Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  December 22, 2000

  Tamara,

  I still can’t believe you agreed to be my wife. I’m counting the days until you walk down the aisle to me. We’ll speak our vows and drive off into the sunset together. I thought this Jeep would do nicely—getting us to some pretty remote places. Until then, think of me every time you get behind the wheel.

  All my love,

  Peter

  Jane dropped the paper as if it had scorched her. Peter and Tamara? She read the names again just to be sure. This whole time his heart had belonged to someone else? She remembered his strange confession at the start of the evening.

  “I tried to stop a wedding.”

  Jane knew she should have made him tell her why. But at the time, she’d only been thinking that she finally understood the mystery of why the two brothers had ceased their relationship. She realized the wedding must have been only the tip of the iceberg. She’d had no idea how deep or serious their animosities must have run—each in love with the same woman. Earlier conversations floated through her mind, seeming now like obvious clues she should have recognized.

  “She’ll be a dancer like her mother.”

  “I didn’t know Tamara was a dancer. What else do you know about her?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  Jane’s face was dry now. She sat stiffly in her seat—Pete’s—no—Tamara’s seat.

  “A lot of miles on this thing. I bought it new in 2000 . . .

  “It made a lot of trips to hospitals . . .”

  “I guess it wasn’t just Paul and Tamara driving off into the sunset.”

  Jane pounded her fist on the wheel. “I am so stupid.”

  “How did Paul come to have your car, anyway?”

  “It was a wedding present.”

  “You failed to mention whose wedding, ” Jane muttered. “Why did I have to fall in love with a twin?” Paul and Peter were so alike that they’d each fallen for the same woman. Jane stared out the windshield, sobered by the realization that they’d also each settled for her, recognizing what she was—a good mother to the twins.

  A good mother. That was it. Not a wife.

  Jane leaned her head back against the seat, too tired and too angry to cry anymore. The ache in her heart went beyond tears or chocolate or anything else that had helped her cope before.

  The officer returned. “Miss Warner?”

  “Yes.” Jane handed him the registration.

  “Please step out and—”

  “No problem.” Jane unlocked the door and got out of the car.

  The officer nodded to the yellow line painted along the side of the road. Jane walked over to it and placed one foot in front of the other on the line.

  “I promise I’m not intoxicated or under the influence of drugs.” She walked a few feet, turned and came back. Just a simple broken heart that has me out of whack.

  “That’ll do.” He beckoned her over. “By chance does this car belong to—and does your earlier crying and subsequent running of a light—happen to have anything to do with a—” the officer glanced down at his clipboard. “Peter Bryant?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “How did you know?”

  “Checked the computer. Seems there was an incident back in February.”

  Jane’s mouth hung open. “I have a police record?”

  “Not exactly.” Unfolding the registration, the officer finished writing out the ticket, then tore off her copy and handed it to her. “I know you’ve had a rough night, but you did run a red light and could have caused a serious accident.”

  Jane clutched the ticket and nodded. “I know, and I’m terribly sorry.”

  He looked at her. “I’d advise you to stay away from this fellow. He seems to be trouble.” Jane opened the door and got back into the Jeep.

  “That’s very sage counsel, officer, and I assure you, I plan to follow it.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Caroline slammed down the phone and stormed into the living room where Ryan and Scott were watching the game. Hands on hips, she stood right in front of the television.

  “Ah c’mon Caroline. Bases are loaded, and it’s the ninth.” Scott leaned to the side, trying to see the TV.

  Caroline didn’t move. She looked at her husband. “I’m going out for a while. Listen for Andrew. He’ll need to be changed and have a bottle when he wakes up.”

  “You don’t want to take him with you?” Ryan asked, hopeful as he loaded a tortilla chip with salsa.

  “No, I don’t.” Caroline walked toward the door, grabbing her purse from the table and her keys from the hook.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Jessica looked up from the coffee table where she’d been doing a puzzle.

  “Where you going?” Ryan asked, his attention more focused on the television in front of him than his wife’s errand.

  “Jane is upset, and I am going to have a little chat with Peter,” Caroline said, answering both their questions.

  “What’d he do?” Scott asked, looking sideways at Ryan.

  “Asked Jane to marry him,” Caroline said, her hand on the doorknob.

  Ryan looked confused. “Isn’t that what we expected him to do?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said matter-of-factly. “He just didn’t do it the way we expected him to.” She opened the door, stepped outside, and slammed the door behind her. Ryan stared at it a moment, then returned his attention to the game.

  “Whoo-ee,” Scott whispered under his breath. “Wouldn’t want to be Pete just now.”

  “Me either,” Ryan mumbled appreciatively through another bite of dip.

  Jessica walked over to the window, pulled back the curtains, and watched her mother drive off. After a minute, she looked over her shoulder at her dad. “Don’t you think we should call Uncle Pete and warn him that a madwoman in a minivan is headed his way?”

  Ryan and Scott looked at each other a moment, then said, “Naw,” at the same time.

  “It’ll be okay, Jess,” Ryan assured her.

  “Yeah,” Scott echoed. “It will be a good test of whether Pete really wants to be Uncle Pete.”

  * * *

  At the stop sign at the end of their road, Caroline dug through the CDs in her console. Finding the one she wanted, she ejected Disney Favorites Vol. 3 and put in Blondie. Scanning to the right song, she waited until it came on before she hit the gas again. Her hands gripping the wheel, her eyes focused on the road, she thought of Peter as the lyrics blared. “One way or another,” he was going to get it.

  Her mind whirred with the exact words she planned to share with him. But first, she had to make a couple of quick stops.

  * * *

  The doorbell rang a second time—a long, grinding noise that prompted Peter to hurry down the stairs. He hadn’t been asleep—couldn’t begin to get his thoughts to settle after the disastrous evening with Jane. He hoped that was her at the door now and that they could straighten this whole mess out. It was barely nine o’clock, and he’d expected to still be on the boat, looking at the stars, his fiancée in his arms. Instead, he was alone again, and knew full well that somehow he was responsible. Unsure what he would say if it was Jane, Pete flipped on the front porch light and opened the door.

  She came at him before he even had the door all the way open, her right fist connecting with his jaw.

  “Ow,” he cried, stepping back as his hand automatically went to his cheek. “Caroline! What’d you do that for?”

  In answer, she swung a bulging bag toward him, catching him in the gut. “How dare you treat my sister like that.”

  Pete caught the bag of what felt like encyclopedias before it hit the floor. He took a step back, his foot pushing the door closed on his would-be sister-in-law.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Caroline’s own foot stopped the door, and she threw her whole weight into fighting to keep it open.

  Pete let her think she was winning—just enough so that he could hear what she had to say. No way he was letting her in the house.<
br />
  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Caroline demanded.

  “Apparently not,” Pete said. He tossed the bag aside and it landed with a thud on the carpet. “Is that a bomb or something?” he asked, only half joking.

  “No, but good idea,” Caroline said. “You certainly deserve it after what you pulled tonight.”

  “Enlighten me,” Pete said, growing more annoyed by the minute. “Because in my mind I don’t see that I’ve committed any crime—going to great lengths to arrange a moonlit cruise along the bay so Jane and I could have a nice, romantic night.”

  “Romantic?” Caroline scoffed, shoving the door into his shoulder. “You told her you wanted to marry her so she and the twins would have insurance benefits.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Pete asked. “I care about them, and Mark has major surgery coming up. I don’t want Jane to have to cover that on her own.”

  “How noble of you,” Caroline said sarcastically. “Those are the words every woman longs to hear when she’s proposed to. Much better than, ‘I’m counting the days until you walk down the aisle to me. We’ll speak our vows and drive off into the sunset together.’”

  Pete stood in stunned silence for nearly a minute. At last he opened the door and looked at Caroline. “How did you know about that?”

  “About Tamara, you mean? Jane was crying so hard she ran a red light on the way home tonight.”

  Pete took an anxious step forward. “Is she okay?”

  Caroline nodded. “She got a ticket and found your little note with the car registration.”

  Pete let out a long sigh. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked steadily at Caroline. “All right. Let’s have it.”

  “How could you do this to Jane? Do you have any feelings for her—or has this whole thing just been a joke?” Caroline stepped across the threshold, jabbing her finger into his chest. “Because she is in love with you, and Jane has never been in love with anyone before. She wants to marry you—more than anything. She’s even decided you’re worth marrying outside the Church. But now she thinks you don’t love her—that you’re willing to settle for her for the sake of the twins.”

  Pete shook his head. “That’s not true. I do—I do love her,” he admitted quietly.

  “Then you better figure out a way to prove it.” Caroline looked up at the living room ceiling, blinking rapidly.

  Pete was surprised to see tears in her eyes. Oh no, not again—not another one.

  Caroline continued. “You know, when Jane was a little girl and we’d play Barbies together, she always wanted to play getting married. We’d plan these big elaborate weddings. Ken would get shoe polish on his head so his plastic hair would shine. We’d make Barbie this great tissue-paper gown. All the other dolls sat in rows on our lunch boxes listening to the ceremony . . . It was her favorite thing to play.” Caroline smiled sadly. “Jane loved all the Disney fairy tales—couldn’t watch them enough, even when she was older. She asked for the Beauty and the Beast video for her sixteenth birthday. She’s always been a hopeless romantic.” Caroline sighed, then looked steadily at Peter.

  “Jane has been a bridesmaid seven times—once for each of us and once for one of her friends. She has dreamed of her own fairy-tale love story—and despaired of ever having one—for years . . . And now you’ve broken her heart.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Peter sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the texts for his crash course in wedding education 101. Stacked to his right lay Modern Bride, Martha Stewart Weddings, Cosmopolitan Bride, and Weddings in Style, demanding to be read. He’d already spent over two hours going through Town and Country Weddings, Elegant Bride, and Relationships for Dummies. The latter had been insulting, though not as insulting as the note he’d just read inside the book that lay open in front of him. Caroline’s handwriting was sprawled across the title page of The Idiot’s Guide to Romance.

  Yes, Peter. You are an idiot! Read this and learn what you need to do to fix things with my sister—soon.

  Caroline

  “Ouch,” Pete said as he flipped to the table of contents. She didn’t chastise me enough when she was here? He scanned the chapter titles, not really focusing, instead thinking more about Jane, a stone’s throw away literally but miles away in the progression of their relationship. Caroline had left a couple hours ago, but not before making it clear what she thought of him.

  Reliving the evening from Jane’s point of view, he was an idiot.

  But he wasn’t certain what reading all of these books and magazines would accomplish. In less than a month, he’d be thousands of miles away—so what were the chances he could mend his relationship with Jane between now and then? What would it take to bring them back to the point where they were on the beach a few weeks ago?

  Pete rose from the table and walked to the sliding glass door. Opening it, he walked outside, wandering in the yard, careful to stay on his side of the swing set. He looked up at Jane’s window. Like the rest of the house, it was dark. He thought about tossing pebbles at it. She’d come to the window and he’d kneel and profess his love for her. Better yet, he could sing. His favorite band had a great song titled “Jane.” Half serious, Pete mulled the thought over in his mind. It didn’t take long to conclude that it was going to take much more than a song at a window to change her mind about him. He had to convince her that he wanted to marry her because he loved her. Because he couldn’t live without her.

  And there, he realized, was the crux of the matter. He hadn’t really wanted Jane to know all of that before he left. He’d used the word like on purpose tonight. You could like someone and still recover from it if something happened. But when you loved someone—like his mother had loved his father—that could be fatal.

  Pete shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away from Jane’s window. Somehow he’d wanted to marry Jane yet spare her the depth of emotion that was supposed to come with the wedding vow. Or had he really been hoping to spare himself? Insurance for her and the twins had been a paltry offer, and the moonlit boat that he’d billed as so romantic now seemed cruel. And for Jane, finding his old letter to Tamara must have been like the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.

  He returned to the house and sat at the table again, willing to flay himself with bridal magazines all night and forever if the answer to this mess lay hidden in the pages. He glanced at the covers then reached for the last item in the bag Caroline had thrown at him. Taking it out, he saw that it wasn’t another magazine or book, but a flat box with a thin, white ribbon tied around it. Someone had scripted in fancy letters, “My temple time capsule” across the top of the box. Peter swallowed uncomfortably, suddenly knowing that someone was Jane.

  For a long moment he stared at it, feeling he was invading her privacy by just holding the box in his hands, but then he remembered Caroline was the one who’d given it to him, and curiosity won out. He untied the delicate ribbon and lifted the lid. A pair of white lace slippers lay on top, and beneath them was a postcard of a rather fancy-looking church—a temple, he assumed. Beneath the picture was a lined paper with writing on it. Peter set the other items aside and picked up the paper, looking at the date—June 29, 1986. Eighteen years ago—to the day, almost. Jane would have been twelve.

  His eyes moved farther down the paper. It was a list. Only five items were numbered below the underlined title. Peter read them twice, fascinated by the thought of twelve-year-old Jane writing them and thinking about marriage at such a young age.

  The kind of man I want to marry.

  1. Worthy to take me to the temple and bless our family and home.

  2. He loves me with his whole heart.

  3. Funny. He makes me laugh.

  4. Kind. He doesn’t yell or do bad stuff.

  5. He’s handsome (or at least I think so). It’s nice when we kiss.

  Peter read the list a third time, realizing that there was no number six—makes lots of money and has a good insurance pl
an. He lowered his head to his hands, thinking again of how badly he’d messed things up. He turned away, unable to bear looking at the evidence of his failure any longer. But the bridal magazines were on his other side, mocking him.

  Through bleary eyes he stared at their covers and saw women in beautiful gowns, scads of flowers, a horse-drawn carriage, an ivy-covered church, hands interlaced, gold bands sparkling.

  How . . . obvious. The clock in the living room chimed midnight—it had taken him three hours to figure this out. He was an idiot. For the first time all night, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

  Mentally, he began assembling his list. Diamond ring, beautiful gown, church, horse-drawn carriage, castle. The last two would be a bit trickier than the others, but he had a few ideas already. He could still fix this. He could give Jane all that she wanted—well, almost all. He’d learned enough about the Mormon Church to realize he couldn’t take Jane to the temple . . . Her number-one requirement.

  For a long moment, Peter leaned back in his chair, thinking. He liked her religion—a lot, actually. But liking something and really believing it were two entirely different things. And he still couldn’t get past the Joseph Smith thing. Which was really too bad, Peter thought, because he was enjoying the Book of Mormon. He liked what he read there, and he had no trouble accepting that God would provide scripture for all people on the earth. It was how he provided the record that Peter was hung up on. Why would a fourteen-year-old farm boy be the one chosen to restore something so important?

  It didn’t make any sense.

  Peter pushed his conflicted feelings aside and returned to the dilemma of winning Jane back. The temple wedding definitely wasn’t an option, but Caroline said that Jane loved him enough she was willing to give that up. Guilt nagged at the back of his mind. He pushed it forcefully away. He’d make it up to her. He’d be numbers two through five on her list and so much more. And he’d start it all with the wedding of her dreams.

  Pete went to the counter and took his phone book from the shelf beneath. Not caring about the time, he flipped to the number for Caroline’s cell. He dialed, mind racing with plans as he waited for someone to answer. If he was going to pull this off, he would need some help.