“I did a lot of thinking in the car,” he told her and set his hand near her thigh, barely touching her with his pinky. “Hell, I did a lot of thinking these past two weeks at Myron’s. He’s a good brother but, man, his place is a mess. You don’t even want to know what I found under the sofa cushions.”
“No, I don’t,” Abby said and began to gnaw on her lip, wondering what was coming next.
“It hurt a lot when you gave me that ultimatum.” He shot her a sideways glance. “No guy wants to be rushed into making a decision.”
“Six years is hardly rushing,” she murmured, thinking they’d gone over this a hundred times and she was too tired to go over it a hundred more.
“I know, I know.” He took a deep breath. “But the more we were apart, the more I realized you were right, about my being afraid. I kept telling myself that marriage was just a piece of paper, that it didn’t matter, that loving you was enough.” He paused and exhaled slowly. “Now I understand what you were getting at. Being engaged is like fulfilling a promise. It’s proving that I have no doubts, that you’re the only one for me. And you are, Abs,” he said, the swing shuddering as he turned his whole body to face her. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t even want to look. I’ve been miserable without you, and I’m tired of being apart when we’ve got so much to look forward to.” He reached for her hands. His were so warm as they cradled hers. “I mean, we’re going to have a baby, right?”
She bit her lip, suddenly wanting to cry.
“Hey, don’t for a minute think my being here is just because of that,” he said, sounding worried, like he’d said the wrong thing. “This is about us, you and me, and taking that next step, whether you’re pregnant or not.”
Abby perked up. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” he told her, and she really and truly believed him.
“Good, because we are,” she said and took his hand, setting it on her belly. “Having a baby, I mean. You can’t feel much yet, but she’s in there.”
“Holy crap,” he let slip, his boyish face turning pale in the porch light. “There’s no doubt?”
“Three pee sticks and a blood test don’t lie.”
“You’re going to be a mom,” he said and he stared at her middle, shaking his head the littlest bit as his own words sank in.
Abby felt a rush of tears, choking up as she told him, “I wasn’t sure when I came here what I wanted, or whether I could do this without you. But something about this place made me realize how much I want this baby. I need her in my life. Things don’t always happen like we plan, but they do happen for a reason. Maybe we needed to be apart to understand how much better we are together,” she told him, brushing at her cheeks. “I want us to be a family. She needs to grow up knowing her father—”
“She,” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “You keep saying ‘she.’ ”
“Do I?” Abby glanced down at her belly. “I don’t know why,” she murmured, hardly willing to tell him it was part of a dream. “Just a feeling, I guess.”
“I hope it is a girl, and she’s just like you. Sensitive and strong and artistic.”
“Oh, Nate.” Abby sighed, feeling turned inside out but in the very best of ways.
“I love you, Abs.” Nate leaned over to kiss her, softly, sweetly. “I want to be with you forever,” he whispered.
They stayed that way for a long while, holding each other as the swing gently swayed, and Abby decided that getting Nate back was like lightning striking twice. She’d given him a chance to find his way back to her, and he had, kind of like the way the Man Who Might Be Sam had found her mother.
Twenty-five
There was no fog lying thickly over the walnut grove that next morning, just a serene blue sky and air so crisp you could taste it on your tongue, like a tart yellow lemon or cold apple cider.
Gretchen wasn’t sure why the Man Who Might Be Sam had left her a note asking her to meet him at the walnut tree split by lightning, but she was game. Besides, Abby was still holed up with Nate, sleeping in after spending much of the night talking (so said Bennie, whose room was just next door, although she insisted she’d put in earplugs early on to give them plenty of privacy). Trudy and Bennie were busy as well, having rung up Walter Gibbons, the handyman. Both women sat on the front porch, awaiting his arrival. “Well, we need help cleaning up the yard, don’t we?” Trudy had said with a sniff.
So Gretchen slipped on her gardening clogs in the mudroom and, when she stood, she patted her back jeans pocket to make sure what she’d put there earlier hadn’t slipped out. Then she tucked her hair behind her ears and headed out, clomping down the back steps and through grass still littered with walnuts from the storm. As she strode past the barn, she could see the grove clearly, trees sprawling out in endless rows.
Even before she came within twenty feet of them, she could tell that Abby was wrong. There were no tiny green buds on the boughs. Instead, she glimpsed blossoms of the black walnut’s strange, verdant flowers. The first time she’d observed them, she had remarked to a very young Sam that they looked like “Frankenstein’s dripping fingers.” Tiny leaves roamed the branches as well so the whole grove appeared bright and alive.
She had to pause and take it all in, it was such an amazing sight.
“How did you do it?” she whispered, sure that somehow the man who’d fallen from the sky—the man she believed was her Sam—had made this happen. Even if there were no facts to prove it, Gretchen knew in her gut that he was responsible for the storm that had brought him home as well. Wherever he’d been, whatever he’d done, it didn’t matter. That he was back was all she cared about. That he would stay here with her was her only concern.
“Hey, this way!” she heard him calling, though she couldn’t spot him yet.
She picked up her pace, her pulse throbbing in her veins as she rushed to find him. Then, suddenly, there he was, standing in the midst of the grove, right in front of the grizzled old walnut that was split in the center by lightning.
“I woke up this morning, and I remembered something,” he said, his face flushed, his gray eyes growing brighter the nearer she came. “At first, I thought it might be a dream, but it was so clear in my mind, I knew it must be the truth.” He turned away and gestured at the tree that rose above him. “I saw myself here. I saw my hand in front of me, holding a penknife, carving letters into the bark.”
“What letters?” she said.
“Come.” He reached out for her, and Gretchen slipped her fingers into his, allowing herself to be led around to the tree’s other side.
“There,” he said, such excitement in his voice it gave her chills. “Do you see it? Look closely as the bark has peeled, but it’s still there, as real as I am.”
Gretchen let him go and moved forward, searching the bark until she saw the crude heart gouged into the wood; within its jagged border, two initials: S + G.
Sam and Gretchen.
She turned and found him smiling—and such a smile it was! Hardly a thin line this time, his mouth curved warmly at the corners, and his cheeks were the pink of a child’s. The welt had nearly vanished from his brow so that, for a moment, Gretchen saw Sam as he was years ago, not as she’d found him.
“You’re really Sam,” she said, and he laughed.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Only my whole life,” she said, trying hard not to cry. She reached into her back pocket. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Oh?”
“I have something for you.” She handed back to him the turquoise necklace that he had found in the grove when he’d been out walking with Abby the previous morning. “What I didn’t tell you yesterday was that this belonged to Hank Littlefoot and to his grandfather before him. It was once yours as well. You took it to Africa all those many years ago. The only way it could have ended up here is if you’d brought it back.”
He squinted at the necklace in his scarred palm, and Gretchen was sure he saw it
differently this time, not as a mere trinket but as something that defined him, something with true meaning.
When finally he glanced up again, he solemnly asked, “Could you help me put it on?”
“It would be my pleasure,” she told him.
He kept fingering the stones as she knotted the leather thong at the back of his neck, not far above the teardrop mark at his nape.
“I don’t know what the future will bring, or what your memories will show you when they finally return,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I will tell you what I believe, and it’s the God’s honest truth. Whatever kept you away couldn’t hold you forever. This is where you belong. It’s your home, Sam, and it will always be here for you, no matter what.”
“Home,” he echoed and looked around them, at the blossoming walnut trees, at the pale sky above, bright with sunshine. “I could live with that.”
Gretchen smiled. “Good.”
They walked back to the house, arm in arm, heading inside to find the quiet of the morning broken by the ringing phone.
Gretchen wanted to ignore it but Sam nudged her. “It could be important.”
It took all Gretchen’s will, though, to stay on the line beyond the point of hearing, “It’s Frank Tilby . . . don’t hang up!” Then the sheriff began talking so fast she had no choice but to listen. “We found the remains of a man washed down Fork Creek from where the ’74 Cutlass was wrecked,” he said. “ID in his wallet says he’s Henry Stewart Little.” He noisily exhaled. “You were right,” he muttered, “and I was wrong.”
“Of course, you were wrong, Sheriff,” Gretchen told him, glancing over at Sam. “I knew it in my heart all along.”
Epilogue
Gretchen waved, watching Abigail disappear down the drive in Nate’s dented Honda, and she hoped she’d done the right thing, letting Abby leave thinking that Sam was her father. Abby had loved Sam Winston before she’d ever met him, and Gretchen believed that Sam loved Abby as well.
And still she was about to do something that could ruin everything.
“I took advantage of you,” she said, sitting down on the swing beside the man she loved with all her heart. Her palms were slick with sweat, and she rubbed them on her denim-clad thighs. “I lied to everyone we love and told them you were Abby’s father, and you weren’t even around to protest.”
“Why would I want to protest?” Sam said and leaned his head against hers. “Abby’s a great girl. Any man would be lucky to have a daughter like that.”
“But—”
“Gretchen, stop.” He cut her off. “Haven’t you figured out by now that some things are worth remembering and other things do best to stay buried? Besides”—he shrugged—“in the end, we all got what we wished for, right? Let’s leave the past in the past.”
His arm slid around her shoulders, and Gretchen pursed her lips, not sure of what to make of this. If she had been more like Annika, she would not have let anything stop her from telling the truth to the world, even after all this time. But Gretchen wasn’t her mother, who had driven everyone she loved away from her because she cared more about being unflinchingly honest than unconditionally kind.
What was the likelihood that Abby would ever find out besides? The man who’d fathered her was long gone, had never stuck around Walnut Ridge for more than that one night. And if Abby ever caught a glimpse of him, she’d never notice if she shared his mouth or his eyes. What Abby had was Sam’s heart.
And that was more important.
Acknowledgments
I found out I was pregnant as I worked on this book, which made the story all the more poignant to write. It also made me a wee bit slower on the take, and I sincerely thank my wonderful editor, Lucia Macro, for her patience while I finished. A big thanks as well to my agents, Andrea Cirillo and Christina Hogrebe, who have been unfailingly supportive and encouraging every step of the way. To the rest of the fabulous folks at JRA: My hat’s off to you. Know how grateful I am for your hard work every day. My heartfelt appreciation goes to Stephanie Kim, Mary Sasso, and the amazing crew at William Morrow. I could not ask for a better publishing family! And last but not least, big hugs to my friends and family and to my incredible readers, who have tirelessly cheered me on. Love you all!
An Excerpt from In the Pink
AND NOW A SNEAK PEEK OF
Susan McBride’s
* * *
In the Pink
How I Met the Perfect (Younger) Man, Survived Breast Cancer, and Found True Happiness After Forty
On sale now
An E-book Original story
from William Morrow
Introduction
When my wonderful editor, Lucia Macro, asked if I’d be interested in writing about my experience with breast cancer, I leaped at the chance. Since my diagnosis in December of 2006 at age forty-two, I’ve openly talked about my “boobal trauma,” often speaking to women’s groups and at fund-raising events for nonprofits that support research, diagnosis, prevention, and the well-being of survivors. I figure that the more we know and share, the better off we all are . . . and the more we realize we’re not in this alone. My experience made me part of a big Pink Army, and whenever I’m around fellow survivors, I feel such a rush of energy and positivity. There is nothing like pressing past what frightens us most to make us appreciate the simple things. We suddenly reevaluate everything we thought was necessary, realize who and what is important, and rid our time of people and things that drag us down. It’s no wonder survivors are so upbeat. We don’t take anything for granted, least of all our health. We don’t take crap anymore either. That’s one side effect I wish I could bottle and sell!
But the tale of “me, my boob, and I” goes beyond my diagnosis. The journey to discovering my true self—my better self—started a few years before that. The big turning point for me came when I hit forty, an age when our society seems to think a woman’s shelf life has met its expiration date. So many advertisements tell us that to be viable beyond our thirties we must turn into middle-aged Barbies, Botoxing away our lines (and expressions!) and Spanxing away unsightly bulges. Why the heck we’d want to aspire to fakeness boggles my brain! I say, forty is when we should kick convention in the ass. It’s the perfect time to enjoy life full throttle and accept the skin we’re in, wrinkles and all.
In the past seven years since crossing the big 4-0, I’ve experienced so much more than I had in all the years before: more meaningful friendships, deeper love, greater self-acceptance, and true fulfillment in my career. This “second act” has been eye-opening, transformative, and glorious in so many ways. So I can’t help but wish the same for every woman out there. I want to spread the word that getting older can be the most amazing time in our lives. We don’t need to relive our youth. We just need to hold on to that childlike sense of wonder, being ever curious about the world around us and eager to laugh, with our hearts wide open.
What I hope my story conveys is precisely what I look forward to telling my daughter someday: It is never too late to find happiness. You are never too old to do what you want to do or be who you want to be. Life is a ladder, each rung a step toward our best selves and our greatest accomplishments. Surprises await us as we climb, some good and some bad, but each teaching us a bit about ourselves that we needed to learn, showing us a part of the world we’d never seen before, and opening our souls so that every emotion we feel is all the more intense.
Here’s to love, whenever we find it; to celebrating success, big and small; and to slogging through the crap so we can come out the other side stronger . . . and remain “in the pink” for the rest of our lives.
Susan McBride
June 14, 2012
Books and Boys . . .
One
“PLEASE, DON’T LET MY DAUGHTER TURN INTO A CRAZY CAT LADY.”
Turning forty didn’t faze me.
Reaching twenty and leaving my teens behind felt far more unsettling. Even thirty seemed more pivotal, since that’s the age wh
en we’re supposed to get our act together, be invested, own property, and leave singlehood behind for suburbia, procreation, and minivans.
Still, I wasn’t at all sad at bidding adieu to my thirties. They’d been a great learning curve, a chance to see some major goals accomplished; namely, getting published and beginning my professional writing career after more than a decade filled with hard work and rejection. Being able to support myself doing something I love was a gift, and I treasured it all the more because it had not come without great sacrifice. In the years I’d spent working to get my foot in the door, I’d endured lots of rejection from the publishing world and plenty of digs from less than true believers inside and outside my family, like The Jerk at my grandmother’s funeral who strongly suggested I “hang it up.” (Somehow, I refrained from punching him in the nose.)
My outside jobs had kept my bills paid, and I had saved enough to buy a condo that I filled with furniture and doodads I’d been collecting in anticipation of finally jumping into the wonderful world of thirty-year mortgages. Finally, at forty, I felt settled, like a bird who’d built a really cool nest, and it didn’t bother me that I hadn’t met Mr. Right to share it with.
Heck, I hadn’t even met Mr. Maybe. But I had good friends and a good life. I was downright content and didn’t feel incomplete in any sense. Not until I got a kick in the pants in the form of a less than stellar physical exam. My cholesterol was too high (who knew that Snickers wasn’t a vegetable?), and I had palpitations due to anxiety. My maternal grandfather had died after multiple heart attacks, and it unnerved me to think that I could be heading down that path.
My internist at the time suggested I find some way to better deal with stress. “Why don’t you start drinking?” she suggested (she was totally serious). Since I’m not fond of alcohol, I went cold turkey on junk food, eating lots of fruits and vegetables and no red meat, and I began to work out with a vengeance. Within six weeks, I’d toned up, dropped several sizes, gained strength and stamina, and lowered my total cholesterol from the mid-200s to 187. An added benefit: my heart rate quit accelerating like a Lamborghini on crack whenever I found myself worrying (which was often enough—I’m a natural-born type A).
The Truth About Love and Lightning Page 23
