Nick ran past the orchard, stumbling—but not falling—as he took his eyes from the path ahead to the trees he wanted to see. In the distance he saw the farmhouse.
When the Keelings lived there, it had been painted white and teal—which, his teacher explained, was a blend of green and blue. The new owners kept the original color scheme until the end of World War Two. With the help of the entire town, the young bride painted it daffodil-yellow with butter-cream trim. She wanted it to look like a beacon, to guide her soldier husband home.
The soldier must have liked the beacon. The farmhouse was still yellow and cream, glowing to Nick even on cloudy afternoons.
Today, the house also glowed from within. All the lights were on. The eaves were adorned for Christmas, as were the apple trees that lined the drive. Those closest to the house twinkled white. Along the drive itself the trees were wrapped in lights the color of ripe apples.
For the past three weeks, Nick had noticed the strands coiled around the trunks and limbs. Until today, the Christmas lights hadn’t been illuminated when he ran by. It wasn’t twilight even now. But the trees were shining. The family was celebrating, too. It was a large gathering, Nick saw. The partygoers had overflowed to the porch, and the grounds.
They seemed to be searching. And shouting. Their shouts weren’t angry, like Dennis’s—or his mom’s previous boyfriends’.
These shouts sounded worried.
The road dipped, leaving the farmhouse and its noises behind. The orchard entrance lay ahead, at the bottom of the long, steep drive. The entrance was twinkling, an archway of red and white, and just inside, at the base of a lighted tree, was a sobbing child.
She wasn’t very old. Two or so. And she was really sobbing. The kind of hiccupping wails that only grew silent when it became necessary for her to breathe.
Nick had witnessed such sobbing before. Marianne’s boyfriend before Dennis had a two-year-old daughter who cried like this. Nick hadn’t been allowed to comfort her. She needed to learn not to cry, her father had said.
No one was forbidding Nick to comfort this sobbing girl. Without hesitation he ran to her.
“Don’t cry!” he implored.
She looked at him and immediately wailed.
She didn’t seem injured, although her holly-green tights had dirt stains at the knees. Nor did she seem cold; in her heavy Christmas sweater, she was probably warmer than Nick.
Maybe she was scared.
Maybe a carol would help.
“Jingle Bells” wasn’t Nick’s favorite. “A Midnight Clear” was.
But “Jingle Bells” might cheer her up, if she could hear his singing above her cries.
She could, and when she did, she stared at him. It was a bold stare and, at first, an indignant one—as if she’d been enjoying a perfectly good cry and how dare he make it end?
Then she smiled, beamed. Her stare had been one of surprise, he decided, not indignation. Surprise that what had felt like hopelessness could be vanquished by a song.
“You belong up there, don’t you?” he asked, glancing at the drive. “You’re the reason everyone’s searching. They probably figure there’s no way you could’ve made it this far.”
She didn’t say anything, but the smile disappeared and new tears threatened.
“Don’t start crying again, okay? I’d better carry you.” Assuming he could lift her.
She was a healthy toddler. He was small for his age. Very small, as Dennis—and others—never failed to point out.
She was heavy. Nick staggered a little under her weight. It helped when she curled her arms around his neck and hung on.
Nick began singing, and she joined in.
“‘Jingle bells,’” she crooned. “‘All the way.’”
Her jumbled lyrics were nothing compared to the tune she couldn’t carry.
But she had a happy voice, and the tears were gone. She’d obviously concluded that it wasn’t so bad, in fact fun, to be carried up the hill. She pointed to the twinkling branches overhead and giggled as she sang.
When they reached the crest of the hill and were spotted by a searcher who shouted the wonderful news, she was immediately surrounded by the kind of love Nick wouldn’t have believed existed if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes.
Whisked from his arms, the girl was held jointly by her weeping parents while the large circle of people who loved her wept, laughed and marveled that she’d wandered so far, so fast—especially since, or so they’d thought, they were all keeping an eye on her.
In moments, the toddler and her entourage were moving as one toward the farmhouse. Nick was halfway down the drive when he heard the male voice behind him.
“Wait, son! Please.”
No one had ever called him son. His own dad “split” the day his mom told him she was pregnant. Whenever Marianne’s boyfriends bothered to call him anything, they invariably came up with a cruel reminder of how small he was.
There’d also never been anyone who’d wanted to talk to him as much as the man who was jogging to catch him.
The man wasn’t alone. A woman jogged beside him.
The driveway was so steep that the man and woman towered over Nick more than they would have if they’d all been standing on level ground.
The couple crouched down, and it didn’t feel mean or insulting. They just wanted to look him straight in the eyes.
Their eyes, Nick noticed, glistened with tears.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
Nick hesitated. He could see this man showing up at Dennis’s house and being shouted at by Dennis. Hating the image, he replied with a shrug.
“Well, I’m Charles MacKenzie, and this is my wife, Clara. We’re Elizabeth’s grandma and grandpa, and we can’t tell you how grateful we are that you saved her. If she’d gone across the road…” The voice faltered.
“She was sitting down,” Nick said. “She wouldn’t have crossed the road. I don’t think she was running away. Was she?”
“Heavens, no!” Clara replied. “She was just fascinated by the lights on the trees. The minute I turned them on, she started pointing to them. She loves bright colors. I’ll bet she loved your bright blue eyes.”
Nick didn’t have bright blue eyes. At least, the last time he’d looked, they were gray. But if this nice lady wanted to think his eyes were bright blue, that was okay with him. He wished they were. For her.
“We didn’t imagine Elizabeth would go outside,” Charles murmured. “Or that she could get outside with all of us watching her. But she did, and you saved her. You must live nearby?”
Nick shrugged again. “I better go.”
“Why don’t you let us drive you home? It’s getting dark.”
“I’m okay.”
“Could you join us for dinner? We could call your parents and invite them, too. We’d like to tell them what you did.”
“No. I mean, they’re—” Not home. Nick was certain it was true, that Dennis and his mom had already left for work. If he told these kind people he’d be alone for the evening, they’d really want him to stay for dinner, and when Dennis sent one of his customers to check on him and he wasn’t there…“I have to go now.”
“All right,” Charles said. “We don’t want to keep you. But here’s something for you to remember. If you ever need anything—anything at all—you come to us. Just walk up this driveway, knock on the door and say ‘I’m the boy who rescued Elizabeth.’”
“You don’t even need to say that much,” Clara said. “We’ll see your blue eyes and know who you are. But if it seems that our eyes are failing us, if for some reason you think we might’ve forgotten, even though we never will, you can say ‘I’m Elizabeth’s hero.’” Clara didn’t ask if that was okay with Nick. Instead, she added, “I really wish you’d let me send you home with some Christmas cookies.”
“You should take her up on that, son. She’s a terrific cook. Do you like apple butter?”
“I’ve never tasted it.”
“Then it�
��s time you did. My Clara makes the best apple butter in the world. Could we get you to take a jar or two?”
He was so tempted, not by the offer of food, but by the kindness that came with it. “No. Thank you. I have to go.” Now. If he didn’t, he might not ever leave.
“All right. Thank you, Elizabeth’s hero. And please remember what we told you. We’re here if you need us.”
How could he ever forget? Nick wondered as he continued his journey home.
He ran, even though he knew his destination would be a locked house and a frigid porch. The sooner he put distance between himself and what he wanted so much—but would never have—the better.
He must have run faster than he’d ever run before. In no time he rounded the corner where Dennis’s house would come into view.
Dennis’s pickup was in the drive and a rental truck, like the U-Haul Dennis had rented to move Nick and Marianne from Medford to Sarah’s Orchard, was parked out front.
Dennis, his mom and two of Dennis’s friends were loading the vehicles. It wasn’t just his mom’s furniture that was being loaded, but Dennis’s, as well. And there were things Nick had never seen. Equipment from the basement, he supposed.
No one shouted at him for being late. His mom simply told him they were leaving the second the trucks were loaded—about five minutes from now. Any belongings he hadn’t put on the van by then would be left behind.
Would he have been left behind if he’d accepted Mrs. MacKenzie’s offer of apple butter and cookies?
The question would haunt Nick for years to come. How different his life might’ve been if he’d returned to the daffodil-yellow farmhouse in the middle of that very night.
I’m Elizabeth’s…hero, he would’ve said through chattering teeth. Remember me? I’ve been waiting on a run-down porch on Center Street for my mom and her boyfriend to get home from work. It’s been hours since they should’ve returned, and when I looked through the windows I didn’t see any furniture inside. I’m pretty cold. And sort of hungry. Could I…could I come in?
But Nicholas Lawton did leave Sarah’s Orchard that December night.
It would be twenty-four years before he made his way back. Found his way home.
One
San Francisco, California
Friday, July 7, 12:30 p.m.
Present day
Elizabeth Charlotte Winslow was smiling. She’d just picked up her wedding invitations and was delighted with the result. She’d designed them herself. And although her concept hadn’t been a huge departure—a different font, a more interesting format—from what Atherton heiresses had mailed to their wedding guests for as long as anyone could recall, her mother, Abigail MacKenzie Winslow, had been wary.
It would be fine, Elizabeth had insisted. The gilt edging hadn’t been forsaken, and the parchment itself was more expensive than paper had any right to be.
It was fine, as her mother would acknowledge when she saw the invitations…in forty minutes or so. Elizabeth wanted to make a brief stop before heading south to Atherton and her parents’ Lilac Lane home.
She was in the second week of the nine she’d spend living with her parents until her September wedding to Matthew Blaine. It was also the second week of her first carefree summer since she’d graduated from Atherton High.
She’d taken courses that summer. Advanced-placement courses that had helped her get her undergraduate degree from Stanford—and be admitted to Stanford Law—in three years, not four. She’d also taken classes each undergraduate summer and clerked during law school vacations and had spent the summer after graduation studying for the California bar.
Then it was off to L.A., where, as a prosecutor, she’d tried cases, and won cases, year round. There hadn’t been any carefree summers in eleven years. No carefree autumns, winters or springs, either.
Two weeks ago, the jury had returned its guilty verdict on her swan-song case in L.A. She’d flown home the next day, and despite the occasional feeling that she was playing hooky, she was adapting well to her newfound freedom.
In fact, she was enjoying it so much, she hadn’t yet made the offer to her new boss, the San Francisco D.A., that she’d intended to make. Even though her official start date was October 1, she’d tell him she was available to do preliminary work on the cases she’d be handling. So far the delights of a lazy summer had overcome that urge.
There were people—her mother, Matthew’s mother and the wedding coordinator—who were unhappy with Elizabeth’s notion of a carefree summer leading up to the Winslow-Blaine nuptials. There were myriad decisions to make, all of which they regarded as critical. Elizabeth’s plan had been to be peripherally—but cheerfully—involved. Whatever the mothers wanted. She hadn’t imagined there’d be issues, like the invitations, on which she’d felt strongly enough to voice a preference.
There were other choices she would’ve made differently. Fewer bridal showers. A less grand dress. And, as it became clear that her wedding—and the festivities leading up to it—was the event of the season, a nice middle-of-the-night elopement to Lake Tahoe sounded more and more appealing. But Elizabeth was picking her battles.
And Matthew, smartly, was remaining out of the fray. It wouldn’t be a carefree summer for him. As an investment banker, her fiancé had several major deals in the works. He hoped to bring them all to lucrative conclusions before the wedding. It would require long hours and frequent travel, but he believed it could be done.
He’d been in New York for the past three days. He’d be coming home late tonight—too late, he’d said, for her to meet him at the airport, or at his Pacific Heights home, which would become theirs in September.
Matthew’s house was Elizabeth’s brief stop before driving to Atherton. Matthew wouldn’t be seeing her tonight, but he’d be able to see their invitations. If he wanted to. Matthew wasn’t any more desperate to see the engraved proof of their impending wedding than Elizabeth would’ve been if she hadn’t insisted on the changes.
As Elizabeth made the short drive from Shreve & Company on Union Square, she confronted the real reason for her detour to Matthew’s empty house before returning home. Once her mother acknowledged that the invitations were at least as elegant as the traditional ones, the logical next step would be for Elizabeth to begin addressing them.
There’d been a minor skirmish on that point. The mothers had wanted to hire a calligrapher. Elizabeth didn’t do calligraphy, but her handwriting was legible. Presentable. Even if it wasn’t, so what? This was her wedding. She wanted to address the invitations herself. She was a little surprised, she told the dismayed faces, that all brides didn’t feel the same way.
The idea of spending the afternoon addressing invitations should have been a happy one. It would’ve been, had the recipient of the first invitation she was going to address been excited about receiving it—about the wedding itself.
But unless she’d magically changed her opinion of her granddaughter’s groom-to-be, Clara MacKenzie wouldn’t be excited at all. Elizabeth’s detour to Matthew’s was, therefore, a stalling tactic.
Since Monday night, Elizabeth had studiously avoided thinking about the phone conversation with her grandmother.
She needed to replay it, and there was no time like the present.
She’d made the call to Sarah’s Orchard, a thank-you for the lovely July Fourth weekend she and Matthew had just spent at the farmhouse, and for the wonderful party Gram had thrown in their honor at the Orchard Inn.
The thank-you had been heartfelt. So was Elizabeth’s hope that she’d hear Gram’s enthusiastic approval of the man she was going to marry.
It hadn’t been a far-fetched hope. She’d expected Gram to be as pleased with the match as everyone else.
But…
“Are you sure he’s the one?” Clara had asked.
“Yes, I am. But you aren’t. Why not?” When Gram hadn’t been forthcoming with answer, Elizabeth had provided possible concerns herself. “Is it because he’s ten years older
than I am?”
“I didn’t even realize he was.”
“Or because he’s thinking about going into politics?”
“More than thinking,” Gram had replied. “It sounds like his run for the Senate is a sure thing.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Not at all. And with his beautiful, brilliant wife at his side, he’s certain to win.”
“That’s not why he’s marrying me.” Elizabeth’s statement had been emphatic, and so stern it had blocked the question that begged to be asked. You think it is? She’d sensed the question, of course. Rolled right over it. “Ours may not be the love you and Granddad had. What love is? But we’re extremely compatible. I’ve done some dating, you know. I have my own previous relationships to compare this one to. That’s what I have to compare it to, Gram. My relationships, not yours and Granddad’s.”
“And it’s good?”
“Very good.”
“You love him?”
“Of course I do! And Matthew loves me.”
“Do you sing for him?”
Elizabeth couldn’t carry a tune. She knew it. Anyone who’d ever heard her knew it. It had been years—decades—since she’d inflicted her tonelessness on the world. Not since the carefree summers she’d spent in Sarah’s Orchard as a girl. “You know I can’t sing.”
“You always sang for Granddad and me.”
“Yes, but…” You’re my grandparents. You love me unconditionally. “Matthew doesn’t need to hear me sing.”
Before the phone call had ended, Gram had made an effort to soften her position. But it had been damning with faint praise. She didn’t dislike Matthew. She didn’t believe him to be a serial killer in disguise. She just didn’t think he was the man for her only granddaughter. And she’d said, so quietly Elizabeth almost hadn’t heard it, that Charles wouldn’t think so, either.
Maybe that was what Gram’s reaction to Matthew was really about. Granddad. The man Gram had loved for sixty-five years had died last November. It wasn’t in Gram’s nature to give up on life, and she hadn’t. And she had the support of her family, her town and, perhaps most importantly, of Winifred and Helen. Both had known and loved Clara—and Charles—for more than sixty of those sixty-five years.
Hearts Divided Page 18
