You're Not the One (9781101558959) (39 page)

“OK, well, have fun at the beach.” I shrug.

“Thanks! Bye.”

“Bye.”

Then she's gone and I'm left feeling slightly bewildered. Well, that didn't go quite how I was expecting. I never even got a chance to tell her about Nate being here, I realize. Oh well, I guess it can wait until I get back to New York, I muse. After all, it's not long now. My flight's tomorrow morning, so I'll be home by the afternoon.

Plenty of time to get ready for my date with Adam
.

As the thought zips through my brain, I feel a delicious thrill of excitement and nerves. Since arriving on the island, I've tried not to think about Adam. I didn't want to be distracted before my big meeting with Artsy by thoughts of his crazy long eyelashes, the way he looked at me that night we sat on my fire escape,
that kiss
.

When I haven't been thinking about Artsy, my thoughts have been hijacked by Nate, I think grimly, rewinding back to last night, the two of us together in the Shell Room. I hastily fast-forward back to my date with Adam. OK, focus, Lucy, focus.

Briefly I think about calling him, but the beep of my phone battery reminds me that I've forgotten to pack my charger, and I still need to ring Magda. I make a quick call to tell her how the meeting went, which brings into sharp focus that I still don't really have a clue how the meeting went—“We dug for potatoes, ate ice cream, and talked about umbrellas.” Then I drain my coffee, leave the café, and walk down to the harbor.

A small ferry is making its way across the water. Plonking myself down on the harbor wall, I watch it for a moment. I feel unexpectedly wistful. OK, so I'm not going to miss having to share a bed with Nate, but it would be nice to spend a bit longer here, explore a little. On the way back from meeting Artsy, I got a very chatty taxi driver who regaled me with stories about the island, including one about when Steven Spielberg filmed the famous scenes from
Jaws
here, in Edgartown. Then he told me about the tragic car accident involving Ted Kennedy and a young girl, who was killed in 1969 when, coming back late at night from a party, he drove off a bridge leading to the tiny island of Chappaquiddick.

That's where the ferry is coming from, I muse, watching it for a few more moments as it chugs calmly across the short gap between the two islands. I'm used to ferries being huge oceangoing vessels, but this looks more like someone cut a short piece of road and made it float on the water. Look, it can only fit three cars on it, I note, counting them, and just a few foot passengers.

As the ferry chugs nearer, my eyes flick across the passengers. There's a couple with bikes, a woman with a toddler, and . . . Is that Nate? I squint in the sunlight. Yup, that's definitely him—I'd recognize that combo of navy blazer, pale blue shirt, and pleated chinos anywhere. When it comes to clothes, Nate doesn't do casual; he does middle-aged. He's chatting to a smartly dressed woman and I watch as they disembark and shake hands. Then he walks toward where I'm sitting.

“Hey, fancy seeing you here.” I manage a smile as he passes me.

He looks over and stops. He doesn't look pleased. “You again.”

I bite my tongue. Think mature. Think Bruce and Demi. Think one more night and then it's all over. “Did you sleep well?”

Pushing his sunglasses up onto his forehead, he shoots me a look. “I've had better nights,” he says with irony. “What about you?”

My mind flicks back to last night, in
that
bed, being on tenterhooks and waking up every five seconds terrified I'd mistakenly spooned him in my sleep. “I've had better nights too.”

“So we can agree on some things.” He smiles, despite himself. “How was your day?”

“Pretty good.” I nod. “And you?”

See? We're being so civil to each other. It's incredible.

“Pretty good.” He pauses. “What was it you said you were doing here again?”

“I was meeting with an artist.” Well, better not say too much. It's supposed to be hush-hush.

If I'm concerned that Nate is going to ask me questions, there's no need. “Oh,” he says, but more out of politeness than any genuine interest. Nate never was particularly interested in my work. It was always his career we talked about.

“What about you?” I bounce the question back to him.

He waves some brochures he's holding. “Looking at real estate.”

“You're buying a place here?” I gasp. Being curious, I peeked in a few real estate agents' windows earlier just to see, and trust me, it is
not
cheap.

“Thinking about it.” He shrugs casually. “For the summer.”

“Wow.” God, he really is loaded, isn't he? A rented penthouse in New York, a summer house on the Vineyard. For a brief second I imagine my life if things had worked out differently . . . me and Nate at our stunning hideaway beach house, with our own private beach, just the two of us.

“Well, I'm going to take a walk back into town.”

“Yeah, me too.” I nod.

Actually, the way things are going, that might yet still happen, I think with a stab of fright.

At that alarming thought I suddenly remember the strategy.

“Hey, look over here,” I pipe up, grabbing Nate by the elbow and steering him toward a store where a couple is peering in the window.

“Huh? What?” Regardless of the fact there's hardly any phone reception on the island, Nate has found a weak signal and is chatting away to his real estate agent about uninterrupted views and under-floor heating.

“What do you think?”

The couple has now moved away and we have the whole window to ourselves. It's just as I thought: a whole window of antique rings.
Antique engagement rings
.

“Sorry, Jennifer, one minute.” Slapping his hand over his iPhone, he turns to me in confusion. “What have you dragged me over here for?”

“What about the pink sapphire with the baguette diamonds?” God, I can't believe I know all this stuff. Baguette diamonds? Where did I get that from? Females must just absorb this stuff through osmosis.

“Yes, very nice,” he says, not even looking before going back to his phone call. “Hi, Jennifer. Sorry—you were saying about the under-floor heating?”

This is harder than I thought. “Maybe you could buy it for me?” I say loudly, and gaze beseechingly at Nate.

A sharp crevice splits down his forehead. “You want me to buy it?” he asks, incredulous.

“Well, that's the idea.”

“Sorry, no, Jennifer, I wasn't talking about the Chappaquiddick house.” He glares at me. “Look, can you give me a few minutes? I'll call you right back.” He gets off the phone, his face furious. “Jesus, Lucy,” he gasps. “What's gotten into you? Why the hell should I be buying you a ring, for Christ's sake?”

I widen my eyes pointedly. “Why do men usually buy women rings?”

He stares in bewilderment. Then suddenly the penny drops. “What the . . . ?” He pauses, trying to contain himself. “Have you gone
insane
?
You want us to get married?
”

I open my mouth to reply, but the words don't come out. Oh God, this is useless. Strategy or no strategy, I can't do it. I heave a frustrated sigh. “Don't be ridiculous. Of course I don't want to marry you!” I rebuke.

“Good. Because I don't want to marry you either.” He throws me a withering look. “Believe me, I'm as horrified as you are that we've been thrown together these past couple of days. When you sat down on the plane next to me, my heart just sank.”

“It did?”

“Are you kidding me? Like a rock.” He nods. “It was bad enough bumping into you the whole time in New York, but trapped on an island together? I have to confess I thought you were stalking me.”

“
Me?
” I look at him with indignation. “Stalking
you
?”

“Well, c'mon, there's coincidence and there's
coincidence
.” He raises his eyebrows. “I thought you were trying to find a way to get back with me.”

I'm speechless. Totally speechless.

“A friend of mine said it was obvious. I mean, all those calls.” He throws me a pointed look. “Apparently that's what girls do.”

“
That's what girls do?
” I repeat. I can't believe I'm hearing this.

“He said you were probably a psycho ex.”

I glare at him in disbelief. “
Me? A psycho ex?
” Oh my God, wait till I tell Kate.

“It's been hell for me too, you know,” I protest.

“I'm sure.” He nods. “It's not pleasant for either of us.”

“You know, maybe we can end up being friends,” I say, as we move away from the jewelry shop.

“Hey, watch it,” he replies sardonically.

“OK, well, what about acquaintances? Our only contact can be a Christmas card every year,” I suggest. “Unless of course I forget.”

“Or I delete your address. By accident, of course.”

I feel a shift, as if we've entered a new phase in our relationship, an understanding.

“Sounds perfect.” I grin.

“Doesn't it?” He grins back.

We end up staying in town and having dinner together. It goes fairly smoothly, apart from when I snap at him for making a fuss about wanting to taste their wine list (I mean, really. We're in Papa's Pizza. They have two wines: house red and house white), and he snaps at me for using my fingers to eat the calamari starter we're sharing.

Then there's the bit when he tells me off for glancing at a text that beeps up from Adam—Looking 4ward 2 tomorrow x—and texting a reply—Me 2 x—and I accuse him of being a hypocrite for using his iPhone at the table, which results in him doing that thing with his hand in which he tries to shush me for talking too loudly and I get infuriated and loudly tell him to sod off. Followed by several long, sulky silences from both of us.

All in all, though, it's pretty civil, and although it's not an experience I'd want to repeat, we both emerge alive, which, considering there were sharp implements of cutlery at the table, is saying something.

After the meal, Nate offers to give me a lift back to the inn in his rental car, which is lucky, as on leaving the restaurant, we discover it's started raining heavily.

“Probably a storm coming,” comments Nate, pausing in the doorway to put up his collar. “You get some pretty big ones here in the summer.”

“Big storms?” I repeat. “How big?”

“Oh, pretty big.” He shrugs, then dashes out into the blackness, holding his blazer above his head. “C'mon, run!”

Fuck. Bracing myself, I race after him across the parking lot. A few seconds is all it takes, but by the time I get in the car I'm drenched.

“Didn't you have a jacket?” he says, stating the obvious.

“If I had, I'd be wearing it,” I gasp, slamming the door closed and peeling off my soaking cardigan. I glance across at Nate. He's totally dry. “You know, a gentleman would have lent me his.”

“Why should I lend you my blazer?” he remarks, putting the car in gear and heading out of the parking lot. “It's your fault if you're not sensible enough to bring a jacket. That's the problem with you, Lucy. You're never sensible.”

My jaw sets hard. “How was I supposed to know there was going to be a storm?” I reply, trying to stay calm.

“Didn't you check the weather report?”

“No, Nate, I didn't check the weather report,” I fire back.

“Well, there you go,” he says smugly. “Let that be a lesson.”

Argggghhh! He's so patronizing I want to hit him over the head with his bloody weather report, but instead I take a couple of deep breaths and, ignoring him, sit on my clenched fists and stare out the window.

Outside it's pitch-black. The island isn't like New York—there aren't a million lights illuminating the sky—and we head out of town and start driving down a small road into thick, velvety darkness. Nate puts on his high beams, but rain is pelting against the windshield, making it impossible to see.

“Be careful,” I say after a moment. “You need to slow down. You're driving too fast.”

“I'm not driving too fast,” he replies. “It's fine.”

“Don't you know what happened to Ted Kennedy?” I reply. “In fact . . . are you related?”

He tuts impatiently. “Just quit it, OK?”

My patience snaps. “No, I won't quit it,” I cry above the sound of the windshield wipers, which are beating furiously. “Slow down!”

“Jesus, I'd forgotten what a nag you are,” he grumbles.