Free Playing for Love at Deep Haven by Katy Regnery

strained, and from his tone, it seemed that hadn’t
changed.
    “You see them?”
    “Not much,” he
answered tightly.
    “Your sister? She’s
good?” asked Violet, taking another sip, relaxing into their conversation as
she remembered things about him, facts and details that had been forgotten for
years. It was like opening up the file labeled “Zach Aubrey” in her head and
finding out it was still full.
    “Cora? Oh, sure.
I just talked to her. She’s a really successful historical architect, like,
restoring old houses and apartments, that sort of thing. She lives in
Manhattan.”
    “Is she
married?”
    “Nah. She just
broke up with some jerkoff from London.”
    “Not a fan of
her boyfriends, huh?”
    “She’s my
sister. It’s hard to find a good one.”
    “Tell me about
it,” she sighed, then realized how awkward her comment was and rushed to say
something else. “I remember her visiting that one weekend.”
    “She liked you.”
    “I liked her,”
said Violet softly. “You said you live in Manhattan too?”
    “I do,” he
answered. “West Village. I rent a place. I’m not there that often, you know? I
tour a lot as a backup guitarist with some of the bands I write for. I can be
gone months at a time. When I’m in New York, I mostly write for Cornerstone
Records. But I’m getting sick of that gig.” He frowned at his Scotch, swirling
it around before taking a sip, then shrugged. “And you’re in Greenwich.”
    She nodded,
feeling unaccountably disappointed that his life afforded so little stability
and, she sensed from his tone, so little satisfaction.
    “How did that happen?”
    “Don’t sound so
shocked.”
    “Vile, you were
all into Allen Ginsberg and Thoreau at Yale. Antiestablishment. Beatnik. You
wore those low-cut ’60s tops that made me crazy. No offense, but it’s hard to
picture you in Greenwich.”
    Those low-cut ’60s tops that made me crazy. He tossed off
that comment like he was remarking on the weather. Her heart skipped a beat and
she felt her face flush, which annoyed her. Greatly. Hugely.
    “None taken,”
she said as tartly as possible, then added, “ Shep and
I lived there together.”
    “How long ago
did you two break up?”
    She took a
bracing gulp of Scotch, still avoiding his eyes, staring at the fire for a
moment before answering. “We didn’t.”
    He practically
bolted out of the chair beside her. “Wait! What? You’re still together? I
thought you said—”
    “He died, Zach. Over
a year ago.” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes.
    “Shit.” Zach
winced, sitting back down and putting his glass on the table. “Violet, I had no
idea. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
    She swallowed
back the lump in her throat and downed the rest of her Scotch in one long gulp,
then held the glass out to him. “It was an accident. A texting kid hit him while
he was walking to work.”
    “Christ! That’s
terrible.” He moved quickly to reopen the bottle of Scotch and refill her
glass.
    She took another
sip. “Worst day of my life.”
    He stood in
front of her for a minute, across the coffee table from her, and she knew he
was trying to figure out if he should hug her or comfort her. She hoped he
didn’t. She hoped he did. She was a mess on so many levels. Finally, he sat
back down.
    “You two were
together a long time.”
    “Almost eight
years.”
    “Were you
married?” he asked.
    She shook her
head, biting her upper lip as her eyes welled.
    “Engaged?”
    She shook her
head again, remembering the police giving her the battered little box they’d
found in the park across the street. “Almost.”
    “I’m sorry,
Violet. I’m so damn sorry.” He raised his glass toward her. “To Shep . He was a good man. He was . . . good to you.”
    She lifted her
glass to her lips, hearing the unspoken words in her head as though he’d said
them: Better than I was.
    ***
    Better than I was. That’s for damn sure.
    Zach was genuinely
sorry to learn about Shep