Falling for You

by Becky Wade

  Corbin made a lazy, enlighten-the-child hand gesture from Willow to Charlotte.

  “After I met with Vickie Goff, I asked my sister Nora to find out whether or not the senator owned any vacation properties at the time of Josephine’s disappearance. And, if so, where they were located.” Willow crossed her legs and bobbed the toe of her ankle boot. Trying to focus on Charlotte while Corbin was nearby was like trying to ignore the blazing heat of the sun. “It turns out that Senator Holt owned the same beach house in California the year that Josephine went missing that he did when he was connected to Vickie. He also owned a condominium in Breckenridge, Colorado.”

  “What do you think we should do with this information?” Charlotte asked Willow.

  “We could—” Corbin started.

  “Shhh,” Charlotte said jokingly to him. “Willow and I are trying to have a conversation here.”

  “You knew me first! I’m your rehab project. I’m the one who drives you places.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte acknowledged patiently. She gestured to Willow. “But she’s the Willow Bradford.”

  Corbin regarded the girl with a slit-eyed stare. “Your smack-talking skills are coming along thanks to me, the Corbin Stewart.”

  “What are you thinking we should do with the information your sister found, Willow?” Charlotte asked.

  “I already ran searches in Laguna Beach and Breckenridge for residents named Josephine Blake. No luck. So I’m thinking that this might be a good time to contact the American Coalition for the Discovery of Missing Persons and forward them the age-progression portrait of Josephine that we had made.”

  “That I had made,” Corbin corrected.

  “If Foster Holt did have a relationship with Josephine like the one he had with Vickie,” Willow said, “then it’s possible he may have sent Josephine to one of his vacation properties when their relationship started to go south, just like he did with Vickie.”

  “If the Coalition circulates the age-progression portrait of Josephine around Laguna Beach and Breckenridge,” Corbin said to Charlotte, “then we may get a few tips.”

  “But what are the chances someone in those towns would remember Josephine from so long ago?” Charlotte asked.

  “Slim,” Corbin said.

  “We said from the beginning that it was unlikely that we’d find her,” Willow said gently to Charlotte.

  “I know.”

  “Okay. I just wanted to make sure you remember that, because I’m leaving soon, and I don’t want you to be upset if we haven’t solved the case when I go.”

  “I won’t be upset. It’s just . . . I really want to solve this case.”

  “I understand. After I go, you’ll still have the Corbin Stewart here to help you.” Willow looked him full in the face for the first time since they’d entered the house. The impact of it went off like a bliss grenade.

  “What else do we have to talk about?” Charlotte reached for more popcorn.

  “I tried to get my hands on more information about the extortion charge against Stan Markum, but I couldn’t dig anything else up,” Corbin said. “I think that’s a dead end.”

  “Willow?” Charlotte asked.

  “I don’t have anything else.”

  “You called an emergency meeting just to talk about Senator Holt’s vacation houses?” Charlotte asked Corbin.

  “Yep.”

  Charlotte’s face revealed both suspicion and confusion.

  Corbin bobbed his chin toward the terrace. “How about you take that popcorn and go play outside for a few minutes?”

  “I’m twelve. I don’t play, and I definitely don’t play outside.”

  “Then how about you take your phone into the front room so I can talk privately with Willow?”

  “Why?”

  “Grown-up reasons. Go.”

  She peered at them with open curiosity. “Did something happen between you two?”

  “I wouldn’t tell you if it had,” Corbin answered.

  “How about I play Jungkook’s new song for you guys? It’s super romantic.”

  “If you’ll go hang out in the study for ten minutes, I’ll listen to Jungkook’s song on the drive back to your house. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She collected her phone and the popcorn, then sailed down the hall.

  “Good riddance,” Corbin whispered. He tugged Willow to standing and kissed the spot where her palm met her inner wrist.

  A thrill of sensation ran all the way up Willow’s arm.

  “Can I see you tonight?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “Whether or not another date, so soon after the first, is a good idea.”

  “It’s an excellent idea.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “You love sushi, right? How about we go to that Japanese place in Shore Pine? Maybe we can go out on the lake after with John and Nora on John’s boat.”

  “Yes to the sushi. No to the boat. I haven’t told my sisters about yesterday’s date yet.” As soon as she told them, they’d ask questions she had no answers for.

  “You’re keeping me a secret?” His dark eyes glimmered with amusement. “I like being your secret.”

  “I’m keeping you secret for a few days, just until I figure out what to do with you.”

  “Marry me.”

  Her throat went dry. “I’ll go on a few dates with you before I leave, but that doesn’t mean that we’re together. All right?”

  He didn’t look daunted. “Not ready to make it exclusive?”

  “I’m keeping my options open.”

  He moved his body in close, so close he had to tilt his head down to keep their gazes locked. So close she could smell his soap. “Waiting for a better man to come along?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I can be a better man.” He intertwined both his hands with both of hers, then kissed her. Slow and intimate.

  That night, they ate sushi.

  The next night, he bought her a kite and they flew it at Bradfordwood on the bank of the Hood Canal.

  The next day he came over at eleven a.m. after she’d finished her morning duties at the inn. They watched a Will Ferrell movie and ate nachos for lunch. Once upon a time, they’d loved eating nachos while watching movies. It felt decadent to watch a movie with him in the middle of a weekday. She’d never tasted more delicious nachos.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re together,” she said to him each day.

  “I know,” he said lightly every time. Then he’d ask her when he could see her again.

  On Wednesday, Corbin found his dad in the upstairs guest bedroom, painting the walls the color they’d chosen, a gray so pale it was one shade darker than white. “I just got off the phone with the woman from Oncology Associates,” Corbin said. “She told me that you missed your appointment three weeks ago and haven’t called her back to reschedule.”

  The wet sound of the paint roller answered. “I don’t know why she would’ve called you. No sense in bothering you about this,” his dad grumbled.

  “She called me because my name and number are on your paper work.”

  His dad said nothing.

  “I scheduled an appointment for you with them for this afternoon, so we’ll need to leave in about an hour.”

  “Cancel it. I’m not going.”

  “Why not?” Corbin had checked the desk calendar they both used, and his dad hadn’t written anything under today’s date.

  Silence.

  “Dad? Why can’t you go to today’s appointment?”

  “Because I don’t want them telling me what I already know.” He worked the paint into a new section of drywall. “The cancer has gotten worse.”

  Fear punched Corbin square in the gut. He stared at his dad’s back, struggling to order his thoughts. “You’re saying you missed your appointment on purpose and didn’t return the office’s calls on purpose. Because you didn’t want to hear what they had to say?”
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  “Because I don’t want and don’t need to hear what they have to say.”

  “You might be completely wrong about the cancer, which is why we have to go in and have tests run. That’s the only accurate way to determine what’s going on.”

  “I’ve been living with multiple myeloma for years now.”

  “So have I.”

  “But I’m the one who’s been living with it inside my body, Corbin. I don’t need tests to determine what’s going on.”

  The roller brush began to run dry, leaving weak, uneven tracks in its wake.

  His father had once been a ten-foot-tall giant in Corbin’s eyes.

  When Corbin was small, the two of them would wrestle on the patch of old brown carpet in front of the TV in their living room. His dad had been able to pin Corbin without even trying, as if Corbin had been a stuffed animal.

  At bedtime his dad had sometimes tossed Corbin over his shoulder on the way to Corbin’s room. “Sack of potatoes for sale! Ten dollars! Any takers?” his dad had called. Then he’d tickled Corbin’s ribs. “No takers? This is one good sack of potatoes. I guess I’ll have to eat them myself.”

  At Pee-Wee football practices, his dad had thrown the football what seemed like a mile.

  Whenever his dad had been in a good patch or a steady patch, he’d shown up for Corbin’s parent–teacher conferences at school wearing a tie, his thick red hair combed and shiny.

  When Corbin was in the fourth grade, his dad brought three store-bought cakes for the class Valentine’s Day party. He’d carried them into the classroom without breaking a sweat, grinning.

  The passing of years gave gifts. But the passing of years also stole things from you.

  Corbin was now the one in the prime of his life. He was the strong one. The tall one. If needed, he was the one who could throw his dad over his shoulder. Corbin was the provider. He paid the mortgage and drove them places and made his dad eat vegetables.

  His dad set the brush into the paint pan and leaned the handle against the wall. He turned and slowly faced Corbin.

  As far as Corbin could tell, his dad looked much the same as he’d looked for the past three years. He may have lost a few pounds in recent weeks, but if so, it was hardly noticeable. His face held the same amount of color that it usually did. The only difference Corbin could see, now that he was looking closely, was in his dad’s eyes. They were lit with resignation. Stubbornness. And something else. Something that might be pain. Or grief.

  “I’m dying,” his dad said.

  The fear that had socked Corbin earlier drew in on itself, tightening. He opened his mouth, but his dad held up a hand to stop him from speaking.

  “I’ve been dying for years. To tell the truth, I’m surprised I’ve lived with cancer as long as I have. I’m lucky that I’ve had these extra years with you. I’m glad I got to see the last few seasons of your football career. I’m glad I got to work on this house with you, and I’m glad that I’m going to be able to finish the renovations on this place.” He gave a sad smile. “It’s good that the house is almost done. Because I’m almost done.”

  It was one of the most honest and emotional speeches his dad had ever given. What Corbin felt in response to it? Denial and a boatload of anger. “You’re not almost done.”

  “I’m sorry, son, but I am. I don’t have the heart for more chemotherapy, more treatments, more doctors and hospitals. I just want to live in peace for however long I have left. I’m sick of fighting.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’ve just started fighting, and I’m definitely not willing to quit without tests, without proof. We’re going to that appointment, and we’re leaving in an hour.”

  His dad shook his head.

  “We’re going,” Corbin vowed.

  He stalked from the house. When drizzle hit him in the face, he slanted his steps toward the garage, still in use as their workshop, and came to a stop just inside the mouth of the garage door. His vision fixed on his property. His mind fixed on the things his dad had just told him.

  He refused to accept his father’s self-diagnosis. It wasn’t uncommon for his dad to have harebrained ideas that had no basis in fact. It didn’t make sense to worry at this point. He’d remain calm—which had always been the best policy in the face of his dad’s ups and downs—and wait for test results.

  Later, at the appointment, Corbin stayed at his dad’s side in order to ensure that his dad told the doctors everything that he’d communicated to Corbin.

  His dad was sunk deep in a bad mood. But he said to the doctor what needed to be said and he submitted to the tests.

  This isn’t the time for worry, Corbin reminded himself several times. He’d wait for test results.

  Even so, worry thudded through his veins. And wouldn’t leave.

  Phone call from Dr. Benton to Corbin:

  Dr. Benton: I just finished talking with your father, and he asked me to call you and discuss his test results with you personally.

  Corbin: Thank you. I appreciate it.

  Dr. Benton: Since he became our patient in June, his numbers have been stable. In the seven weeks since his last rounds of tests, that’s changed. We’re seeing an overgrowth of plasma cells in your father’s bone marrow. His hemoglobin is low. And the blood chemistry labs we ran show that his kidney and liver are not functioning as well as they have in the past.

  Corbin: So my dad was right. The cancer’s gotten worse.

  Dr. Benton: I’m afraid so. I’ve seen this many times in my career. Some patients can sense when they’re recovering. Others can sense when their condition has grown more serious. I wish that your dad had been in the former category.

  Corbin: He . . . I—I’m . . . What treatments do you recommend we pursue at this point?

  Dr. Benton: Your father made it clear two days ago when you were both in my office that he doesn’t want to pursue additional treatments.

  Corbin: I’d like to know what the options are so that I can sit down with him and talk through everything.

  Dr. Benton: There’s not a precedent, Corbin, that suggests that aggressive treatment would be beneficial to a patient with your dad’s prognosis.

  Corbin: Money is not a factor. There must be something we can try. Something we can do.

  Dr. Benton: There are two clinical trials being conducted. They accept applicants based on age, diagnosis, and previous treatments, among other things.

  Corbin: Can you please send me the information about those two trials?

  Dr. Benton: Certainly.

  Text message from Corbin to Willow:

  Corbin

  Would it be all right if I came by Bradfordwood? The news about my dad isn’t good.

  Willow

  Yes, of course.

  Chapter

  Seventeen

  Willow was waiting outside for Corbin when he pulled up at Bradfordwood.

  Darkness had fallen, yet he could see her well in the glow cast by the mansion’s exterior lights. She was standing on the bricks that paved the driveway, wearing a puffy silver coat. Corbin shut his car door and closed the distance between them.

  Willow’s face, a face that had been captured in a thousand photographs, regarded him with compassion as he approached. She was a listener and naturally sympathetic. Many people were too blinded by their own emotions to understand the emotions of others. Not Willow.

  He wrapped her tightly in his arms, bent his head, and pressed a kiss against her temple. Her arms banded around him. She rested the side of her face against his chest.

  Slowly, as he concentrated on the sensation of holding her in his arms and he lost himself in his fierce love for her, the dark chaos that had been drowning him since the doctor’s call began to still. He filled his lungs with her clean, fresh scent, and eventually his world stopped spinning too fast.

  He almost wanted to cry, which was ridiculous. He never cried.

  She threaded her fingers through his and guided him toward the line of trees next to the house.


  “You’re taking me into the woods?” he asked.

  “I am. Tell me what the doctor said.”

  As they walked, he related his conversation with the doctor in a flat, emotionless voice.

  She drew him to a stop. He squinted, but it was so black that he could only make out a faint shadow stretching between two tree trunks.

  Willow let go of his hand and bent. Moments later he heard the rasp of a lighter. She touched the flame to a thick, white candle set inside a lantern, then closed the lantern’s glass door.

  The patch of forest that surrounded them came into focus. Towering trees, a carpet of leaves. The shadow he’d seen was a hammock.

  “When I was growing up, this is where I used to come on bad days,” she said. “I’d rock and think and pray . . . and look up at the trees. It seemed to help.” She climbed onto the hammock first. “Be very careful of your shoulder,” she warned as he climbed on after her.

  His heavy weight tipped the thing so suddenly that it almost bounced her off. His hand shot out to steady her. “You okay?”

  She giggled. “Yes.”

  It required a few moves a contortionist would have been proud of, but they got themselves straightened out and balanced in the center of the hammock. His whole side, from shoulder to calf, pressed against her side. The line of contact glowed.

  “After I got off the phone with the doctor, I talked with my dad. I can’t understand why he won’t even consider one of the clinical trials.”

  Her hand found his again. “What would being a part of one of the trials involve?”

  “Relocating, for starters, since one is being held in Chicago and the other in Boston. Beyond that, he’d have to submit to new treatments and medicines. New doctors. Tests.”

  “What part of that does he object to?”

  “All of it. He refuses to move. And he refuses to go through any more treatments. I’m going to talk with him about it again. And again, if I have to, until I can get him to see it my way.” He waited for her response. When none came he said, “Go on. Tell me what you’re not saying.”

  “I’m just wondering whether you’re willing to spend the final stage of your dad’s life fighting with him.”