

Julian had thought it bad luck at the time, but then he said, "If you go before me, remember to come to me in a dream and tell me the places you never got to. I'll go for you."

He had probably long forgotten.

Night deepened. Footsteps came down the hall and stopped at my door. Then there was a knock.

"Eleanor."

I didn't move.

"Are you asleep?"

He knocked twice more. "The inn's stove is still warm. The landlady says she can fix a late bite. Come down and eat something."

I hesitated a few seconds, then opened the door.

He stood there in the deep-olive cable knit, his hair a little mussed. He looked at me, said nothing more, and turned to head downstairs.

I followed behind him.

The small kitchen was half below ground, a pot of soup simmering on the stove, steam fogging the window white. The landlady had gone to bed, leaving a small lamp on over the range.

Julian walked over, lifted the lid, and sniffed, then looked back at me.

"Clam chowder. You want some?"

I nodded.

He ladled a bowl and pushed it in front of me, then took bread and butter from the fridge. He cut the bread into thick slices and put them in the oven.

"Burn it a little," he said.

I watched him. He remembered. He remembered I liked my bread charred, remembered I liked my soup without too much pepper. As he said each thing, he set it in front of me, one item at a time.

Something in me trembled. He still remembered. Did that mean I was still somewhere in his heart?

The thought had barely surfaced when his phone buzzed.

The screen lit. A message from Vivienne. He glanced at it, thumb flicking fast to silence it, then turned the phone face-down on the table.

He remembered my tastes, remembered all my preferences. But the person he’d been longing for was no longer me.

I lowered my head and lifted the bowl and took a sip. No taste at all.

"Good?" he asked.

"Mm."

He took the bread from the oven and pushed it toward me. I bit into it, the charred crust shattering in my mouth, no warmth of wheat, no flavor. I swallowed it down.

"Why aren't you eating?" He looked at me.

"Not very hungry."

Julian's brow knit. He reached over and took my bowl, looked at the bottom of it, then looked at what was in the pot.

"Is there pecan in this?" he asked suddenly.

My heart skipped a beat.

He set the bowl down and looked into my eyes. "Don't you get a tight throat and break out in hives the second you touch pecans? You drank most of a bowl. How are you fine?"

I dropped my gaze, picked up the half-eaten bread, took another bite, and chewed it slowly through.

"Maine pecans are a different variety. They don't bother me."

He stared at me for two seconds, opened his mouth, and in the end said nothing.

"Mm. Good thing, then."

He got up to wash the dishes. I sat there and finished the rest of the soup. No taste at all. But I thought, if only I were still alive. Alive, maybe I could still fight for him.

Too much had happened between us, too many misunderstandings. I still loved him, but we were out of chances.

He came back from washing up and took a dry cloth to his hands.

"Let's go," he said. "Up to bed."

As we passed the front desk, the landlady had woken at some point and was dozing behind the counter. She heard us and opened her eyes, her gaze sweeping back and forth between the two of us.

"Say, are you two here on your honeymoon?" She fished out a Polaroid from under the counter, beaming. "Come here, let me take a picture of you two for the wall."

Julian glanced at me and didn't refuse.

"Not a happy couple," he said. "She's my soon-to-be ex-wife. Write that down clearly."

The landlady laughed awkwardly. "All right, all right."

Julian came and stood beside me.

She raised the Polaroid, focused, pressed the shutter.

The camera whirred out the print. She fanned it and waited for the image to appear.

Then her smile froze. She looked down at the print, then up at the two of us, back and forth, several times.

"Huh. How come there's only the gentleman in the photo?"

Julian frowned, walked over, and pulled the print out to look.

He stared at the picture, said nothing for a long time.

"It came out blurry. Forget it." He folded the print once and tucked it into his coat pocket. "Let's go."