by Susan Haught
Tears stained the knees of Nat’s jeans and she pressed a finger to the spots. “It’s reassuring to be so well-protected and cared for by someone you adore, and when you give your heart and expect nothing in return, love takes root and grows into something indescribable.”
“Yeah, well, it seems all I nurture is a crop of weeds and a lopsided set of morals.”
Natalie laughed. “Your so-called whacked out moral dogmas got you laid, didn’t they?”
“Only from the mouth of my smart-ass friend.”
“Told you those weenie wraps might come in handy.”
Natalie’s pixie-like grin made her smile too.
Outside, snow fell in lazy curtains, a quiet world draped in white. “God, I miss him,” Ryleigh whispered and opened the Frost book, “and I’m scared I’ll forget his smile and the taste of his kiss.” Moist and sweet with Italian wine. With her finger, she traced the words written in a strong right slant, the ink beneath her fingertips drawing him from the page as if their skin had touched. “I never want to forget the deep timbre of his laugh or the way he says my name, it’s the whisper on my pillow that carries me through my dreams.” The warmth and security of his body next to mine. “The only thing I have to remember him by is a T-shirt from The Stanley Hotel. The book. A shirt of his that I slept in and a bowl overflowing with green M&M’s.”
“Your mom saved the green ones too.”
Ryleigh nodded.
“You okay?”
“I have to be. Logan’s not coming back.” Ryleigh bunched her shoulders to her ears. “But I have a life to live, a book to promote and another to write. I’ve said goodnight to one life and hello to another. My characters can’t keep me warm, but they’re pretty good company.”
“Another book?”
Ryleigh sighed. “I finished the manuscript just to say I did it. Now PrestWood Publishing wants two more.”
“That’s awesome!” Nat said, squeezing her arm.
“And Evan’s magazine wants to use Ryan’s poems and letters for a series on Vietnam. But I can’t decide whether to share the letters. Seems like an invasion of their privacy.”
“How’d they find out about the journal and the letters?”
Ryleigh glared at her. “Evidently keeping secrets isn’t one of my son’s finer qualities. Or my best friend’s.”
Natalie’s eyes grew wide and she put her hand over a sneaky grin.
“I’ve decided to donate the proceeds from Ryan’s poems to the Vietnam Veterans memorial fund. I’ve already spoken to Marc about some things too. He’s your attorney, but I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. And I think the memorial fund is a wonderful idea.”
“I’ve asked Marc to transfer Ryan’s bonds to Evan. I think Mom would approve.” She paused. “And I’ve given the construction business back to Chandler, along with half the investments.”
“Riles, are you sure?”
“Without a doubt.”
“You’ve been busy since Colorado.”
“I left my heart buried under three feet of snow, so I had to stay busy. I didn’t want to think.”
Natalie scooted beside her, their silent reassurance as vocal as spoken words.
“I know I’ll be okay without him, Nat. But I don’t know if I want to be.” She drew in a deep breath. “But it’s time to stop sulking and get on with my life.” Ryleigh stood and went to the window, mesmerized by the falling snow. Natalie followed. “Why’d I fall for a guy with strings?”
“What strings? He’s not married.”
“He’s married to God. And a ghost.” She shrugged. “And I can’t compete with either one.”
Natalie looped an arm around her waist. “He was a fool to let you go.”
“I seem to be a magnet for fools—and I’m the biggest fool for trying to hold onto something I never truly had. Hearts don’t physically break, but it would be a damn sight easier if they did.” Ryleigh rubbed her arms. “I’m going to see Chandler tomorrow afternoon. I need to convince him it’s truly over between us. And has been for a long time.”
“He’s not going to take it well.”
“He doesn’t have a choice in the matter. I love him, Nat. I do. But I’m no longer in love with him. I knew long before Logan, but I didn’t want to admit it, not even to myself. It would have been so easy to take him back, to go back to the way things were.” Ryleigh inhaled deeply, shook her head and let it out slowly. “But it became different somehow. I missed being in love. I missed the comfort. The feelings and special moments more than I missed him.”
Natalie tightened her grip.
“How the hell do you realize you’re not in love with one, only to fall totally in love with another all in the span of three days?”
Streetlamps popped to life, throwing an amber wake over a deepening blanket of snow, earth’s secrets safely hidden beneath the white coverlet. A violet-pink haze bloomed across the western sky, glinting in the icicles that hung from the eaves, and her eyes followed the slow drip into the snow below. Tiny pillows of snow gathered on the edge of a birdhouse that only last spring had brimmed with the promise of new life.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ryleigh’s thoughts sank back to another snowstorm that not only covered the landscape, but had opened her heart and upended her world.
“Yes, it is. I can see why you write romance.”
“Fantasy, Nat. Nothing but pure fantasy. Knights in shining armor don’t exist.”
Ryleigh closed her eyes to her memories, her heart bursting with love for the woman who stood next to her and like her own shadow, knew her every step. But she ached for a man who had drifted into her life on the heels of a snowstorm and held her captive in the safe haven of his embrace. He had rescued her—not only from the fragments of a tormented, broken heart—but from herself.
“Nat?” Ryleigh laid her head on Nat’s shoulder. “What happens when it hurts so bad you can no longer cry?”
Chapter Thirty-Three
THE CORD SLIPPED through his hand as he lowered the drill to the floor. He hiked his tool belt back into place, swept an arm across his forehead, and checked from the bay window to see who had stopped by. Chandler’s heart rate doubled as Ryleigh stepped into a patch of snow left in the unfinished drive.
He brushed the sawdust from his shirt as she made her way up the walk and into the courtyard. Early afternoon light bounced off the sidelights of the oak doors, dragonflies and sunflowers etched in the glass. He opened the double doors to the warm smile he genuinely missed.
“Hey,” he said, motioning her to step inside.
“It’s good to see you, Chandler,” she said. He bent to kiss her, but his welcome kiss landed on her cheek, and though she’d stepped into his arms, she responded as though she’d been lured into an awkward snare. He tightened his arms around her and took a moment to recall how good she felt against him.
“You look great.” She was radiant, but he sensed a pronounced change. Not only sun kissed cheeks, or the brightness in her eyes. Something new. “Your new lifestyle agrees with you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m enjoying it very much.”
“Congratulations on your book, by the way.”
She pushed her hair behind an ear covering a shy smile. “May I see the rest of the house or are we going to stand here exchanging pleasantries all afternoon?”
“Be done by spring.” He smiled and stepped aside. “In time to see the trees leaf out from the bay window.”
Ryleigh slipped past him. She gasped and brought her hands to her chest. “Chandler, this is gorgeous.” She turned in his direction. “Please show me the rest.”
Explaining the unique features, Chandler walked her through each room before concluding the tour in the den.
“You’ve always had a discriminating eye for what people want in a home. The layout is incredible, high ceilings, crown molding. You’ve outdone yourself,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “This house is a work of art
.”
“I built it for you.” He took her hand and pulled her toward him.
“Chandler—”
“Look around, Riles. It’s your den. A place for you to write.”
“You don’t understand.”
“It’s your dream house.”
“No,” she said, backing away. “This is your dream now. Not mine.”
Her words sucked a hollow cavern of emptiness in the place where rational thought lived.
“You don’t have to explain,” he said, adjusting his sleeves. “It’s written all over your face.”
“Excuse me?”
“You wear the look well.” He stared at the floor.
“What look?”
“The first time we made love. Our wedding day. The day you told me you were pregnant. It’s the same look you’re wearing now. Who is he, Ryleigh?” His jaw clenched. “Anyone I know?”
“Chandler, please. This isn’t necessary.”
“Who is he?” Anger fueled his words.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, taking his arm and turning him to her. “What does matter is you know I love you.”
His anger calmed to a feeling of relief at the simple words.
“And I always will. You’re Evan’s father and I won’t deny our connection because of that. You’ll always be an important part of my life.”
“We can be a family again. Right here. In this house.”
She shook her head. “That’s not why I came.”
Her words crawled through his gut. “Let me prove to you it can be like it was.”
RYLEIGH TURNED TO the window. The sun had begun its descent, casting golden rays across a rocky cliff. A bald eagle soared along its edge. “I’m sorry, Chandler,” she said, turning to face him. “Too many things have changed for us to go back to the way things were. I’m happy. You and I weren’t happy together long before Della entered the picture.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Does he make you happy?”
“If you must know, yes,” she said, and raised her chin. “He talks to me. And he listens.”
“I listen,” he said, his brow pinched. “I hate it when you say I don’t listen.”
“Then why are dragonflies etched in the sidelights instead of fireflies?”
“I’ll change them if that’s what you want.”
She shook her head slowly as she lowered her eyes.
“Then what do you want? I gave you everything, Ryleigh,” he said, jaw muscles pulsing. “Everything.”
“But not what I needed most.” She blinked back tears she had no intention of allowing to fall. “Your time. Love. Attention. Your trust. There was always something more important, more interesting—a baseball game, a job. Della.”
He dragged a hand restlessly along the bookshelves and then stopped and kicked at the nails in the plywood subfloor. “I would have given you whatever you wanted.” His voice softened. “All you had to do was ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask. It should have been a part of who we were together. Things we did for each other. Love should be shown and felt. Not spoken with meaningless words.”
He approached her and took her in his arms. He nuzzled her neck, his breath warm against her skin. She stood resolute in an awkward embrace. “Don’t do this, Chandler, please.”
“Does he hold you,” he said, tightening his embrace, “like I used to?”
His voice was low and husky and warm on her neck. She closed her eyes, a recent memory flooding over her. He pulled her closer, his scent familiar, but not the one she clung to on nights sleep failed to overcome the memories. It wasn’t the chiseled body or calloused hands of the carpenter she longed for, but the tenderness of a man forged by compassion, sorrow and wisdom, whose knowing touch nourished every facet of who she was, and whose mere presence offered a safe haven to entrust her dreams, her sorrows, herself.
“Tell me, Riles. Does he hold you when you cry?”
And it was Logan who pushed his way through her dreams—steady and strong and real and whose scent crowded her thoughts at unexpected times. “Yes.” She bit the inside of her lip to steady the tremble there. “He holds me when I cry.” A hollow ache pulled itself fully forward as she recalled Logan’s arms wrapped around her, her lips swollen and yearning for the taste and promise of his kiss. “He holds me all the time.”
She closed her eyes and allowed the sliver of what was left between them to die in his arms.
“And you’re happy?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t let you go again,” he said, turning to face her, “and I never will.”
“Chandler—”
“I need you, Ryleigh.”
“I hope you find someone who makes you happy.”
“I already have. Marry me, Ryleigh Michele Endicott. Take back my name.”
“You know that would be a mistake.”
“Some of my biggest mistakes I’ve turned into my best accomplishments.”
She clenched her teeth. “I’m not a bunch of two-by-fours you can cut and nail into a replica of lines drawn on blue paper.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“God, Chandler.” She leaned her forehead against his chest and kissed him there, and then placing her hands just below the vee of his shirt, absently adjusted a button, the flannel so familiar against her palm. “I should go.”
Chandler held her at arm’s length, his hands covering hers. Pain showered his face. “Ryleigh, please don’t throw away what we had.”
“I didn’t throw it away,” she said, reclaiming her hands. “You did.” She turned, and with the click of the latch the dim shadow of what once had been vanished behind the closed door.
Ryleigh left without a second thought of looking back.
EACH FOOTSTEP TORE the hole in his heart a little wider, and though hushed and spoken gently, her words echoed off the walls of the unfinished den. He scrubbed a hand over his face as if to erase the memory, yet a deep emptiness settled in its place. The room collapsed around him—an inaccessible aperture. Without her, this house was nothing more than an empty shell.
She had changed. Maybe it was selling her book and living her dream. Hell, maybe it was the fucking guy. He didn’t know. He only knew pain—a grievous ache cinched around his heart.
As the last shaft of sunlight collapsed behind the cliff, Chandler left Juniper Ridge Road.
He cranked the radio volume trying to drown the echo of her words, but remorse, fueled by an anger he couldn’t define nor control coursed through his blood and fed his temper.
“You’re a fool!” He hit the steering wheel hard several times. “A fucking fool!”
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE DOORBELL COUGHED twice, a sure sign of its impending demise. Ryleigh opened the door to a UPS delivery. She wasn’t expecting anything, and unexpected deliveries were a close second to unexpected phone calls in the middle of the night—a surprise both unwanted and unnerving.
Early June air smelled of jasmine and held the promise of a long, warm summer. She smiled, returned the driver’s greeting and signed for the small package postmarked from New York.
The name on the return address was spelled out with no hint of the alias he insisted on using. Dread prickled the back of her neck. She examined it, turning the package over several times before finally snipping the tape. The wrapping fell to the floor.
The leather journal was identical to the one her father had filled so many years ago, yet no blood stained the cover. The pages were stark white and empty except for a single sheet of yellow legal paper, edges precisely aligned. The letter was penned in the same scrawl she’d seen in a note handwritten to her mother. The paper quivered in her hands.
‘My Dear Miss Ryleigh—
I hope you find words enough to fill these pages for the man you desire—yes, I know of Mr. Cavanaugh.’
Her mouth went dry. How did he know? A shiver of warmth crept over her at the sight of Logan’s name, the pleasur
e of his touch and her body curled next to him more real than memory. Afraid her legs would crumple, she entered the den, fell into the old blue chair and continued:
‘The desires of the heart are rarely an obstacle for those who treasure love. He is one who truly deserves a place inside your heart, inside your treasure chest. Kindle his love with your words. Write to him often, in here. He is an insightful man. Trust me.
I am pleased to hear of the success of your book and plans for Ryan’s journal. Words flow from you as they did your father, a true and rare gift, indeed. Words are your destiny. You see the world from the eyes he gave you: eyes the color of the inside of an ocean wave.
You should receive this package about the time you learn of my leaving this realm. Please do not mourn—I am ready to pursue a new adventure! I do not leave much behind, nor do I have anything to offer save the wisdom of my indiscretions.
Most importantly—write what your heart reveals to you in this journal. Write to the man who desires your heart and whom you so desire. He will hear you, for love is ageless and knows not the boundary of time.
You have dismissed the complacent routes along your path and have embarked in a new direction, indeed. You have dug deeper than I ever imagined. I am well pleased. You will always hold a special place in my treasure chest, but I beg you never forget—it is not how you weather the storms of life, Miss Ryleigh, but that you learn to dance in the rain.
Most affectionately,
Ambrose’
Surrounded by ghosts, she allowed the longing to take hold and breed. Tears splashed across his words as the old man—whose compassion and love spoke through a grizzled exterior—came fully to life. Pale, twinkling eyes. Knotted knuckles. A roadmap of memories etched across an aged face. The chipped mug, a souvenir of the jagged pieces of memory he’d given her. His arm around her shoulders.
