The Truest Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 4)

Cooper saw and his own glistened, his lips pinching hard.

“I’m so sorry, Coop. I’m so fucking sorry,” he choked out.

“Yeah, I can see that. I’m sorry too. For what happened to Rebecca. For what happened to you.”

Jack gave him a grateful nod, afraid if he spoke, he’d start fucking bawling. He pushed out of Cooper’s house and hurried down the porch steps.

He was just about to get into his car when Cooper called out to him.

Jack looked up to find his friend standing on the porch, a thoughtful frown marring his brow. “Yeah?”

“I can’t make any promises … I … this shit will take time … but … why don’t you come by the bar before it opens sometime. If you need to talk.”

It was a generous offer.

And it made Jack miss his old friend even harder than before. “I might just take you up on that, Coop.”

Cooper gave him a tight nod and strode back into his house to be with his pregnant wife.

His pregnant wife whom Jack knew he partly had to thank for Cooper’s willingness to forgive.

18

Emery

I barely slept that night. I fervently hoped that Cooper had been more receptive to Jack than I had been. Despite my need to protect my heart, I didn’t want him to feel as though he wasn’t worthy of forgiveness.

It was contradictory, I know.

However, as I drove to Ivy’s rental place on Johnson’s Creek, I considered offering friendship to Jack. It meant I could keep my heart safe from him but still extend forgiveness. An offer of friendship would let him know I didn’t think he was beyond repute. That perhaps trust between friends could bloom again.

Like most of Hartwell, the houses on Johnson’s Creek were all white clad with brightly colored awnings and old-fashioned porches. Except most of the houses were bigger than a lot of homes in Hartwell. Moreover, it wasn’t actually a creek but rather a lake.

Like most of South Hartwell, this was where the money was. A few homes on Johnson’s Creek were second vacation homes. Ivy’s two-story house was one of the smallest, even though it was slightly bigger than my beach house. The front faced onto the neighborhood, like most of the houses, and the back faced onto the lake.

I parked on Ivy’s driveway, and she’d opened the door before I’d even put a foot on the porch. To say she was surprised to see me was an understatement. She invited me inside, leading me through an open-plan living area much like my own, and out onto the porch facing the lake. Her house was perched on a slope over the water, and I could see she had her own private dock.

I sighed inwardly at the sun glistening across the water. She and I were both blessed to wake up to magnificent views.

After she returned with a cold lemonade for me, we sat at her white wicker bistro set and gazed quietly out at the lake. People water-skied in the distance.

“So, what brings you here, Emery? Did my mother send you?”

Ivy asked.

I knew she and Iris hadn’t resolved their issues. Although Ivy had stayed with her parents for months after her fiancé’s death, and she’d returned to her parents after Freddie Jackson attacked her in her apartment, there was still an estrangement between them. Mostly because Ivy refused to tell Iris what exactly had gone on between her and Oliver Frost. She’d pushed her parents away before he died, practically cutting everyone out of her life. And then when he overdosed and it was all over the papers, Ivy had returned to Hartwell to hide.

It was a shame. She was a wonderful screenwriter. I’d seen the movie that she won an Academy Award for, and her storytelling abilities were magical. Iris had given me a list of all the films Ivy had written, and I’d loved them. She was somewhat fatalistic but utterly romantic at the same time. It was a compelling combination.

Intelligence and wariness shone in her large dark eyes. I blushed a little under their intensity. Ivy was stunning. Her eyes tilted slightly upward and then narrowed toward the corner. She wore mascara today, making them appear even bigger. Her smooth, bronze skin was enviously perfect, her cheekbones movie-star high, and her mouth small but full. Since the attack, Ivy had cut her long, jet-black hair into a shoulder-length bob that now hung in tousled waves around her face. Iris and Ira didn’t know much about Ivy’s real parents beyond the fact that her mother was Filipino.

If I’d met Ivy at one of her star-studded events back in Hollywood, I wouldn’t have been able to talk to her. She was the kind of beautiful that stopped you in your tracks. And when she was all glammed up, it was intimidating.

Even now, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, there was something untouchable about Ivy.

“Well?” She raised an eyebrow before taking a sip of lemonade. “You’re blushing. My mother definitely put you up to this.”

I frowned. “Why would Iris send me to see you?”