Love Will Find a Way

by Barbara Freethy

  "Your family ate the pie?" Travis asked with amusement. "Boy, you're having a bad week."

  "And you're making it worse."

  "Does Antonio know about your portrait of him?"

  "No, and you're not going to tell him. You're not going to tell anyone."

  "I might forget. I might let it slip out. It wouldn't be on purpose, of course."

  She sighed. "You're never going to let this go, are you?"

  "Are you kidding? Blackmail, baby."

  "I don't have any money."

  "I don't want money."

  She felt herself blush again. Damn. It was a very bad habit, and one she would definitely have to lose once she married Antonio. Sophisticated women did not blush.

  "I'm never going to give you what you want," she said pointedly. "That can't be bought."

  "Seriously? Aren't you trying to sell it to Antonio?"

  "No. You just don't understand," she said in frustration, hating that he made her feel cheap and easy. It wasn't like that -- at least she didn't think it was.

  "Then explain it to me. Explain to me what Antonio has to offer you besides money."

  "A different life, that's what. I want to travel, to be someone, to fit in somewhere."

  "You fit in here."

  "No, I don't. I don't think I ever have. I've just been pretending. But deep down I'm just like ..." She stopped herself from saying the word.

  Travis's gaze turned more serious. "Just like who?"

  She hesitated, then said, "My mother, if you must know. I think I'm like her. She had to follow her passion, and I have to follow mine."

  He stared at her for a long moment. "You never knew your mother. How do you know you're like her?"

  "I just do."

  "Because you like to paint?"

  "That, and other things."

  "It sounds like you want to be like her. But that doesn't make sense. She left you when you were a baby. You should be mad as hell at her."

  "I am -- sometimes. But that's just it, Travis. Everyone is mad as hell at my mother. No one will talk about her. Rachel knew her, but she won't share a memory. My father wouldn't even say her name. My grandparents pretend that she's dead. I'm the only one who wonders about her."

  "I still don't get what this has to do with Antonio. Why don't you simply go look for your mother?"

  "I couldn't do that. It would be a betrayal," she said flatly. "Everyone would hate me."

  "I don't think they would."

  "Well, I do, and I know them better than you do."

  "So what? Are you hoping you'll marry Antonio and somehow wind up in the same social circle as your mother? You don't even know if she's still alive, do you?"

  Carly shook her head. "No, I don't."

  "You need a better plan."

  "My plan is not to find my mother. My plan is to marry Antonio and live a cosmopolitan life. Why shouldn't I want that? What's wrong with it?"

  "Nothing is wrong with wanting that kind of life. But marrying a man you don't love isn't the way to get it."

  "He will love me. I still have the apples."

  "Oh, right, the magic apples. You don't really believe that story, do you?"

  "The magic has worked before. Why shouldn't it work for me?"

  "Well, good luck getting Antonio to eat one. You'd have a better chance trying to push some caviar down his throat." Travis shoved back his chair. "Tell Antonio to leave my check with his housekeeper, would you? I don't think I have the stomach to watch you sell yourself tonight."

  "That's mean. You make what I'm doing sound cheap and degrading."

  "It is cheap. You're worth more, Carly."

  "No, I'm not." Because if she'd been worth more all those years ago, her mother never would have left.

  "Sure you are."

  "I'm a flake. I'm a terrible student. I'm even worse at business. The only thing I can do, I can't do."

  Confusion filled his eyes. "What are you talking about?" He snapped his fingers. "The painting? Is that what this is about?"

  "No," she immediately said.

  "It is. My God, Carly, if you want to paint, paint. Why go after Antonio? Or is this still about his money? He can set you up, get your career going, is that it? Is that what he promises you?"

  "He doesn't know anything about my painting, no one does except you, and I wish you didn't. I'm going to marry Antonio because he's my ticket out of here. If I get married, I can leave without feeling like I've betrayed my family. This is my chance, so don't blow it for me."

  "Carly, I'm sorry -- Oh, Travis, you're here, too," Antonio said as he returned to the dining room. "My apologies for leaving you alone so long," he told her.

  "No problem."

  "I have your check, Travis -- in my study." Antonio sent her another apologetic smile. "I will be right back, I promise. Then we can discuss what's on your mind."

  "That's fine."

  Antonio left the room first, but Travis paused at the door, giving her one last look.

  "Don't sell yourself short, Carly. Just like that painting in your basement, you're still a work in progress. You could turn out to be spectacular. And Antonio is in no way your only chance."

  His words left her reeling. Before she could respond, he was gone. She turned away from the door and caught sight of her reflection in the ornate mirror. She looked out of sync with everything else in the room, a cheap imitation, not the real thing. And she wanted to be the real thing, to have the real thing. She wanted to belong somewhere, but the real question was, did she belong here?

  * * *

  He did not belong in this big old barn with these good old boys, Dylan thought as he perused the cards in his hand. The conversation, as well as the beer, had been flowing for the better part of two hours. While he'd won more hands than he'd lost, he had the feeling that he was losing something else -- maybe a little bit of himself. His city life seemed far away.

  The men at the table ranged in age from thirty something to seventy something, but there was camaraderie among them, a sense of connection. They were either related or friends or business partners. Most important, they all seemed to be happy. Dylan couldn't remember the last time he'd sat with a group of people who weren't complaining about one thing or the other.

  Here, there seemed to be an acceptance of life, whether they were talking about the disappearing apple-processing plants, the latest pest to attack their crops, the sudden heart attack of a good friend or even Gary's tragic accident. Maybe their acceptance came with farming, with relying on the seasons and the generosity of Mother Nature. Maybe that's where the sense of fate and destiny came from.

  Another reason he didn't belong here. He wasn't a man to leave his life to fate. He wanted to control every aspect of it, live every moment the way he wanted to live it. Just being here tonight made a mockery of that thought. He wasn't controlling anything right now, except perhaps this poker hand.

  "You need any cards?" John Wood asked in his gruff, no-nonsense voice.

  "No, I'm good," he said as the deal continued around the table. He bet when appropriate, his mind only half on the game. His thoughts kept drifting back to Rachel. He wondered if she was still going through her filing cabinet, if she'd found anything else. As much as he wanted to believe in Gary, something was wrong with the way Gary had died, and with how his best friend had acted in the days before his death. But what was that something?

  He tossed in his cards when it became apparent he did not have a winning hand. "That's it for me," he said, getting to his feet with a stretch of his hands over his head. "Thanks for game. I enjoyed it."

  There was a murmur of good-byes and see-you-arounds as he headed toward the door. It wasn't until he stepped outside that he realized John had followed him.

  "A word with you," John said.

  "Sure."

  "Walk with me, would you?"

  Dylan followed him across the yard and into the garage, wondering what on earth John had up his sleeve. He waited in front of a
storage locker while the older man inserted a key into a padlock. Once the door was open, John hesitated. He scratched his chin as if he didn't know where to start.

  "I've been thinking about something for a while now," John said finally. "Especially since Rachel didn't get that insurance money. I've always respected a man's privacy. The women don't need to know everything, you know?"

  He didn't know, but he had a feeling that agreeing was his best option, so he simply nodded his head.

  "I think Gary went to Lake Tahoe to see a woman," John said.

  "Why do you say that?" he asked in surprise.

  John reached into the locker and pulled out a small jewelry box. He opened the lid to reveal a short gold necklace with a pearl in the center of a heart, lying on top of a small, folded piece of white paper.

  "This was in Gary's car," John said. "The police sent over a box after the accident with whatever was salvageable. I went through it myself. I didn't want to make Rachel do it. I found this in the box."

  Dylan stared hard at the necklace, his gaze straining to see the words inked on the other side of the paper.

  "Go on, take it out, read it," John urged.

  Dylan slid the piece of paper out from under the necklace and opened it slowly. The writing was small and feminine.

  "Gary -- remember this? You said you'd always love me. Now I need you. Please call me back as soon as you can. Laura."

  Dylan let out a breath as he finished reading the last word. "I don't know what to say."

  "How about telling me who Laura is?"

  "I don't know. Rachel asked me earlier about a Laura. But I don't recall Gary mentioning anyone by that name. I certainly didn't know her."

  "Rachel knows about this?" John asked, shock in his eyes.

  "Not this, no. Carly took some phone messages from a Laura and mentioned it to Rachel."

  "Carly shouldn't have done that. She should be minding her own business. Rachel doesn't need to know about any of this." John took the paper from Dylan's hand and re-folded it. "I want you to make sure she doesn't find out."

  "Then why did you bring me out here and show the necklace to me?"

  John looked at him through narrowed eyes. "So you can discover what happened before Rachel does. Then you can tell her what she needs to know and leave the rest alone."

  "I'm not going to lie to Rachel."

  John shrugged. "I didn't ask you to lie. Rachel needs to know Gary didn't kill himself. After that, I don't think she needs to know anything. She loved Gary. He loved her. That's all there was to it. Seems to me, being Gary's best friend and all, you'd like to see it turn out that way, too." He paused. "Don't say anything now; just think about Rachel and Wesley. That little boy thinks of his daddy as a hero. You don't want him to lose that, do you?"

  "No," he said slowly, his mind wrestling with this new wrinkle. "But Rachel is determined to figure out what happened, and this is a big clue. I don't know that I can keep it from her. I don't know that I should."

  "Because you want her for yourself?" John demanded, a glint in his eye.

  He rocked back on his heels, taken aback by the question. "I -- I don't want her for myself," he said, wishing he sounded more forceful. Clearing his throat, he added, "What the hell gave you that idea?"

  "I've got eyes."

  He ran a hand through his hair. John was a lot more perceptive than he'd given him credit for, a lot sneakier, too, keeping this necklace hidden away all this time. "You got anything else to show me?"

  "Nope. You think about what I said, Dylan. I have an instinct about you that says I can trust you not to hurt my granddaughter."

  "That's the last thing I want to do."

  "Well, telling her about this necklace will hurt like hell."

  "And knowing you've been keeping it a secret all these months would probably hurt her even more."

  John shook his head, his face a picture of stubbornness. "I did what was right. You didn't see her after the funeral. She was devastated. The last thing she needed to see was some love letter from another woman to her husband." He paused. "Don't tell her, Dylan. Just find out who this Laura is and make sure she stays in the past where she belongs."

  "Rachel is already going through the phone records."

  "Then stop her. If you love her like I think you do, you'll stop her."

  "I don't love Rachel," he said. "I don't know where you got that idea. And you barely know me."

  "That's true, but only one thing keeps a man away from his best friend, and that's his best friend's wife."

  Dylan let out a breath as John walked away. On one hand he was relieved not to have to defend himself further, because what could he say? He had stayed away from Gary because of Rachel. He'd had to do the right thing … after one really wrong thing.

  Shaking his head, he turned his thoughts away from Rachel. He needed to focus on the present not the past. So – who was Laura?

  He glanced down at the jewelry box, and his stomach turned over. He didn't want to believe Gary had cheated on Rachel, but damn if everything wasn't pointing in that direction. He closed his fingers around the small box and then slipped it into his pocket. He'd put it away for the time being, until he knew more. Then he walked out of the garage and into the moonlit yard.

  Most of the lights were out in the house, except a couple upstairs. He saw a figure silhouetted against one of the curtains, a female figure, but he couldn't tell if it was Carly or Rachel. Then the light went out. He told himself to go, but he couldn't seem to move his feet.

  Rachel was too close and the night was too still. It was so quiet he could hear the hum of a distant creek, the breeze blowing through the trees, the low bark of a neighbor's dog. None of the noises were familiar to him. He wondered if Gary had stood in this yard and felt the same sense of wonder that he had ended up here -- in this place far from the city where they had grown up.

  Had Gary looked up at the moon and the stars and wondered why they were so bright? Had he been happy in this idyllic setting or had he felt the pull back to the city, the pull back to the past? Had this Laura been a part of that past?

  Why didn't he know the name? Why hadn't Gary told him about her?

  "I never thought you could keep a secret, Gary," he whispered into the night. "That's why I never told you any. I didn't think you'd be able to hold it in. But I was wrong about that. What else was I wrong about? What else?"

  * * *

  The sound of hammering grew louder as Rachel walked through the woods to her new house on Sunday afternoon. She paused at the edge of the trees, the back end of the structure just barely visible from her vantage point, but she could see the valley beyond and was reminded again of what a glorious view she'd have from her front porch and her upstairs bedroom balcony. Unfortunately, Gary wouldn't be there to share it with her, to sit on the balcony and sip a glass of fine wine and talk about their day, their son, their lives.

  Although... it occurred to her now how rarely they'd ever done that. There was a porch on the family house with a big, comfortable swing, but she could remember only a couple of occasions when they'd sat out there and talked. Maybe in the beginning, when they were dating. But then marriage had come, and a child, and Gary's business had grown. The alone time had dwindled down to nothing. She hadn't really fought for it, hadn't insisted on it, and now it was too late.

  Thinking of Gary brought Gary's father back into her mind. She'd called his number again this morning, but there was no answer, only an answering machine requesting that she leave a message. Her heart had stopped for a brief second when the machine picked up. She'd been afraid that the voice on the recorder would sound like Gary's, for surely a father and a son would sound alike. She could hear echoes of Gary in her own son's voice. But the woman's voice on Gary Senior's recorder had been completely unfamiliar, and she had hung up without leaving a message.

  Shaking her head, she started walking again. It was a warm Sunday afternoon, well past eighty degrees. The farm had been busy all d
ay with tourists stopping by to pick their own apples, picnic, take a tour of the farm or browse in the gift shop. With a bountiful harvest, the trees were offering up many a juicy, plump apple, and fortunately for the family's financial coffers, the tourists had been coming in droves.

  Normally Wesley enjoyed helping her with the visitors, but when Dylan had stopped by earlier to pick up some tools, Wesley had convinced Dylan that he needed his help. Rachel had tried to argue, but one look at Wesley's eager face had told her she was fighting an uphill battle. Her son was determined to get his house built, and Dylan hadn't seemed to mind the idea of Wesley's company.

  She didn't know if it was good or bad for the two of them to be together. She appreciated the fact that her son needed men in his life, but she didn't want Wesley to get attached to Dylan, and be disappointed again when Dylan went back to his life. And Dylan would go back. This was her world, not his.

  She entered the house through the back door and called out a hello. The hammering didn't stop. When she walked into the kitchen area she saw Wesley and Dylan, and her heart skipped a beat. They looked like a father and a son. They were both wearing blue jeans and no shirt, both down on their knees, hammering a board.

  It was the most incredible, poignant, touching picture she'd seen in a long while. And when they stopped hammering to look at her, she felt like laughing and crying at the same time. This picture in front of her, this beautiful family portrait, had the wrong people in it.

  "Hi, Mommy," Wesley said, bounding to his feet, his face alight with enthusiasm despite the sweaty dirt streaks along his cheeks. "We're getting a lot done today."

  "I can see that," she murmured as Dylan stood up as well. She heard Wesley say something else, but she wasn't sure what. A bare-chested Dylan consumed all of her attention. His skin was twice as dark as Wesley's, his chest broad and muscular, with just the right smattering of dark hair that drifted down in a vee over incredibly flat abs. She halted her gaze right there and forced it back up.

  "What are you doing down here?" Dylan asked somewhat sharply, as if he'd caught her wandering eye and didn't appreciate it.

  "Lemonade," she said hastily, holding out the pitcher in her hand. "I thought you might be thirsty."