by Ev Bishop
Yes, this property—River’s Sigh, a romantic name he was sure Jo would like—was smaller than Ray’s acreage and would never be a lodge-style B & B—but maybe it was better? The house was detached from a ring of cabins that ranged from extremely rustic to almost habitable. They could still provide breakfasts, and people would probably love the privacy the separate accommodations provided. And true, there was no direct river frontage—but the river was close. You could hear it mumbling and moving even through the small fringe of forest where he stood, and it was a short, comfortable hike to a rocky beach if you cut across the nearest property—property that was Crown land, so realistically no one would have a problem with him, with them, wearing a trail down to the water. Plus, the grounds were home to a pond and a small creek—a creek with great trout fishing if the kid he’d ran into that morning could be believed. Jo had to see the potential—their potential. She had to.
Callum thought about the years he’d wasted holding onto his fancy house just so Nina wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t live in his dream. And that’s what he should have told Jo—that the reason he thought, no, the reason he knew, she should sell and give Samantha her half and pick a new project was because he had firsthand experience with someone purely interested in money. It was hard to recognize that quality in a person you loved, so of course Jo didn’t see it—and he still called bullshit to her insistence that she and Samantha were alike. He’d been an idiot not to recognize the difference and cling to it right off. It was like being with Nina had scored his eyes, left his vision impaired. He could no longer reliably see what was right in front of him. But now he had seen, or did see—was seeing. But had his reacquired ability come too late? He wouldn’t blame Jo, couldn’t blame her, if she didn’t talk to him again. But he had to try.
He paused by the front porch, again undeniably smaller than Ray’s, but still more than big enough for a hanging swing, and tried to imagine the house from Jo’s eyes. Would she see the battered cobalt blue door as an eyesore or as whimsical? Would she like the new, yet old-fashioned looking multi-paned windows? What about the cedar shake siding? It could go either way: charming—or old and in need of replacing.
And where was she? The thought hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it was possible. . . . She might not come. She might’ve only agreed in the first place to get him to leave her alone. He resumed pacing, hands in his pockets, one fist clenched over the object of his hopes, replaying all he wanted to say over and over again in his head.
And then, finally, tires grumbled and crunched on gravel, and she was suddenly there, pulling up in her old pickup, good old Hoover looking like he owned the passenger seat. Which made sense. He did, after all.
Jo parked by his car, undid her seatbelt, then rolled up a window. It was like she was moving in slow motion.
When she got out of the truck, Hoover sprang down too. Callum was so eager to fix everything between them that he practically bounded over to her.
“Hoover-boy, you have nothing on me,” he said, and reached down to scratch the mutt’s ears.
Hoover gave him a disdainful look, ducked his head, and sidled over to the other side of Jo’s legs. Jo looked as confused as Hoover did about the comment.
So he wasn’t off to the best start.
“Do you want to go for a walk?”
She shrugged and crossed her arms over a shirt he thought was too light for the weather. She was probably freezing. “No thanks.” She turned away from him, looking left, then right. “Nice spread,” she said, but her tone was indifferent—and felt like ice water dumped down his back. Callum tried not to gasp.
Breathe, he commanded himself, just breathe. You can have the mother of all anxiety attacks when she leaves. Be cool till then.
Jo arched an eyebrow. Callum smiled back—or tried to—unhappily sure he looked half-crazed.
“Come on, Callum. Out with it. Why’d you invite me here?”
He motioned toward the house’s bright blue door. “Want to come in, get out of the cold? Have coffee or something?”
Jo’s arms tightened around herself, and she tilted her head and studied him.
“Please,” he said, voice soft. “It’s like I said on the phone. I just want, I need, to talk with you.”
Inside, Jo parked herself on one of the high stools he’d put around the granite topped kitchen island. “Nice kitchen,” she said.
“Yeah, it’s got amazing counter space,” he answered—and wanted to punch himself in the face.
Then he noticed his reply had almost gotten a smile out of her. What other comments could he make about the kitchen?
“I’ve been baking a lot since I moved in.”
Jo nodded, but didn’t look at him. Instead she stretched her arms out in front of her and studied her hands. He was losing her.
He poured them each coffee from the insulated carafe he’d gotten ready earlier and piled fresh cranberry-orange scones on a heavy crockery plate.
She took the proffered mug and wrapped her hands around it, but declined the baking with a small shake of her head. “It looks delicious, but I’m not hungry.”
Callum pulled a stool closer to her, thinking he should’ve suggested they go the living room, sit soft. Had it really been over four months since she’d said that to him? “Callum.”
He set his cup down without taking a drink. “I have so many things I want to say to you, I don’t know where to start.”
“Just spill,” she said. “I’ll wait for you to make sense of them.”
He hated how calm and serene she seemed. He’d wanted her to jump around the place, flitting here and there with idea after idea.
“Most of them are apologies.”
She sipped her coffee cautiously.
“Okay then—first I just need to say I’m sorry for our stupid misunderstanding, my stupid misunderstanding and assumptions, and for my jealousy, and the unforgivably hurtful comments I made.”
“Not unforgivable—but yes, pretty stupid.” She smiled slightly and it made him bold. Too bold.
“Of course you should’ve kissed me back. I wish you would right now.”
Her hand jerked. Coffee sloshed over the side of her mug. She looked away, licking the droplets off the side of her hand.
He pushed on. “And I’m sorry about the sale, the loss, of your Uncle Ray’s. I wish it had worked for me to go into business with you then, when you asked. And more than that . . . I wish I had let you finish before we argued—had understood what you were really asking before I jumped to the wrong conclusion, a conclusion that I should never have arrived at because I do know you, Jo. I do.”
“Then?” She went silent again and stared at the mug in front of her without taking another drink.
“Yes, then. That’s what I’m asking you. I mean this place—that’s why I bought it. For you. For us.”
“For us?” She started shaking her head and only stopped when he touched her shoulder.
“Yes, well, you see . . . I’ve been hoping . . .” It was corny, but he couldn’t help himself. He was corny. He lowered himself to one knee and withdrew the velvet box he’d been carrying around in his pocket for a week.
Jo pressed her hand over her left eye, like she had a brutal headache. “Please don’t do this, Callum.”
“I have to. Then I’ll know I did what I needed to. Was brave when it counted.”
A small tortured sound escaped her, and she bit down on her lip—but at least she was looking at him again.
“Will you marry me, Jo? I know I don’t deserve it, but . . . Lord knows I want the chance to prove myself to you—for life. For our life. Together.”
“I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes.”
He held out the ring case and rested his hand on her knee, thinking, nonsensically, that if he could just touch her, all the things he was feeling, all the emotions he couldn’t quite put into words would somehow transfer from his heart to hers through her skin.
She
slid off the stool like he’d burned her. “I can’t. You don’t get it at all, Callum.”
“What don’t I get?” he whispered. “If you just tell me, I’ll get it.” He didn’t want to beg, but he would if that’s what was needed.
“You were right. That’s what you don’t get—and what I finally do. What did you call me?”
He shook his head, mutely. What had he called her? Something awful obviously—or, at least, she thought he had.
“When you were oh-so-helpfully ‘defending’ me to Nina before our last meeting?”
He shook his head again, and her eyes flashed with the first passion she’d shown that day. Passion against him. He got up from his kneeling position, legs and heart leaden.
“You shake your head, but I can tell you remember. A dreamer who can’t help herself. Who gets carried away. Who feels instead of thinks—”
“No,” he said. “No.”
“Yes, Callum, yes. Those are practically exact quotes.”
He wanted to press his finger against her lips—no, he wanted to press his mouth against hers. He wanted to kiss her until she understood that he was beside himself and had been ever since she returned to town and he’d first laid eyes on her again—and since before that even, since the time she’d first left him. And then he wanted to keep on kissing her until she realized that he’d said all kinds of crap trying to escape what he felt—what he was afraid to feel. And then after that, he’d kiss her still more—until she realized that yes, he’d said the things, but while she’d heard them as insults, he’d meant them as compliments. But the time had passed since he could just kiss her like that and have it be okay. He’d wrecked all that spontaneity. Words were his only chance of redemption—but he was completely bereft of them, too.
“Do you have anything to say? Anything at all?”
He could only stare.
“It hurt to let go of Ray’s, yes—but it was just a place. I can buy another place. I can develop interest in another business. You tore down who I am. You devalued me.”
Come on, man, speak, a voice inside him implored. And how he wanted to obey, to explain that she’d twisted his words, that he hadn’t meant what she inferred—but impact was the consideration these days, not intent. No defense came to him.
“I’ve spent a lot of years of my life—exhilarating years, Callum, but exhausting ones, too—pursuing my dreams. And, contrary to what you obviously think, I’m capable of working toward their fruition. I believed in the power of having a vision—in my work life and in my love life, and I—” Her voice broke a bit and bitter grief rose in Callum’s throat at the sound of it. “I should thank you, Callum. You’re right. A dream on its own is nothing. And I can’t do it anymore. The risk, the pain, it’s too much.”
“But I’m asking you to marry me.”
She blinked and looked away for a moment. When she met his eyes again, hers were dry. “I know you are, but why?”
He forgot he was still holding the ring case and dropped it. The delicate box landed upside down, hiding the polished white gold band from view.
“Why do you think?” he asked, stretching to recover the box.
It wasn’t the right answer, and Jo reached the box first. She studied the ring shining away on its velvet bed with an inscrutable expression, then snapped the tiny case shut and placed it on the cold granite slab behind her.
“I can see myself out, Callum. I’m sorry.”
Callum followed her to the door mutely, then collapsed into one of the chairs around the big family-sized table. He didn’t move for a long time. And when he finally did, he got up, walked over to the island, retrieved the ring and slipped it back into his pocket.
Chapter 29
Jo stood on a log overhanging the deep, black pool beneath her, rod in hand, hook and lure on—a tiny sparkly wedding band that caught the tenuous spring sun and promised a good catch. She didn’t cast. Couldn’t bring herself to break the glass-smooth water. What was she doing? Maybe Samantha was right. Maybe she should just blow this Popsicle stand. Take her money and run.
But no, a trickle of conviction dripped through her—small, but undeniable. Over the darkest months of winter, she’d contemplated running again, yet decided she wouldn’t. She couldn’t help it. She loved Greenridge. It had grown on her, ironically, the way her sister did—a deep love/drive-her-crazy thing. And there was something to be said about living in a place where at least some people had known her when she was young. Maybe if she had parents or other extended family that wouldn’t feel so important, but it did.
And yes, it would be hard running into Callum from time to time, at least at first—but that would get better, too.
Callum.
Oh, what seeing that ring had done to her insides! Days later, her heart still pounded when she thought about it. Her stomach still tightened. Her face still warmed. She’d almost thrown pride aside. But what if it didn’t work out? They’d already shown how incompetent they were at talking things out, at understanding each other, at actually being what the other person needed. She loved him—and thought he actually might love her like he said he did. But since when was love ever enough? Her mom had loved her and Samantha. She had loved her uncle Ray. And Devin too, what seemed like ages ago.
Could warm, fuzzy romantic love grow into a more consistent, enduring sort of thing that wouldn’t eventually rip your heart out?
Yeah, right. That’s a great plan. Get married and hope true love follows.
She swatted a mosquito. Oh, look—I actually do think and override my feelings occasionally. Take that, Callum!
She packed up her bag and walked out to the road. Not in the mood to fish—a new first for her. She threw her backpack into the cab and walked around to the truck’s driver side. Hopefully the other firsts in store for her would be less utterly depressing.
Her cell rang just as she pulled her seatbelt across her chest. She buckled the latch, hit Talk and said hello.
“Is this Jo Kendall?” asked a pretty voice with a slightly clipped accent.
Jo figured it was a telemarketer and tried not to be rude. “Yes, it is. Who’s speaking please?”
“I’m Martha Klassen.” The first name came out Mar-ta, the German variation of Martha, but it didn’t really matter how it was pronounced. Jo recognized the name.
“How can I help you? If it’s questions about the property, I recommend you speak with my sister Samantha. She handled the sale.”
“No, nothing like that. My husband and I have been renovating the home, and as we were replacing one of the windows and insulation, we found one of your letters caught in the middle of the wall.”
“Really? That’s like something out of a storybook.”
Martha had a pleasant laugh. “Yes, we thought so too.”
“What did I say? Who was it to?” It must’ve been one of the copious notes she’d written in longhand and distributed to friends when bored in biology.
“I really couldn’t say. The envelope’s sealed. It’s addressed to you.”
“Addressed to me, really? Wow. I have no idea what it could be.” A tiny thrill shivered through Jo. So fun—and weird—even if it would no doubt turn out to be nothing.
“I’m flying out tonight for a few days, but I’m in town running errands right now. May I drop it off for you shortly?”
They discussed timing and unfortunately, Jo didn’t think she’d make it back to her apartment before Martha was done.
“I could deposit it in your mail box.”
“Oh, that’d be perfect if you really don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind a bit. It’s not even out of my way.”
“Well, thank you—and have a good trip.”
“You’re welcome. Perhaps if our paths cross again you can tell me what was in your mystery letter.”
Jo laughed. “Well, I guess that depends.”
They said good-bye and Jo pressed end, then sat for a minute or two without starting the truck. A mysterious le
tter? Pretty cool. It was probably just some thing she’d written to herself, like resolutions or predictions for her future, then stashed away, but even finding that would be awesome. Too bad it wouldn’t be some fantastic old love letter.
It was hard not to race back to the apartment, then even more difficult to make sure she took all her things out of the truck—but it would totally suck if her stuff got stolen out the box just because she was impatient.
During the drive home, the hook had come loose from the rod’s eye where she’d tucked it to prevent it from snagging anything. As she pulled the rod out, the hook caught under the edge of the metal toolbox she stored in the truck box. Jo tugged hard, the line broke, and the lure flew off. Annoying. Her line must be getting soft, still, better to discover it needed replaced now than later with a fish on.
She picked up the sparkling lure, slipped it into her pocket, and carried her gear upstairs. She’d sort it out and run it down to her storage room after she read the letter.
Her heart skipped as she unlocked the brass mail compartment labeled 308 and withdrew a yellowed envelope. It bore no stamps, no return address, and no sender’s name—but “Jo Kendall” was printed in square letters across the front and underlined twice in the broad, hard strokes of an urgent—or impassioned—hand. Curiouser and curiouser! She didn’t let herself open it just yet.
Excited by the intrigue and wanting to prolong it, like a kid sneaking another chapter of Nancy Drew with a flashlight under the blankets, Jo went through a set of procedures before she let herself open the letter. She changed into pajamas even though it was still early. She had nowhere to go, so why not?
Hoover, sensing something was up, shadowed her closely, almost getting himself stepped on more than once. She put on water for tea, let it steep, and poured a mug. She snuck two pieces of fudge out of a container she kept swearing she was going to put in the freezer to slow the treats’ disappearance, but so far hadn’t managed to. She wrapped herself in a blanket on the couch, positioned her tea and snack within easy reach on the end table—and finally, finally, finally let herself pick up the envelope. Watch, it would be a list of chores from her uncle or something equally anti-climatic.
