“Sierra,” he murmured the feel of her name on his lips almost foreign. It’d been so long since he’d uttered it. Even now, it stung his tongue and burned his soul, which shocked and amazed him. He thought his heart had finally gone cold like a pile of ash.
But here on this lake—their lake—an ember must have sparked to life—enough to bring scorching pain and bitter memories of rejection.
Sierra blinked a few times. “Ezra. I didn’t expect to see you until closer to the wedding.”
“Here I am,” he said, and held in the emotion.
Jemma sashayed to his rescue. “There you are.” She tucked her arm into his and squeezed. “Sierra agreed to cater the wedding. Isn’t that fabulous?”
What? “I thought you already had a caterer.” He couldn’t force himself to look at Sierra again.
“I did. But he had to back out. Lucky me. And we’ll pay you whatever you want. Money’s not an issue.”
Not an issue anymore. Ezra had worked his behind off for his net-worth. Jemma didn’t seem to remember, or had chosen to forget, their meager childhood. Between Ezra caving to most of her whims and now Ansel never saying no, Jemma had no idea what it was to live hand-to-mouth.
Ezra hadn’t forgotten.
Words uttered one summer night wouldn’t let him.
“I couldn’t say no.” Sierra’s voice, soft and musical, carried through the breeze.
“I guess you’ve changed over the years. I don’t recall the word no being too difficult for you back then.” He tossed her a glance, all he could spare without drowning in heartache. Shifting to Jemma, he cleared his throat. “I’m going to go watch from up there.” He was suffocating. This had been a bad idea. He hadn’t been ready to see her. Proved it with his nasty remark, which he instantly regretted.
Audrey Gilbraith called his name and rushed over. “Ezra stinking Alcott. Well, well.”
“Audrey stinking Gilbraith. Well, well.” Lush wheat-colored hair touched her shoulders and a wide friendly smile filled her round face.
“It’s Brookson now.” She darted a look toward Sierra who remained statuesque. Let her sink in the mire of having to see him again. Let her feel the pangs of discomfort. He was feeling the same things.
“Congratulations. Marry anyone I know?”
“Nope. A pastor from Florida. Moved here almost three years ago.”
“You work fast.” He winked and she hugged him.
“You look good. I like the hair. All trendy and cool.”
“Yeah, cause that’s what I was going for.”
The first set of colorful bursts lit up the sky.
“I just came to say hi. I’ve got to find my husband. This is too romantic to not share it with someone.” She flitted through the masses.
The night was romantic. At least four times, he and Sierra had experienced these together. It was too much. He wasn’t even going to watch from the dock. He was going to bed. Pulling the sheets over his head and making sure to put plugs in his ears.
Sierra inhaled. “It was nice seeing you.” Voice tight, but cordial.
The charged seconds ticked by.
“You, too.” Ezra pushed through the townspeople and gasped for air. Jemma caught up with him and stared him down. “What?”
“Will this affect your promise to me? You’re going to be stuck with her for awhile.”
A chunk of ice slid down his throat and landed in his stomach, jagged edges slicing. He couldn’t go back on his promise to Jemma, and he wouldn’t. But would it affect him?
Yes. Most definitely yes. It already had. God help him, he had to control his tongue around her. No point in making jabs over the past. What was done was done. Still, it would be difficult when pain wanted to steer every word.
He couldn’t wait to get through this wedding and head to France in the fall. He’d agreed to teach at the Art Institute for two years. The request had been a surprise to him, but it also validated him in the art world. He was well-respected and his reputation preceded him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted this position until the offer came. He could get through the next several weeks. Between the gallery opening in Chicago and prepping for the fall, Ezra could manage. He had no choice.
“I told you I’d do the sketches as part of your wedding gift, and I’ll keep my word.”
Unlike Sierra, he wasn’t one to go back on it.
CHAPTER TWO
The sun climbed the horizon as Sierra dangled her feet over the edge of the dock at Pine Lake. The calm water gently rippled and lapped against the banks. She closed her eyes and let the feather soft breeze kiss her cheeks as leaves swished in the trees, the smell of evergreen and earth reminding her how much she loved this place and this town.
But there was a big world out there and as much as she loved her tiny Illinois hometown, she’d wanted to see more. Had her chance. Turned it down. Too afraid of the what ifs. What if she and Ezra failed at marriage? What if she never made it to school? What if she got homesick? What if it was the wrong decision? What if they were too young? What if they couldn’t make it financially?
Now she was left with what if she’d made the wrong choice? What if the reason she’d yet to find love and build a family was because she’d made a mistake and lost out on that future? That question tortured her most. It’s why she couldn’t force herself to say no at church. Not to leading worship which terrified her or loading her plate too full. Better to say yes and not make a mistake that would plague her than say no and miss out on something she should have done.
Sierra bowed a soft prelude to the day on her violin. She hadn’t played in awhile. The last time was Christmas Eve. Birds woke with the morning light, and chirped along to her favorite hymn: It Is Well With My Soul. Things, however, were not well with her soul. Not since Ezra had come to the lake this past Saturday, evoking so many memories, so much heartache. Why had he been in town this early? Would she see him today when she met with the girls and Jemma to discuss wedding plans before she opened The Bistro for breakfast?
Jemma wasn’t a Bridezilla, but she wasn’t easy to work with, either. She couldn’t make up her mind. Other than a lake wedding with a rustic/French country atmosphere and invitations sent out to almost five hundred guests, that was about all they had.
Not good. Most brides planned for an entire year! Had been gathering ideas since childhood. This was unbelievable. Ludicrous even. Yet happening.
Placing her violin in her case, Sierra drifted off to her wedding dreams. Dreams she hadn’t let herself think about in years.
A flowing white gown. The perfect weather for an outdoor wedding. She’d always wanted to get married at Pine Lake. It had been her quiet place. When the demands and pressures to be perfect, make a 4.5 GPA, excel at violin, and follow all the rules to the letter of the law had been lifted from her weary shoulders. When she could dream about traveling the world and not going to culinary school before taking over The Bistro.
The lake was the first place she’d seen Ezra when he moved here his sophomore year. She’d watched him sit on the dock, sketching. The boy always had a sketch pad in hand.
Enough of memory lane. She had a pre-breakfast wedding meeting to get to. The food vendor would be at The Bistro at nine, and she had lunch and dinner to prep. Nerves to shake off.
She collected her violin case, and slipped on her flip-flops. She strolled down the pier, couldn’t help but glance across the lake on the west side. The Alcott cottage sat nestled into the woods, an old pontoon boat floating inside the boat house.
Sierra had spent a lot of time sitting on that private dock, watching Ezra sketch, paint. Ezra’s grandpa had moved to live with his daughter, and the cottage had been vacant since. The temptation was too great. Sierra trekked through the worn path in the woods, up a hill and then down the crest until she reached the stone cottage. Although, it wasn’t really a cottage. More like a stone house with two stories and the upper loft walled by solid glass, giving an amazing view of the tops of the tre
es and the lake. Especially at night.
She tiptoed to the two Adirondack chairs placed near the edge of the water. She brushed one off and eased onto it.
Wait. These seemed new.
Sierra felt his presence before she heard his feet brush along the wooden planks, a hint of coffee met her before he did.
She froze.
“Something wrong with the view from the public pier?” His soft, but masculine voice sent a ripple through her stomach, like the ones on the water. Had he been upstairs watching her through the windows as she’d sat on the edge? Why was he here anyway? Eden told her that Jemma mentioned he was opening a gallery in Chicago. He should be there.
What was she supposed to say? She shielded her eyes with her hand. The sunlight surrounded Ezra like a halo. Barefoot, worn jeans hanging low, and a threadbare, black T-shirt stretching across his chest. No longer lanky, he’d filled out. Not beefy or brawny, but lean and fit. Broader shoulders tapering to a slender waist.
“I—” She had nothing. No decent excuse.
The sun hit the natural gold tint in his thick, walnut-colored hair. He must have noticed her studying it; he gave it a haphazard rub and held up his mug of coffee. “You want a cup?”
The man was beautiful. If men could be described as beautiful.
Brooding eyes set under thick dark eyebrows held hers, looking more brown today than green. Probably due to the black shirt. “I—”
“Have forgotten most of the English language over the years. Or just since Saturday?” Amusement laced his silky, reticent tone.
“I—” What was wrong with her? It was like her tongue had thickened and her brain short-circuited.
He let out a breathy laugh, shook his head, and went inside. He was leaving her out here? Leaving her…again? She dropped her jaw. Blood sped through her veins, warming her skin, but then Ezra opened the door with his foot, two coffee cups in his hands. Large hands with slender fingers. He handed her a mug with a picture of a Labrador on it. “Black okay? I don’t know what you like anymore.” A pulse of regret threaded his words, or maybe Sierra wished it had been regret.
She accepted the steaming mug, the plumes rising between them. He took the chair next to her, and she smelled a hint of soap. Ezra had never been one for cologne.
“Black is fine.” She sipped the rich brew. “It’s good.”
“So you do know how to say more than pronouns this morning. Guess you needed the coffee to give your vocal chords a good kick.” He smirked over his cup and let his gaze hit the sunshine-splashed water. He didn’t pursue her reasons for being here on his grandfather’s dock. And she was glad. Because she didn’t have an answer other than an ache to be close to him—to the past. “You still play?” He shifted his sight to her violin case.
“Sometimes. Not much lately. I feel rusty.”
“I thought it sounded pretty good. Water has great acoustics.” He didn’t look at her, just continued staring at the lake.
So he had been watching. Listening. Instead of flattery rising, her insides felt sunburned. It might be easier if he had walked in the house and left her sitting alone, or made another barb as he had the first day they’d ran into each other. That wasn’t the Ezra she used to know. Not until now. This was the Ezra she’d fallen in love with. The Ezra she could hardly look at for fear of falling to pieces right here on the deck.
***
He’d been awake. For hours. Ezra hadn’t slept much since Saturday. He’d worked the rest of the weekend and the holiday, uncovering old furniture and fighting cobwebs. Moving into the cottage was easier than the commute. Besides, he needed the solitude. Nature. And to paint. Ezra could easily relate to feeling rusty. He hadn’t painted in a year, maybe more. Every ounce of free time he spent working to open galleries, networking, pursuing local artists, scheduling showings, and creating a buzz about the new Chicago gallery.
Before the sun rose, he’d made coffee, nestled on the couch upstairs, and heard it. At first he thought he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming. Melodious. Soft. Haunting.
Then he knew.
Sierra was here. Playing. His coffee had gone cold while he fixated on her, admired the sun’s kiss on her hair, shining like a thick tongue of fire. You couldn’t miss that from his windows.
Now, she was sitting on his dock. Why?
“I’m going to be staying here while Jemma gets ready for the wedding. I promised her I’d snapshot the behind-the-scenes work with sketches. She wants them framed and hanging on the trees leading to the pier. Something she saw on Pinterest.”
Sierra sputtered and coughed. “You know what Pinterest is?”
“Pinterest is a virtual canvas, a way to see into someone’s soul.” He’d perused Sierra’s soul through her Pinterest boards. Mostly food pins, but several bed-and-breakfast ideas, as well as a Travel board. If she’d have agreed to marry him, she wouldn’t need a board to live vicariously. Ezra would have shown her the world.
But she hadn’t trusted him. Hadn’t trusted in their commitment to each other, and at the end of the day proved she’d never loved him, at least not the way he’d loved her. An all-consuming, passionate love that flamed like a raging fire through his bones, through is blood.
Sierra sat her cup on the redwood table between the chairs. “Do you have virtual canvases?”
“No. I have blank canvases stacked against a wall inside. I hope to paint some while I’m here. It’s been so long. But not much has changed around Mistletoe, that I can tell.”
She swallowed, hair lifting off her shoulders as the wind filtered through it. “Eden remarried.”
“I heard that. Good for her.”
“Yeah. She married Knox Everhart.” She pointed across the lake. “They built a house not far that way, and on the back of their property Cassie and her husband built a home.”
“I met him.”
“You did?”
“Back in October at an art benefit in Chicago.”
Sierra frowned. “I didn’t know that.”
He’d told Cassie not to tell. Guess she kept her word. “What about you? Where do you live?” He leaned over his knees and toyed with splintered wood.
“Knob Hill.”
Two blocks from the square.
“I’ve been there for about eight years.” She checked her cell phone and stood. “I should go.”
“Why did you come?”
She scuffed her toe against the planks and rubbed her lips together. “I didn’t know you were here,” she mumbled.
He stood and bent to catch her gaze. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Birds squawked and stirred the trees as cicadas brought in the morning with their c-c-c-c-c-ing.
Several beats of silence passed and she shook her head. “I don’t know.” She retrieved her violin case. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Thanks for the morning serenade.” He watched as she trudged down the dock. “Sierra, I’m going to be here for several weeks. Can you handle that?” Could he? There had to be some kind of happy medium or, at the very least, less tension.
She paused.
“We didn’t exactly leave things on an easy note.” She’d basically told him he wasn’t enough for her. Couldn’t provide for her. And with every single reason for her rejection, she’d shredded him.
She faced him, licked her lips. “No, we didn’t. But that was a long time ago. We were just kids.” A shaky smile formed. “I mean, look how far you’ve come since then. Jemma said you’re opening your third gallery. That you’re quite famous in the art world. Congratulations on your dream coming true.” Her last sentence faltered.
Being a big-shot in the art world was never his dream. Did she not know him at all? He’d done all this climbing for her!
At least it started out that way. To prove something. To her. To her parents. To himself, even. Somehow it snowballed and before he knew it he was living someone’s else’s life. Definitely not the one he'd envisioned for himself as a young boy. A young bo
y who knew what he wanted. Apparently not the same thing as Sierra.
Just kids?
Ezra had been old enough to know he wanted a lifetime with her. But if that was how she saw it… God, this aches. Make it go away.
“Right.” He held back the disappointment. The biting words. Controlled his tongue. “Then being around each other shouldn’t be an issue.”
“It shouldn’t.”
No one said it wouldn’t be.
She inched down the dock. Turned back, cast one long glance at him then disappeared into the woods. He took their cups and slogged into the house, dumping the coffee in the sink. He entered one of the guest rooms, surveyed the canvases he’d brought with him.
Best work he’d ever done. Never been able to part with them. He’d carried his broken heart to France and spent that summer painting the pain, caught the eye of a professor at the Paris Art Institute. Jean Luc had been a mentor. And Jean Luc’s daughter had become a good friend and later his business partner. Genevieve Beaudoin had been a sounding board. At one time, she’d wanted more, and Ezra had tried to give her that. It was over before it ever began. They worked better as friends. Business partners.
He arranged a few canvases then collected a blank one, an easel and pastels, and headed back outside. After setting up, he went to work recreating the beauty that sat along the dock earlier. Recreating Sierra. Her shapely legs, the way the light bounced off her hair, the angles of her arms as she bowed, the tilt of her head revealing her slender, long neck.
He finally looked up when his name was called.
Jemma.
“Dude! I hollered like ten times. Talk about tuning out the world.” Jemma’s backless shoes clunked against the wood. He turned the canvas toward the water. Jemma shook her head. “Can’t I take one peek at what has you so focused you can’t answer your baby sister?”
Irritation pricked his skin. He reined in his temper. Nothing worse than being interrupted while in the middle of a project. “No. You can’t.” He didn’t like anyone seeing his work until it was finished, and he didn’t want Jemma to see the subject of his canvas. “Why are you here so early?”
It's Always Been You (Seasons of Hope Book 4) Page 2
