He couldn’t argue, because she was dead-on in her assessment. Still, he offered nothing more than a shrug of agreement.
Regina shifted on the edge of the chair, clasping and unclasping her hands. The one time she started to speak ended with her clamping her lips shut before a single word was spoken.
“Say what’s on your mind. Please.” Tate crossed his ankles as he waited.
After a few moments of silence this woman whom he’d come to rely on in ways that went far beyond secretarial expertise spoke, each word carefully chosen. “It’s this Phoebe Jennings, isn’t it? She’s touched something in you.”
He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding, buoyed by the knowledge that someone other than himself sensed what had been playing with his emotions for days. “Yeah. She has. I’ve spent a grand total of about an hour with this woman in the past week and she’s all I can think about. Day and night. Night and day. I’ve never felt like this, Regina.”
“What’s your gut telling you?”
Tate braced his hands on the edge of the desk. There were so many things about Regina he appreciated, but none more than her ability to make him think on a deeper level. He considered her question, the answer coming surprisingly quickly. “I think she’s the reason I haven’t had many second dates.”
Regina cocked her head to the side. “Go on.”
“My mom used to tell me that when the right person came along, I’d know it. I’d feel something different. And—” He stopped, suddenly feeling foolish.
“And you think Phoebe might be the one,” Regina finished in a soft voice.
“Yeah.”
For a moment neither of them spoke, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Finally, she broke the silence, her words hitting Tate with a force he hadn’t expected.
“Then you have some soul searching to do. Some choices you have to make.”
He felt his eyebrows dip downward. “Choices?”
She nodded, her hands clasped in her lap. “As long as you hold grudges you will never be free to love completely.”
He crossed his arms in front of his chest and waited for her to continue.
Her face reddening ever so slightly, Regina said, even more quietly than before, “I saw the look on your face when you realized Phoebe was here. It was impossible to miss. Yet you let your anger toward your father ruin a wonderful encounter—”
“How did you know?” he asked quickly.
“The open door,” she replied, pointing over her shoulder. “Boss, you’ve got to see that as long as the grudge is there, you will always run the risk of that happening.” She peered up at him, her face etched with a combination of worry and determination. “You can’t love the way you need to love when there’s anger in your heart.”
He didn’t know what to say, how to respond. Next to his mother, he’d had more deep conversations with Regina than any other person in his life. She always listened, truly listened, when he needed to talk. She knew the things that hurt him deeply. She’d offered opinions in the past, stood beside him through it all. But never, until now, had she seemed to take his father’s side. Tate stiffened.
“I’m not saying your hurt and anger aren’t justified. Please know that.” She stood up and leaned against the desk alongside him. “I’m just saying that as long as you carry those things in your heart…as long as you fail to make some sort of peace with the past…you can’t truly enjoy the present and the future.”
Her words filtered through his mind, causing a tug in his heart. Was she right? Was he allowing incidents in his past to sabotage today?
“I think your mom would tell you the very same thing if she were here,” Regina murmured. “If I didn’t believe that I would never have risked my job the way I just did.”
A stinging he recognized all too well began in the back of his eyes, threatening to work its way forward in a show of emotion he’d prefer to bypass. “Regina, not a day has gone by since you started here that I haven’t valued your input. Today hasn’t changed that. But the stuff with my dad…I just can’t.”
She started toward the door, stopping midway. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe you won’t. Just remember, the stuff with your dad isn’t the only grudge you harbor.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Phoebe lives on Quinton Lane, right?”
He nodded, unsure of where Regina was going.
“Well, then, you’ve also got to get past your grudge toward Phoebe’s neighbors.”
“They were wrong, Regina.”
She crossed to the door, placing her hand on the knob before turning to meet his eyes once again. “I know. And I’m not telling you to apologize. I’m simply saying that maybe it’s time to show them they were wrong about you.”
Chapter Eight
Phoebe switched on the small rectangular monitor and sank onto the couch, her body aching in places she didn’t know had muscles. The pain in her lower back was compliments of Mrs. Applewhite’s old pine chest, the heaviness in her thighs a reminder of all the steps she’d climbed with assorted pieces of furniture. The stiffness in her shoulders was no doubt a result of reaching into Ms. Weatherby’s attic for one box of books after another—twenty-five in all.
The work had been tedious and exhausting, with limited physical help from her elderly neighbors. Yet those who were unable to hoist boxes and sort through years of accumulated stuff had been godsends in keeping Kayla busy so Phoebe could keep things moving.
Monday afternoon had disappeared in a blur, with the same activities forecasted for Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Friday would be for pricing and setup, with all their efforts coming to what they hoped would be a profitable culmination on Saturday morning.
If she could even get out of bed by then.
Phoebe stretched her right arm across her chest and massaged her left shoulder, wincing at the soreness, which had grown worse throughout the day. It was at times like these, when evening had descended and the day’s work was done, that she was most aware of Gram’s absence. The realization hit anew every night, as if her grandmother’s passing had taken place days rather than years earlier.
Phoebe suspected part of tonight’s sadness spawned from her constant contact with people her grandmother would have loved. The rest probably tied to the heightened sense of loneliness that had been hovering since her visit to Tate’s office.
She’d felt so alive in his arms, so keenly aware of the powerful physical connection they shared. And it hadn’t been just her. She knew that. His yearning as he’d kissed her had been undeniable.
There was no doubt about it. Tate’s lips on hers had revived something inside her she’d thought was gone for good. His tenderness as he’d pulled her toward him was nothing short of intoxicating. And she longed to experience that feeling again.
With him.
Unfortunately, the man who had kissed her was a far cry from the man who’d railed at her not once, but twice, and frightened Kayla.
That Doug’s unyielding nature had ended their relationship with such finality wasn’t really a surprise. He’d shown signs of it in virtually everything he did. She’d just been too young and naive to recognize it.
But with Tate there had been nothing during their time together on Saturday to suggest his inability, or his unwillingness, to be open-minded. Not many men would have deliberately crossed enemy lines just to offer an apology for something that wasn’t entirely their fault. Not many men would’ve been so willing to share a deep-rooted hurt with a woman they barely knew. Not many men would listen to a woman’s sad story with the genuine concern Tate had shown. And not many men could kiss like he kissed….
“Good grief.” Determined to get Tate and his knee-weakening kisses out of her mind, she reached for one of her art magazines and flipped it open, thumbing through the pages with little to no interest, her heart aching all the while for an opportunity to talk through her feelings with her grandmother.
Sure, she could speak to Mrs. Haskell or Ms. Weather
by, but it wasn’t the same. Family was different, special.
Why couldn’t Tate see that?
Tossing the magazine back where she’d found it, Phoebe swung her legs onto the sofa and snuggled her head against the armrest. As much as it hurt, she had to admit, Tate Williams wanted nothing more to do with her. His failure to call or stop by since the incident at his office was all the proof she needed. She wasn’t happy about that, but it was what it was as her grandmother always said.
But just because he wanted nothing to do with her didn’t mean Phoebe couldn’t make an attempt at playing fairy godmother where he and his dad were concerned. Maybe they were destined to be at odds. Maybe nothing could fix their rift. But they wouldn’t know if they didn’t try.
They just needed a little shove. And shove she would—one way or another.
Phoebe turned her head and squinted through the darkness toward the fireplace on the other side of the room. She didn’t need a lamp to see the pictures scattered across the mantel. She’d memorized every feature, the details of each and every face. There was the picture with her parents before they’d perished in a car accident the morning of her first birthday. There was the snapshot from her first day of kindergarten with Gram beaming in the background. The photo of her and Gram at Phoebe’s graduation from college, and the one of Kayla in her arms shortly after delivery. But it was the picture on the far right that made her sit up straight.
Her grandparents had been sweethearts since the second grade and had remained so until the day he died. And although he’d passed on before Phoebe was born, he’d come alive in her mind through Gram’s stories and memories.
Listening to Bart recount his feelings for Lorraine and Mary had struck a chord in Phoebe. The regret he’d described over wasting time with Mary had resonated deep inside her soul, as had the cruel way in which his love for Lorraine had been ripped from his hands.
Phoebe wished with all her might that Bart could have just one more day with Mary, to tell her all the things he should have said while she was still alive.
Her death made that impossible.
But maybe it wasn’t too late to make things right with Lorraine. To explain what had happened and why. To make peace with something that had such a profound impact on his life.
Without really realizing what she was doing, Phoebe rose from the couch and moved toward the small alcove off the kitchen. She knew the chance of finding anything about Lorraine Walters was slim to none, but if there was even the remotest possibility it would come from the Internet.
Bending slowly so as to minimize the discomfort in her back, Phoebe turned on her desktop and waited while it booted up. Once the final screen was ready, Phoebe sat down on the small cushioned chair and began searching for any information she could find on Bart’s first love.
It was easy to rule out the first three hits based on age, with the subject being either a little too old or a little too young. The fourth was an obituary notice.
Holding her breath, she clicked on the name and began reading, hoping against hope it wasn’t Bart’s Lorraine. Fortunately, mention of the woman’s educational background erased any possible connection between the two.
The fifth and final hit brought a tingle down her spine.
Lorraine Walters-Finney of Groverton, Ohio, was recognized by city officials for her tireless efforts to raise funds for a veteran’s memorial in Groverton Park. When asked why the cause was so near and dear to her heart, Walters-Finney declined to comment beyond saying, “We’ve all been touched by a veteran in one way or another.”
Phoebe scrolled through the rest of the article, noting geographical similarities between Bart Williams and the Lorraine Walters featured on the screen in front of her. The final confirmation came near the bottom, when the reporter mentioned the woman’s lifelong interest in knitting.
“Bingo.” Her heart pounding, Phoebe pulled the bottom phone book from under a pile of directories she kept in the corner and flipped it open. Although Groverton was an hour or so from Cedarville, it had been in the same coverage area as the home where she’d lived with Gram.
In her haste, she passed by the correct page several times before finding the entry she was seeking: LW Finney. 14 Sunbeam Lane. Groverton. 513–555-3324.
Glancing at the clock on the bottom of the computer screen, she reached for the phone and began to dial.
TATE WALKED FROM room to room, unable to sit still long enough to start on his next design or to even watch a little mindless television. He’d been restless ever since he got home, Regina’s words endlessly nagging at his thoughts and emotions.
After a fourth or fifth lap around the first floor, Tate finally chose his refuge—the kitchen.
When he’d been a boy, the kitchen was always the go-to place when he’d had trouble at school with a classmate or difficulty on an English test. A few words of encouragement from his mom over a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie and a tall glass of cold milk had always made problems disappear. Or at the very least, seem manageable.
But even as he crossed the threshold into his own kitchen, he knew it wasn’t the location that had provided the comfort and the healing. It had been the person inside. His mother.
That was why his minimansion hadn’t felt like a true home since day one. Sure, the ooh-aah factor was obvious around every corner. The massive stone fireplaces and floor-to-ceiling windows off the back of the home drew that reaction all on their own. But it was warmth that was sorely lacking.
He’d certainly tried to convey a welcoming feeling when he’d designed the place, and from an architectural standpoint, he had succeeded. The kitchen itself was a masterpiece, with every modern convenience in just the perfect spot to create edible works of art. An incredible feature for anyone with a talent or interest in cooking.
Of which he had neither.
With a gentle tug on the fingerprint-free, stainless-steel handle, he stepped back and surveyed the contents of his freezer. Pizza in various sizes and shapes, an assortment of TV dinners and a few tubs of ice cream reflected the extent of his culinary aspirations. If it couldn’t be microwaved or scooped into a bowl, he didn’t make it. That’s what take-out menus, client dinners and close-knit families were for.
Or two out of three, in his case.
He pushed the door shut, his hands empty. Despite the late hour, he simply wasn’t in the mood to eat. The three-hour lunch with his soon-to-be partners probably had something to do with that. So, too, did Regina’s comments. But the pièce de résistance was his atrocious behavior toward Phoebe.
Leaning against a bar stool, Tate thought back to the conversation with his secretary.
“You can’t love the way you need to love when there’s anger in your heart.”
It made sense. All he needed to do was look back at his own mother to realize there was some validity to Regina’s words. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see his parents’ marriage had been anything but perfect. His mother had been head over heels in love with Tate’s father, who in turn had been tolerant at best. But somehow, his mom had remained happy. Not a grin-and-bear-it kind, but a true inner joy that had radiated from every ounce of her being. The kind of sincere happiness that transformed the tiny little kitchen on Quinton Lane into a kid’s safe harbor. Day after day. Cookies or no cookies.
By contrast, he was the one who’d grown bitter watching his mom give and give and give, his father taking it all for granted with no detectable appreciation for any of it.
They were memories he recalled often. And what did he have in his life to show for the anger and the bitterness? A great big expensive home that had been decorated with the kind of professional flair one might find in a museum—all class, no warmth. And as for a relationship? Nada. Zip.
Tate drummed his fingers on the countertop and looked around the room. Sure, he had solid cherry cabinetry, stainless-steel appliances, copper pots hanging over the cook’s island and slate floors. It was the best designed and equipped kitchen
money could buy. Yet, if he was honest with himself, he felt more at home in Phoebe’s cramped kitchen than he ever had here. And he suspected it had very little to do with his own memories of the place and a lot to do with her sweet personality and natural warmth. Things he couldn’t recreate on a piece of draft paper no matter how hard he tried.
Phoebe.
It drove him absolutely nuts to think back on the way he’d yelled at her for something as innocent as an invitation to spend an afternoon together, all but belittling her for what was just well-meaning, albeit misguided, sentiment. His sour relationship with his father wasn’t her fault or even something she could’ve known about. And Kayla? Tate had been a giant-size jerk scaring such a sweet, happy-go-lucky baby.
Growling at himself, he left the stool and walked to the French doors that led to his professionally landscaped patio and flower garden—simplicities of life he’d hired someone else to plant and nurture. He unlocked the handle and stepped out into the darkness, relishing the stars twinkling overhead and the absolute quiet of the night. It had been an adjustment to fall asleep to silence after growing up on Quinton Lane with the sounds of older cars heading to and from jobs at all hours.
While he couldn’t imagine forgiving his dad, Tate could step back and try to see the Quinton Lane mess from his neighbors’ point of view. He himself had been guilty of making assumptions about Phoebe. He’d assumed the nature of her career based on exterior things like clothes and a car. Just as his neighbors had made false assumptions about him based on a level of education and the address of his employer.
And if he allowed himself to be objective, Tate could understand why they’d come to the conclusions they did. He’d been the first kid on Quinton Lane ever to go to college. That alone made him different. Throw in the white-collar job, the ignorance of a corporate pecking order, and all of a sudden their inability to comprehend what he could and couldn’t do was easier to swallow. Or at least ponder with an open mind.
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