My face flames and I look away. “I’ll look after it. I promise.”
“It’s not a first edition. Those are over there, in the glass case.”
They are.
I peer through the Windex-clean glass at the titles. “You have an amazing collection.” Austen, Chaucer, Dickens, Shakespeare, Robert Frost, T. S. Eliot. Kevin would be in his element. I walk the length of the room. On a middle shelf I see a row of books I recognize. Brock’s. They are all here. And I remember reading every one of them. We called him a cross between Nicholas Sparks and James Patterson; enough romance and intrigue to keep us both hooked.
“Did you always want to be a writer?” I turn to face him and find him already looking my way.
“Not always.” He grins slow, eyes shining. “First I wanted to be a fireman. Then a pro basketball player. Thought about being an astronaut . . .”
“Okay, okay.” Laughter feels good. I’m not sure when I last had anything to laugh about. I sink into a soft leather chair by the fire, uninvited, yet feeling perfectly at home. “My sister, Peg, and I have that kind of relationship. Like you and your brother. We get along great when we’re not together.”
“But you keep trying.” He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Don’t you?”
“It seems wrong not to.” I sigh and study the orange flames. “She means well. She just doesn’t always understand me. But I know she’d do anything for me in a heartbeat. I have a closer relationship with my older brother, Paul. He’s four years older than me, Peg is two. My family has always been pretty tight-knit, though, despite our differences and the distances between us. I’m lucky I guess. They’ve all been super supportive through this whole mess with Kevin.”
He nods, his eyes serious. “Family is family. I suspect Mitchell will wake up to that fact at some point.”
“And your parents? Where do they live?”
Brock powers up his computer and I hear the ping of his inbox. He scans the screen and then his eyes meet mine again. “Our mother died a few years ago. Our father is in Atlanta. In a nursing home. He has Alzheimer’s.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I almost feel bad for asking, and a little guilty that I have two perfectly healthy parents.
“Don’t be. Life is what it is. Sometimes it’s hard.” His furrowed brow testifies to that. I wonder what secrets hide within those vibrant blue eyes I find myself so drawn to. Wonder where his wife is and why he’s here in the Berkshires with his great-aunt, raising his daughter alone. I suppose the answers to my questions can be found on the Internet, but somehow I’d rather hear them from him.
But not today.
He’s studying the computer again and I push out of my chair. “I’ll let you get on with your work. I can show myself out. Please tell Clarice I said good-bye.”
“Sorry.” He shoots me a smile. “I would be more hospitable, but I have an important call scheduled in about ten minutes.” Brock rises and walks me out anyway, proving southern charm and chivalry are not dead. “As I suspect my aunt has told you, you’re welcome here anytime, Savannah.” He opens the front door after helping me with my coat. “I may be a little rough around the edges, but truth is, company is nice.”
I try not to look too surprised. “If you’re sure. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. Aunt Clarice enjoys spending time with you.” He pushes his fingers through his hair and takes a step back. “I’m beginning to see why.”
Well then.
I’m not sure how to respond to that, and I think I should leave. Immediately.
“Good-bye, Brock. Happy writing.” I slip through the door and skitter down the steps, Brock Chandler’s chuckle ringing in my ears as I walk as quickly as possible down the path toward home.
CHAPTER 9
“You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”
—VIRGINIA WOOLF
My new normal has become a tranquil reverie I am rather enjoying.
I spend a quiet Thanksgiving with the Chandlers at Clarice’s insistence. Once she heard I had no plans to return home for the holiday, the decision was made for me. Of course Maysie’s pleading to please, please, please say yes made it a little easier. And I hadn’t really wanted to be alone anyway.
I spoke with Zoe, happily ensconced at her boyfriend’s family home in Chicago, and tried to reach Adam on his cell, but no answer. Kevin asked if he could pick up Adam from his ski trip and take him back to school. I think Adam would have preferred to go back on the bus with the other kids, but he said yes anyway.
I’m half reading, half dozing on the couch Sunday night after Thanksgiving when my cell phone buzzes. I had it set to vibrate and have to search the house for it because, as usual, I have no idea where I put the thing. Eventually I retrieve it from under a pillow back in the living room. I don’t bother to look at the screen. It has to be Zoe at this late hour. So when I hear my husband say my name, I jump a little.
“Figured you’d find it sooner or later.” He’s making a joke.
Why is he making a joke?
“Has something happened?” I’m fully awake now. He wouldn’t be calling so late unless . . .
“No.” Kevin sounds surprised. “Everything’s fine.” Like it’s perfectly normal for my estranged husband to be calling me at eleven o’clock at night. “I sent you a message earlier, but I’m guessing you haven’t seen it yet. So I just got home and wanted to let you know Adam’s safely back at school. He dropped his cell and it’s busted. He didn’t want you to worry when you didn’t hear from him. I’ll get him a new one this week.”
“Oh.” I sink onto the couch and breathe a sigh of relief. Adam doesn’t call me every day, but I did think it strange I hadn’t heard anything yet. A few years back when I was a helicopter mom, I probably would’ve been on the phone to the police in a panic. These days I’m attempting a more relaxed method of parenting. “How is he? How was the skiing?”
“Good, I think. No broken bones this time.” Kevin chuckles. Two years ago we had to drive through a blizzard to get to Adam after the school called to let us know he’d taken a tumble and broken his leg. This year the trip happened to coincide with the holiday and the majority of parents seemed okay with it. I guess it was better for Adam anyway. Thanksgiving up here would have been boring.
“We had a good talk,” Kevin tells me. “He understands I’m trying to figure things out.”
“Oh?” I swallow my next question.
Oh, what the heck. “What exactly are you trying to figure out, Kevin? When to introduce our children to Alison?”
There is a long, uncomfortable pause. I hear glass clinking. “I guess I deserved that.”
“You think?” My eyes smart, and I silently curse him for ruining my perfectly peaceful evening.
“Zoe called me. On Thanksgiving.” Kevin’s voice is quiet. I nod and stare into the fireplace. A few embers spark as their glow fades, and the room is growing cold. She has not told me this, but knowing Zoe, I suspect she’s probably still processing. Good for her.
“I thought she would at some point.”
“We’re going to meet. I’ll go there, maybe next weekend.”
“Okay. That’s good.” I’m out of words.
When did I forget how to talk to my husband?
Years ago, I think. And maybe he just got used to the silence.
“How was . . . Did you . . . have a good Thanksgiving?” he asks, swearing under his breath. Kevin is not good at small talk. Maybe he’s also thinking what an odd thing it is to have to ask me.
Our first Thanksgiving apart in . . . how many years? I’ve given up answering those kinds of questions because it’s too depressing. But I can’t seem to stop asking them.
I try to put some enthusiasm in my voice. “It was nice. Quite pleasant, actually. I went next door to the Chandlers’. They’ve been very good to me since I arrived. I don’t think you ever met them. Joe used to look after the house here, but he passed away. Brock cooked and
Clarice—”
“Brock?” A hint of interest sneaks into his tone and I roll my eyes. Seriously?
“Yes. Brock Chandler. He’s B. J. Chandler, actually. You know, the author? He lives next door. With his great-aunt and six-year-old daughter.” And no wife. I still haven’t given in to the temptation to google him. Somehow I feel that would be violating his privacy. Whatever Brock’s story is, I hope someday he’ll tell me himself.
“B. J. Chandler? Next door? No way.” He’s impressed, I can tell. I’m sorely tempted to make some comment on how good-looking the man is.
“Way. I was surprised too.” More surprised that he also cooks like Emeril. A perfectly plump and tender turkey, honey-glazed ham, homemade rolls, sweet potato pie, baby beets, green bean casserole, and I can’t remember what else. Clarice barely had to lift a finger. Brock even did the dishes. Although he did let me help with those.
The day after Thanksgiving I went on the hunt for Mom’s workout videos. I am determined to get back in shape.
“What’s he like? You know he’s really reclusive. Is he working on a new novel?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t asked.” In the few weeks I have been coming and going from the Chandler house, apart from brief conversations about the puppies—Hope will be ready to come home with me around Christmas—Brock doesn’t seem to have much to say.
“I just finished his newest. Simeon’s Secret,” Kevin tells me. There’s a hint of awe to his tone. “Have you read it yet?”
What are we, a book club?
I don’t know why Kevin is still on the phone. Still attempting to have a civilized conversation with me. I picture Alison lurking somewhere nearby, glaring at him. The vision produces a grin. “Yes, I read it.” Brock gave me a signed copy last week and I devoured it in one day. “Well. I’m glad you had a good time with Adam. And I’m glad you’re going to see Zoe. But I should . . .” What? Get off the phone and throw my clothes in the dryer? Put the dishes away?
“You don’t want to talk to me. I get it.” Now he’s using the “poor me” tone. Give me a break.
“Kevin, what? You can’t just pick up the phone and expect things to be normal between us.” Are you a total idiot? Oh, wait . . .
“I’m going to meet John,” he blurts, startling me. “For coffee. This week.”
I almost drop my phone. I can’t stifle the long exhale that slides from my chest.
John Williams is Beth’s husband, Kevin’s former best friend. They haven’t spoken in months, maybe a year. John knew what was going on long before Beth or I did, and he called Kevin out on it. Kevin didn’t like that. John is also one of the counselors at our church.
Anger coils like a snake about to strike, overrides surprise and sorrow. Why is he doing this now?
“Savannah?”
“Have you signed the papers, Kevin? I haven’t heard back from Walter yet.” I need to countermand the unexpected attack he’s launched on my emotions. My voice is shaky and I don’t want to talk to him a minute longer.
“Uh . . .” I imagine him frowning, raking his fingers through his hair. “I guess I’ll get on it.”
“You do that. The sooner the better. Good night, Kevin.” I click off, lean over my knees, and take deep breaths, willing my heart to slow down. My phone buzzes. I don’t want to pick it up. But I have to. My hand snatches it up before my brain can say no. A text. From Kevin.
“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
An Alice quote. We collected them, he and I, over the years. I have a tattered notebook filled with my favorites. Kevin stores them on his phone, on paper napkins, on receipts. That was one of the things we lost after Shelby died, along with the book. We stopped saying silly things to each other.
“There’s no use trying,”
I text back.
“One can’t believe impossible things.”
Ah, good one,
Kevin responds.
Well played. Good night, Kevin.
Good night, Savannah. Watch the stars.
I have no idea what just happened. What that conversation was about. I want to throw the phone across the room. But I curl up on the couch and clutch it to my chest instead. And I’m wearing a stupid grin, because I remember . . .
Paul tells us he’s bringing a friend up to the lake house for a couple of weeks. They’ve been working together at a summer camp and plan to relax before heading back to their respective colleges. I’ve just turned seventeen and I’m not altogether thrilled with the news. While I’m pleased Paul is coming, I rather hoped to have my brother to myself.
We’re all sitting on the front porch when they pull up: me, Peg, Mom, and Daddy. It’s late Sunday afternoon and Mom has been cooking all day. The beat-up red Mustang shudders to a stop, blaring music dies along with the engine, and Paul jumps out with a wave and a holler. His hair is almost to his shoulders, and I’m pretty sure Mom will be chasing him around the kitchen with a pair of scissors before the sun goes down. While they’re all making a fuss over him, I watch his friend unfold himself from the passenger side.
He’s tall. Like six feet or thereabouts. He stretches, pulls his arms behind his neck, muscles flexing under a white T-shirt. I’d say he was showing off, but he’s not looking in my direction. He’s studying the lake. And then he turns toward the house.
I’ve never seen a smile like that.
It lights up his whole face, says he’s truly glad to be here. It’s soul-deep, and it reaches right through me and takes my breath away. His dark hair is windblown, and I swear his eyes are a shade of blue that nobody has ever named.
“Hey, kid!” Paul wraps me in a hug and lifts me off the ground and I squeal. He drags me down the steps toward his friend. “Yo, Kevin, this is my baby sister, Savannah. She’s a stargazer too.”
“Yeah?” He grins and ambles over to us. He doesn’t try to shake my hand, and I’m glad because my palms are sweating. “Must be beautiful out here at night, huh?”
“It is. We have the best view around.” I indicate the widow’s walk at the top of the house. “There’s a pretty good telescope up there.”
“Cool. Maybe you can show me tonight.” His eyes lock with mine, and my entire being sizzles with sensations I wasn’t even aware existed until this moment.
I know what this is.
I’ve read about it, secretly hoped for it, but never truly imagined it was possible.
Now I know it is.
Love at first sight.
The sun is warm and I’ve spent most of the morning in the greenhouse.
Throwing things.
We set out pots that can be used again, and Brock hired a kid to haul in huge bags of potting soil. That rich, peaty scent permeates the air. Yesterday Clarice and I placed bulbs deep into soil in various-size pots. We’ll leave the beds to warm a bit. She’s determined we will see the fruit of our labors. I’m not so sure, but I’ve thrown myself into it anyway, pruning branches from trees that still show green beneath old wood, pulling weeds, and clearing debris from the flower beds, and I wonder if miracles still happen. Can things long dead really be brought back to life?
I thought putting myself to work today would help, but I keep replaying last night’s ridiculous conversation with Kevin.
And I just want to throw things.
I’ve lined up a few cracked pots on a crooked bench, found some small stones, and I’m just hurling. Missing, of course. I don’t see Brock until he’s in my line of vision, sidestepping another poorly aimed shot. The stone hits the ground and bounces against a pile of broken terra-cotta.
He frowns, pulls the zipper on his navy sweater, and comes a little closer. “Permission to enter the firing zone?”
My cheeks burn and I drop the stone I was about to throw. “Oh, gosh. I didn’t think anyone was home.”
Brock shrugs, gives a shadow of a smile. “Clarice and Maysie are out shopping. I was trying to work.” He steps closer. “If you break any of those
new panes of glass I just put in, I shall not be amused.”
I’m mortified. Truly embarrassed. And it’s all Kevin’s fault. I want to pick up another stone, but I don’t. I take off my gardening gloves and retie my hair in a messy ponytail. “I’m so sorry, really. I’ll . . . uh . . . just go home. I’m not making much progress today.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Come with me.” He grins and heads inside through the back door. I follow him, not sure what else to do. In the kitchen he grabs his coat, keys, and chucks me one of Clarice’s woolly hats. “You’ll need that.”
A few moments later I’m sitting in Brock Chandler’s truck, country music blaring, and we’re driving down a snow-covered road to who knows where. The man might be a bestselling author, but he could also be an axe murderer for all I know. What the heck am I doing?
He pulls up beside a white field, slips down his shades, and sends me a wink that does nothing to soothe my suspicions. “Let’s go.”
In the middle of the field I spy a long bench strewn with cans and bottles. I get out of the truck and watch Brock forage around a lockbox in the back, then he pulls out a rifle.
“Oh, heaven help me.” My laughter lands a little on the hysterical side. “I knew you were psycho.”
“No, ma’am.” He laughs too. “Just southern.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” But apparently he’s not.
I follow him out to the middle of the field, boots crunching over snow. It’s colder up here. The wind’s picked up. I stand back after he sets a few targets, watch him nestle the wooden butt of the rifle into his shoulder, pull back the safety, and squeeze the trigger. Like he’s been doing it his whole life. Which he probably has.
He’s a good shot.
And I’m still a little scared.
“Your turn, Savannah.” He turns, holding the rifle toward me with that half smile. I’m pretty sure I look like I’m about to pass out. Because I am.
“I’ve never held a gun in my life.”
Where Hope Begins Page 8
