Like There's No Tomorrow

by Camille Eide

  After a week of daily treks to the cemetery, Maggie hollered at him from the mudroom as Ian headed out the back door. “Leaving again, laddie? What mischief are ye up to now?”

  Considering his options didn’t take long. “Praying for my enemies,” he said, and slipped out before she could close her gaping mouth.

  Something unexpected happened during those daily visits. As he spoke Edward’s name aloud and continued to ask God to bless the man, his jaw loosened just a bit.

  One summer day in particular, he stayed longer than usual and felt no urge to leave. “How do You do it?” he asked as he knelt in the cool shade. “How can You forgive evil people? How do You not only forgive, but forget? And not only forget, but give evil men second chances?” Lips pressed to a hard line, Ian shook his head. “I could never do that.”

  Never is a long time. An eternity.

  “You can give Edward a second chance if You fancy. I can’t stop You.” He took a deep breath, eased it out through puffed cheeks. “God, I pray—”

  Just say it.

  “Help Edward seek Your forgiveness, God. Forget about him seeking mine. I suppose I’m asking You to help him do whatever it takes to be right with You.”

  His prayer treks continued, and a few weeks after he received Emily’s letter, Ian made a shocking discovery. He had no idea if his prayers were having any effect on Edward Carmichael, but God had shown up and met Ian each time he went to that place.

  Why would God listen to the prayers of a man like Ian MacLean? A man who had once followed Christ and then turned his back on Him? For some reason, during quiet moments at an old cemetery, God had come to him, just as he was, faithless and flawed.

  He whispered an apology for his years of wayward indifference, and as he did, something snapped—something cold and heavy and binding—and a warm peace engulfed him. Wanting more, he went home, found the Bible that Katy had given him, and began reading it.

  Something else he read repeatedly was Emily’s letter. It often ended up in the pocket of his jeans, soft and crumpled from being unfolded, read, folded again, and stuffed back in his pocket. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to gain by reading it over again, unless he wanted to make it impossible to stop thinking about her. So he put the letter away in a drawer, only to find it didn’t matter.

  Everything made him think of Emily.

  On the day of the Kirkhaven summer fair, the smell of bacon lured Ian as he descended the stairs.

  Maggie’s muttering rose to a squawk when he entered the kitchen. “Where did ye hide my griddle? It didn’t walk off on its own. Ye’ll never see another scone if ye don’t produce it.”

  Extra kitchen work always brought out the charming side of Maggie. She would probably explode with charm when Grace and Emily arrived in little more than a week.

  

  A parade kicked off Juniper Valley’s annual Fourth of July celebration. It also kicked up a lot of dust.

  Emily helped Aunt Grace get comfortable at a picnic table in the shade. As she scanned the crowd on the lawn for signs of Jaye’s arrival, Wrangle’s truck barreled into the church parking lot, spitting gravel like watermelon seeds.

  “Hey—Emily!” Jaye flailed her arm out the passenger window like a manic parade queen on a sugar high. “C’mere, I want you to meet someone.”

  As Emily jogged closer, Jaye’s head bobbed to the rhythm of a Rascal Flatts song thumping from the truck’s stereo.

  Jaye turned to her companions. “Guys, this is Emily, the one I was telling you about. Em, this is Jake and Jesse. You already met Wrangle. They’re from Paisley.”

  “Hi.” Emily shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted, but only saw one of them—the one in a cut-off-sleeve plaid shirt nearly crawling out the window to get a better look.

  “I’m Jake.” The drawl was attached to a broad set of shoulders that pretty much filled the window. He grinned at Emily and turned to Jaye. “Whoa. You weren’t kiddin’.”

  Jaye slapped at his chest. “Down boy. You too, Jesse. She’s taken.”

  “Jaye—” Emily threw a wide-eyed stare at her delusional friend. Jaye’s fantasies were going to get somebody in trouble one day.

  “Oh. Sorry. Almost taken. He’s Scottish.”

  Ian.

  So far, she’d managed to keep her mind off the glaring fact that she hadn’t heard a word from Ian in the three weeks since she sent him that letter. She could no longer ignore the sinking feeling that his silence meant she’d said more to him than she should have.

  As the festivities wound down and dusk blanketed the valley, the warmth of the day disappeared with the sun. Emily jogged up to the parking lot and grabbed two camp chairs from her Jeep. A chill in the air triggered tiny bumps along her bare arms. When she returned, she set their chairs up at the edge of the “lake,” which was really no more than a man-made pond in the center of town. The fireworks that would be launched on the other side would be visible all over the valley.

  The chirrup of crickets had grown louder after the sun went down. A mild breeze sent another chill along Emily’s skin. She glanced at her aunt. “We didn’t bring you a coat, did we?”

  “It’s not so bad, dearie.”

  Grace’s brave little smile convinced Emily she needed to find something warm for her, and soon. But rummaging amongst their friends’ stuff turned up nothing but a smelly, old dog blanket in the bed of the feed store owner’s pickup. “Sorry, I should have thought of bringing something warm for you. I’ll run home and get a blanket and something hot to drink, okay?”

  “But ye’ll miss the fireworks.”

  “I should be back before it begins. It’ll only take a couple minutes.”

  Back at the house, Emily hustled to the kitchen, put water in the teakettle, and set it on the stove. She took out Grace’s favorite tea and waited, staring at the dainty table where she’d shared countless cups of tea with her great-aunt.

  Two women sharing a lonely life over tea.

  Emily grimaced. It didn’t sound quite so pathetic when she first came to stay with Grace. How long had it been? And how long would it continue?

  Without invitation, a picture of Ian trying to squeeze himself into a seat at the tiny table came to mind. Was that some kind of sign? Was there no room for anyone but Grace in Emily’s life?

  As she glanced around the quaint, cozy kitchen, trying to imagine Ian here, a flicker of red on the answering machine caught her eye. She went for a closer look at the blinking number.

  Four messages. Odd.

  Frowning, she hit play.

  A mechanical voice greeted her with a timestamp: 4:14 p.m.

  “Hello, Emily. And Aunt Grace. It’s Ian.”

  Emily gasped. Ian?

  “Uh ... Emily, I tried to ring your cell but my call won’t go through. Could you ring me?”

  Click.

  4:17 p.m.

  “I meant ring anytime. I’ll wait here then. At the cottage.”

  Click.

  5:03 p.m.

  “Uh ... sorry, I’m not thinking. It’s a holiday there and you’re out. Just ring when you get in. No matter what time. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  The rumbling tone of his voice sent a warm shock wave through her. Emily held her breath as the red number 3 changed to a 4.

  8:30 p.m.

  “Emily?” The depth of his voice lingered, filling the loaded pause. “Call me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Three weeks without a word, then four phone messages in one day. What did he need to say that was so important?

  She checked the wall calendar.

  Ten days until the big green X, the day they would leave for Scotland.

  He probably just wanted their travel itinerary so someone could meet her and Aunt Grace at the airport.

  But hadn’t he said there was something he needed to tell her?

  Her pulse quickened as she remembered the depth of his tone.

  Oh, no. Something was wrong with Maggie. H
e wanted to tell Emily before Grace heard about it.

  Heart skittering, Emily pulled out her cell, punched the numbers, and got an immediate recording—her plan wasn’t set up for international calls. She chucked it, grabbed the cordless phone, and keyed in his number.

  As the line clicked through a string of region codes, she checked the time and added eight hours. Should be about 5:20 a.m. in Scotland. Which meant he’d left the first message just after midnight his time and the last at 4:30 a.m. He had been up all night trying to reach her?

  Boooo boop.

  She couldn’t breathe. Elbows on the counter, Emily cradled her dizzy head in her hands.

  Boooo boop.

  “Emily?”

  A thrill zapped across her nerves at the sound of his voice. “Yes, it’s me. Is something wrong with Maggie?”

  He expelled a long blast of air. Seconds passed before he answered. “Maggie’s fine.” His voice sounded deeper than usual, sending her stomach flipping. “I didn’t mean to worry you. I guess I wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”

  “What about you? Are you okay?”

  “Aye. I mean ... no. I’m, uh ...” A shuddering intake of breath vibrated over the line. “There are things I need to tell you, Emily, but first, there’s something I need to know. Do you remember when we stopped that night? Beside the road? When we—I mean, when I—”

  A shrill scream blasted from the teakettle.

  Startled, Emily lost her grip on the phone and it clattered to the floor. She grabbed it and dashed to the stove, fumbling to get the stupid phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. “Sorry! Hang on.” She moved the kettle off the burner, chest thudding like a giant marching drum. “Yes, I remember.” Are you kidding me? How could I forget?

  “I’d like to know how you felt about that.”

  She closed her eyes and found herself at the edge of the road beneath the dark, velvet sky, melting into Ian’s strong, gentle embrace. Drawing a calming breath, she centered her thoughts on the core-rocking truth that had already taken up residence in her heart.

  “I mean, when I took you in my arms and nearly kissed you. Because if that was ... unwelcome, then I won’t trouble you with the rest of what’s on my—”

  “I felt like I was home.”

  A long, breathless silence. “Home?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  A steady pulse played on the line.

  “Emily.” His voice plunged dangerously low. “You fill my thoughts. Constantly.”

  She tried to breathe, but nothing worked. Her legs were noodles. She reached behind her for something to hold onto as she slid down the doorframe to the floor, phone smashed to her ear. “Really?”

  “Aye,” he said softly. “I’m in love with you.”

  Numbing waves of joy engulfed her. She tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat.

  The line went still, as though Ian was holding his breath.

  Emily closed her eyes and pictured his face. “I love you, Ian. I fell in love with you the day we met.” A revelation struck and she added, “No. Long before.”

  “Ahh.” Relief poured from his shaky exhale.

  The image of him all alone, pacing back and forth in some tiny cottage, phone pressed to his ear, made her ache.

  “Eight days, love. I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  Her pulse skittered at the depth in his tone. Smiling, she gave a soft chuckle. “Ian, I’m sorry, but it’s ten, actually.”

  “Ten days?” He growled. “Emily, there are so many things I have to tell you. And there’s something very important I need to show you. Alone.” He groaned, then another growl rattled the line. “You’re sure it’s ten days?”

  Emily barely remembered returning in time to drape Aunt Grace with a blanket before the fireworks started. Barely remembered the next days of gathering things to pack or helping Aunt Grace find mates to her shoes. All she knew was Ian loved her, and the thought of that felt like a drink of pure, cool water after a long, dusty drought. She fumbled through workdays in a cloud and spent all her waking hours thinking of Ian—remembering the weight of his arms around her, his heart beating against her cheek.

  Of course, spending all her time dreaming about Ian wasn’t helping her get ready for the trip. Though she looked forward to his almost daily phone calls, she made him switch to email before he got a phone bill he would regret.

  His emails were short, sweet, and impatient. The things weighing on him most were things he preferred to tell her in person. He couldn’t wait to see her.

  She wrote back the same.

  Tuesday morning, she checked the time for Aunt Grace’s Wednesday appointment with Dr. Fletcher and, with a wave of numbing apprehension, remembered her plan to visit the doctor herself. The palpitations on the beach. Her mom’s condition. Her genetic condition. She pushed the intrusion aside and left for work. But throughout the day, thoughts of Ian kept bringing her back to what she desperately wished she could forget.

  By the time she left work and headed home, she could think of nothing else. The files and studies and links she’d saved on her computer about Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. The notes she’d taken. The search she’d begun after that disturbing conversation with her drunken father one night two years ago.

  He didn’t seem to remember the incident later—he’d been so out of it at the time—but Emily couldn’t forget. She’d stopped to see him after a bowling date with the friend of a friend who had just returned from Afghanistan.

  Dad was muttering and slurring his words more than usual. Tired of trying to talk to him, she left, but he’d followed her out to the porch, spewing awful things at her. “No more dating. No marriage. Just stay with Grace. Stay out there in the desert.”

  She’d asked him why he said such things.

  “Figure it out yet? You, your mom, your grandma ... ruin a man’s life. You can’t do that. You’ll put him through a living hell.” He’d staggered back inside.

  Stunned, Emily had decided it was his pain talking and left. She tried to sympathize, but still—what a thing to say to his own daughter. When she asked about it later, he claimed he had no idea what she was talking about. But what he’d said got her thinking and she started digging. Over time, she found sobering clues about the mysteriously early deaths of both her mom and her grandma.

  The one mystery she couldn’t solve was how much her dad knew. And if he knew something, why hadn’t he told her?

  When she arrived home after work, she killed the motor but remained in the Jeep, listening to the tick of the cooling engine. She needed to face what she’d been trying to ignore. If she had truly inherited a fatal illness, she needed to know.

  But I don’t want to know. I love him.

  That’s why you need to know. If you love him.

  Later that night, after Aunt Grace went to bed, Emily went out on the porch, took a deep breath, and punched in her dad’s number. As she waited for him to answer, the bizarre reality of what she was doing seized her.

  What girl calls her dad to ask if she’s dying?

  Lord, I wish Mom were still alive. Dad would be happy. Things would be so different.

  Click. “This is Ray.”

  He actually answered? Emily fumbled to speak. “Hi, it’s me, Dad.”

  “What do you want?”

  Good question. The sudden dryness in her throat forced her to swallow hard. “I sent you an email. I wanted to make sure you got it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Our travel itinerary. Aunt Grace and I are leaving for Scotland in a couple days. I thought you might want it, if you’re interested. Or in case anything happens.”

  Silence. She could see him, that pallid, weary look permanently stamped on his stubbly face. He always looked much too tired for a man his age. “How long?”

  “Four weeks.” She paced the length of the porch, gathering her nerve with each step.

  The line rumbled as he cleared his throat. “I want to know something.” />
  “Yeah? So do I,” she said.

  “That guy I met from Scotland—MacLean. Is he the reason you’re going?”

  “No. I mean, not exactly.” Not originally, anyway. “Why do you ask?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Emily stopped and braced against the post. C’mon, Dad, say what you said to me before. Tell me what you know.

  “I’m not stupid.”

  Wincing at the deadness in his words, she said, “What do you mean?”

  “Does he love you?” His voice sounded like gravel.

  Yeah, someone loves me, Dad. Finally. A ripple of pain pulsed through her. Every crushed hope and every ache during those lonely, empty years following her mom’s death rushed back, caught Emily off guard, sent her trembling. Needing to move, she launched off the porch and headed for the road.

  “Emily.” His voice wavered. “Does MacLean love you?”

  “Yes, he does.” She walked faster. “And I love him.”

  The line went silent.

  “Dad, what’s this really about?”

  “You can’t be with him.”

  “Why?”

  “You just can’t. Break it off. Now. Before it goes any further.”

  She stopped and took a deep, bolstering breath. “Dad, is this about me possibly having what Mom had? Do you know anything about that?”

  Silence. Except he was breathing hard, as if the conversation had suddenly become too taxing. “Forget MacLean. You’ll only hurt him.”

  The cool steel of his words sliced her heart, sending tart words to her tongue before she could stop them. “Why? Because you don’t want to see him hurt, or me happy?”

  Thick silence.

  Click.

  Wednesday morning, Emily drove Aunt Grace in her old, green Buick to Bend for some last-minute shopping before Grace’s doctor appointment. Once Dr. Fletcher had taken care of Grace’s medication refills, Emily had some questions about what effect their upcoming trip might have on her aunt’s health.

  Dr. Fletcher appreciated Emily’s concerns, but assured her Grace could travel. After he finished discussing Aunt Grace, the doctor smiled at Emily. “And how about you, young lady? Still running?” He leaned closer. “You know what happens if you run too much?”