“Please, I don’t want to fight—not tonight. I’ve been so happy all day thinking about this.” She smiled and kissed his lips. “Let’s have a good night.”

He took the glass and a drink from it, trying his best to return her smile. He hated making her unhappy. When Clare was unhappy, the stormy silence could stretch for days, weeks even. He took a deep breath and sighed it out. “You just caught me by surprise.”

She gave him a wicked grin. He could tell she was already half drunk. It was very likely the Silver Oak was not the first bottle opened in celebration. “Of course I did.” She shifted into her coy expression. “Surprises are what I do best. I have to keep you on your toes. Wouldn’t want you getting bored, trading me in for one of your new, young, up-and-coming girl-authors.” She pinched his belly gently.

When Clare had first brought him out to this very spot that was to become the edge of his new home, Simon had experienced a creeping panic that grew with every mile that separated him from the life he had known and this isolated existence. Back then he had held out a small hope that she would grow tired of the idea. A phase. A project to distract her from the pressures of being Clare Collins, but with every step she took, finalizing a design, hiring the contractor, breaking ground, Simon’s hope that she would eventually give up the idea diminished. Brick after brick, one gallon of cement at a time, Clare built the daily existence she wanted. An existence three thousand miles due west from where Simon wanted his life.

He was a New York man, born and bred. He missed the noise, the pulse, the people. Nights out, the subway, the smells—constant activity, the hustle. This life he had now, it was like being trapped on a deserted, albeit luxurious, island.

Simon turned away from the roiling ocean and felt the wind blow hard against his back as he headed up to the house. Clare’s personal pianist, Roberto, was halfway through the last song of his set, the same exact set of songs he always played, per Clare’s request. When Roberto left, that would be a good time to try to intercept Clare. He was hoping to pry her out of the house and into the city for the evening.

By the time he was back inside, through the darkened living room, and up the marble staircase, Roberto had finished playing. Outside her door, Simon couldn’t hear anything; the pianist would be making his exit as soon as he’d gathered his music and packed it away in his satchel. The handle of the door turned, and a beam of light shot through the crack of the open door into the dark hallway, where Simon waited to see his wife.