distraught, I guess. Cindy disappeared not long after that, too. So Dad was never the same.â His face showed the sadness he carried. âThatâs when I was sent off to boarding school in Connecticut. Dad died a few years later himself.â
Annabel took his hands in hers. âJack, was coming back here a bad idea?â
His eyes met hers. âNo. This is our chance to start over. To finally make something of our lives. To become successful.â
âWell,â Annabel said, âto do that, weâll need to honor your motherâs wishes and redo this place like she wanted to do.â
âYeah,â he said, nodding. âThat would be a nice tribute to Mom.â He smiled weakly. âThough, as I recall, Gran wasnât keen on her changing things, either.â
âThe only way to turn this old dump into a moneymaker is to renovate it,â Annabel told him. âThatâs the only way we can become successful here.â
Jack nodded again. âYouâre right, babe. Iâll speak to Gran and tell her sheâs got to let us do what we need to do.â
âThank you, Jack,â Annabel said, reaching up and kissing him lightly on the lips.
The little kiss led to another, and then several more. In moments, they were kissing deeply, the first time in a long time. Annabel had feared this moment, had dreaded the idea of being intimate with Jack again, but now that the moment had arrived, she didnât push it away. She wanted things to be right between her and Jack. Theyâd embarked on this journey together. They needed to be united, committed. They were starting over.
She kissed Jack hard, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
He cupped her breasts with his hands.
In moments, they had tumbled backwards onto the bed. Jack had slipped off his shirt and was now pressing Annabelâs over her head. She felt his hot, wet breath on her neck and shoulder. His hands were now pulling down her jeans. She heard the jangle of Jackâs belt buckle unfastening. Annabel tensed and waited.
But then . . . nothing.
Jack flopped over onto his back beside her. His eyes were staring straight up at the ceiling.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered.
âItâs okay, Jack,â she said.
Annabel didnât know how she felt. Disappointed? Relieved? She reached over and stroked her husbandâs face, but he gently pulled away from her touch.
âI guess Iâm just too . . . I donât know . . . too worked up,â he said, still looking at the ceiling. âItâs all I think about. This has got to work, you know, baby cakes?â
âWhat has got to work?â she asked quietly.
He finally pulled his eyes away from the ceiling tiles and looked at her. â This ,â he said. âThis house. This business idea. This taking over and making it ours.â
âWeâll do what we can, Jack. We arenât miracle workers.â
He sat up, his face suddenly tense. âNo, itâs got to work! I wonât take any failure! I tried so hard with that goddamn book, Annabel. I thought I had the whole success thing figured out. And I failed, sweetheart. I failed!â
âJack, publishing is a tough business. You didnât fail. The company just didnât market your book the way they should have.â
His eyes grew dark. âBullshit. The book was crap. Iâm a lousy writer.â He suddenly grabbed Annabel by the shoulders, making her jump. âThis is my last chance, angel pie. Iâve got to make this fucking guesthouse the most successful inn in all of New England! Iâve got to make us rich! This is my goddamn last fucking chance!â
âJack, putting that kind of pressure on yourself isnât going to help.â
He let go of her shoulders, his eyes narrowing at her. âWhatâs the matter, sweet cakes? Donât you want to be successful? Seems to me, after all youâve been through,
1802-1870 Alexandre Dumas