The Summer Wives: Epic page-turning romance perfect for the beach. Beatriz Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ now,” said Clay. “What’s important is that Izzy has someone to look out for her now.”

      “You’re her fiancé. Aren’t you supposed to be doing that?”

      “But we won’t be married until next June.” He sprang from the rock and stepped forward, right to the edge of the cliff. He had a nice trim backside, a narrow waist. A pair of old-fashioned braces held up his trousers. “Last night …,” he said.

      I waited a moment and said, “What about last night?”

      “I don’t know what happened with you two. Maybe I don’t want to know. She had a little too much to drink, didn’t she? She gets carried away, you see.”

      He seemed to be starting another sentence, which he bit off. I had the feeling he was struggling with something, groping, juggling words in his head. He fiddled with his sleeves, took out his handkerchief, wiped away the perspiration on his temples.

      “For what it’s worth, I like that about her,” I said. “I like her high spirits.”

      “Yes. Of course. Look. I don’t know—I don’t usually—Miranda—you don’t mind me calling you that?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Do you mind if I tell you something private? Just between you and me, Miranda, because I can tell you aren’t the gossiping type.”

      “You can tell me whatever you like, Mr. Monk.”

      “Clay. Look. The truth is, the night before last, the night before the wedding, we’d had a bit of a—a—I don’t know what to call it …”

      “Clay, you don’t—”

      “—a lovers’ quarrel.”

      The words burst out almost in a shout—lovers’ quarrel!—followed by a delicate silence, expecting my reply. When I didn’t say anything, Clay looked down and toed the dirt.

      “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I haven’t told anyone, not even Mother.”

      “You’ve got to talk to someone, don’t you? You can’t keep everything bottled inside.”

      Clay made a dry noise. “Can’t I? That’s what we do, Miranda. Keep it all bottled. Don’t burden anybody with your private troubles. We don’t talk, certainly not to strangers. I sometimes wish …”

      He let the sentence dangle, the wish unexpressed. I tucked my legs against my chest and wrapped my arms around them. A few feet away, Clayton shifted his feet and noticed the handkerchief in his hand. He shoved it back in his pocket.

      I said, “If there’s anything I can do to help—”

      It was as if I’d pulled the cork from his mouth. Clayton started to burble. “She’s a terrific girl, Izzy. She’s the one, I mean there’s never been anyone else. But she’s got a restless streak, always has, all this bottled-up energy like some kind of Fourth of July firework. Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the things I love about her. Maybe she gets it from her mother, I don’t know. You just can’t take your eyes off her, wondering what crazy, wonderful thing she’s going to do next.”

      I pressed my thumbs together. I think I was trying not to say something rash, trying to hold back this immense surge of pity I felt for Clayton Monk in that moment. He leaned down and picked up a rock from the dirt near his feet. Turned that rock around again and again between his fingers, examining every last ridge, every facet, each tiny grain that made up the whole.

      He went on in a quiet voice, talking not to me, but to the rock in his hand. “The trouble is, she gets temperamental, she gets in these moods sometimes, and I just can’t—I can’t—I don’t know what to do. Honestly, I don’t know what I said the other night, I mean I don’t have the slightest clue what upset her so much.”

      Clay dropped the rock suddenly and put his hand to the back of his neck. His fingers were long, his nails well-trimmed, his forearm dusted with light hair. His other hand sat on his hip. I looked past him toward the sea, but his body now blocked my view of Joseph in his sailboat, and I didn’t want to rise and startle him, so close as he stood to the edge of the cliff.

      I said, “It was probably just the excitement of the day. She loves you very much.”

      “Does she? Did she say that?”

      “Well … not in so many words.”

      He made a mournful laugh. “Thanks for the honesty.”

      I didn’t know what to say. I hardly knew him at all, him or Isobel. I had the feeling I’d walked onto the stage of a play, sometime in the middle of the second act, and assumed a leading role. And I had no script, no story. I didn’t even know the name of this play. Was probably wearing the wrong costume. I leaned back on my hands and stared at the long, vertical creases down the back of Clay’s shirt. The sun burned the top of my head, my hands, the back of my neck. A gull screamed from the rocks down below.

      “Vargas!” Clay exclaimed.

      I startled up. “What? Where?”

      “The lighthouse keeper’s son. Fellow who was with you last night. Don’t deny it. Vargas?”

      “Joseph. Yes.”

      “I think he’s in love with her.”

      The sentence struck in the middle of my chest. I stepped to one side, in order to find Joseph’s sailboat on the stretch of empty sea before us. For a second or two, I thought he’d been swallowed by the water, but when I shielded my eyes and looked farther, I saw he had only angled around the eastern tip of the Island to tack down the other side. The boat was smaller now. You couldn’t make out Joseph himself, just the white, triangular sail against the navy water, as it began to disappear behind the land’s edge. I caught my breath again and said, “How do you know?”

      “Oh, he’s always been crazy about her. Used to hang around the house when they were small. Take the dinghy back and forth. They had some kind of signal they used to send each other, through the windows.”

      “But she doesn’t feel the same way. She’s engaged to you, not to him.”

      “Another man’s ring isn’t going to stop a fellow like that.”

      “I don’t think—” I checked myself.

      “Don’t think what?”

      “I just think he’s more honorable than that.”

      “Do you? Well, I’ve known him all my life, and I wouldn’t put it past him. Not the way he’s been pining for her all these years. Sitting there in his lighthouse, watching her from the window, beckoning her over to see him.”

      The tip of the sail winked out past the edge of the cliff.

      “Then Isobel should put a stop to it,” I said. “Especially if it hurts you.”

      “Oh, it doesn’t hurt me. Not a bit. A fellow like that …” СКАЧАТЬ