She blinked, and a tear fell from her wet lashes. “I suggested that a long time ago. Now . . . I don’t think I even want to bother with the work. What he’s done . . . what he’s doing . . . how he’s hurting not just me but the kids . . . well, I hate him. I wish he would just go. Far, far away.”
I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t an expert on marriage, but I could listen. Try to understand.
But Victoria didn’t say anything more. Just dried her eyes. “I’m sorry. This is not what Pickwick meetings are for.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Remember when Andrew Landry kissed Monica Greenleaves behind the middle school bleachers? It took a few Pickwick meetings to get through that one.”
She smiled. “I had fallen head over heels for that kid. What a wreck I was.” She sighed. “If only my problems were so small now.”
“How are Caden and Maddie handling things?”
“Caden can sense something is off, but he doesn’t really know yet. Maddie seems to know all too much, and she’s chosen to blame me.”
I opened my mouth, but again words failed me.
Victoria closed her laptop. “I’m sorry. I can’t write right now. Maybe never.”
While the stresses of life had broken the dam for my words, it appeared they did the opposite for Victoria. I thought of Johanna Bancroft’s book of poems. “I’ll be right back.” I ran upstairs to my room and scooped the book off my desk. I’d packed it carefully in my bag before leaving Orchard House for the day, planned to look at it before bed. Now, though, it seemed right to revisit it with Victoria.
She blinked when I came down the stairs with the book in my hands. “You took it with you?”
“I did feel kind of nervous, but you told me to keep it safe.”
Her mouth tightened into a thin line. “I suppose I did.”
I slid my chair over to hers. “Read me the first poem.”
She carefully flipped past the dedication we read earlier to the first verse. The paper was decently preserved, just a bit brittle at the edges. When she opened to the first poem, she dragged in a quivering breath, though I couldn’t be sure if it was lingering emotion over our talk about her marriage or the expectation of reading the words within the little book.
TRUST
Standing on the edge
Of the pier,
Years and tears aching
to flood the bay,
Asking—no, begging God for a sign,
Should I leave or should I stay?
A sailless boat drifted by,
“Trust me” on its side.
I unfolded myself, and
what was there spilled out and
Splashed against the side of the boat.
I was sucked underneath,
Dark and drowning and unable to shout,
The light of the surface out of reach.
A hand reached down
And held my own and
Whispered, “Trust me,” to me alone.
Was I lost and now am found?
Who am I that I did not drown?
“A hand reached down . . .”
“Sounds like she’s been through a lot,” I said when Victoria had finished reading.
“Or it could have nothing to do with her. Does every story you write reflect your life?”
No, I supposed it didn’t. But every story I wrote had a piece of myself contained within. Readers usually couldn’t guess which part it was, but it was tucked there, within it all. I wondered what part of Johanna Bancroft’s self was tucked within this poem.
I went to my laptop, googled Johanna Bancroft’s name. No results that would have indicated a historical Johanna caught my eye in the first couple of pages. I tapped my fingers on the table. “Hmmm . . . didn’t the dedication say something about a John? It sounded as if both Louisa and Johanna were close to him or at least knew him.”
Victoria pulled her legs up onto the chair, crisscrossing them. “The only John I can remember is Louisa’s brother-in-law, Anna’s husband. John Pratt.”
“Maybe this woman was involved with him somehow?”
“Involved? Let’s be careful what we’re insinuating here. These were people—real people, no matter how long dead. We don’t have any reason to assume that John was unfaithful to Anna. From what I read, he was one of the few men Louisa truly admired.”
I thought to defend myself. Seemed to me Victoria was being a bit too touchy about my word choice. Again, I wondered if what she and Will were going through was beyond fixable. With some effort, I let it go.
“Maybe a sister, then? Surely we can trace John Pratt’s ancestry?”
Victoria nodded. “I have entire files at work. Anna and John’s ancestors are still in town, too. I’ll look into it tomorrow.” She stretched. “I’m beat right now. Think I’ll call it a night.”
I tried not to show my disappointment, tried not to be disappointed. How had I gotten wrapped up in all of this, anyway? I’d come here to see Lorraine, to give myself some sort of peace. Instead, I was getting drawn back in. I was letting things like Pickwick Clubs and mysterious old books take precedence above my deadline, my boyfriend, my whole life in California.
I thought of my brief conversation with Kevin before supper. There’d been nothing wrong with it, on the surface anyway. He didn’t seem to be holding any hard feelings over my not wanting him to come to Massachusetts, was already planning his next trip surrounding a big story his editor had in mind for him.
He seemed great. And I was great without him. Why, then, did that bother me?
I never wanted to be tied down to another person. After Will, after the Bennetts, I didn’t want to depend on needing anyone that much again. And I thought I’d gotten past it. And yet, had I? I was here, home, feeling like things were heading in a decent direction. I was actually enjoying my time here, felt it was good for something deep inside me. Why was I so against Kevin playing a part in all of this?
I said good night to Victoria and turned back to my computer screen.
The dishwasher running in the kitchen sounded familiar. Too familiar. I stood up, a sudden need to run taking over. I slipped my laptop into my bag and grabbed my purse and keys. A little distraction would be good. A change of scenery. I needed inspiration, and I wasn’t sure I could get it here.
I drove into downtown Concord and parked at one of the meters. The library closed in half an hour, so that wasn’t an option. I found myself wandering toward Main Streets Cafe. I told myself it wasn’t on purpose, but it was.
The story I was writing was close to home, maybe too close, and for the first time I was letting myself go there. For some reason, I knew being here would help.
Again, Luke’s and Victoria’s words jumbled in my mind, making a peculiar hodgepodge of inspiration.
“Work it out in your story.”
“Write your story and make something good come out of it.”
I entered the café. They’d done a few updates, and it suited the place. I went to the counter, ordered a decaf coffee, then found an out-of-the-way corner table and settled in.
Within minutes, the words were flying onto the screen with little effort. I couldn’t remember the last time my fingers had trouble keeping up with the story in my head. What was more, the story was good. Very good. And I didn’t usually feel that way about things I wrote, at least on the first draft. But this, giving myself fully over to whatever had been stirring within me for sixteen years now, maybe longer . . . there was a strange sort of release I felt within my being. A release I found surprisingly satisfying.
“Well, I guess some things definitely change.”
I looked up, blinked, forced my mind from the story I’d been completely enthralled in to see someone who too closely resembled one of my characters.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Same thing as you, I guess.” I noted the small workbag Will held. “Was just finishing up, actually, grabbing a coffee for the road when I saw you over
here. The words come a lot easier than they used to, huh?”
I shut down my computer. “Yeah. I guess they do.”
He shifted from one foot to the other, Styrofoam coffee cup in hand. Being with him in this place after I’d just been totally immersed in all the emotions this story brought up within me was too much. Too strange.
“Could we take a walk?” he asked. “I mean, if you have more writing to do, I can wait a bit, but I thought this might be a good chance for us to catch up.”
I tapped my long-empty coffee mug on the table. “I don’t really think that’s a good idea.” Considering our history, considering I was finally making some progress with Victoria, and considering what she had just told me about her and Will being on unstable ground, I didn’t think it wise to spend time with her husband—my first love.
“Taylor . . . please?” He looked so vulnerable then, so entirely innocent. With the single look I remembered why I had fallen for him in the first place. His many faults seemed to fade against the many good qualities I’d known him to have. I wondered if maybe Victoria hadn’t been simply looking for sympathy earlier. He’d been to war after all. Quite likely I was the one who had sent him there. Marriages had rough patches. She could be difficult. Maybe she was just as much at fault over the divide as he was.
I released a long sigh and closed my laptop. “Maybe just a short one.”
He grinned. “Great. Thank you. I don’t take this lightly, believe me.”
I shouldered my bag, placed my mug in the spot for dirty dishes, and followed him outside. The cool night air nipped at my skin and I zipped up my sweatshirt as we headed farther down Main Street. In the distance, the library lights had dimmed. My laptop bag gently slapped my side as we walked in silence. I refused to be the first one to break it.
“Victoria told me you’re a hotshot writer now. New York Times bestseller list and all that.”
I shrugged. “It pays the bills and apparently it’s something I’m good at.”
“I’m happy for you, Taylor. It’s awesome your dreams came true.”
I kept quiet for a moment. Really, I didn’t want to feed into the conversation at all. Better to discourage him, to end this time together.
But he didn’t speak anymore, and I began to feel rude. As much as I hated to admit it, I wanted this time, small as it was. While I didn’t allow myself to daydream about Will often, there’d been moments in the weeks after I’d left that I had done so. I’d imagined him finding me, explaining away what I’d seen with my own eyes. Years later, I would imagine a conversation that went something like what we were having now.
“How about you? Victoria said you’re a hotshot engineer. Are all your dreams coming true?”
I gave him a sidelong glance and a small smile, an attempt to keep the conversation light. He returned the look, but the intensity of his gaze beneath the streetlamps was anything but light. “Almost all of them.”
Fire erupted inside me, threatening to scorch my insides. I couldn’t pretend his words meant anything other than what they did. There was no mistaking the intention behind them.
But whatever he wanted to imply, it didn’t matter. For their sake, I would not hurt Victoria—or myself—something I wished she had spared me all those years ago.
I did an about-face. “I have to go.”
He grabbed my arm. “Taylor, no, wait. Please. I’m sorry. I have things I want to say to you, and that—it didn’t come out right.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and he released his desperate grip. I rubbed the place where his fingers had dug into my skin. His rough touch felt as foreign to me as his presence, as the desperation clinging to him. He had changed. Better to get this over with, then. Let him have his say and be done with it. “Okay, go for it.”
He forced a hard, determined breath into his lungs. “I wish I had looked harder for you back then. I should have hired an investigator, tracked you down, tried to explain. But I was . . . scared.”
I ran a hand over the side of my face, could hardly believe we were having this conversation. “What were you scared of, Will?” I couldn’t keep the sarcastic bite out of my tone, the impatience.
“Scared you’d turn me away, never forgive me. I know it sounds lame, but it’s true. So I decided to run too. Only it turns out the Middle East was a bad place to do it. It messed me up, Taylor. When I finally got back, I was sure you’d have come back home by then. I couldn’t wait to see you, to start new. Only you were still gone.”
But Victoria was very much here.
I dipped my head, closed my eyes, imagined him waiting, hurting. My heart thawed just a little. “I should have kept in touch with all of you. I realize that now. I’m sorry for whatever happened to you over in Iraq, I really am. But what’s done is done, and you have a beautiful family, a great job. I think . . . well, maybe it all turned out how it was supposed to in the end. Maybe we’re better off.”
Did I believe that?
“Are we?” he asked, echoing my thoughts. “I’ve never forgotten about you. I tried to move on, and in some ways I did, but what if . . . ? I mean, Victoria and I haven’t been doing good for a while now, and I can’t help but think that the root of our problems was our beginning. We were a mistake—I’m realizing that now.”
“I can’t believe you,” I whispered.
He swallowed. “I’m not happy, Taylor.”
My emotions swirled within me. This was so low—like nothing I expected from the man I used to love. And at the same time, a horrible part of me relished his words. That he regretted his decisions, that he really had loved me all along.
I stomped that part down. I was an awful human being. Victoria . . . poor Victoria.
“There’s more at stake here than your happiness,” I said. “You think we can go back and undo all these years, pretend there’s a second chance? Will, I don’t even want a second chance. I have my own life now. A life that, for the most part, I love.”
He stepped closer, undeterred. “But something’s missing for you, too. I know it is, because I know you. I can see it. I saw it right away in the kitchen that morning.”
I tried to tell myself he was wrong. That my life was complete, that nothing was missing. He was trying to manipulate me—something I never remembered him doing but something he seemed to be skilled at now.
And maybe he was right. Being back in Massachusetts did make me realize that there was something missing. I’d thought it was family. But being in this place with Will, remembering what we had, the realness of it . . . was that what I’d been missing all along? Had that entire day—him kissing Victoria and then me running away—simply been one horrible mistake?
He stepped closer, his presence taking up every space and corner of me, if only for a moment.
No. Even if this was some awful mistake, there was no way something good could be birthed from it at this point. We weren’t kids anymore. Even if I wanted to—and I wasn’t entirely sure that I didn’t—we couldn’t ignore the misery we left in our wake. We couldn’t cling to selfishness.
“I have to go,” I said, turning.
Again he grabbed my arm, but this time he pulled me against him, pressed his mouth to my own. It was a desperate, hungry kiss and it left me shocked. I pushed at him, frantic.
When I finally broke away, I slapped him across the face. Hard. “That was so out of line, I don’t even know where to begin.”
He held his face with his hand. I found it hard to believe he could be as surprised as he looked by my reaction. “I—you’re right. I’m sorry. I just . . . I don’t know what to do anymore, Taylor.”
I pointed a finger at him, anger bubbling within me. “Fix yourself. Then—if you’re lucky and Victoria doesn’t have the sense to leave you—try to fix your marriage.” I left, walking with forceful steps, praying he wouldn’t follow behind me, glad when there was no sign of him.
When I got in my car, I started it, locked the doors, and put my bag on the passenger’s seat
, my hands shaking. I buried my face in them, didn’t bother stopping the tears that came forth.
He’d messed with my emotions, that was for sure, but more than anything I felt terrible about that kiss. Was I at fault? While I hadn’t been the one to initiate it and even did my best to stop it, if I hadn’t agreed to the walk in the first place, it would have never happened. I let him open up to me. I never should have allowed vulnerability, for either of us.
I’d have to tell Victoria. There was no way I could keep this information from her. Right when things were starting to look up between us, too. It would hurt, and she might not even believe that I was innocent, but it didn’t change the fact that I hadn’t made anything better by coming here.
It was a single kiss, all those years ago, that had changed the course of my life. How would this one change the course of Victoria’s? Victoria, who was in a marriage with two children? I had to admit, the long-ago transgressions of my sister looked paltry beside what I’d done this night—potentially propelling a marriage and family into ruination.
I put my car in drive and headed toward the Bennetts’, thinking that the sooner I went back to California and Kevin, the better.
I wiped away the last of my tears as I pulled into the Bennett driveway, trying not to see ghosts of sixteen years past in the shadows my headlights formed in front of the garage.
I did not wish I was with Will. This night had cemented that in my mind. While old regrets had tormented me for years, the last hour had closed out a very long chapter of my life.
Will was not the same man I’d fallen in love with. And even if he weren’t my sister’s husband, not for one minute would I choose to be with him today.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The love of one’s neighbor in its widest sense [is] the best help for oneself.
The Orchard House Page 17
