When he finishes, I feel as exhausted as he looks. The room, which seconds ago was filled with anger and adrenaline and pain, now feels empty. As if a great wind came through and wiped all the emotion away.
I scoot closer to take his hand in mine. It’s cold and clammy. “I’m sorry. I should never have made assumptions about you and your past.” It’s the strongest I’ve ever felt an apology. If I could write it with stars and display it for the world, I would.
He levels a look of half frustration, half disbelief. “Haven’t you heard anything I said? You never ever have to apologize for being honest. Not to me.” He slides his thumb over my skin, and for the first time I truly understand him. And for the first time, I think there might be one man out there who is genuinely trustworthy.
I move to let go of his fingers when his grip tightens slightly.
Those incredible brown eyes penetrate deep inside my chest. “I’m sorry you were raised by scumbags.”
Maybe it’s the release of so much emotion, or maybe it’s just the matter-of-fact way he sums up my miserable childhood, but his words break some kind of barrier inside. I feel the giggle in my chest first, weak and barely audible, but then it grows, filling my lungs, knotting my stomach. The laughter comes so hard and so fast that I can’t get enough air until I realize I’m not laughing anymore, I’m sobbing. And Dillon isn’t a cushion away, he’s next to me, folding me into his chest, holding me like no man has ever held me before.
And he doesn’t let go.
Not when I soak his shirt with snot and slobber, or even when I try to push him away because embarrassment takes over.
It isn’t until I’ve shed every tear that has been stored away for twenty-nine years that Dillon finally releases me.
“And you thought you were just going to cut some rosebushes today,” I say, wiping my cheeks as if it would help the mess I’ve made. My eyes are swollen, and my hair is doing its best to re-create a character from The Walking Dead.
“Jan . . .” He pauses until I look up at him, and the concern in his eyes nearly makes the waterworks start again. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Rebecca is a fool, and this will be the last time I ever think or ask about her.
I adjust, putting a more reasonable space between us. “Tell me about your mom. The good stuff,” I clarify. “The stuff you like to remember.”
Dillon sighs and leans back against the corner cushion. “She had the best laugh. It was like a giggle that went up and down the musical scale.” The smile that forms on his lips is sad but welcome at the same time. “Even if it wasn’t funny, you’d laugh simply because she’d make you believe it was. And she loved to hug. Me. Dad. Strangers. It didn’t matter. As a teenager, I’d get so irritated by her badgering for affection. And now . . .” He looks down at his hands. “I’d give anything for just one more arm-crushing embrace.” He blows out a stream of air and swallows before looking back up. “What I was trying—and obviously failing—to say at the rosebushes is that I understand why you’re afraid. Belief takes trust, and trust means vulnerability. This past year I’ve felt nothing but rage and bitterness for the storm God put me through. It’s only now that the clouds have started to thin that I’m able to see some of the beauty the rain left behind.”
Heat fills my cheeks when his eyes continue to bore into mine, then embarrassment comes again. I clear my throat and stand before I let myself corrupt this incredible moment of friendship by turning it into something neither of us is ready for. “Are you jumping on the turn-January-into-a-Christian bandwagon, Dillon? Because my aunt has already tried and failed. Not to mention Sandra and Cameron, who has now moved on to bigger and better things. I’d hate to have to run you off, too.” Sarcasm seeps through my words, and yet it doesn’t seem to deter the stubborn man on my couch.
“I’m not exactly the bandwagon type. You should know that by now. And when you’re ready to have a real conversation about faith, we’ll have it . . . without the subtleties.” He stands and stretches. “In the meantime, I still have a mile of roses to prune, and daylight is wasting. C’mon, let’s go.”
I cross my arms. “Is there a please somewhere in that sentence?”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Do I need to remind you how I got distracted in the first place?”
“Fine.” But as much as I huff and puff about being forced to help him, the truth lies just under the surface. Like him, there’s nowhere else I want to be.
thirty-five
A month goes by without much fanfare or upsets. Cameron didn’t tell anyone my secret, so apart from Ralph leaving early whenever he can and floating around like a lovestruck schoolboy half the time, life seems to have fallen back into place as if the ripples of Cameron’s leaving never occurred.
Well, except in one area. Thoughts of him still bring a dull ache to my heart, though it gets a little less painful with each passing day.
Dillon never took the trip to the hunting lease. He said it wasn’t the right timing, but part of me knows he did it so I wouldn’t be alone. I’m grateful, even though he seems more determined than ever to irritate me any time we hang out together, which is a lot these days. Even Mr. Kyle has started inviting us places as though we’re a package deal.
I knock on the doorframe and peek my head into Mrs. Cox’s room. “Sandra?” She’s sitting on her chair, blanket in her lap, listening to some guy talking from her stereo.
Her eyes pop open. “Jan? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” I say and walk toward her chair. “Sorry I haven’t been by in a while.”
She presses a button on the remote in her hand, and the voice fades away. “A while? It’s been three days.” She waves at me with her wrinkled hand. “Come over here. Let me hug you.”
Moments later, I’m smothered against her chest, her blouse soft against my cheek. Her hands, as frail as they are, feel like a vise grip around my shoulders.
She slowly lets me go but puts her palms to my cheeks before I can completely stand. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. We’ve just been busy at the church getting ready for Easter.” I pull a chair over so I can sit closer to her. “How are you feeling? Victoria mentioned you had a cough.”
“Oh, please. I’m blessed,” she says simply and squeezes my hand. “Rachel came by to see me yesterday.” Rachel is Sandra’s daughter. I met her two weeks ago, and she was not only very kind but also told me repeatedly how much her mother appreciates my company. It seems absurd now that I ever thought Sandra wouldn’t want both of us in her life.
“Good. Did her daughter get the part she wanted in the play?”
“We won’t know until next week, but I’ve been praying.”
“I bet you have.” I chuckle at her excitement and point to the remote in her hand. “What were you listening to?”
She brightens, picking up the slim metal device to show me her latest toy. “Rachel introduced me to audiobooks. Now I can read whenever I want to.”
What a brilliant idea. “That’s wonderful, Sandra. What are you listening to now?”
“Oh, it’s good,” she coos. “A thriller where a man wakes up and his entire family has disappeared.”
“Sounds fascinating.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing at her ominous tone. “Well, go ahead. I’ll listen with you.”
Sandra shakes her head and points to the nightstand. “You know the rules by now.”
Of course.
I stand and pull her rugged Bible from the nightstand. We’ve moved on to the book of Romans, and I have an inkling she picked it just for me.
Doreen’s waiting on my porch when I get home and stands as soon as I put the car in park. I push open my door slowly, slightly concerned I’m in trouble since her arms are crossed and she has the same expression she used to get when Isaiah didn’t clean his room properly.
“I’ve been told there’s a person who lives here, but I think she’s a phantom.”
I walk up the steps and
give her a welcome hug. True to her inner fashion diva, Doreen’s wearing a pale green off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater and knee-high leather boots over her jeans.
“Sorry,” I say. “I know I’ve been neglectful.”
“Neglectful? You haven’t been by for dinner in weeks. Not even for my lasagna.” She pulls back but keeps her hands on my arms, checking me over as if I’m a long-lost orphan. “Are you avoiding me?”
“No, of course not.”
Her brow scrunches. “You sure? It seems like ever since you and your mom started talking again, you’ve been slowly pulling away.”
Now I feel terrible. The last thing in the world I want is to hurt Aunt Doreen. “Coincidence. I promise. Work has been crazy.”
“Okay, I’ll buy your I’ve-been-too-busy excuse, but only because I know what it takes to put on a great Easter service.” Doreen follows me inside and scans the small cabin nonchalantly. “One I hope you’re planning on coming to?” It’s only after that last question that she turns and looks at me with feigned innocence. It wouldn’t be Doreen if she didn’t try to slip in an invite.
I smile affectionately. “We’ll see.”
“Well, it’s not a no, so I’ll take it.” She pats my arm. “Now, on to the real reason I came. They’re finishing up the gazebo, and I thought you might want to take a walk with me to check it out.”
“Absolutely.” I toss my purse into my room and grab the extra pair of sunglasses I keep on my dresser. Spring has finally arrived and it’s a beautiful seventy-five degrees outside.
When I return to the living room, Doreen’s browsing the stack of DVDs Dillon left on my coffee table. “Either your taste in movies has drastically changed”—she holds up a 1950s Western—“or I’m in the twilight zone.”
I shake my head. “Those are Dillon’s. The man has an unhealthy affection for bad acting and worse story lines.”
Doreen presses her lips together like she’s struggling whether to say more or not. It’s an odd look for her. She usually speaks her mind without much restraint. “You and Dillon seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.”
“I guess. Why?” I can’t figure out whether she loves or hates that admission, but it’s definitely one or the other.
“No reason.” And just like that, she’s smiling again as if she holds some great secret. I study her with narrowed eyes but don’t press further. Doreen and my mom have polar opposite personalities, but when it comes to keeping thoughts and feelings private, the two of them are experts.
We make our way out of the cabin and down the front steps. “I have an updated venue schedule to give you,” she says. “Now that the gazebo is available, I was able to pull two weddings from my waiting list.”
“I’m sure the brides were thrilled.” Spring in Texas is the ideal time to have an outdoor wedding. The weather is perfect, flowering trees and roses bloom bright, and Aunt Doreen was wise enough to build her ceremony areas behind natural wind barriers.
I study the paper she hands me, scanning the information into memory, and then stuff it safely in my pocket. “There’s some big parties on that list.”
“I know.” She sighs. “I just get so sentimental this time of year.”
“I can see that. The Shepherd-Mackey wedding has over four hundred guests scheduled. And you added a new seventy-five-person wedding party just two days prior? Should be interesting.”
Doreen pauses to look down at me. “How did you . . . ? Never mind.” She shakes her head and keeps walking. “Sometimes I really do envy that brain of yours.”
I hold in a snort because I don’t feel like getting a lecture from my aunt. Since I was a kid and first showed signs of being . . . different, she’s always considered my curse a gift. Rarely do I agree.
Doreen tucks her arm in mine just like she used to do when I was a preteen. “With that many guests, though, I want you to promise me if you ever feel uncomfortable, you’ll come straight to the house.”
I smile. “I will, but honestly I haven’t had any issue with the wedding parties. Everyone’s been pretty respectful of my privacy.”
“Good.” She nods. “I’ve made it clear to all my brides that the walkway to your place is off-limits, so it’s nice to hear that they’ve been abiding by those wishes.”
As we crest the hill, I can see the edge of the gazebo roof. “Oh, wow. That’s huge.” The last time I saw the crew working, they had only a few pieces of wood attached.
“I know. Even with the rain last week, they got it done.”
“Maybe because you threatened their lives if they didn’t have it ready by this weekend.”
“Is that what Dillon told you?” She scoffs. “Not true . . . though I did threaten your uncle with no more cooking if he didn’t light a fire under them.”
“Well, the fire is ablaze.” And it’s no surprise. Uncle Jim is a mild man by nature, but he can turn very forceful when needed. Just ask my two cousins.
She waves off my teasing. “It’s amazing the difference in scale when it’s on a drawing versus in real life.”
Dillon comes into view, standing on the sidelines, directing the last of the work.
“I still can’t believe Dillon designed this thing,” I say. The structure itself is artwork. Ornate carvings along the columns, and the roof beams and decking are stunning.
“He’s a talented young man, that’s for sure.”
We stand in silence for a few seconds, both taking in the beauty around us. “This venue is really something special, Doreen.”
“Thank you. It’s all finally coming together.” She sighs. “I just wish my dad could’ve seen it. And Cassie.”
“Pawpaw would’ve loved it, and Mom . . . well, she’s Mom.” I squeeze her arm tighter when I sense the shift in her mood. “Me, on the other hand, I’ll always consider this place my awakening. I’m not sure if I ever really thanked you for letting me come here, but I’m so very grateful. You’ve changed my life, really.” I shake off an assault of tears that seem to come out of nowhere.
“Not me.” She pats my cheek and keeps her palm there for a few seconds. “The power of prayer, my dear.”
“Do you think that power will ever work on Mom?” Doreen’s been praying for reconciliation for years now, but getting my mom to budge is like trying to turn the Titanic. She all but yelled at me on the phone last week when I asked about opening the easement road between the two properties. A small little request so her only daughter didn’t have to drive a dangerous curvy road at night. Her response: “I’m not letting that woman anywhere near my land. Doreen puts on a big act, but when it matters, she’ll let you down. Just like she did me.”
“Yes, Jan. One day I believe it will.”
I look back at my aunt, her hands linked, her face serene but focused, as if she were in the act of praying right now.
“Doreen, can I ask you something that might be difficult to answer?”
“Sure, hun.”
“Mom made a comment the other day, something about you letting her down.” None of it makes sense. After their mom died, Doreen practically raised my mother. She was more like a parent than a sister, and up until their falling out, I know my mom loved her, even if she didn’t understand or agree with her lifestyle. “Is that what happened at Pawpaw’s funeral?”
Doreen’s face goes ashen, a common response when I bring up the rift between her and her sister. “No. I let her down years before.” She turns and stares out at Mom’s land, and I wonder if she’s going to change the subject like she usually does. “But that day, I finally told her my darkest secret. A regret I’ve carried around longer than you’ve been alive.”
My heart speeds its rhythm. “A secret about Mom?”
“No. A confession to your mom. One I don’t think she’ll ever forgive.”
I open my mouth to ask a million more questions, but fate or God or something else must have other plans, because right at this moment, Mr. Kyle decides to make an unwanted appearance.
&n
bsp; “Well, you ladies are a nice addition to our crew,” he says cheerfully, oblivious to the intense exchange going on. “You ready to be our first guest?”
Doreen turns, and all traces of unease are gone. “Why else would I be here? Lead the way.” She smiles brightly at her husband’s best friend, and I work to mask my disappointment.
Mr. Kyle turns to me. “You coming too?”
“In a minute.” Unlike Doreen, I’m not quite ready to morph into small talk. I face my mother’s property the way my aunt was doing before our interruption and sigh in frustration. I’ve been here for months and that was the most I’ve ever gotten on the story. My next chance will probably be when I’m fifty.
Dillon appears at my side. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look upset.”
“Well, your dad has lousy timing.” I scowl at him. “And before you ask, no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Careful. If you aren’t nice to me, I’ll be forced to remind you that you’re not wearing green today.” He makes a pinching motion with his thumb and forefinger.
I hitch an eyebrow. “You celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day?”
He twists to show me a large leprechaun on his T-shirt. In one hand is a basketball, in the other a pot of gold. “I’ve been a Fighting Irish fan since I was six.”
“That’s pretty bold talk when you live just hours from Texas A&M and Baylor.”
“Exactly, which is why today is all mine.” He tugs my arm. “C’mon, grumpy. I have a surprise for you.”
Darn him. Now I’m more curious than annoyed. “What is it?”
“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”
I roll my eyes but let him guide me to the gazebo. Doreen is walking around the impressive structure, and I can hear her gushing praises. I can’t really blame her—the building is a masterpiece. The structural columns are all made of whitewood that’s been beveled to give it a soft, romantic feel. Inside, a white rail follows the perimeter, its edges perfectly straight, and words have been burned into the wood. I move closer and walk as I read the two sentences that continue around the entire circle.
Love and a Little White Lie Page 23
