Love Will Find a Way

by Barbara Freethy

  The same way she'd managed before, she told herself firmly. When her father had died, she'd felt the same crushing grief, but she'd pulled it together. She had made good on her promise to keep the orchards alive, hold the family together, and she'd continue to do that. She just needed to get home, to put on her old, faded blue jeans with the rip at the knee and her comfortable sweatshirt. Then she'd heat up last night's lasagna and listen to Wesley talk about his day. It would be familiar and safe. And she wanted safe. She wanted sameness, habits.

  But she also wanted comfort, love, a man's arms around her shoulders, a reassuring voice in her ear, a shared smile, a hope for the future ... oh, how she wanted. The ache seemed to grow with each passing day instead of fading as it was supposed to.

  Desperate for a distraction, she turned on the radio, but everyone was singing about love and heartache. She turned it off just as quickly, the gesture reminding her of another time, another trip from San Francisco to Sebastopol.

  She'd been ten years old when her father had taken her and her sister Carly, who was only three, away from the only home they had ever known. She could still remember sitting in the front seat of his Mustang convertible, the breeze drying the tears that streamed down her cheeks. After five years of fighting, her parents had finally divorced. Her mother had taken a job in Chicago and her father had brought them home to the farm he loved, back to the place where nothing ever changed except the seasons. A place where a person could count on apple blossoms in the spring and long, hot days in the summer, a bounty of fruit in the fall and cold quiet in the winter. He had told her she would love it, that while she wouldn't have her mother, she would have him and the farm, and it would be enough.

  And he'd been right. She'd loved the farm, and she had never wanted to live any place else, especially not the city where she had been so unhappy. That's why she'd resisted moving to the city with Gary. He'd never really asked her why she didn't like San Francisco, at least not in a way that made her feel like he really wanted to know. But then they'd been busy with their work and their son and talking hadn't seemed all that important. Now, she wished she'd asked more questions of him and wished he'd asked more questions of her. Now, she saw a distance in their marriage that disturbed her. She'd thought she'd known her husband, but had she really?

  Shaking her head, she wished she'd never gone to San Francisco. It had been a mistake to go to his apartment, to let the doubts creep in. So what if he had a perfume bottle? It didn't have to mean anything. And it wasn't fair to Gary to doubt him now. She needed to be loyal.

  But she couldn't stop seeing the flicker of doubt in Dylan's eyes. He hadn't wanted to take her to the apartment. He hadn't wanted her to go into the bedroom.

  Damn him.

  Anger and some other emotion she didn't want to define ran through her. Dylan had always rubbed her the wrong way. He had a presence, a dark, brooding intensity to go with his dark hair and penetrating eyes, his stubbornly proud jaw. At nineteen she'd found him both attractive and frightening. At twenty-nine, she felt pretty much the same way. Every time she saw him, she felt uneasy, unsettled, and a little bit guilty. They'd shared a kiss the night before her wedding – one shameful kiss. Dylan had immediately apologized and told her it would never happen again, that he would regret forever that one reckless moment when he betrayed his friend. The words had poured from his mouth, building a wall between them that would last forever. But then, that's the way Dylan built things -- so they would never fall down.

  With a sigh, she turned off the highway, veering away from the town center and heading down the country roads that led toward home. She opened her window, eager to breathe in the cool night air, which was laden with the sweet fragrance of apples. The trees were heavy with fruit and ready to be harvested. It was her favorite time of the year, and with each breath she felt calmer. This was her place in the world -- where vineyards and orchards lined the hillsides and fields of wildflowers adorned the highway. This was home.

  She turned under the arched sign that proclaimed AppleWood Farms and drove the half mile up to the main house, a large two-story building that had sheltered six generations of her family.

  After her father's death, she and Gary had moved into the master bedroom. Wesley and Carly had taken over the other bedrooms on the second floor. Her grandparents, Marge and John lived in a separate, small cottage a hundred yards away that had been built by her great-great-grandfather Joseph Wood at the turn of the century.

  There was history in the two houses, love, joy, and sorrow. Her father had died in his upstairs bedroom, just after her twentieth birthday, just after her one-year wedding anniversary, just after Wesley's birth. She should have been grateful that her father had seen her marry, that he'd held his grandson in his arms, but there was so much he had missed, so much he was still missing now.

  She wondered if they were together somehow, her father and Gary, looking down at her, probably shaking their heads in amazement that she'd actually gotten into her car and driven to San Francisco, which only showed how desperate she was to know the truth. Because if she couldn't believe in the life she'd had with her husband, in the love they'd shared, then how could she believe in anything?

  Her father's last words rang through her head. "Rachel, honey, have faith in yourself. You're strong. You'll be the one to keep the family together. I'd like to say you got your strength from me, but in truth, I think you got it from your mother. Only it's love that drives your strength, and in the end, that's all that will matter. Just promise me one thing, Rachel. Promise me you won't ever give up."

  "I'm not sure I can keep that promise, Daddy," she whispered. "I'm not as strong as you think I am."

  She stopped the car at the end of the drive and turned off the engine. She leaned her head against the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Even before Gary's death, she'd had her hands full with the orchard and her family, but at least she'd had Gary on the weekends to share the burden, to make her feel like she wasn't alone. Now she didn't have anyone around who didn't depend on her.

  Enough, she told herself, lifting her head. Enough self-pity. She would make it all work. There was no other choice. As she got out of the car, the back door banged open, and a childish voice rang across the yard.

  "Mommy," Wesley cried, hurling himself down the steps, across the lawn and into her arms. She hugged him tight as he murmured, "You're back. You're back," over and over again.

  Rachel heard the uncertainty in his voice and squeezed him tighter. "I'm here, honey. I told you I'd be back before bedtime." She let him go and smiled into his face, which was so like Gary's it made her head spin. Wesley's hair was a white blond, his eyes a brilliant summer-sky blue. The freckles that ran down his nose and across his cheeks were the same freckles that had kissed his father's face. Sometimes it hurt her just to look at him. But he was her child, and in him she would always see the man she had loved and married. That was a gift in itself.

  "Where's Aunt Carly?" she asked.

  "Inside."

  "Did she help you with your homework?"

  Wesley rolled his eyes in another gesture reminiscent of his father. "Aunt Carly isn't good at math. I did it myself. But you can still help me if you really want to."

  She smiled at him. He was so obviously concerned about her. It wasn't right for an eight-year-old to be worrying about his mother. "So what is Aunt Carly doing?"

  Rachel saw a sudden gleam come into Wesley's eyes. Whatever Carly was doing had Wesley looking guilty as sin. At twenty-two, Carly was supposed to be an adult, but so far, Rachel had seen little sign of any maturity. Her sister was already in her fifth year of college, changing majors with every season. She was supposed to work in the farm office when she wasn't in class, but never quite got there. She seemed to be drifting through life. Although, come to think of it, Carly had mentioned something last week about a plan …

  "She's just cooking," Wesley replied.

  "But -- " Rachel prodded.

  Wesley darte
d another quick look at the house, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "She's making a magic apple pie."

  "Oh, dear." Rachel had a feeling that Carly's new plan had nothing to do with finishing her education.

  Chapter Three

  Carly wiped her flour-covered hands on a dishtowel and glanced out the kitchen window. She could see Rachel and Wesley on the lawn. The poor kid had been worrying himself crazy for the past hour, asking every two minutes when his mom would be home. She had tried to distract him as best she could, but she knew he wanted only his mother; no one else would do. That's the way it was supposed to be between a mother and a child, but certainly not the way it had been between herself and her own mother. No, her mother had decided a career was more important than her children. She had been raised first by her father until age thirteen, then by Rachel, who had taken over after their father died. Her grandparents had helped out, too, but Rachel had been the one in charge, acting as both mother and father. Unfortunately, what they'd never really been were sisters, which was the one relationship Carly wanted. Especially now.

  They were both grown up. Rachel was reeling from Gary's death. It was time for Rachel to turn to her for comfort. But Rachel wasn't turning anywhere. She was holding it all in, the way she always did, which made Carly feel helpless and frustrated.

  Of course, there were other reasons that she felt helpless and frustrated. Actually, one reason, one person, Antonio Paccelli. Just thinking about him made her smile. He was the most gorgeous, sophisticated male she had ever encountered. He wore Armani suits and Fendi shoes and smelled like heaven. His skin was a dark olive, his eyes and hair a jet black, his body as buff as any she'd ever seen. She was in total and complete lust. But Antonio either ignored her or, worse yet, followed Rachel's lead and treated her like a kid sister. He was thirty, just eight years older than she. Well, enough already!

  Antonio would be in Sebastopol for only a couple more weeks. He and his father, Gianni, had recently purchased the failing Rogelio Winery, and Antonio had come to oversee the renovations and hire new workers. He'd been in town six weeks and the work was almost finished. Soon he would return to Milan or New York or perhaps L.A., for his family had offices in all three locations. But he wouldn't be going alone if she had anything to say about it.

  She'd been flirting with him for weeks. Now it was time to bring out the heavy-duty artillery. Thank goodness her great-great-grandmother's special apple tree had bloomed this year. It was another sign that it was time to take action. The harvesting of this tree had always turned the tides of love. It had been that way since the tiny seeds had been planted in the ground, and her great-great-grandmother Elaine had enticed the man of her heart with the perfect apple.

  The tree had offered only a few apples ripe enough to pick, and those special apples were now simmering in Carly's pie. By this time tomorrow, if her favorite legend had any teeth, Antonio would be hers.

  Carly opened the oven door and took a look at her pie. The crust shimmered with sugar. Inside the slits, she could see the apples bubbling. She could smell the cinnamon, and she drew the scent in, all the way in, inhaling it like it was her last breath. Well, she was getting desperate, that was for sure. She was twenty-two years old, and all of her friends were either graduating from college, finding new jobs or getting married. She was doing none of the above.

  She couldn't contemplate the idea of spending the rest of her life in a small town, picking apples every fall, worrying about pests and pesticides and harvests. Her whole life would not be about fruit. Of that she was certain.

  Sometimes that sense of certainty scared her the most. She'd heard the bitterly whispered stories of her mother's passion for painting, for a life that didn't include family and children. And sometimes, deep in her soul, she wondered if she wasn't exactly like her mother. The fear that she was made her hide her own art. She'd pretended all through school that she couldn't draw anything but stick figures. She couldn't be like her mom, the woman who had abandoned and rejected her. So she'd kept her own talents a secret. Only one person had known, had understood … Gary.

  The kitchen door opened behind her, and she quickly shut the oven.

  "You're baking?" Rachel asked, a suspicious look in her eyes.

  "Yes," she replied lightly, casually, as if it were no big deal.

  "It smells wonderful. When will it be ready?"

  "It's not for us," Wesley interjected. "It's for -- "

  "Someone else," she finished abruptly with another bright smile in her sister's direction.

  "Wesley, why don't you get your math homework, and we'll take a look at it," Rachel said. After Wesley had left the room, she turned her attention back to Carly. "Now, what's going on? Did you pick some apples you shouldn't have?"

  "I might have."

  "Oh, Carly. For who?"

  "I don't think it's any of your business."

  "Antonio is not the man for you."

  "How was your trip to the city? Did you learn anything?" Carly felt guilty for bringing up the sad subject of Gary's death, but she didn't want to discuss Antonio with Rachel. Besides, Rachel's problems were more important than hers. And she did want to be a good sister. She was rather pleased that Rachel had confided in her about the insurance. Well, maybe not confided. She'd sort of accidentally overheard Rachel telling their grandmother ... but that was beside the point.

  Rachel set her purse down on the table, walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of mineral water. "It was ... I don't know. I just don't know." She sat down at the table and sipped her drink.

  "Did you find Dylan?"

  "Yes. He took me to the apartment."

  "And?" She didn't like the evasive look in Rachel's eyes. "What happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "It looks like something."

  Rachel shook her head. "It was strange to see Gary's things. That's all."

  "What kind of things?"

  "His clothes and stuff." Her eyes softened. "Wesley's birthday card to Gary was on the coffee table."

  "So you didn't find anything out of the ordinary?" She tried to sound as if she couldn't imagine what Rachel would find. But she could imagine, and she hoped her imagination was wrong.

  "No, not really."

  "Not really or no?"

  "No," Rachel said quickly. "I didn't find anything. I didn't think I would. This is all just a terrible mistake."

  "I'm sure it is." She couldn't quite read her sister's mood. Rachel had always been difficult to read. As she'd gotten older, she'd become even more private. Sometimes Carly wondered if her sister was hiding something. "What does Dylan think?" she asked.

  Bingo. Rachel's entire body stiffened. Something had happened. But what?

  "He doesn't know what to think. He was shocked." Rachel stood up and walked restlessly around the room. "I don't think he knows any more than I do." She paused to read the phone messages on the notepad by the phone. "Wesley's teacher called?"

  "Yes. She's very concerned about how he's handling Gary's death. Apparently he keeps insisting that his dad will be home soon."

  "I know. I can't seem to make him stop," Rachel said wearily.

  "She asked if you could come in after school on Monday for a conference. She also said something about his test grades. I didn't quite catch what she was saying. But, heck, he's only eight. He's had a rough year."

  "You can say that again. So what's with the pie?" Rachel changed the subject as the oven timer dinged. "Are you really planning to feed it to Antonio?"

  "Don't worry about it, Rachel. You have enough on your mind," she said as she took the pie out of the oven.

  "Too much to be worrying about you doing something crazy," her sister replied sharply. "So please, don't go overboard."

  "I know exactly what I'm doing," she said.

  "Which is what? Trying to seduce Antonio? He is completely wrong for you, not to mention too old. And you're not the kind of woman who -- well, you're not his type."

  "Th
anks a lot," she snapped. She'd always known she wasn't as pretty as Rachel. She'd had to inherit some recessive red-hair gene when everyone else in the family was blond. And she had way too many freckles because she liked the sun far too much. And her eyes changed their color with her moods, so no one could ever write a poem about her wondrous green eyes or her golden eyes or her sky-blue eyes, because no one could ever remember what color her eyes were.

  "That's not what I meant," Rachel said.

  "Well, I may not have the face, but I do have the body." And she did, long legs and a big bust, her two best selling features.

  "You're gorgeous, you know that. But you're a small-town girl. Antonio is a man of the world. You have nothing in common. You barely know him."

  "I know Antonio better than you knew Gary when you gave him one of our special apples," she said pointedly.

  "That was different."

  "It was different. It was crazy. You were nineteen years old, and he was a stranger. You didn't know if you'd ever see him again. But it didn't stop you. And it worked. You found true love. Well, I'm going to find it, too."

  "I want you to be happy, Carly, but -- "

  "But you don't think I know what I'm doing," she finished. "What else is new?"

  "I don't think you realize how different your lives are. Antonio travels all over the world. He's a playboy, Carly. He knows lots of women."

  "And he knows how to make women happy. Frankly, I don't see the problem. And I want to travel. I'd love to see the world. It's not like you married a stay-at-home guy. Gary was always on the road. You made your marriage work."

  "Did I?" Rachel sighed and rolled her head around on her shoulders. "I'm not sure anymore."

  She frowned, hearing the doubt in Rachel's voice. "It sounds like you're starting to believe the accident wasn't an accident."