A/N: I'm overwhelmed by your response to the last chapter. You deserve another chapter ASAP, so here you go - a very long (for this story) chapter. I hope you enjoy it, and I am so grateful that you are experiencing this story along with me.
.-.-.
Some Bright Morning
21. in the sweet by and by
.-.-.
Savvy told her once that if you stood at the exact midpoint of the island, you could see every part of it at the same time. Three Rivers, the ocean, every dock, every foot of the island's sandy perimeter. Where's the midpoint? Addison asked then, interested. No one's found it yet, Savvy said. But then how do you know that that's where you can see every part of the island at the same time?
Savvy didn't have an answer for her. Savvy had faith, and an island as bursting with life and surprise as she herself.
The island knows things, that's another one Savvy used to say. Knows what … and when, as Addison was reminded this morning on one of the island's many strips of sandy beach, rhythmically shelling peas while the waves curled onto the shore.
The island knows when to hold on, and when to let go. Why can't she?
She's quite literally holding on, right now. Her head is resting against his shoulder, his arm supporting her. She's taken his free hand in hers, holding it.
Holding on.
But she saw the look of peace on his face when he mentioned Meredith. Their phone call. His honesty about his marriage must have upset her, maybe even put her off, but he still looked … peaceful, even happy. And he deserves to be happy.
He's letting go.
And she needs to let go too.
Sometimes love means wanting the other person to be happy, even if it's not with you.
There was a time when she thought their split could only be explosive, with the rage of the last night in New York or the cold furious tension of the first few nights on the island.
No one warned her it could be tender, even loving. So much so that she has to steel herself as every instinct screams at her to grab hold of him.
He's moving on, and she's not going to stop him.
She won't stop him, but she'll drink greedily while she can, absorbing the warmth of him through the sleeve of his shirt. The muscles of his shoulder are so familiar under her cheek.
Tired isn't the word for what she is. She's exhausted. She's poured out words and memories she tried to forget for years, faced the pain she put him through, and listened to him too.
And he heard her.
He heard.
If only they could have – but regrets won't do anything now.
She's exhausted, but she feels lighter, too. She's handed him what she carried alone. And he took it.
She closes her eyes, just for a moment. Just to pretend that she deserves this.
"Addie?"
She feels his fingers brush her cheek.
"I'm awake," she says automatically.
He raises an eyebrow and she smiles a little. His face is close to hers; she could map each faint line. They carved the years into each other – met when they were young and smooth, unmarked, and then explored together.
"The shell beach," she says after a moment. "Did you still want to …"
"Yes." But he keeps his arm around her when she starts to get up. "You were going to rest…" he reminds her.
"I will. After," she says. "Before dinner, if there's time," she compromises when he doesn't look satisfied. "You might want to rest too, Derek. It's dry enough tonight for fireworks and Savvy's family doesn't tire easily."
He looks appropriately nervous at this. He also looks like he wants to protest, but perhaps he senses something from her, some now or never, time is running out, and he just nods.
They've been on the swing so long that leaving it is a production. His hands skim over her as she sits up, and he holds the swing still while she stands, stretching stiff muscles. He's so careful, so aware of her. She remembers this focused attention, remembers it well.
It's just … been a while.
.-.-.
He hasn't been able to convince Addison to rest, when she doesn't want to, for more than fifteen years. So he doesn't expect to succeed now.
Still, he keeps a hand at her back as they walk, unable to keep from murmuring occasional warnings about the uneven ground. For her part, she seems to be trying not to look too annoyed. Addison is strong – he knows this well, but her body has been through a lot in the last forty-eight hours and the doctor in him is screaming that she needs to rest.
The husband in him agrees, for the most part.
But Addison was insistent, and so they're picking their careful way along the path now, toward the shell beach. The island is supposedly circular, as the Beauforts seem to like saying, but on this walk it feels more like a Mobius strip. They cover ground that seems familiar but somehow not familiar at the same time, making him wonder if he's seen it before at all.
Reeds climb their shins, tickling the bare parts of their feet. Birds call overhead, and he hears scurrying below them and knows they're not alone.
A gull sounds, suggesting they're close. "You have to walk through here," Addison says, gesturing toward a cave-like sand structure that can't be more than four feet tall, jutting from the middle of a dune.
As they approach, he sees grains of sand blown off its cracked exterior by the salty breeze.
"That doesn't look safe, Addison."
"The kids were just down there this morning."
"The kids are a lot smaller than we are," he points out, frowning at the sand. All they need is for the structure to collapse on them.
"Derek … ." She holds out her hand. "Just trust me," she says.
He takes her hand, bends low when she does, and lets her lead him through the cavern.
"See? That wasn't so bad."
Her hands are on her hips; she looks pleased with herself. He has a sudden, impulsive desire to kiss her – one he stamps out quickly, knowing it could only make things more difficult.
"Not so bad," he echoes, glancing around.
The shell beach isn't what he expected, though he's not sure why, after his experience on the island, he would even bother to try to expect.
The sand is pale, tinged pinkish with the setting sun. Gulls are tracking overhead with mournful cries. The air is pungent with salt, a thick seaweedy smell. And the wet sand that welcomes the ocean is choked with shells.
Lots of shells.
Shells of every shape and size and color, from the tiniest scallop, small as a lentil, to fist-sized spotted bonnets and spiky conches. It's the sunset that's coloring them, it has to be, because their shades are too bright and brilliant for washed-up seashells.
He looks up the beach to see the colonies of shells extend. There are small piles of them, circles like small outcroppings.
"The kids come down here and move things around, build things," Addison explains, gesturing toward some of their constructions.
They stand in the pinkish sand, watching foaming waves stroke the shell-lined shore. Addison drops to her haunches – he finds himself crouching down with her, and when she stands she's holding an enormous conch, the size of a newborn with coral exterior and pearly pink insides.
"Listen," she says, holding it up, and he humors her, helping her get it to his ear – it looks heavy, but it feels surprisingly light in his hands. The roar of the ocean greets him when it gets close.
"The shells don't change," Addison says thoughtfully, "but the colors do, with the seasons. That's what Savvy told me, anyway."
He nods, looking back toward the sandy cavern that led them to the shell beach, then across the layers of colored shells.
"All the beaches look different," he notes, thinking of his experience on the island's perimeter. He hasn't seen every part of it, but he's been to the edge on reed-laced beach nearest where they're staying, and to the blanker stretches with thick, pillowy sand, where he and Addison hunted for trash the day they were late to breakfast.
"It has something to do with the water," Addison says vaguely, "the ocean and then Three Rivers … I don't know. I should have paid more attention in Marine Bio."
"You could join the conservationist team."
"I don't think they're looking for surgeons."
He smiles a little at this.
She picks up a long, weathered stick. The outer bark has been stripped so it's nearly white. She presses its pointed end into the sand, then turns to him, still holding on to it. For a moment, he thinks she's going to say something, but then she stops.
He's remembering the other beach, where they finished out their community service days ago. She was holding a stick, much like this one.
"You remember how we'd spend anniversaries at the Hamptons house and we'd always write our initials in a heart in the sand? You'd always want to wait until the waves had smoothed it all out before we left the beach."
She was smiling when she said it, like she was enjoying the memory, and he was annoyed.
"Erased it, you mean? I guess that should have been a sign."
His response that day hurt her; he knew it then, and he briefly relives it now. She's still toying with the long pointed stick – he does remember those sand-carved initials, sun-warmed anniversaries on the beach. A + D, she would write. D + A, when he had the stick. It was the kind of disagreement that was even better than consensus. The kind that made them smile.
Now he studies her for a long moment, just her profile etched against the early afternoon sun, pointed stick in her hand.
You want to know what I see when I look at you? He asked her that the night of the storm, standing on the damp sand of the beach watching the angering water curl onto the shore.
I see Mark's hands. He told the ocean instead of Addison, I see Mark's hands all over you and I see what you were doing when I walked in on you. And I hear you … saying his name.
His words echoed in that salty air before their late-night journey across Three Rivers, harsh and low. He wasn't lying. A part of him said it to hurt her, maybe, but it was truth too.
It was also several days and a lifetime ago.
He's not quite sure it's true anymore.
He's fairly certain he's not sure what's true anymore.
That's when he realizes he's holding her hand, not quite certain when that happened, and that his fingers are moving absently within and around hers. Addison glances at him, then back at the sand – and hefts the stick, just a little, as if she's about to write something.
But a gong sounds across the sand before she can: the bell, calling them for dinner.
.-.-.
The hearth is bustling, excited blond children climbing over the log benches until they're shooed away, the younger adults nearly as energized.
"Fireworks," Bos says, approaching with tin bowl in hand. "You can always tell when it's a fireworks night."
Derek looks around as a buzz seems to run through the gathered relatives.
"Addie knows," he says. "Right?"
Next to him, Addison nods.
"Mama loved fireworks," Bos says. "When she and Aunt Cee were girls they'd set them off down the beach. Apparently Mama was convinced Catherine Wheels were named for her, and their daddy found Cecilia crying because she didn't have her own firework. You know what he did?"
Derek shakes his head.
"Named another firework after her. Bottle rocketswere Cecilia Rockets from then on." Bos grins. "Those two had Granddaddy wrapped around their little fingers. There was nothing he wouldn't do for them."
Derek smiles at the image.
"You'll see," Bos says, nodding toward the throng of blond children gathered at the hearth; Derek knows his twins must be somewhere the group. "It's always the way."
.-.-.
Island stew consumed, dishes stripped and carted to the warehouse, embers down to a rough glow at the hearth, it's apparently time for fireworks. They gather in a clearing Derek hasn't seen before, flat and smooth. There are numerous stones serving as backless seats, longer stone benches, and further back a ringed firepit that's a smaller version of the hearth. The fire isn't lit; its stone belly is filled with what look like paper lanterns instead. They give a soft, slightly eerie glow.
Derek watches as the smallest children – mostly babies, mostly sleeping by now, are settled around the hearth with doting relatives.
He turns back to the clearing, noting that there are more lanterns than he realized – they're strung in the trees, looped like tinsel, dripping white light onto the clearing.
"They'll go out on their own," Savvy tells Derek, apparently seeing him looking.
"When?" he asks.
"When they're ready," Savvy says, as if that's a perfectly normal answer. Addison shrugs at his side. They make their way along the clearing. In a central ring, a good distance from the trees, Beau is setting up children with fireworks.
Derek listens as he recites instructions and makes the children repeat them.
"All right. Stand back from whoever's got the sparkler and keep your eyes open, all of y'all. You hear?"
There's a generous chorus of yes, sir and a lot of nodding blond heads.
"Have at it, then," Beau says.
The adults are spread out, some at the smaller hearth with the tiniest children, others perched on the rocks or lounging against lantern-lit trees, chatting. Beau strides toward them, giving Addison a kiss on the cheek. "You look like you're feeling better," he says.
"I am."
"Good," Beau says. He watches the children for a moment, hands on his hips. Derek watches too, as a small blond boy moves away from the group, and then –
with a whoosh, the sparkler lights up, the children crowing with delight.
"Island rules?" Derek asks, raising his eyebrows, when Beau glances at him.
"You never set off a firework when you were a kid?" Beau asks.
Well … going down that road would require remembering who procured the fireworks, showed him how to set them off, and then lied like a champ to his parents about what burned a hole in the door of the garden shed.
So he just smiles weakly. Beau is distracted in short measure by one of his children, and Derek lets Addison lead the way toward Savvy's brother, who's lounging against a tree with some of the cousins and listening to his son, who seems to be making an earnest plea for something.
"…took it," the little boy is complaining as they approach.
"You tell Sissy you had it first, then," Bos prompts, pointing his son in the direction of his twin sister, who Derek now sees is watching from feet away with small hands propped on her hips. "Go on, son."
They watch him pad toward his sister.
"You know how it is with the Beaufort women. Can't let them start pushing you around in kindergarten."
"Not when they have the rest of their lives to do it, anyway," Beau adds, sounding amused.
"Excuse me, we're right here," Cammie cuts in, and the woman next to her laughs.
Derek listens to the murmured teasing, in the rhythm that's started to seem familiar.
Someone passes a flask into his hands. "White lightning?" he asks weakly.
"Not on fireworks night." Bos sounds indignant. "It's hot chocolate," he adds.
"Hot chocolate?"
"Go on, it's not poisoned," Bos says, making it sound rather as if it is. Derek takes a sip anyway. It's thick and sweet and whatever poison it contains is well masked.
Addison takes the flask from him and takes a long sip, smiling when she finishes. "Delicious," she says.
There's a spot of chocolate at the corner of her mouth; he dabs it off with his thumb without thinking, and when she looks up at him – in her flat shoes, there's a tilt of her chin to be eye to eye – there's an expression in her eyes that makes him swallow hard.
Bos clears his throat, and Addison hastily passes along the flask.
"It's good luck," he says. "Hot chocolate. It kind of … cleanses the soul."
Derek considers this. Hot chocolate, another island tradition? It was Addison who suggested hot chocolate could clear the air. I thought that was sage, he said, they were newly minted attendings with flocks of residents. Hot chocolate tastes better than sage, she said. And has better juju? he teased her.
Traditions, it seems, can start in many ways.
Someone passes him the flask again and he takes a long sip. Low stone benches link the trees in this part of the clearing; he settles on the cold flat surface and Addison sinks down beside him.
On the other side of the clearing, bigger kids – adults, whatever they are – are setting off far bigger fireworks, more like the ones off the boat during Catherine's funeral. White starbursts explode overhead, and showers of multicolored sparks rain down to murmurs and cheers from the crowds.
They watch with quiet approval until a sudden cry rends the air, different from the others.
Derek jumps to his feet automatically; Beau is faster, and when he gets to the cluster of children he sees a small blond boy sitting on the ground tearfully, a big wet patch on the front of his thermal shirt. The air smells like damp smoke.
"Isaac fell!" a small child shouts.
"It was the sparkler, but we didn't know he was standing so close," a blonde girl a bit taller than him cries.
"A spark got on him," a boy who looks a little older explains. "On his shirt. I threw the water and put it out, but he was kind of running and he fell."
"Good man." Beau nods. He's kneeling down in front of Isaac now. "Whose sparkler?" he asks, looking up.
The children exchange glances.
"Tucker Collins." Beau shakes his head when one of the boys steps forward. "You never get that close when you're holding a sparkler, you know better than that."
"But I didn't know he was standing so close!"
"You should have checked first. Go sit over there," Beau instructs, pointing to one of the low rocks, "and wait for me."
He turns back to Isaac, who's still clutching his wet shirt.
"I can take a look," Derek offers.
Beau looks uncertain, but nods.
Derek gestures for both of them to follow him out of the throng of gaping children to where it's a little quieter. Lily catches up to them, breathless. Derek sits down on one of the low rock ledges, making himself smaller, as Isaac stands in front of him.
"You got hit with some water?" Derek asks.
Isaac nods. "It was fire before."
"Yeah? That sounds scary."
Isaac lifts his chin as if to suggest he wasn't frightened.
"Can I take a look?"
"Are you really a doctor?" Isaac asks, sniffling a little.
"I really am," Derek assures him.
"Then where's your thing?" He gestures toward Derek's shirt with one small hand.
"My stethoscope?"
"Yeah."
"I left it at home," Derek says. "I mean, I could go back and get it … but it might take me a while to fly all the way back to New York, then all the way back here."
Isaac smiles a little at this. "That's silly," he says. "You can't go all the way back to New York."
"Good point," Derek smiles at him. "So I guess we can live without it for tonight. Okay?"
"Okay."
The exam is quick and the damage minimal – the singed shirt did a good job of protecting his skin. There are bruises forming on his knees where he fell, but the skin isn't broken and he didn't twist or sprain anything on the way down.
"Am I okay?" Isaac asks, wide eyed, as Derek finishes. Lily, who seems to carry whatever is needed, has a dry shirt for her son. He pulls it over his head.
"You are definitely okay," Derek tells him.
He stands up to talk to Beau and Lily.
"Whoever threw the water was fast," Derek reports. "He's more shaken up than anything else."
"Thank you so much," Lily says gratefully.
Beau thanks him too, but his jaw looks set. "That could have been a lot worse," he admits.
"The other one," Derek says tentatively, gesturing toward the boy seated on the rocks. "He's yours too?"
"Tuck? Yeah, he's mine." Beau pauses to stroke the top of Isaac's head before the little boy walks off hand-in-hand with Lily to sit with some of the other women and the smallest children a good distance from the fireworks.
Then he turns to his other son, who is perched solemnly on the rock where Beau sat him, also watching.
"Is Isaac okay?" Tucker asks warily.
"He's okay," Derek says, hoping he's not overstepping.
"You heard the doc," Beau says, seemingly not bothered. He looks down at Tucker. "Are you hurt?" he asks, standing over him with his hands on his hips.
"No, sir," Tucker mumbles, eyes on the ground. Derek notices his two small fists are still clenched in his lap.
"Open your hands," Beau instructs his son. "Tucker, don't make me tell you again."
Reluctantly, he uncurls his fists. Derek checks each palm, seeing the spot where he was likely startled into losing his grip.
Derek turns his small hand gently. It's minor – and could have been far worse – but it's likely to sting. "Does that hurt?" he asks, carefully touching the skin.
"No, sir."
"Good." Derek smiles at him, then glances up at Beau. "Cammie should have gauze and cream in her kit, just to be safe," Derek begins, pausing at the other man's expression. "What?"
"Nothing," Beau says. "I'll go get 'em."
Tucker doesn't make a peep as Derek cleans and bandages his hand, then stands up again. His knees pop faintly as he does so, and he entertains a brief hope Beau didn't hear. Savvy's cousin is older, yet somehow manages to project the image of someone who's never had a cracked joint in his life.
"He's all right," Derek says. "Keep it clean and dry … and away from fire."
Beau shakes his head, thanking him again and then turning to his son. He points in the direction of Isaac, who is now curled up next to his mother in the small stone hearth. "Do you know how bad you could have hurt him?"
"But I didn't mean to hurt him!" he cries.
"I know you didn't, son," Beau says patiently. "Trouble is, that doesn't really matter 'cause you could have hurt him anyway. You can hurt someone real bad without trying, if you're not careful. You're big enough to know that."
Tucker hangs his head. "I said sorry to him."
"Glad to hear it. No more fireworks for you tonight, Tuck, you're done. Go and sit over there with your mama." He points in the direction of the small stone hearth where the smallest children are sleeping.
"But Daddy, I don't want to sit over –" Tucker stops talking mid-sentence, falling quickly silent at the expression on Beau's face.
Beau ruffles his son's hair. "Sass me again and you won't be wanting to sit anywhere at all, you hear?"
"Yes, sir," Tucker says quickly, his small face glum as he heads across the clearing.
Beau watches him go with a look of sheer affection, then seems to notices Derek is still there. "Hellions, all five of them," Beau says, shaking his head. "If it's not one, it's the other."
"Even Avery?"
"Oh, Miss Avery's the worst offender, and none of the others'll turn her in either." Beau smiles. "Thanks again for what you did for Isaac, by the way."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. That one doesn't like doctors. Had a few problems when he was Avery's size – he's fine now, but I guess he remembers because I've seen him holler just waiting for a shot. You have a real hand with kids." Beau glances at him. In the low light, his face is open and even friendly. With none of the contempt Derek has grown used to seeing on the other man's face, Beau's resemblance to Savvy is clear. "I know you have a pile of nieces and nephews," he continues. "Addie said."
He takes a moment to think of his sisters' children, almost all of them born after Addison joined his family. It was always ours, never mine. They were DerekAndAddison's nieces and nephews.
"You grow up in a big family too?" Beau asks.
Derek nods. "The reverse of yours, you could say. I was the only boy of five."
Beau whistles. "Four sisters?"
When Derek nods again, the other man shakes his head.
"That's a lot of women," Beau says, sounding very serious. He claps Derek warmly on the shoulder, surprising him. "I'm grateful," he says, before heading toward the hearth.
.-.-.
He's still musing on Beau's friendliness, as well as his particular brand of wisdom, when Savvy approaches him.
"Derek … can I talk to you for a second?"
He nods immediately, a little surprised, and lets Savvy lead him toward a patch of lantern-lit trees.
"Beau was singing your praises," she says, smiling when Derek raises his eyebrows.
"All for putting a bandaid on his son?"
"You know Androcles and the Lion…"
Derek nods. He gets the sense Savvy has more to say, and when she inhales audibly he prepares himself.
"Derek … Addie talked to you. Today, I mean."
"Yeah, she did."
"About … "
"About last time," Derek says, "and then this time too."
Savvy nods. "So you know."
Derek nods. "I know."
Savvy's lower lip is caught between her teeth. She looks troubled.
"Sav?" Derek prompts.
"I know she wouldn't have said this, Derek, but I wanted you to know anyway – that it was my fault."
"Your fault." Derek's brow furrows as yet another person tries to take responsibility for another man's actions. "How is it your fault?"
"I got so caught up with Weiss. Addie and I were inseparable for two years. We slept in the same room…"
Her voice trails off.
You know I don't like to sleep alone.
It was a peculiar fact of Addison's childhood that as much as she was, in many ways, neglected, left to her own devices – it was in a house full of rotating staff and activity, and she had her brother. The two years after Archer left for college and before Addison left were, he knows, some of the loneliest of her life.
Some of…
He winces a little at his own phrasing, and he can tell from Savvy's expression that she has some idea what he's thinking.
"We were inseparable," Savvy repeats after a moment. "Addie and I. We didn't even have time to date those first years, not really, and then … it just happened so fast, you know? I fell so hard, and as much as I loved Addie I couldn't stand to be away from Weiss." She looks a little embarrassed. "I was young," she says, somewhat apologetically. "And I got caught up, but I should have been more sensitive. I should have tried harder to include her … maybe she wouldn't have kept going back to him."
"It's not your fault, Savvy. It's his."
She doesn't look convinced.
"Look … you were in college twenty years," Derek says, shaking his head. "You were a teenager. But I wasn't. Two years ago, I wasn't. What's my excuse for checking out?"
Savvy doesn't say anything, just looks at him.
"I don't have one. I just – didn't realize how bad it was," Derek says after a moment, answering his own question. He's remembering, turning it over in his mind, but not blaming, and hopes Savvy will perceive the difference. "Weiss didn't tell me how bad it was. It's not his fault," he adds hurriedly. "But when he called, that night, I thought Addie was just …"
"Drunk, and looking for your attention?"
Derek glances up.
"People don't change much," Savvy says softly. "You know? We just … sometimes change our reactions to them. That's what I think, anyway. And there was a time … maybe … when you would have come home for that?"
Slowly, Derek nods.
They're both quiet for a moment, watching fireworks light up the sky.
"I'm surprised you don't have more injuries," Derek says lightly, "with toddlers setting off sparklers."
"Careful now, you'll get Yankees banned from the island entirely."
A shower of red and blue sparks descends on the horizon, replete with ooh and ahh from the surrounding spectators.
"Thank you, for taking care of her that night," Derek says quietly, "and … the nights after."
Savvy's expression proves she knows what he means. "I didn't do it for you," she says, her words the same as her husband's the other day but her tone far more gentle.
"I know," he says. "And I know I don't have to thank you for loving Addison, you've been doing it longer than I have. I'm just, uh, I'm glad you did."
"So am I," she says simply.
Before he can say anything else, one of Savvy's blonde cousins – Millie, he thinks, though in the lantern-lit darkness it could be pretty much anyone – appears to pull her off. Derek is left standing on his own watching the fireworks, thinking about that night two years ago.
Addison knew he answered the phone, but she didn't know what he said.
Weiss never told her.
He never told Addison what he said, that night. Weiss, in his way, was protecting him. He'd probably say it was Sav he was protecting, Addison too, but Derek lets a little gratitude weave into his guilt.
"Are you done impressing the Beauforts?"
He looks up at the familiar voice. It's Bos's husband, Casey. He sounds calm, amused, as he leans against the tree.
"Impressing them?" Derek's eyes widen. "They've just started to tolerate me."
"I don't know about that. Crossing Three Rivers, fishing with the guys this morning, patching up the kids tonight … you've been a regular hero."
"Don't worry," Derek says, "I'm sure I'll do something to change their minds soon."
"You're leaving in the morning, aren't you?"
Derek glances at the other man; it's not quite bright enough, in the shadow of the branches, to read his expression. Slowly, he nods.
"Well, then. Not much time left to change minds."
.-.-.
"Is your husband a pediatrician?" Cammie asks, shifting her sleeping toddler to her other hip.
"No. He's just – good with kids," Addison says, resting a hand on the smooth trunk of the tree.
"He sure is. Isaac's a sensitive one too." Cammie glances at her. "But y'all don't have …"
…children.
"No," Addison says, smiling briefly. "We don't."
Cammie just nods, and Addison is glad she doesn't make some kind of crack about how lucky the Shepherds are to be able to sleep at night or offering them one of her own handful of rosy blond offspring.
"You're leaving in the morning?" Cammie asks.
"Derek is leaving in the morning," Addison says, keeping her voice even. "I'm, uh, planning to stay a few more days to help Savvy."
"Right. That's nice of you."
Derek is leaving in the morning.
She knows this; it's her travel agent who booked the ticket and Addison who planned the routes. Derek will be ferried across Three Rivers with Augie and her family – Beau at the helm maybe, and Captain Eaves will be waiting at Beaufort Grove to fly them to Charlotte and Atlanta, respectively. It's simple logistics: Derek is leaving the island tomorrow, and Addison is staying until Sunday.
It's simple … and it's not.
Cammie is looking at her with a curious expression, and for just a moment Addison entertains the shameful thought of asking him to stay.
After how he put aside her betrayal to take of her, here on the island, can she really hurt him once more with her own selfish needs?
For just one more moment, she closes her eyes as fireworks explode behind her lids.
Don't go.
She recognizes his footsteps before she opens her eyes.
"Thank you, for this," Derek is saying as he approaches, handing Cammie back her first-aid kit and smiling briefly at Addison in greeting.
"It's getting a good run this time," Cammie observes. She hefts the kit onto her other hip. "Let me see if I can hand off this one," she says.
"You were great with Isaac," Addison tells Derek once they're alone and she's assured him she feels all right.
"He's fine," Derek assures her. "One of the others threw water on him right when it happened – knocked him over, but put out the spark."
"What about Tucker?"
"He must have been surprised when the spark flew, and held on a little high," Derek says. "Just one hand. It should heal quickly."
They both glance toward the hearth, where Beau is now sitting on the ring-shaped stone ledge with Avery asleep on his knee. Addison can see Isaac seems to be sleeping too, his head in his mother's lap. Tucker is sitting between them, by far the oldest child in the clearing, his face resting glumly on his unbandaged fist. They watch as Beau frees a hand to ruffle his son's mussed blond hair.
"Five kids," Derek says, shaking his head.
"Let's start with one," Addison counters, smiling, and then stops when she realizes what she said. "I mean … a person has to start with one."
"I know what you meant," Derek says. He glances toward the clearing. "Is this the end of the fireworks tonight?"
"After two minor injuries – are you kidding?" Addison smiles at him. "Savvy will tell you sometime about one of the ancestors paddling out to the island to report Atlanta had fallen to the Union and the Beauforts didn't even stop setting off fireworks to hear the news."
Derek shakes his head. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
"I don't know," Addison says. "The island kind of makes you believe in a lot of things."
She hears Savvy calling her name before they can continue the conversation. "You too, Derek," Savvy calls. "You'll miss the best part!"
"We don't want to miss that," Derek teases, and they follow Savvy to the smooth stones that form the front row of the riotous fireworks. Addison ducks under his extended arm out of habit, watching the show with wonder. Almost unconsciously, she finds herself oohing and ahhing along with the assembled Beauforts – and so, to her surprise, does Derek.
His face is soft with reminiscence when she looks at him.
"What is it?" she asks.
"Nothing." He glances back at the fireworks. "I was just remembering that summer we were at Bellevue on the Fourth, working through the night, and we went up on the roof and saw the last bit of the fireworks in the East River. We were a bunch of jaded residents but everyone still did the same thing when the fireworks went off."
Ooh and ahh.
Addison smiles, remembering. "That was so long ago."
They were kids.
Ambitious, sleep-deprived kids, with no idea what was to come.
Derek smiles briefly back at her before turning back to watch the light show. Addison leans against him, letting him support her on the backless rock seats. There's a chill in the air now, but his arm secures her and the steady weight of his body keeps her warm as bright colors explode overhead.
It could be hours later – she's half-asleep, half-keyed-up – when the show dies down and Derek stands up, stretching a crick in his neck. He holds out a hand to help her up, and she takes it.
"Your shoulder," she says, suddenly remembering that she was leaning against the same shoulder he used to shatter open the door at Reeds.
"It's healed, remember?"
I thought you didn't believe in island magic.
But she doesn't say it, just smiles, watching the various Beaufort relatives pairing off, matching up children and parents and spouses and heading toward the cottages.
Beau walks by carrying a sleeping Isaac, a nearly-as-sleepy Tucker hanging onto his free hand. Addison watches as he crouches down, Isaac in one arm, to sling his older son onto his back.
"I hardly ever have to hit the gym anymore," he says with a grin when he sees Addison.
Lily, who's carrying Avery, looks amused.
"I can carry her, Mama." Their oldest, already as tall as his mother, holds out his arms for their youngest.
"Such a gentleman." Lily frees a hand to touch her son's cheek. "I've got her, honey. You and Chris can stay out with the others, but get some sleep."
Addison smiles as the older children make the clearing their own, relishing in their freedom. The island has always seemed to her nothing if not free, free from the constrains of the outside world, from the fears and limitations that always seemed to attend her.
"You want to stay out, Addie?" Derek asks, his tone light.
"Not a chance," she says, and tucks her arm through his, trying not to think how soon the morning is, and that the time for magic may have already run out.
.-.-.
"Now, here I thought we were going back to the cottage. But you always keep things interesting."
She doesn't respond.
"Sav…"
"She told him," Savvy says, still facing the ocean. Weiss watches the breeze lift her long hair.
He doesn't ask who or what.
In a moment, as he predicted, Savvy turns around. Her face is pensive, full of starlight. "He knows. He knows now."
"Finally," Weiss says.
"Finally."
Savvy steps into his arms, wrapping hers around his waist. She fits so perfectly against him, and he pushes out of his head thoughts of her softness, her shape, of what could change. He just holds her, rocking slightly and silently from foot to foot in the sand. Together they watch the ocean move in, and out again.
The waves are loose, unfurling, like they've let go a secret.
.-.-.
"Was it definitely him?"
Savvy glances at her sleeping friend before she turns back to the phone. "She seems pretty sure it was. Said she saw the scar under his eye."
"You mean the one shaped an awful lot like Granddaddy's pocket watch?"
"Bos." She shakes her head even though he can't see it down the phone line. "It's not funny."
"I know that, Sissy." He pauses. "How's she doing?"
Savvy starts to answer, and then stops.
She just shudders instead. Flashes of that terrifying car ride nearly twenty years ago, Addie half stretched out in the backseat while Savvy, Boswell and Weiss took shifts driving. The dark was comforting for its potential to hide them, spring breezes growing warmer as they covered southbound roads – college kids turned fugitives, Weiss wringing his hands over sneaking Addie out of Health Services and Bos close-lipped about what he'd done to that –
Whatever it was, she was certain he deserved it. It was only fear for her brother's future that left her relieved when a whispered phone call just past the Georgia border finally confirmed he had survived.
"Sav…"
"Yeah, I'm here."
Damn portable phones. She's all for progress and Weiss likes to tease her she couldn't survive without her blackberry, but there are times you just need a phone cord to wind around your hand. Times of stress. She nibbles at her cuticles instead, even though she hasn't done that in years.
"Where's her guy in all this?" Bos asks.
"You mean Derek?" Savvy leans back against the wall, deftly avoiding the wedding portrait resting at the end of the occasional table. She doesn't have to pick it up to see it clearly: lots of lace – lots and lots of lace, as Weiss would say, Addie laughing next to her in a sea of ocean-colored ruffles. Augie on her other side like a blonder bookend, one hand propped on her hip. Peonies everywhere. It was beautiful.
"Yeah, Derek."
"He's … at work."
Bos's silence speaks volumes.
"He's a brain surgeon," Savvy offers.
"That supposed to impress me?" Bos's laugh doesn't sound like he's smiling.
"I'm just saying." Savvy sighs. She's not going to try to convince Bos. Not when she's not totally sure of it herself. He'd never buy it anyway: her mama always says Bos has a nose for the truth.
"I know what you're saying, sugar. But wasn't he supposed to be … "
He doesn't have to say it: meant to be.
Savvy sighs. "Yeah. He was."
There's another long silence. It's in these moments like these Boswell reminds her of her daddy. He'd get real quiet when he was thinking hard, but he'd think so hard sometimes he didn't even have to say it.
"All right, Sissy," Bos says finally. "Eaves'll meet us in Charlotte, and … we'll see what we can do."
.-.-.
"He knows," Savvy repeats. "And they talked, Weiss. They really talked."
He cups her cheek. "Sav, if it's meant to be …"
"It is meant to be. You know the island doesn't lie."
"Honey…"
"Don't honey me," she says firmly. "You know it as well as I do, Weiss."
"I just don't want you to be disappointed," he says.
"I'm not going to be. You saw them tonight," Savvy repeats. "They were close. They were – like they used to be."
Weiss nods.
"And Derek, when we talked before – he still loves her, Weiss, I know he does. And she still loves him."
He doesn't say anything.
"If he loves her and she loves him and they actually talked, and they actually heard each other … then there's nothing else in the way." Her voice fades a little. "Right?"
Weiss rests a hand on her shoulder.
"I need some white lightning," Savvy says after a moment, and he can't disagree.
.-.-.
Derek's pajamas are wrinkled.
She takes note of it, files it away for later. With time ticking away, every observation is spoken in silence. If this is their last night together, she's going to remember it.
His pajamas are wrinkled because he never unpacked his suitcase. Because he's used to her doing it for him, and he was too stubborn and angry to let her do it. Because he was proving a point with each crease in the fabric.
He doesn't seem stubborn tonight, or angry. She almost wishes he could be; it might make the lump in her throat settle. It's taking all her waning energy to keep tears back, to keep from grabbing him the way she did in the foyer of their brownstone.
If you go now …
She doesn't wait for him to finish brushing his teeth. She joins him in the bathroom, where the repaired door hangs half open and he's standing quietly in front of the mirror with his wrinkled pajama pants settled on his hips. He gives her a brief, foamy half-smile, the kind that would make her laugh or protest, and wordlessly squeezes a neat line of toothpaste onto her brush.
They stand side by side, brushing their teeth in silence.
If it's their last night together, she should consider a grand gesture. She should – do something, but what she does is the most mundane of nightly routines. Brush, spit, rinse. He reaches out to move some of her hair out of the way so he can lean over and spit out a mouthful of toothpaste. He's been doing that since med school, after they crowded around his tiny student sink one morning and he accidentally spat a mouthful of mint foam into her long hair.
She tastes the words, you're leaving. The word goodbye.
She swallows air too dry for tears.
After their apologies, after their forgiveness, after their meeting in the middle of the chasm that started between them two years ago and fractured irreparably when he walked in on her with Mark.
After her crisis and his unlikely rescue, after the indescribable closeness of the healing spring, after the cradle of the weathered porch swing lulling them into confession.
After eleven years of marriage and less than a week on the island.
After all of that, what's left is just the two of them.
AddisonandDerek.
That's it.
They don't speak in the bed that seemed horrifically small when they first saw the room, but now seems like a yawning gap that neither one can cross. She stares at the ceiling fan, the dangling cord fashioned like a slender metal reed.
The space between them disappears.
She's not sure who moves first, only that she's holding on as tightly as he is. Or maybe he's holding on as tightly as she is. And then he pulls back, his tone alarmed.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No." She pulls him closer again. "Derek … I'm not going to break."
But she's lying.
And maybe she already has.
Silence descends, salty island air blowing through the open windows, the fan circling gently above them. She rests her cheek against his faintly scratchy one; his hair moves gently from her breath as she whispers one last apology.
Don't, he says, so she stops.
She wants to say, don't forget me.
She wants to say, tell this intern she doesn't know, she can't know, who you are, but I hope she's not stupid enough to let you go.
She doesn't dare to want to say, stay.
Don't go.
It would be too selfish, after what she did to him.
He forgave her – she believes that – and maybe, if the warmth of his arms now are any indication, his palm cradling her head like he used to, a part of him still loves her. Or loves what they had, anyway. Their youthfully innocent relationship. Everything her night with Mark ruined.
She'll mourn him tomorrow, when he leaves, but she can't breathe if tomorrow is real so she pushes it out of her mind instead. There's nothing between them but a breath; his lips are on hers, so gentle and soft she might have imagined it.
"Derek…"
"I'm sorry," he whispers, but she arches her neck to kiss him back, and lets the movement of his lips quiet the racing thoughts in her head the way only he can.
He strokes her hair away from her face, the arc of moonlight crossing their room illuminating his expression.
His eyes look so sad.
Then his lips are on hers again, and she kisses him to keep from crying.
Her fingers tangle in his curls.
She mouths how she'll miss him against his collarbone, he holds her intently and when she pulls him even closer he gasps into her neck.
"Addison."
She ignores him at first, knowing how little time they have left, but he says, "we can't," and she remembers how he objected at first to her getting into the spring for the healing ritual, afraid of infection.
"It's too soon," he says softly.
"It's okay," she tries to assure him, pulling him close again, "the spring …"
"It's not magic, Addie."
She can't counter that.
She can't plead because he's too determined, but even as his ragged breathing evens out he doesn't leave her.
He stays.
He stays suspended over her, propped on his elbows, so that his body covers hers with all of its warmth and none of its weight. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembering him with her other senses: the hollow of his shoulder, the rhythmic sound of his breath, the feel of his faintly scratchy jaw against her hand. He smells like himself but also like the island: reedy and a bit salty.
If this is all she has left, she'll take it.
She can appreciate that it's him. It's Derek, her husband; it's not the stranger in a cashmere coat who pretended not to see her at the Charlotte airport.
If this is all she has left … she's grateful.
The night is long and stretches caramel thin, neither of them – it seems – quite willing to go to sleep. She's reminded of the nights they'd spend together when they still lived separately. They were young and in love and time was still flexible enough that if they didn't close their eyes, they wouldn't need to separate.
Stay, she doesn't say, to the rhythm of his fingers in her hair.
She's not sure who's leading and who's following by the time they slip reluctantly into sleep.
To be continued. Before you throw things, remember that this was originally part of the last chapter. And I don't just say that to remind you how out of control the lengths of my chapters are, but to remind you there's a plan in place. I know sometimes these guys move slowly, or stand still, or step backwards, or shuffle around where we really want them to be. But they're moving. Stick with them, and me, and we will get there. There's still (part of) one more day left on the island together, after all. Reviews feed my soul like hot chocolate and fireworks so please review and let me know your thoughts!