by Rachel Hauck
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” Mom says. “I thought you were coming with Jake.”
“I did. I was just trying to find us some cider.” I look over my shoulder, toward the baking booths. “He’s back there with Lily.”
Her mother radar must be on full alert, because her eyes flicker in that way they do whenever she senses I’m in turmoil. “Why don’t you take a ride with your dad and I’ll go find us some cider.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Enjoy a carriage ride with your dad. I’ll find Jake and Lily and let them know where you are.” The driver helps Mom down from the carriage, then helps me up. I sit on the bench, wrap my arm around Dad’s, and rest my head on his shoulder, savoring the rise and fall of his breathing. We ride without speaking for a while, taking in the sounds of the festival, the clopping of the horse hooves, the crisp evening air, and the moonlight spilling its light onto the tops of the trees. It’s not until we round the second corner that I remove my head from his shoulder and look at him. “You’ve been looking healthy, Dad.”
“I’ve been feeling healthy.”
The statement has my hope growing into something desperate and unwieldy, something that refuses to be contained.
“The meds are doing a great job at managing the headaches and nausea.”
“Maybe it’s not the meds,” I offer.
“Maybe.”
But he doesn’t believe it. I can tell. “You don’t think it’s possible? All the people who are praying for you to be healed—our whole church, this town—you don’t think God can answer?”
“I know he can, honey.” He pats my hand. “I’m just not sure he will.”
And just like that, the dream I’ve been living in pops. As if it were nothing more substantial than a soap bubble.
Chapter 11
It’s hard to fall asleep after you wake up from a dream as long as mine. I toss and turn in bed, wondering how a night that started with so much promise could turn out like this. I keep thinking about Jake’s confusion as I claimed a headache and he walked me home early. I could tell he wasn’t sure what went wrong. At what point did the night derail so horribly?
In the morning, I wake up bright and early with swollen eyes and a foggy brain—a crying jag hangover. I don’t want to go to church. I want to stay in bed. But if I’m not there, my parents will want to know why. So I take a shower and get dressed and try to cover up the aftereffects of a horrible night’s sleep with makeup, then head to Patty’s as soon as she opens the doors at seven, hoping a giant cup of hot coffee will do the trick. Not only do I have to make it through church at ten, but I also have to meet up with Lily at two o’clock to have our dresses altered.
I step inside Patty’s to the usual early Sunday morning patrons—Randy Crandall, our town selectman, eating a hardy breakfast with his wife; Mick Horowitz, who bears an uncanny resemblance to his schnauzer; and Kathleen Baudin, the town cat lady, who makes a habit of dropping by the clinic to give me pamphlets on the dangers of declawing, as if vet school didn’t educate me properly on the subject. Occasionally, she’ll even sneak one under the windshield wipers of my car.
Patty appears from the kitchen and sets a plate of eggs and bacon in front of Mick. I join them both at the counter.
“Well, look who it is all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Patty says with a playful wink.
“Not feeling the best this morning.” I set my purse on the counter. “Hi, Mick.”
“Morning, Emma.”
“How’s Marty’s leg doing?” Marty is his schnauzer. I often get their names mixed up.
He cuts apart his eggs with his fork, steam and yolk oozing from the wound. “His limp’s mostly gone.”
“That’s good.” I cover a yawn. “Make sure to bring him in if it comes back.”
“Will do.”
I look at Patty through bleary eyes. “I need coffee, stat. In the biggest cup you have.”
“Decaf?”
I give her my best are-you-crazy face. It’s a weird suggestion in the morning. Especially since I never do decaf. Not even when I stop by in the afternoon. “Decaf is not my friend, Patty.”
She sets her pudgy arms on the counter and leans toward me. “Don’t you think you ought to make it your friend?”
All right, now I’m officially confused. I mirror Patty’s posture. “Why would I do that?”
“I’m no doctor, but I always thought caffeine wasn’t good for the baby.”
It takes me a second to fully comprehend what she’s implying. When I do, my eyes go buggy. “The baby?” I glance at Mick, who pretends not to listen, then back at the woman behind the counter. “You think I’m pregnant?”
Patty frowns. “Aren’t you?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“Stacy Green told all the gals at bunco on Thursday.” I must look pale, because Patty grabs a nearby coffeepot, sets a tall mug in front of me, and fills it to the rim. “She said it was the reason you were getting married so fast.”
What an assumption to make! “And you believed her?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. A baby is wonderful news.”
“Patty, I’m not marrying Jake because I’m pregnant.” Anger coalesces with my shock, waking me up before I have a trace of caffeine in my bloodstream. “I’m marrying Jake because I’m in love with him.”
The instant the words are out, I realize two things. They are true. And I am a fool.
* * *
I pound on Lily’s front door, then pace like a caged lion. I feel feral, like I can’t exist in my own skin. My mounting anger—at Stacy Green for the rumor, at Patty for believing it, at myself for the position I’ve put myself in—has me wishing I could crawl out of it. As unfair as it may be, I need a scapegoat. I stop and knock on her door again.
A lock clicks from the other side and the door opens. Lily appears, still in her flannel pajamas. Her brows knit in confusion then worry as she takes in what can no doubt be my frazzled appearance. “Emma? What is wrong with you?”
“What was your deal last night?”
She gives me her deadpan stare, then opens the door wider. “Do you want to come in?”
No, I don’t want to come in. I want to rewind to last night, make Lily behave, make my father take back his words, make the rumor go away, and continue on in happy oblivion. “Did you have to make those comments you made? What happened to giving me your support?”
“I’ve supported you for the past month.”
“No, you haven’t. You’ve been silently judging me.”
“I haven’t been judging you, Emma. I’ve been worried about you.” Lily’s shoulders sag. “At some point, you’re going to have to face the fact that your father is dying, and a fake wedding isn’t going to fix it.”
I can feel myself slowly deflating, right there on Lily’s front porch. Because her words are true. As much as I don’t want them to be, they are. My father has terminal cancer. All the pretending in the world won’t make it go away. And now, to add insult to injury, I have gone and given my heart to a man who never asked for it. “The town thinks I’m pregnant.”
Lily bites her lip. “I may have heard that rumor.”
“When?”
“Last night, before I met up with you and Jake. I heard a couple of the Bunco Babes talking about it.”
I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes. “Lily, my dad is dying.”
“I know.”
“And I’m in love with Jake.” I shrug helplessly, because what else is there to do?
She pulls me inside and wraps me in a hug. “Would it help if I made cinnamon rolls?”
Chapter 12
It’s only nine o’clock when I pull up behind Jake’s Chevy and shift into park, idling in his gravel drive. But it feels as though I’ve lived an entire lifetime since crawling out of bed this morning. After a long heart-to-heart with Lily over cinnamon rolls and coffee, my voice is nearly hoarse and my eyes require Visin
e. But I know what I have to do. I can’t keep pretending. As well-intentioned as Jake and I might have been, it’s time to be honest. If only my heart hadn’t fallen so hard in the midst of our make-believe, then maybe what I need to do wouldn’t feel so impossibly hard.
My future stretches ahead of me—no Dad, no Jake—a landscape too bleak for contemplation. Twisting the now-familiar ring around my finger, I look out the windshield, taking in the expanse of Jake’s property. Pine trees dot the periphery of a well-kept yard. A cabin-style ranch home sits on one side of the drive and a two-story man-shed sits on the other, only it’s set farther away from the road. Jake has all the benefits of country living—the privacy, the property, the quiet—and none of the hassle or hard work that comes with a farm. Over the past several weeks, people have asked whether we’d live in my bungalow or Jake’s cabin. Even though it was not a decision we really had to make, I’d find myself weighing the pros and cons. Usually, Jake’s place would win.
Letting out a long breath, I swing open the car door, step outside, and head toward Jake’s house, each step heavier than the one before. When I finally muster up the strength to knock, Jake doesn’t answer. I turn around and head toward the shed, hoping he’s at the hardware store. The place is closed on Sundays, but that doesn’t mean Jake’s not there, taking inventory or cleaning before church. If he’s not here, that will give me more time. To think about what I will say. To rehearse the right words. To drum up the determination.
But a sound comes from the shed as I walk around the corner and stand in the large doorway. The sun shines at my back, illuminating the space inside—filled with beautiful handmade furniture in various stages of completion. Jake stands with his back to me, already dressed in his Sunday church khakis, sanding the top of a gorgeous oak table.
A bit of sawdust tickles my nose and I sneeze.
Jake spins around and broadens his posture, as if attempting to block the lovely table behind him. “Hey.” He sets his palm on the edge of it and pulls at his earlobe, strangely flustered. “What are you doing here?”
I step inside and close the distance between us, my heart thudding so slowly, it could be a funeral dirge. The closer I get, the more Jake expands his shoulders and the more charged the air between us seems to grow. By the time I’m all the way there, I reach past him and touch the table, halfway expecting an electrical zap. “Jake, this is really exquisite.”
His posture relaxes. “You like it?”
“Like it?” My fingers linger on the wood surface. “I love it.”
“Good. Because it’s yours.”
I look up. “What?”
He smiles. “Patty kept heckling me about a wedding present. And you’re always complaining about that small table in your kitchen.” He scratches the nape of his neck, making his baseball hat tip up a little. “So I decided to make you a bigger one.”
Jake made me a table—one that could comfortably seat a family of six. Does it mean anything to him? Or is this just another one of his kind gestures?
“Hey, Emma.” He dips his head to catch my attention. “Is everything okay?”
The concern on his face undoes me. How could I have let myself get into this mess? Why didn’t I just say no to Jake’s proposition that day on my porch? Laugh it off like any sane, normal person would do? I know why. Because I had been in denial then—and a little bit in shock too. I shake my head. “I can’t do this.”
“Can’t do what?”
I close my eyes. “The wedding.”
Jake says nothing.
I take a deep breath and force my voice to come out steady. “I’m so incredibly grateful that you were willing to do this for me and my dad. But it’s not real. And I can’t keep pretending that it is.” I look up at him, hoping and praying he will argue. Hoping and praying he will tell me it was real for him.
He looks down at me, his face etched with desperation, like he wants nothing more than to reach out and sand away my hurt, patch up the broken bits. A hope I don’t want to feel bubbles in my heart. It’s a hope I’ve felt once before, after my high school graduation. “Emma, I’m sorry. I thought . . .” He shakes his head and drags his hand down his face. “I thought this would make you happy.”
“It did for a while.”
“That’s all I want, you know. For you to be happy.”
Happy.
Like a flower left too long in the sun without any water, my heart wilts. It’s not enough. It’s not even close. I slip the ring from my finger, place it in Jake’s broad palm, and curl his fingers over the gift. He looks bewildered, dumbfounded. Like this is all happening too fast. I want to tell him that he makes me happy. I want to tell him that us makes me happy. But my throat is too tight to get the words out and I won’t put Jake in that position. I won’t jeopardize our friendship. So I squeeze his hand, then turn around and walk away.
I hate that he lets me go.
Chapter 13
I sit inside my parents’ house, waiting for them to come home from their usual post-church date, unmoving except for my hand, which strokes Oscar, who purrs on my lap. The front door doesn’t open until almost one o’clock.
Mom laughs as she steps inside, and I wonder if they are in a dream of their own, if she is in denial and if Dad is letting her live there. But then I remember our carriage ride and our time in front of the fire and I think no. There is a big difference between avoiding reality by pretending and enjoying reality for as long as it’s possible.
Mom hangs her purse on the hook by the door—the one Dad installed just for her since she has a habit of misplacing it around the house—and stops when she turns and sees me on their sofa. “Emma, what are you doing here in the dark?”
Oscar jumps off my lap, away from his free massage, and lies down in his favorite spot—where the sunlight usually shines in from the large picture window and warms a patch of carpet. But clouds have rolled in and the sun is nowhere to be seen.
“We never saw you at church,” she adds. “We didn’t see Jake either.”
I try to answer, but I can’t seem to find my voice.
Dad slips off his shoes, a bag of goodies from Eloise’s bakery in hand. He and Mom exchange a concerned look.
“Emma?”
My voice refuses to cooperate. It’s like my body has decided that stillness is good, stillness is tolerable, so it will never move again.
Mom takes the bag from Dad, then comes over to me and pulls me off the couch. “Come on. Whatever is bothering you can’t be so bad that we can’t discuss it over cookies. We got a few extra, in case you and Jake stopped by.”
I ignore Dad’s inquiring eyes and follow Mom into the kitchen, where she removes three plates and three glasses from a cupboard. Dad walks in behind us and opens the cupboard over the stove, where we’ve always kept our medicine. He uncaps a pill bottle and shakes a large white capsule into his palm. Mom fills one of the glasses with milk, hands it over, and Dad swallows the pill. His face has a pallor to it that wasn’t there yesterday. Or maybe it was and I just wasn’t willing to see it. Either way, it’s a subtle reminder that I can’t go back to dreamworld, even if I wanted to.
“I have to tell you guys something.”
Dad looks at me, and Mom waits to respond while she fills the other two glasses with milk and puts the gallon container back in the refrigerator. “We know it’s not true, Emma.”
The words pull my chin back. “You know?”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
“Then why did you . . . ?” I’m so confused. Why did they let me go on then, if they knew Jake and I weren’t really engaged? That isn’t like them at all.
“We heard the rumor last night and didn’t believe it for one second.”
I look from Mom to Dad, trying to make sense of her words.
“You and Jake would have told us if you were pregnant. Your father and I know that. This is a small town, and one of the drawbacks of a small town is that rumors fly. Let people think what they will think. Th
ey will figure out the truth soon enough.”
“We’re not getting married,” I blurt.
Mom and Dad stare at me, blinking but silent. I wait for my words to sink in. I wait for them to register.
Instead, Mom rattles her head, as if shaking her thoughts into place. “I don’t understand. You and Jake aren’t getting married at all because of a rumor?”
“No, it’s not because of a rumor.” I look down at my shoes, unable to face their disappointment. “I’m sorry. For all of it. I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for getting your hopes up. But most of all, Dad, I’m sorry that I can’t give you that last item on your bucket list.”
“My bucket list?”
“I saw it. When you were in Door County. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t snooping. I was putting mail on your desk and your journal fell and your bucket list fell with it . . .” I fidget with the zipper of my jacket. “I wish you could walk me down the aisle. More than anything. But I can’t keep pretending.”
Mom sinks into the closest chair, as if my confession has buckled her knees. “You mean you and Jake were never really engaged?”
Shame sets my cheeks on fire. Now that my feet are firmly planted in reality, it all seems so foolish. What were Jake and I going to do—wait it out until my dad was gone and then come out with the truth? “I don’t know what I was thinking. It was the only thing you couldn’t cross off your list. So I went home and Jake was there, like Jake always is and . . . I don’t know. I’d been feeling so helpless and it was something I could do.”
Dad walks across the kitchen and stands next to Mom at the table. “Emma.”
A braver woman would look up, but right now, I am not brave. I’m the exact opposite of brave.
“I wrote that list two years ago, when you were engaged to Chase.”
I bite my lip. Mom has forgotten all about the stack of plates, the glasses of milk on the counter, the cookies in the bag. I think I might have permanently stolen her appetite.
