He listened closely as his father explained his history with Lorraine Walters. Tate asked occasional questions as they popped into his mind, and found the tale made sense, to a point.
“But why couldn’t you just love Mom and me the way we loved you?”
Tear-filled eyes turned to look at him. “I did. I was just terrified to show it. I’d watched my own father go out for milk one afternoon, only to never come home again. I poured my heart out to Lorraine, and never got a response. I guess I saw love as a recipe for hurt. So while I did love deeply inside, I was afraid to let down my guard and show it.”
Tate leaned against the railing beside his father. “Did mom know you were still hung up on this other woman?”
“Not ‘hung up on.’ Hurt by. And I think your mother understood more about me than even I did.”
It fit. And Tate told his father so. “She looked at you with pure love until the day she died. That’s what hurt me so much. She was so amazing, so loving, so in love with you, yet you seemed to take it all for granted.”
“Not for granted, son. Never for granted. It was quite the opposite…. I was paralyzed at the thought of ever relaxing enough to trust in that love.”
Tate closed his eyes as another question came to him, one his mind was itching to ask, while his heart dreaded the answer. Finally, though, he murmured, “Do you still love Lorraine?”
His father straightened up and took a step closer. “Still? No. I still love your mother. As for Lorraine, I think the more accurate thing to say is that I love her again.”
It was a simple statement, but a heartfelt one, and it made all the difference in the world to Tate. He reached out, cupped his father’s shoulder gently. “Thank you. For making me listen.”
Tate leaned his back against the railing and looked around. “Pretty nice, huh?”
“Nice? I think I’d say spectacular. You are a fine architect, son. I’m proud of you.”
A familiar stinging began behind his eyes, a sensation he’d experienced just three days earlier. Only that time it was out of anger—at himself.
Pride was definitely better.
For several long minutes they simply stood there, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Tate swallowed and in a husky voice admitted, “I never thought you cared what I did.”
“Of course I cared. I just didn’t much understand the drawing and that whole artistic bond you and your mother shared. To learn about it would have forced me to get closer. But I did care. In fact, I still have the very first architectural sketch you ever drew in my apartment. Under glass, so it’s protected.”
Tate stared at him. “You do?”
“I do. It was a tree house you and Johnny Haskell were determined to build.”
He swallowed again over the lump in his throat, which seemed to be growing tighter the longer they talked. “I heard what you did with the Quinton Lane crowd. How you tried to make them understand that the whole Les Walker thing was out of my hands.”
His father’s brows furrowed. “How’d you hear that?”
“It doesn’t matter. I just know.”
Tate smiled as his dad cleared his throat awkwardly, then quickly changed the subject. “Lorraine said this home is going to make a lot of money for MS.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked, as pieces began to fall into place. “Is that why she uses a cane?”
“She works for the charity the money is going to, and yes, she suffers from the disease, as well. But she’s doing remarkably well. She always was a strong woman.”
“Think you’ll propose again?”
He felt his father’s eyes studying him. “You don’t think that would be too fast? It’s only been a week.”
Tate laughed. “A week plus forty years.”
“That’s the kind of cut-to-the-chase your mother would have employed.” Bart Williams smiled despite the sadness in his eyes. “I miss her, Tate. Every single day.”
“As do I.” He pushed himself off the railing, took three strides forward, then turned around and came back. “Life is too short to live in the past—that’s there for the memories. Life is about living. It’s about today and tomorrow…”
A blanket of silence fell between them as a group of people walked around the outer ring of the deck and then headed back toward the stairs.
“That was beautiful, son.”
“It was spoken by a beautiful woman. And she’s right. The past is gone, over. The only chance for change and growth is in the future.”
“Sounds like you have your own special someone.”
“Had someone special. I blew it.”
“Do you love her, son?”
The answer came easily. “Yes. Very much.”
Tate felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. “Then stop pushing and start pulling.”
“I’m not sure I deserve her.” He swallowed yet again. “She’s beautiful and generous and kind and loving and…I can’t even begin to do her justice.”
“Sounds an awful lot like your mom.”
Without thinking, Tate pulled his father into an embrace and simply held him, seconds melting into minutes. When they finally released one another and stepped back, he looked out over West Cedarville, his thoughts centered on a very different side of town.
“Do you know what the hardest part of forgiveness is, son?”
Tate shook his head, too choked with feelings to utter any words.
“Being able to forgive yourself.”
Chapter Fifteen
If she’d known how hectic her week was going to be, Phoebe would have politely declined Bart’s invitation for dinner. Time with Kayla had been at a premium of late and she needed the cuddles and kisses more than polite conversation.
But she’d agreed to be there and didn’t believe in backing out of a commitment for anything short of an emergency. And, last she checked, a broken heart and mommy time didn’t qualify.
Glancing at her wristwatch, Phoebe knocked on Bart’s door and waited, mentally calculating the minimal amount of time she could stay before excusing herself for the night. Sure, she was happy for Bart and Lorraine, and pleased they wanted her to be a part of their celebration, but she was finding it harder and harder to hide her relationship-gone-wrong with his son.
“Phoebe, you’re here!” Bart stepped into the hallway and embraced her, a wide smile on his face. “Lorraine will be along soon. She is so anxious to finally meet you.”
“That makes two of us then,” Phoebe said as she followed him into his apartment. And it was true. She was excited to meet the woman who’d written a letter that had changed so many lives, not the least of which was Phoebe’s own.
“We couldn’t imagine anyone we’d rather share our happiness with than the two of you.”
“Two?” She stopped and turned toward Bart, waiting as he shut the door. He led her to the kitchen area, where the aroma of tomatoes and garlic permeated the air, and her stomach grumbled in response.
“Two.” Bart gestured for her to follow as he headed into the living room. “Not only did your letter bring Lorraine and me together, it also gave my son and me the kick we needed to move forward.”
She grabbed the back edge of the sofa to steady herself, Bart’s words taking root at the same time she heard a knock. “Your son?”
Nodding, he stepped back toward the door. “Yes, my son. Lorraine and I ran into him at Innovation House on Wednesday and we had a long overdue talk. I’ve got a lot of time to try and make up to him, but he seems willing to give me the chance.”
In any other setting she’d have been thrilled at the news, pleased that her phone call to Regina had put father and son in the same place at the same time. Unfortunately, standing in the middle of Bart’s living room, with Tate due any minute, wasn’t one of those settings.
The last time they’d seen each other had been in her front hallway, with his face contorted in anger. At her. She was the last person Tate Williams would want to see when he walked through
the door.
“Bart?” She fell into step with him as he made his way through the kitchen, her stomach no longer interested in dinner. “I don’t think I should stay.”
He stopped, his eyes widening in surprise. “Why on earth not?”
“Because this is an evening you and your son should have alone with Lorraine. I just delivered a letter. That’s all.” Phoebe clasped her hands, hoping that would stop them trembling.
“That’s all?” Bart started walking again. “That’s a pretty big thing if you ask me. Especially considering that without that letter Lorraine and I never would have met and I wouldn’t have been at Innovation House to see my son again.”
She tried another tactic. “Mending fences can take a while. You don’t need a stranger horning in on that time.”
Bart stopped once again. “My son said something to me the other day that sums this up. He said life is about living. The past is about memories, the present and future is for living.”
“He said that?” She felt her jaw drop as she tried to absorb what she was hearing.
“He sure did. Though, in all fairness, he worded it more eloquently. Said he heard it from a beautiful woman.” Reaching for the doorknob, Bart glanced over his shoulder. “Sad part is he’s in love with her, but says he’s blown it.”
“In love—” She did a combination gasp and choke.
Nodding, he pulled the door open. “I hope, for his sake, it works out. He’s a good kid—always was. I’m just sorry he didn’t meet you first.”
TATE FELT HIS MUSCLES tensing at the sound of Phoebe’s voice. He’d begun second-guessing himself about the surprise meeting earlier in the day, his apprehension only increasing as dinner drew closer. For all he knew, she would take one look at him and bolt. Or worse yet, scream at him the way he deserved.
But as the door opened, he realized none of that mattered. He was willing to take his chances just to have an opportunity to see her again. To try to make amends. Somehow.
“Hello, son. It’s great to see you again.”
Tate tried to look at his dad, to match his enthusiastic greeting, but all he could focus on was the woman standing beside him, her eyes cast downward, her expression uncertain. Still looking at Phoebe, he stuck out a hand to his father. “Hi. It’s great to be here.”
His heart threatened to stop as she slowly raised her head, her khaki-green eyes peering out from behind long, black lashes. It didn’t matter how many times he saw her, she still took his breath away each and every time.
“Tate, I’d like you to meet my very special friend, Phoebe Jennings.” His father turned to her and gestured. “Phoebe, this is my son, Tate.”
Tate stepped into the apartment just as a voice from the corridor claimed his father’s attention.
“Lorraine!”
Seizing the momentary reprieve while his father was busy, Tate edged closer to Phoebe, searching for any indication she might be happy to see him. What he detected in her face, though, was wariness.
“H-hi,” she stammered. “I’m so sorry, I had absolutely no idea you were going to be here.”
“No worries, please.” He started to move closer, then stopped. “It’s good you’re here. Great, actually.” He studied her for a long moment. “You look tired.”
She shrugged. “I’ve been busy. The phone has been ringing off the hook with job offers. I guess the Dolangers know more people than I realized.”
“I think it’s more a matter of your talent being enjoyed by hundreds on a daily basis.”
“Hundreds?”
“Last I heard that’s about how many folks were visiting the Innovation House each day. It’s amazing.”
“Yeah, but I don’t have anything there…”
As her eyes widened with realization, it was his turn to shrug. “Look, the suggestion may have gotten it on the wall…but it’s your talent, and your talent alone, that’s drumming up the business. Don’t forget that.”
They were interrupted by Lorraine’s entry into the apartment and the lengthy introduction that followed.
“Let’s head into the living room and let the women chat.” Tate felt his father’s hand on his upper back, a touch he actually welcomed. “In the meantime, I want to talk to you about those plans.”
Tate felt his stomach twist as they followed the two through the kitchen and into the sitting area. There were so many things he wanted to say to Phoebe, to explain about himself and his past, but the timing was off. Especially considering his father was still in the dark about their relationship.
Or what had been blooming into a relationship prior to temper tantrum number three.
His father guided him toward the small rolltop desk, and Tate tried to concentrate on the sketch that was being unfurled. But it was darn near impossible when all he wanted to do was to grab Phoebe by the hand and beg for one last chance.
“I think this—” his father gestured to the drawing of a gazebo and walkway “—should satisfy the committee. It’s attractive, usable and quaint.”
“I actually presented it to them a few days ago. They loved it, so it’s a go.” He took a deep breath as he looked at the sketch he’d given his father after their first meeting. “Now, if I can call in a favor from one of my construction buddies, maybe we can get the labor for free, too.”
Tate shot a glance in Phoebe’s direction, but her back was to him as she conversed with Lorraine. As much as the juvenile side of him wanted to dislike his father’s girlfriend, he couldn’t. In fact, after getting a chance to know her at Innovation House, after he and his father had talked, he had to admit he understood why his dad was so smitten.
She was a sweet woman.
“Let me make a few calls myself and see what I can do in terms of getting stuff donated,” Bart said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. Quinton Lane was special to me, too. It’s where I spent the happiest years of my life, with the two people I loved most in the world.”
Tate found himself getting choked up. The doubt he’d harbored as to his father’s feelings about his mother were dissipating. Bart Williams may have had issues with rejection and trust, but he had loved his wife—a simple fact that made their son feel happier and more at peace.
“Thank you, Dad. I want the green space to be there for Kayla just as it was for me.”
Bart’s head shot up and he grinned. “What do you know? Phoebe has a baby named Kayla.”
At the sound of her daughter’s name, Phoebe looked over her shoulder at Tate, giving him the boost he needed to admit everything.
“I know that, Dad.”
Bart looked confused. “You do?”
He nodded, his gaze never leaving Phoebe’s face. In just a few short weeks he’d fallen in love with the woman—head over heels in love. Seeing her so close, yet knowing they were so far apart, was ripping his heart in two and he was determined to fix that once and for all.
“Remember that woman I told you about, the one who told me to stop looking backward? To concentrate instead on today and tomorrow? Well, she’s sitting right there, looking at both of us. She’s beautiful, smart, talented, loving, funny, gentle, caring and so much more. But I took my frustration and my unwillingness to forgive you out on her. And I did it in a cruel way and with horrendous timing.”
His heart ached to hold Phoebe as she stood to face him.
“The moment I saw Phoebe standing in my doorway with your letter in her hand, I felt something. When she left, I thought of little else, imagined seeing her again one day.” He took a step toward her, and their eyes locked. “And, miraculously, I did see her again. And again. And again. She’s in my thoughts constantly when we’re not together, an affliction that’s only gotten worse.”
He took a deep breath. “I asked her to forgive me once, twice, for my atrocious behavior, and she did. Now I’m hoping she’ll give me one more chance, because I’m confident she won’t regret it. Ever. I’ll do everything in my power to make
sure of that.”
This time Phoebe took a step in his direction. “I could never regret a decision that makes me feel as if I’m floating on air and ready to face a new day,” she said with a smile.
“Does that mean what I think it means?” Tate closed the remaining distance between them.
“Son, I may have been a bit too much of an observer at times, but I know I taught you to use your brains.” Bart walked around the sofa and pulled Lorraine to her feet, lovingly placing her cane in her hand. “As for us, I have an uncanny knack for knowing when sauce needs to be stirred. So I’ll get right to it.”
Tate looked at Phoebe, then rolled his eyes upward. “Could you walk a little faster, Dad?”
“I’m going, I’m going.” The elderly man looped an arm over Lorraine’s shoulders, then glanced back at Phoebe and winked. “He’s a tad pushy at times, but he’s a keeper.”
“I know,” she whispered as Tate pulled her into his arms, seeking her lips with his own.
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you hear?”
Phoebe felt Tate’s hand on her shoulder, halting her movement. “Um—voices.”
“Very good. Can you pick any of them out?”
Tilting her head slightly, she listened for the various inflections and tones she’d come to know over the past six months. “I hear Ms. Weatherby…oh, and Mr. Haskell.” She craned her head forward, trying to discern a set of voices that seemed to be coming from somewhere ahead. “Mr. Borden?”
“Anyone ever tell you you have eagle ears?”
Phoebe grinned and swiveled her head to the side. “No, but someone recently told me I have amazing lips.”
A warm sensation rippled against her ear. “Among other things. Lots of other things.”
“You did mention a time or two…something about my bacon-cooking ability. Is that one of the things you’re referring to?”
The warmth along her ear was quickly replaced by a tingle of desire through her entire body. “Not quite.”
“You’re holding out on me, mister.” She tried to bat her eyelashes, but realized it was futile. Bandannas had a way of hiding such effects.
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