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  Something like, See? I belong here.

  “I don’t want you,” she reminds him, and turns away, wiping her eyes on the sheet.

  Lucy was wrong.

  Big girls do cry.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Standing on the wooden deck off the master bedroom, Nick stares at the eastern horizon, where the first streaks of light are beginning to appear.

  He hasn’t slept at all, and he isn’t sure why.

  Exhausted by his evening ocean swim and a rigorous bout of lovemaking, he had expected to drift right off to sleep. Beth had, snuggled against him, their limbs entangled in each other and the sheet. A warm sea breeze from the open window stirred strands of her hair to tickle his bare chest, but he didn’t want to move and disturb her.

  No, he wanted to stay just like that, arms wrapped around Beth, her head against his heart, forever.

  But eventually she rolled away. Nick was left restlessly listening to the distant waves, wishing they could soothe him to sleep as they had every other night of this vacation.

  It didn’t happen, and now it’s much too late. The alarm clock will go off any time now, and it will be time for him and Beth to go back to the real world.

  His kids are the only thing Nick misses about that—but not as much, he guiltily admits to himself, as he’d expected to. They no longer need him the way they used to. Lucy and Ryan because they’re older and more self-sufficient, and Sadie because…

  Well, he’s not sure why, exactly. All he knows is that he can’t quite connect with his youngest child. It’s always been that way.

  Maybe he didn’t take enough time to bond with her as a newborn, too caught up in his career.

  Maybe, unlike his own father, he’s just not the paternal type. Maybe he’s more like his mother.

  All he knows for sure is that he couldn’t help but favor the older kids—albeit unfairly—because their lives were more interesting. Faced with the choice of spending his precious weekend afternoons changing diapers or on the soccer field sidelines, he’d chosen the latter.

  Of course Lauren, who was home with the baby 24–7, tended to complain about that.

  “You’re the one who used to pray for rainouts,” he reminded her. “Now you want to go to the games?”

  “Lucy and Ryan want me there.”

  “They want me there, too.”

  “But I have to get out of the house,” she said. “You’re out all the time.”

  “Working,” he pointed out, and off they went on one of those maddening, can’t-win arguments.

  Now Sadie, who hasn’t even been to kindergarten yet, is seeing a shrink. He could tell by the way Lauren discussed the situation that she probably blames that on him, too. Maybe it is his fault. But not entirely.

  He supposes, looking back, that they could have just brought Sadie along to the autumn soccer and lacrosse matches, to the basketball court in winter, to Little League and girls’ softball games in spring.

  But Sadie caught enough colds as it was, and the weather was often raw, and Lauren was overprotective, in Nick’s opinion.

  Plus, it was such a hassle to lug the necessary gear—diaper bag, stroller, port-a-playpen—across the fields…

  Excuses, excuses.

  The truth is, Sadie arrived just when Nick was hitting his stride—as a corporate executive, as a husband, as a father, as a homeowner. Having a baby in the house again cramped his style and threw off the family rhythm. Not long after they found themselves with another mouth to feed, the economy began to tank. It was all Nick could do to hang on to his job as the axe fell all around him. Then his father got sick, was declared terminal, died.

  How, he wondered back in those grim days, had his life become such a shambles?

  “It was like falling off the carousel horse just as the brass ring was within my grasp,” is how he described it to Beth, not long after they met.

  “Maybe not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe I’m the brass ring,” she said with a sly grin.

  She was. Having Beth in his world revitalized him in ways he’d never dreamed possible. But even she can’t erase the baggage, the endless distractions, the responsibilities that will follow him for years to come.

  There’s only one way to escape.

  Well, two, if you count death.

  The alternative, while infinitely more appealing, is hardly a viable choice.

  Is it?

  No, he tells himself firmly. You can’t run off with your mistress. You’re going back to the real world, and that’s that.

  Nick takes one last, wistful look at the seascape before heading inside.

  “Morning, Daddy.”

  Startled by his daughter’s voice, Garvey looks up to see Caroline standing in the doorway of his den—not just awake at this early hour, but fully dressed in khaki shorts and a pale green polo.

  He aims the TiVo remote at the television and presses the pause button, freezing the preternaturally cheerful morning news anchor in a gums-baring smile.

  “Good morning, sunshine. Is the building on fire?”

  Most teenagers, Garvey knows, would respond with a clueless “huh?” or just a blank stare.

  Not Caroline Quinn.

  “Pardon me?”

  “I just can’t imagine that you’d be out of bed before seven on a Saturday morning for anything less than a full-scale emergency evacuation.”

  His beautiful daughter rewards him with a chuckle and tosses her long black hair. “Actually, we’re evacuating to the Hamptons—did you forget?”

  He frowns. “Where’s your mother?”

  “Right here.” Marin appears behind Caroline, wearing a crisp white linen dress and a straw hat. Snow White and Rose Red, Garvey finds himself thinking, as he often does when his wife and daughter stand together. Marin a fair, blue-eyed blonde looking ten years younger than she is, and Caroline a striking brunette who appears—well, if not a full decade older than her years, then at least twenty-one.

  Caroline’s rapid maturation scares him.

  A lot of things about Caroline scare him.

  Back in July when he fired Sharon, the summer nanny, he had fully intended to replace her. Caroline had convinced him that she and Annie would be fine for the remainder of the summer.

  “I’m sixteen, Daddy,” Caroline had said. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself and Annie for a few weeks. Right, Annie?”

  “She’s more capable than the Bubblehead,” was Annie’s assessment.

  True.

  But Garvey worries. If anything were to happen…

  And now his wife is taking the girls out to the beach?

  Much too dangerous.

  Rip currents, sharks, Caroline in a skimpy bikini…

  And I can’t be there to keep an eye on her.

  “What’s this about the Hamptons?” he asks Marin.

  “I told you yesterday—Heather Cottington invited us out for the weekend, and the girls and I are going.”

  “I wasn’t even here yesterday.”

  “What else is new?”

  “Why are you going to the beach? The weather is lousy.”

  “It’s supposed to clear up by this afternoon.”

  “Here in the city. You’ll be way out east. The rain is moving that way.”

  “Then we’ll be at the beach in the rain,” she replies impatiently. “What do you want from me?”

  He looks at Caroline.

  “Daddy, please? I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “Don’t worry, Car, we’re going,” Marin assures her. “Please go tell Annie that the car will be here in five minutes and make sure she’s ready. Her asthma has been bothering her this morning, so make sure she did the nebulizer like I told her.”

  Their daughter sighs heavily, but doesn’t protest. Ordinarily, she might, but Garvey can tell by her expression that she’s not thrilled to witness the tension between him and Marin.

  Caroline plants a kiss on his c
heek. “See you, Daddy. Have a good weekend.”

  “You too, angel. And be careful.” He waits until his daughter has left the room, then turns to Marin. “Since when do you and the girls take off without at least telling me?”

  “I told you about it on the phone when I called to ask you what you wanted me to do about that charity auction.”

  Oh. Maybe she did.

  He remembers that call. It came in on the heels of the one about Byron Gregson sniffing around the Grand Central Terminal lost and found. Needless to say, Garvey had been a little preoccupied when he was talking to his wife.

  “When will you be back?” he asks Marin.

  “Monday afternoon. Why?”

  “Why?” he echoes incredulously.

  “Why does it matter? You won’t even be here.”

  “Yes, I will. I’m scheduled to be in the city all weekend.”

  “But not here. And none of your appearances in the next few days involve us—not that I’m complaining,” she adds, seeing him open his mouth to remind her that it was her choice to take a break from the campaign whirlwind.

  “I’m free tomorrow until mid-afternoon.”

  “Then come out and meet us.”

  He shakes his head. She just doesn’t get it.

  “Why the beach?”

  For that matter, why Heather Cottington? Marin’s long-time friend—a vocal Manhattan Democrat—is hardly one of his favorite people.

  “Summer is almost over, and the girls want to enjoy what’s left of it, and so do I.”

  “We have our own beach house. You can—”

  “It’s not exactly our own.”

  True. It belongs to the family—his family. On any given weekend, Garvey’s New England–based siblings, nieces, and nephews can be found at the sprawling island residence.

  Marin shakes her head. She’s never been very fond of his sisters, but she tolerates them—and vice versa, Garvey suspects.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “Nantucket is too out of the way.”

  “You can fly there in less time than you can drive to Long Island at this time of year, with traffic.”

  “There’s no traffic at this hour.”

  He raises a dubious brow. They both know the Long Island Expressway is impossible on summer weekends.

  “Even if there is traffic, none of the girls’ friends go to Nantucket,” she reminds him. “They go to the Hamptons. And so do our friends. Mine, anyway.”

  Ah, yes. Separate friends.

  Increasingly separate lives.

  This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not for him and Marin. They were going to break the pattern established by his parents, his grandparents, and perhaps every Quinn ancestor dating back to the Mayflower.

  When they met, Garvey desperately wanted to avoid the brand of brittle relationship he’d seen among couples in his own family. Head over heels in love with Marin, governed by his passion and naïve young heart, he truly believed their marriage would be—could be—different.

  He’d been wrong.

  It wouldn’t be.

  Couldn’t be.

  Not after what happened to them.

  Somehow, the traumas that had seemed to irrevocably bind them early in their relationship resulted in the very obsession that ultimately drove him away—emotionally, in any case. Physically, too, as often as he could manage to flee the domestic scene while maintaining his political Family Man persona.

  His campaign now is based on that wholesome, old-fashioned image: loving father, loyal husband.

  His marriage was supposed to be based on trust.

  But you don’t dare burden the woman you love with secrets as dark as his. A mistress is nothing in the grand scheme of things. Garvey has kept the truth from Marin for her own sake as well as for his.

  He’ll tell her only if, by some horrible twist of fate, the truth does manage to come out somehow—despite his desperate maneuvering to keep it hidden. But it won’t matter what he says to Marin then, because she’ll leave him anyway.

  She might be willing to follow him to the governor’s mansion, but he’s pretty damned sure she won’t be willing to visit him in prison after what he did. And that’s where he’ll be—for the rest of his life, most likely—if he doesn’t get his hands on that file.

  “Mrs. Quinn? The car is here,” the maid announces from the doorway.

  “Thank you.” Marin looks at Garvey. “We have to go.”

  He shrugs.

  She turns away.

  Then, for some reason—nostalgia? guilt?—he hears himself say, “I’ll miss you.”

  Slowly, she turns back.

  “I know I’m busy, but…it’s not like I don’t need you and the girls, Marin. You know that, right? You know that I’m doing this for all of us. For our future.”

  Are you? her blue eyes ask.

  He nods, as if that can possibly reassure her.

  If only there was something he could do or say to convince her that he only wants what’s best for her—for their daughters—for all of them. That’s all he’s ever wanted. If he didn’t care so much—if he wasn’t so fiercely devoted to his family—he wouldn’t have done what he did years ago.

  Love.

  I did it for love.

  But who could possibly ever understand that?

  Marin?

  No.

  “I wish you weren’t going away now that I’m finally home again.”

  “I wish you were coming with us.”

  Touché.

  Wishes are useless, anyway.

  “Maybe…” Marin is still looking at him, her expression softening. “If you can slip away from the fund-raiser tonight, you can always meet us out east for a late dinner.”

  “I’m the guest of honor. How can I slip away?”

  In the pause that follows, the connection evaporates. Just like that.

  “It was just a thought. See you, Garvey.”

  She leaves without kissing him good-bye.

  He settles back in his leather wingback chair again and aims the remote at the television. Fast-forwarding through the local news, he can easily tell at a glance which segments he missed. There’s one about juror selection in a celebrated trial, which doesn’t concern him, and one about yet another MTA fare hike, which does—though not at this particular moment.

  Ah…that might be it. Seeing a familiar dead-body-outline graphic in the panel behind the anchor, Garvey stops fast-forwarding, backs up a few frames, and presses play.

  “Police this morning are investigating a murder on the Lower East Side,” the anchorwoman announces.

  The news desk gives way to a handsome, square-jawed reporter standing beneath an umbrella. Behind him is a graffiti-covered brick building. “The body of a man was discovered on the sidewalk here shortly after nine last night. He had been shot once in the back of the head. Robbery is not a suspected motive as the victim was carrying cash. He did not, however, have a wallet or any identification.”

  Garvey leans forward, rubbing his chin, pleased.

  “The victim is described as Caucasian, in his thirties or early forties, with short dark hair and a medium build,” the reporter goes on. “Authorities are asking anyone with information to please contact the Crime Stoppers hotline at 1–800–555–TIPS. For CBS–2 News, I’m John Metaxas, reporting live from Ludlow Street.”

  “Whoa…what are you guys doing?”

  Lauren looks up from the Van Morrison CD case in her hand to see Ryan climbing over the gate at the foot of the stairs. He’s barefoot, wearing only a pair of jersey knit shorts, and has a serious case of bed head.

  “Morning, Ry.” She glances at the digital clock on the cable box. “I mean, good afternoon.”

  He smiles or winces, she can’t tell which. “I was tired.”

  “I know. It’s fine to sleep in, especially on such a dreary day.”

  “What are you doing?” he repeats.

  “We’re cleaning,” Lucy informs her brother from her perch on the
floor beside the built-in bookcase.

  “Are the maids coming today?”

  “We don’t just clean before the maids come!” Lauren protests.

  “We don’t?”

  “Mom, we kind of do,” Lucy tells her.

  Okay, point taken. They do tend to spend Monday nights running around straightening the house in advance of the Magic Maids’ Tuesday morning arrival.

  “So, like, did a bomb go off in here or what?” Ryan asks.

  Lauren follows his gaze to the piles of books, CDs, and DVDs scattered over the floor, along with a couple of throw pillows she never liked and a table lamp no one ever bothers to turn on.

  “We’re going through the whole house and getting rid of stuff,” she tells her son. “So if there’s anything you know you don’t want…”

  “Or anything you might want to keep,” Lucy adds slyly, “like your baseball cards…”

  “What? You can’t throw away my—”

  “She’s just kidding, Ry,” Lauren assures him.

  “Yeah, we’re not really throwing anything away. We’re giving it to Trilby for some tag sale she’s having. I bet someone would pay a dollar for a crate of baseball cards.”

  “Shut up, Lucy.”

  “We don’t say shut up around here,” Lauren admonishes her son.

  “We do when someone is threatening to sell someone else’s stuff.”

  “Can’t you take a joke?” Lucy shakes her head.

  For once, Ryan ignores her. “Can I have some breakfast, Mom?”

  “Help yourself. Lucky Charms or Frosted Flakes.”

  He doesn’t bother to reply, just steps around Lauren and shuffles off to the kitchen. Cold cereal isn’t what he had in mind, she knows. Saturday mornings have always meant pancakes with chocolate chips mixed into the batter, and lots of melted butter on the griddle. But the tradition fell by the wayside over the summer.

  “Hey, Ry?” Lauren calls after him. “If you want pancakes, I’ll make some in a little while.”

  “Can you make them now?”

  Lauren hesitates. She’s up to her eyeballs in household clutter, and Sadie will be safely occupied with TV for at least another twenty minutes. She’s up in Lauren’s bedroom, probably engrossed in some hideously inappropriate cartoon filled with dialogue like Blast, you’ve foiled my plan to take over the world!