She nodded.
“And you take nothing from me? I keep my house, my business, and more importantly, my dog?”
She nodded again.
“Wow, he must have a great job if you’re willingly walking away from everything.” He was pissed. At her. At himself. At the whole situation. When she’d left, they’d both been angry, bitter—he more so than her because he couldn’t give her what she wanted, a child. And now, after months of haggling and unnecessary payments to lawyers, she was walking away. He should feel relieved. A huge weight was being lifted off his shoulders, but his feelings were different. Sitting there, he saw another side of the woman he’d once loved. A side that made him ill and elated all at once.
He picked the papers up and looked at Rachel. “Do you have a pen?” As if she’d known the question was coming, she handed him one, and he scribbled his name on the pages marked by the yellow flags stating, “Sign here.” When he was done, he gathered the documents, tapped them a few times on the table, and slid them back into the envelope. “Now what?”
“Now, I take them to the clerk’s office for filing.”
“When?”
“Well, I have to meet with my wedding planner—”
Again, he held his hand up to interrupt her. “I don’t care about your future wedding plans. I’ll file them today.” He placed the envelope on the vinyl bench next to him, out of her reach. He wasn’t going to wait for her to file the papers. He wanted the clock to start ticking down on their ninety-day sentence. He sat there and let the moment wash over him. He was free. His obligation to Rachel was over, and that made him smile.
He was also hungry, and his food was getting cold. He pulled his plate toward himself, picked up his knife and fork, and sliced through the eggs and hash browns, letting the yolk seep into the fried potatoes. He added ketchup and mixed everything together. This was his favorite part of breakfast. He intended to eat heartily, to fill the silence that lingered between him and Rachel and his thoughts with food. After two bites, Rachel had other ideas.
“Do you have anything to say?”
“About what?” he said, his words muffled by his mouth partially full. He signaled for Peggy, who strode over to their table.
“What do you need, sugar?” she asked, smiling at him with her back turned to Rachel.
“A Coke, please.”
“And I’ll take more coffee.” Rachel held up her cup, but Peggy never acknowledged her.
“She doesn’t like me much.”
He shrugged and jabbed his fork into his pile of food. “The people of Cape Harbor take care of their own. You know that.”
“I tried, Bowie. I really did. It’s just that there were things missing from our marriage. Desires and needs that I have.”
Her words pissed Bowie off. He slammed his fork down onto his plate, and Rachel jumped. He gritted his teeth and somehow got out, “You,” before Peggy was back at the table with his Coke. He downed it, threw his napkin on the table, picked up the packet that contained his freedom, and stood. “I can’t believe you. You didn’t try—you quit.” He threw a couple of dollars on the table and strode out of the restaurant.
He had fought for her, begged her. He’d cried when she’d told him she wanted a divorce, promised to change, be a better man, but none of his words had been good enough for her. She wanted more, and he couldn’t give it to her. Even through his ire, he knew he was better off without her.
He shut his truck door with such vigor that Luke cowered in the far corner of the passenger seat. He had never laid a finger on his dog, other than to love him, and the sight of his faithful friend showing fear broke his heart. He had to pat his leg a few times to coax Luke over to him, but once the dog finally obliged, Bowie wrapped his arms around his scruff and buried his head in his fur. Luke brought him a sense of peace.
The shrill sound of his phone jolted Bowie away from Luke. He pulled his cell out of his pocket and checked the caller ID, thankful it wasn’t Rachel calling, but his secretary, Marcia. “Hello?” he answered gruffly as he tried to clear away his emotions.
“Bowie, have you heard the news?”
He shook his head and peered out the front window of his truck, hoping to see something that would answer her question. “Um . . . no. What’s going on?” he asked, straining his neck to try to look down the road, eager to figure out why she had called.
“The inn.” She paused. “They’re reopening.”
He went silent.
“Bowie?”
“I’m here.”
“Mrs. Woods phoned. She would like for you to handle the construction for the renovation.”