Rewrite the Stars Read online

  “Let me see if Frieda has something in the freezer to put on your ankle. I had a sprain once from playing handball and the doctor told me the cold would take the swelling down.” He stood to go look.

  A Ziploc bag of frozen cut strawberries. That’s all there was, aside from loaves of bread and crab legs, in the freezer. No peas, no ice, none of the normal things that usually hung out in freezers. He took the berries and rested them on her naked ankle. She jumped at first.

  “I’m sorry. Let me get a towel to help shield your skin from the cold.”

  “No, it’s all right. Lay it down. I’ll be fine. Trust me, I don’t deserve the towel.”

  She adjusted herself, pulling down the hem of her dress past her knee. Her crying spell subsided once again. Her breathing had equalized and the color of her nose was changing back from red to peach.

  “Oh Lord, how completely embarrassing this is!” She tilted her head back toward the ceiling. “I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking. You and your dad come all the way here to have rest and relaxation and you find a lunatic bawling in a guesthouse that you’re forced to stay in overnight. I can’t apologize enough.”

  “Hey, stop apologizing. I have a feeling someone else should be saying the same thing to you.” He knew Colin was behind whatever was making her sad.

  “No, trust me, this was no one’s fault. I’m just suffering from naiveté.”

  He looked into her tender, painful eyes and wondered whether he would ever be privy to the secret she was protecting now.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  There was a knock on the door of her room. “Come in.”

  Alex stepped inside.

  “I’m sorry, am I keeping you up?” She pulled another tissue from the box on the bed. Thirty used ones peppered the blue bedspread cover. Her nose throbbed, as well as her head.

  “Not at all. But I don’t like hearing a girl cry and not being able to do something about it. Do you mind using me a little and try to talk about it? It couldn’t hurt. I know for sure it isn’t helping by not saying anything. It’s obvious you’re distraught about something.”

  His eyes were full of concern. An easy smile came to his face, velvet and smooth just like the one he flashed her when they first met. She couldn’t decide whether he was sent to her as a gift from her mother or just another Prescott in sheep’s clothing.

  “I really can’t talk about it. But I promise to be quieter in my fits of anguish.” Her eyes felt as though they were laden with weights.

  It was two in the morning and Claire hadn’t been able to sleep yet. Alex’s dad had brought back some leftovers for her and Alex to share. She gave up her portion after stealing a piece of Frieda’s homemade loaf bread. It seemed to be suppressing the catcalls of her empty stomach.

  Alex had helped her to her room, where she had laid on her bed ever since, crying and blowing her nose until her head was popping with the pressure of a shaken Coke can.

  “Can you change the names of the parties involved? Say for example, Jack and Jill? Hansel and Gretel? I don’t need details. I’m pretty good at vagueness.”

  Somehow she doubted changing the names would do anything to disguise who it was. And why was he so interested? He looked as if he would be more interested in stock tips. He had that “booky” look to him. As if he wrote and read contracts all day. Important ones. His designer Italian shoes told her that. He couldn’t have been involved with anything blue collar—his hands were too neat for that.

  “What do you do, Alex? For a living. Other than helping girls in the middle of the night suffering from pity parties?”

  “Okay, so you’re going to distract me with questions about myself, huh? That’s fine. Shall I?” He pointed to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Yes, please. Just don’t get attacked by the tissues.” She moved her legs over and piled the tissues closer to her.

  “I’m an architect, like my dad. He and I are in business together. Our firm is in New York City.”

  “I see.” She tried to focus on him and push away the other thoughts that’d stained her mind. She wondered if “Colin stain” would be easy to get out with detergent and cold water. Or whether it was something that would always remain. Just get a little lighter as the years went on.

  “What do you do, Claire Ashton?”

  “What? Other than twist ankles, and cry like an idiot all night in a home other than her own?” She gave a half smile. “I’m a geneticist. Well, let me correct that. I’ll be one in two short weeks. I just graduated from college.”

  “Congratulations.” He rested his hand on the bed and supported his body. “And how is it that you’ve come to Kelly’s Cove?”

  “Oh, I assumed the Prescotts spoke to one another. You know, mentioned wayward friends who came every summer for a few weeks. I’ve been coming up here with my mother since I was ten.”

  “No, we don’t really talk about guests and visitors. For that matter, we really don’t talk.” His brow raised. “Did your mother come with you this time?”

  She bit her lip to escape another breakdown. Once you slid down the slope of pity, it was kind of hard to stop. “No, she passed recently.”

  He did a face palm. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s all right. How could you?”

  “It’s just that—”

  “You know what? This is going down as the worst year of my entire life. Bar none. I really wish you didn’t have to come into the middle of it like this. I really am an okay person. I mean, I don’t do this at all. I’m the one, like you, who laughs at people who cry at movies. I used to drive Mom crazy, making fun of her.”

  “What can I do to make your year better? Or even now. Just tell me and I’ll do it.”

  He looked so positively sincere when he said it. Leaning in toward her, accidentally touching one of her dirty tissues and not minding in the least. His eyes were engaging…his brow was pensive.

  She was thinking.

  “I just want to have the world feel my grief. You know, like be able to stop it from turning on its axis for a moment and have someone announce in a loudspeaker from space that my life sucks right now.” She picked at the sheet on her bed. “That’s so stupid, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. I could probably go outside and do my best, but then you’d have James, Colin, and that other snooty family probably all call the island police, and—”

  “Oh my gosh, don’t you dare!” She smiled, almost forgetting for a brief second she was lying in a pool of misery.

  “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin and thought. “Has the swelling gone down in your ankle at all?”

  She looked down at it. It seemed normal size, just a little weak when she stood on it a few minutes ago when she used the bathroom. “It’s getting there, I guess. Much better than earlier.”

  “To be safe, maybe I should carry you.”

  He stood and bent over to pick her up.

  “What are you doing?” She pulled back her arms, not going willingly.

  “Trust me?” He paused and looked into her eyes.

  She did. For some reason, she really did.

  “I’m taking you out to talk to the world, little lady.” He scooped her up. She laced her hands around his neck and looked into his eyes with suspicion. He had a strong neck and his jawline was scratchy from having not shaven yet. She sucked in, hoping it would take off a couple pounds of her body weight. His breath was barely labored. At least he appeared to have been carrying a bird and not an elephant.

  They got downstairs where he placed her down on the rug next to the front door and walked to the kitchen. Alexander was awake, watching some infomercial on television. He sat up and turned down the volume.

  “What are you two doing? Alex?” He looked toward the kitchen before settling his gaze on Claire.

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

  “Dad, I’ll be back in a little bit. We’re going to c
atch some turtles making babies on the beach.”

  He’d come into the room holding something hidden underneath his arm. Claire shot him a puzzled look and opened the door. She didn’t remember ever seeing turtles at Kelly’s Cove at night.

  They made it to the beach. Her ankle was feeling stronger now and Alex had borne most of her weight as they walked there through the path of trees. She held tight to his arm and felt comforted by his companionship. At least someone was with her in her hour of deep depression. Surely her mother had sent him, and she was grateful.

  The night creatures were just as loud here as they were at the beach house. The eerie owl sitting among the tree branches called out a few times. She felt him watch them as they walked in the darkness, only a half moon lighting the way. Thick pine needles made it easier to traverse the path.

  “Are there really turtles here? I’ve never seen any.”

  She could see the silhouette of Alex and make out his features in the dim light. And his smell…she could smell him better with each breeze that blew by. It was a worn fragrance of nothing she’d smelled before. Colin had the smell of his deodorant that she would sense every now and then, but Alex had the perfume smell of something a fancy department store would sell behind the counter. The comparison of smells from Colin to Alex was an instant killjoy…a reminder of how much she missed Colin and his familiar smell.

  “I’m not sure, but I hope there are some little turtles. That’d be awesome, wouldn’t it?”

  “Sure. But if you’re not certain there are turtles, what are we doing here?” There was a loud screech in the darkness of the tree line, making her get closer to Alex for protection.

  He took the mystery package from beneath his arm and took the towel off it. It was four dinner plates stacked. He presented them to Claire as some sort of offering.

  “Frieda’s plates? What in the world are you doing bringing them out here? Don’t tell me we’re going to have a picnic or something? Certainly you didn’t see this coming, with me breaking down in my room all night and have something made and waiting out here for us to eat?” Corny, but you never knew with the Prescotts. “It’s an unusual thing as I’m always famished, it seems. But I couldn’t stand eating right now.”

  He hid his grin. “Um, no, this is certainly not a picnic. This, madame, is your megaphone. Let the world hear your cries.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He walked over to the concrete wall that was holding back the erosion from the hill above. The whiteness of it stood out starkly against the dark night.

  “I had a girlfriend once who was big into new age psychology. She’d always have us use these big, inflated boxing gloves when we fought about anything. I felt like a complete moron, but it turns out it helped release my frustrations.”

  “You hit a girl?” She was shocked.

  “No, silly. I knew better than that. I hit the wall. She, on the other hand, hit me. But that’s okay. At least I knew that she knew I was actually there.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Long story,” he said, still holding the plate. “Let’s just say I’m sure it wasn’t me she was thinking about when she was crying into her tissues. It’s my credit cards she was crying over.”

  Claire grimaced. “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s no biggie. I should’ve caught the hint when the second question she asked when I met her was what car I drove.”

  “Yikes.”

  “But enough about me. Let’s let the world hear your cries. Take the plates and crush them into the side of that wall there. I want to hear every piece of porcelain weep as you do it.”

  “I can’t do that. These might be family heirlooms of Frieda’s.” She tried to make out the details of the plate he held in his hand.

  “Trust me. I saw the Pottery Barn logo on the back before I took them. I’ll send her another set when I get home.”

  “You’re sure about this? It’ll make me feel better? It sounds maddening.”

  “Trust me on this. When that thing shatters, you’ll feel the tension drain from your body. If I’m understanding the concept correctly, it might act in the same way as having sex.” He shrugged and his mouth stretched into a questioning frown.

  “Angry sex?” She only knew one type and it had nothing to do with anger.

  “Or something like that. I don’t know. Just throw it. Tell me how it feels.”

  Claire hesitantly took one from his hand. She cocked it back and threw it as hard as she could, sending it into a million pieces when it hit the concrete. It felt good—it actually felt good to hear it break. Something released inside her when it hit. Her breathing felt smoother, releasing toxins when she let the plate go, perhaps.

  She took the next one he had waiting for her. She grinned. “Say, do you have room in your car for one more passenger tomorrow? I think it’s time for me to leave here.”

  He smiled back. “I think I can even find an extra box of tissues for the road.”

  “Let’s hope I’ve pulled my last one out. I don’t know if I have any tears left.”

  She threw the next plate with a vengeance. To hell with all the Prescotts and their secrets and reasons for two people to be kept apart from each other. She might have fallen in love with the wrong guy, but she’d be damned if she was going to stick around to tell it to future generations of them. The heartbreak stopped there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Life Moves On

  Six years had passed since that night Claire and Alex stood on the beach and Claire promised herself she was finished with Prescotts. Little did she know she would turn into one, herself.

  When she returned to New York with Alex, he offered to help her move from her apartment. It was all he could do; she didn’t have anyone else to help her, and he’d felt drawn to her and her vulnerability. As a business proposition, he rented out one of the properties he owned to her, and began visiting more often. At first it was to take her something she needed: a ceiling fan for the bedroom, a microwave for the kitchen, or a bag of pastries for Sunday morning. Soon the errands of goodwill turned into dates. It wasn’t long before Alex had fallen in love with Claire.

  With great care and trepidation, Claire responded to Alex’s affection with an open mind. There was very little to find flaw with. He was kind, loving, and always respectful of her thoughts and dreams. By anyone’s standards, he was the perfect marrying type. In fact, Pam told her if she didn’t marry him, she would. So the following summer after they met at the beach house, that’s what they did—they got married.

  Colin was never very far from her mind. Moments she had to sit reclined in the sink to get shampooed at the salon, she’d think of him. When she stood on the elevator, waiting for her floor to come up, she’d think about him. It wasn’t often she’d go too long without wondering what he was doing. Where he was living, what kind of day he was having, or whether she ever crossed his mind, too. But she kept in touch with Mallory, so it was easy to find out he’d gotten married to Emily and lived in North Carolina. His dad must’ve been very pleased with himself. He was able to secure his future and that of his son’s. All was right in the Prescott world.

  The phone rang.

  “Claire, it’s for you,” Alex shouted out to her from the kitchen.

  Claire put down the glass of juice and walked over to pick up the receiver off the nightstand. “Hello.”

  “Claire, it’s Mallory. Are you busy?”

  “Just getting ready for work. Why? What’s up?” Her friend didn’t sound like herself. There was no small talk. ARE YOU BUSY? Plus, she never called in the mornings.

  “Mom just called. Frieda died last night. One of the neighbors was going to go into town with her today and found her. They think she had a heart attack.”

  Claire sat down on the edge of the bed and gripped the phone with both hands. Her heart began to race. “Did she have a heart condition? Was this out of the blue? What—”


  “I don’t know. I don’t ever remember anything being said of one. I mean, I don’t remember ever seeing her grab at her heart or anything like that. And I don’t recall seeing her ever take pills, for that matter.”

  Thinking back, Claire had seen a mess of pill bottles in the kitchen of the guesthouse. None of the Prescotts ever seemed to have taken concern of Frieda’s health. They didn’t even know her true identity.

  “Come here, Bailey,” Mallory yelled.

  Mallory, after finally getting married to Jason, had two children and she was always correcting them when she talked on the phone. Bailey was her youngest—she was two—and Carson, her son, was four. She lived in the suburbs now, and painted dot to dots with her children. Jason took a job in her father’s company as head accountant in accounts receivables. They both appeared to be happy when Claire would bump into them sometimes, going to Broadway plays. And Mallory never said anything to the contrary when they’d meet in the city for lunch on occasion.

  “I’m sorry, Claire. Hold on a second. Bailey’s walking around here with a fever and chasing the dog. She needs to be resting on the sofa.” Mallory yelled out to her child, again. “Bailey, get on the sofa, right now!”

  “How long has she been sick, Mallory?” Claire took a chance she was done with why Mallory called in the first place.

  “For a day or so. I took her to the doctor. She’d got that hand foot disease, or whatever. Carson had it when he was little, too.”

  “I hope she gets better. Are you going to Frieda’s funeral? Are they even having one for her?” Claire’s stomach felt queasy just talking about Frieda as if she no longer walked the earth. She imagined the time she spent with her in the car and how it was comforting to know she was probably with Buddy Jr. once more.

  “Mom said the service is Saturday.”

  “Is she going?” Claire hadn’t seen Melanie since their talk under the magnolia tree, years ago. Melanie always sent Alex and her a Christmas card but Claire couldn’t bring herself to return the sentiment. Something about feeling like Melanie won at the game of who was going to get Colin.