by Lori Wilde
The thought of making love to her drove him insane. Didn’t she get that? Didn’t she understand how hard it was for him to hold on to his last shreds of control?
“Felicity, I consider your tears a gift.” He touched his shirt, still damp from where she’d wept on him. “I’m not scared of them.”
She looked bewildered. Yeah, no wonder. He was pretty damn bewildered himself.
“You trusted me enough to fully let go. That’s big. Huge.”
“So what’s the problem?”
He clenched his fingers into fists to keep from touching her, let his arms dangle at his sides. No way around it. He was going to have to face the truth.
“I can’t make love to you,” he said. “Not because I can’t; I can.... Rather, I won’t. You deserve someone for a lifetime, and I can’t offer that.”
“Good grief.” She snorted, her hands back on her hips, looked offended. “I’m not asking for anything beyond a great time in bed.”
Tom pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. He was messing this up, big time. “It’s not just about sex. You’re a widow who was married to the love of your life. I’m the guy who couldn’t make marriage work. You deserve someone who can put down roots with you . . . and I’m . . . well, I’m not the kind who sticks around.”
“That’s what my aunt Molly said about you.”
Tom winced, surprised by how much this hurt, but he was making the right choice . . . trying to make the right choice . . . for both of them. Felicity was wedded to this place, this town. Any man who wanted to be with her needed to understand that if he stayed with her, he was committing to Serendipity, and to a life running a B&B, living in a fishbowl.
She’s worth it, whispered a voice in his head. She’s your salvation. Yes, but was he hers?
“Your aunt makes a good point,” Tom said. “The thing is, Felicity, I can’t make a commitment to you, to anyone right now. I don’t even have a job. I have nothing to offer you but sex, and, even though you say that’s all you want, I know it’s not true.” He paused. “And so do you.”
Her eyes turned steely, and her chin hardened. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay then.”
“I’m going to go pack.”
“You do that.” She turned away from him, but not before he saw fresh tears shimmering in her eyes.
They were a knife to his gut, those tears, but he couldn’t back down now. He’d convinced her that it was best for her to let him go. Now, the hard part.
Convincing himself.
* * *
It was only after Tom packed up his meager duffel bag, told her one last good-bye, and walked out of the house that Felicity understood why she’d broken down in helpless tears.
It was April 9th.
Her baby’s due date.
Stephen Michael Patterson would have been four years old today if he’d been born on schedule, and she hadn’t lost him.
The realization caught her low in the belly, and Felicity had to sit down in the rolling leather chair behind the reception desk, or risk falling over. She’d wanted to have sex with Tom as a way to salve the old, open wound that still hadn’t fully scabbed over.
Thank God, he’d had the presence of mind to turn her down. He was right. Sex today would have been a disaster.
Why then did his rejection and departure hurt so damn much?
The light on the voice mail machine blinked at her. Two messages. How long had the messages been there? She and Tom had been having so much fun together; it had been days since she’d checked.
All the more reason to be grateful that he’d gone. He’d been a huge distraction, and her business was struggling enough as it was.
She punched the message button, heard the first message spin out into the room. “Hello, my name is Jane Cowden. I need to cancel the reservation for my December wedding. . . .”
Felicity stabbed the “erase” button. Listened to the next message.
“Felicity, this is Mary at Dr. Honeywell’s office. He’s concerned about your mammogram results. Could you please call the office so we can schedule a biopsy within the next couple of weeks? No reason for alarm. This happens a lot. Eighty percent of the time, the lump is benign.”
Lump.
Felicity slapped both hands to her breasts.
Eighty percent of the time, benign.
She closed her eyes, exhaled. Heard another statistic. Less than twenty percent of miscarriages happen after the first trimester.
Yes, she’d been on the wrong side of the statistics then. What made her think these odds would be any different.
Feeling as if she’d driven headlong off a cliff, Felicity sat in the chair, her entire body shaking. A one-word mantra circled around and around inside her head—jinxed, jinxed, jinxed.
This was it. Her past was gone. Her future was crumbling, and her present? Well, it was pretty damned miserable.
“No more of self-pity,” she scolded, picked up the reservation book, and flipped to December to cross off Jane Cowden’s reservation.
And there she found the baby’s sonogram stuck to the calendar.
The tears rushed back, fresh and cathartic.
Felicity rested her head on the desk and listened to the sound of the wall clock ticking. A big old-fashioned clock with a second hand that jumped in stiff jerks as it marked off each passing second.
The noise filled her head until all she could hear was tick, tick, tick.
Time passing. Flying by her. Leaving her with nothing.
Gone. All the things she’d once held on to were gone, but she’d been unable to let them go. That’s why she was stuck. She couldn’t embrace the future as long as she had both hands grasping the past.
Tom was right. She knew the rambling man thing was just an excuse, an easy out. The real reason he was keeping her at arms’ length was that he knew he couldn’t compete with those memories she wouldn’t release.
Until she could accept what had happened to her and let go of her grief, she never would find happiness.
That was the real jinx.
Living in the past.
Felicity picked up the sonogram. Studied it for a long moment, traced a finger over it. Shed a few more tears.
“Good-bye, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Mommy will always love you, but it’s time to let you go. It’s not fair to either of us for me to keep holding on. Fly, my little angel. Fly high with the bluebirds.”
Then summoning every ounce of courage that she had in her, Felicity spun in the chair and slowly fed the sonogram into the paper shredder.
* * *
Tom went to see Joe. He had no one else to turn to.
Oh, sure, he had friends he could call. People he usually met for beers or ball games. He could have gotten a motel room. Or left Serendipity entirely. But he couldn’t bring himself to go when he’d left things in such a mess with Felicity.
The problem was, he had no idea how to fix things.
And he needed someone to talk to about it.
Joe had taken one look at Tom standing on the front porch of the Loving mansion, his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, the Ducati parked in the driveway, and waved him inside, then hollered up the stairs, “Marion, make up the guest room.”
Tom stayed for two weeks with his brother. At loose ends about what to do with his life, he hid out on the ranch. Helping Joe. Bonding with his brother. Avoiding going into Serendipity in case he came across Felicity.
Thinking about her turned him inside out as he vacillated between coulda, woulda, shoulda. What would have happened if he’d stayed? If he’d made love to her? Was it that he was afraid of hurting her? Or was the truth something much more selfish? Was it that Tom was terrified that making love to her would change him in ways he wasn’t ready to be changed?
He heard back on one of the four resumes he’d sent out. A position working for a military contractor on the West Coast. He turned it down.
Joe raised an eyebrow when Tom told him about it, b
ut didn’t say anything else. Just kept shoveling out the horse stall he was working on.
When Tom turned down the second offer, Joe grunted.
After the third offer, Joe finally said, while they were watching baseball in the den, “I love having you around, little brother. Stay as long as you want, but what the hell are you holding out for?”
“Dream job,” Tom mumbled, cracking open a pistachio.
“And that is?”
“Something where I’m never stationary. I’m holding my breath for that crisis response position working for the UN.”
Joe grunted. “Ironic.”
“What is?”
“You’re holding out for a job where you jump into the middle of other people’s crises, but you can’t even manage your own.”
“I’m not having a crisis,” Tom disagreed.
Joe shook his head. “You sure?”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Joe threw a couch cushion at him. “Not from where I’m sitting.”
Tom caught the pillow with one hand before Joe knocked over his beer bottle. “So tell me, big brother, since you know everything. What’s my crisis?”
Joe’s smile was doofus big, and he affected a pronounced redneck drawl. “Why you’re scared shitless because you’ve done gone and fallen in love with Felicity Patterson.”
* * *
The following morning, a bouquet of Felicity’s favorite wildflowers—bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes and black-eyed Susans—clutched in his hand, Tom mounted the steps of the B&B, mentally rehearsing his apology. I’m sorry; please forgive me; I love you.
Should he just blurt it out like that? Should there be more of a lead-up? A longer apology? More of an explanation?
Before he had a chance to figure it out, the front door opened, and Felicity’s Aunt Molly emerged, a worried frown on her face.
“Oh!” Aunt Molly started, house keys in her hand, and pressed her free palm over her heart. “You about scared me out of my skin.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Sorry, my mind is somewhere else.” Aunt Molly turned and locked the front door.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked, tightening his grip on the bouquet.
“Felicity sent me over to check to see if she left the stove on, but I think it was just a ploy to get me out of the hospital waiting room. She knows how much I hate hospitals. And she’s never in her life done something so careless as to leave the stove on. She’s a cautious one, that Felicity. But this morning was so hectic, I thought maybe . . .”
“Wait, what?” Tom’s heart slammed against his rib cage. “Felicity is in the hospital?”
“She’s having a breast biopsy. I’m on my way back over there—”
“I’ll go,” Tom said. “You stay here and look after the Bluebird.”
“Really?” Aunt Molly looked utterly relieved. “That would be amazing. Did I mention I hate hospitals? Ever since my sister . . .” She waved a hand, shooing off the past. “Never mind that. Go. Felicity is in outpatient surgery. I’ll turn down her bed so it will be all comfy for her when you bring our girl home.”
Our girl. As if she belonged to them both.
It felt good. Right. That belonging.
And Tom couldn’t get to the hospital fast enough.
Chapter Nine
“Morning, Sunshine,” greeted the smiling nurse as she pulled aside the privacy curtain. “Are you a little more awake now?”
Felicity nodded, trying to shake off the effects of the anesthesia. She couldn’t wait to get out of here and back home.
“You came through with flying colors,” the nurse went on, leaning over to press the button on the monitor that caused the blood pressure cuff on Felicity’s arm to inflate. “The procedure went smooth as silk, but we won’t have the results of the biopsy until tomorrow at the earliest, but it could take longer than that depending on how backed up the lab is.”
Felicity touched the small bandage on her right breast at the biopsy site.
“Try not to worry.” The nurse’s smile was compassionate, encouraging. “Eighty percent of the time, these lumps are benign.”
“Thanks,” Felicity mumbled, not the least bit comforted.
“By the way, you have a visitor.” The nurse recorded the blood pressure reading on the computer keyboard attached to the screen mounted to the wall above the gurney. “Are you ready?”
It must be Aunt Molly. Felicity nodded again, sat up higher in bed.
The nurse left, pulling the curtain closed behind her. In a few minutes, the curtain moved again, and Felicity put on her brightest smile for her aunt.
Except it wasn’t Aunt Molly.
Tom stood there in starched jeans and white, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, dark eyes solemn, looking uncertain, as if he were searching for an uncomplicated mercy in a world filled with obstacles, as he held up his little wild bouquet.
She lost her breath.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“You look beautiful.”
His grin reeled her in. She laughed, ran a hand through her hair. She had on no makeup and was in a notoriously unflattering hospital gown.
“I brought wildflowers.” He thrust them toward her.
“I can see that.”
“I’ll just . . .” He cast around the small space, looked at a loss. “Um . . .” He approached the bedside table. “Put them here.”
“Thank you.” She smiled again, amused by his awkwardness.
He set the flowers on the table, clasped his hands behind his back, shifted from foot to foot. “How are you doing?”
She gave him a tight smile, shook her head. “I’ll bounce back.”
“My little Super Ball.”
My little Super Ball? Felicity’s heart flipped over in her chest. Twice. Don’t read anything into it. He didn’t mean anything by it.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”
“They’ll be letting me go within the hour,” she said. “So I won’t be here for long.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were having a biopsy?”
“We haven’t spoken in two weeks.”
“You could have called,” he said.
“You’re the one who said you were moving on.”
He ran a hand over his jaw. “I handled that poorly. I was running scared.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never . . . since my divorce . . . You’re the first woman that I’ve wanted.”
“Wait a minute. Are you saying you haven’t been with a woman in the seven years you’ve been divorced?”
He nodded.
“Seven years without sex?”
“What can I say? It was easier to avoid all that drama and focus on my career. Until I retired.” He inhaled deeply, eased down on the side of the gurney. His butt was touching her thigh. It felt intimate and sweet all at the same time. “Until you.”
Their eyes met.
“Suddenly, the world was filled with all these possibilities I never considered before, and dammit, you scared me because I was feeling things again. Things I’d been afraid to feel because I didn’t want to get hurt again.”
“And you think I did?”
“No, no, it’s just that you feel so deeply, and care so much for people. I wasn’t sure I could give you the kind of love you needed.”
Love?
Felicity inhaled sharply. What was he saying?
His eyes searched her face, his expression raw and vulnerable. “I want a do-over. Please give me a second chance.”
“What’s changed?”
He reached over and took her palm in his warm, strong hand. “Me.”
“How did you change?”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“No way.” She graced him with a small, but encouraging grin. “Like you said, I deserve the best.”
&n
bsp; “Yes,” he said. “I just pray I can live up to your expectations.”
“Tom,” she said. “It’s not my expectations you have to live up to. It’s your own. I accept you completely for who you are.”
“You are such a wonderful person,” he said. “Because of you, I’ve had an epiphany. I realized I’ve been spending my life hiding from complications. From family drama. From messy emotions. Even when I was married, I wasn’t fully invested, which was why my ex-wife cheated on me. She tried to explain it, but I put all the blame on her. That wasn’t fair. I had a hand in it too. If I’d loved her the way she deserved to be loved, she wouldn’t have had to go looking for love somewhere else.”
“And now?”
“This is not a romantic place to tell you, but I can’t wait any longer. It happened quick and I fell hard, but I love you, Felicity Patterson, and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. What do you have to say about that?”
Her pulse hammered in her throat. Her palm went sweaty between his hands gripping hers. It was everything she wanted to hear from him and more, so much more. But she couldn’t accept his proclamation of love.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “But I just can’t afford to let myself love you.”
* * *
Her words were a sword, running him straight through. He’d gone out on a limb, told her exactly how he felt about her, and she’d sawed the branch right out from under him.
“What are you saying? That you don’t love me?”
“I’m saying let’s just enjoy each other right now, Tom. Be in the moment. I’m not in a position to ask for or accept anything more than that. Please just take me home and make love to me and let it be enough. That’s all I ever wanted from you.”
“What if that’s not enough for me?” His voice cracked like brittle ice, startling them both. “What if I want forever?”
“There’s no such thing,” she said, her own voice soft and dull.
It dawned on him then, what was going on. She was as terrified of this relationship as he was, but for a different reason. “It’s because of the biopsy, isn’t it? You’re worried you have cancer.”
She swallowed so hard her throat quivered visibly, nodded. “I . . . can’t invest in anything permanent.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said, feeling his own throat tighten as he scrambled for ways to convince her of the wrongness of her thinking. “What if it’s benign? Odds are it’s benign.”
