“First time for everything, darlin’.”
Oh good gracious.
I have no choice apparently. He swivels me around to face the bench and guides my hands into the proper position on the rifle. His arms are around me and I breathe in the slight woodsy scent of his cologne. Being in another man’s arms, or close enough, is freaking me out, but I’m holding a gun, which freaks me out even more.
“Um, Brock . . .”
“Breathe, Savannah. Focus on the target and picture . . . oh, I don’t know . . . your ex’s face maybe?” His breath is warm in my ear and I giggle. Like a teenage girl.
That makes me angry again and I do picture Kevin’s face, but he’s looking at me in such sheer surprise that I can’t imagine doing him any harm. And that makes me mad too, so I single out a medium-size can, pull back, and fire.
The can goes flying and I let out a squeal.
“Easy, Rambo.” Brock’s delicious laughter winds around me as he holds me still. “Set the safety if you’re planning on doing the two-step.”
Eventually Brock says it’s too cold and I’m enjoying the sport a tad too much. He turns the truck back down the hill and sends me a sidelong glance. “Feel like getting a coffee? There’s a new shop in town and they make the best melt-in-your-mouth chocolate chip cookies. I’ve been dreaming about them all morning.”
“Sure. I guess.” I don’t know if he’s asking because he wants to take me out or if he really just wants a cookie. I’m pretty sure it’s the cookie. Because if it’s not . . . then I’m going out for coffee with Brock Chandler. A single, very attractive man. And I haven’t been out for coffee with a man since before I was married. And I’m still married. Kevin is technically not my ex. Not yet.
Now I’m freaked out all over again.
Brock insists on paying and leads us to a back booth in the cozy coffee shop where hipster couples and ladies’ book clubs hang out. I see people looking, nodding his way. They know who he is and I am so in trouble. I envision my picture splashed across the pages of People magazine and Kevin calling, demanding to know what’s going on. Oh, wait . . . I sigh and remember that it doesn’t matter what I do now. My husband is living with another woman.
But I still don’t want to be in People.
“Have a cookie.” He’s bought six and shoves the brown paper bag in my direction.
A groan slips from me. “I’m still full from Thanksgiving. On a major diet now.” But my hand sneaks inside the bag anyway. They’re warm. And the sweet, sugary smell is just about to do me in.
“You look fine to me.” Brock stirs three sugars into black coffee. I open a packet of sweetener. Just one. “You’re not one of those fitness freaks, are you?”
“Hardly. I should probably exercise more.” I cursed a blue streak at Jillian Michaels this morning after all the muscles in my left thigh ganged up on me, pulled into a tight knot, and refused to stop throbbing for a good hour. That probably doesn’t count as exercise. “You get to my age and the mirrors start to seem distorted.”
He rolls his eyes and laughs at me. “Please. You’re what, thirty-five?”
I think I love this man. “Forty. But thank you.”
“Well, I’m forty-two and I couldn’t give a rat’s tail what the scale says. You only get one life, right? May as well enjoy it.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re a guy.” One who does not appear to have an extra pound anywhere on him. I point at the bag of cookies. “Get those away from me, you devil.”
He grins, takes another delectable cookie, and stares at me while he chomps. His cobalt gaze is mesmerizing. A bit of melted chocolate sticks to the corner of his mouth. I’m thinking about . . . Oh no. No, I’m not. Am. Not. I give myself a mental shake and study my coffee instead.
“Have you visited the bookstore down the street yet?” Brock asks.
I nod, managing to look at him again. “A few times. It’s fantastic. The place could use a face-lift, though. The floorboards are a bit scary, huh? But he’s got some great books.” I haven’t bought any yet. I keep hoping one day I’ll stumble across our same copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and replace the one we lost. But as the years pass, I wonder if it’s better that I don’t. Some things aren’t replaceable.
“It’s for sale.”
“What, the store?” I’m not surprised. The owner looked old and ready to retire.
Brock shrugs. “I hope he finds the right buyer. I’d hate to see it close.” He fixes his gaze on me and smiles. “So, Savannah Barrington. Since you seem to have infiltrated my life without invitation, have both my aunt and daughter absolutely besotted with you within weeks, I figure I have the right to ask. What’s your story?”
CHAPTER 10
“The grieved are many, I am told—”
—EMILY DICKINSON (“I MEASURE EVERY GRIEF I MEET”)
Living dangerously, bucko.
Brock took a swig of coffee and watched surprise scoot across Savannah’s face. She hadn’t expected an interrogation, no doubt. He hadn’t figured on asking the question either, but it kind of just popped out. Well, he’d never been one to beat around the bush. Wasn’t about to start now.
She pushed an ash-blond curl behind her ear and stared back at him through eyes he hadn’t quite figured out the color of yet. Hazel was too cliché. And over the last few weeks, Brock had come to the conclusion that there was nothing remotely cliché about Savannah Barrington.
“Direct, aren’t you?” She faced him head-on, a slight hint of anger flashing his way, accentuating the gold flecks in her widened eyes.
He shrugged. “Everybody has a story. I’d like to know yours.”
Her contemplative smile made him sad. It wasn’t anything Brock could put his finger on, but ever since that first day on the porch, when she’d seen Maysie and dropped that coffee mug, he sensed a heaviness around her, like she was carrying some burden she never intended to and didn’t know how to put down.
“My story is rather depressing, Brock. Nothing you’d want to use in one of your books, that’s for sure.” She took a sip from her mug, her eyes a million miles away. “I met my husband when I was seventeen. He was friends with my brother, a couple of years older than me. We started dating eventually. I got pregnant a few years later, in my sophomore year of college. So we got married. I chose to stay home and raise our kids. And life was pretty good. Until he decided it wasn’t. Now we’re getting a divorce. Hardly the happy ending I dreamed about when I was a girl.”
The busy room that buzzed with energy a moment ago seemed to still. Brock watched her fumble with the oversize mug, her hand trembling. “That’s the abridged version, I assume?”
She sat back and folded her arms. “I figured you knew the rest.” Her eyes narrowed in question.
Brock shook his head. “Clarice doesn’t tend to gossip. And I don’t tend to ask. All I know is that you’re planning on holing up here awhile because you’re going through some tough times. And for some reason you find it difficult to handle a cup of coffee.”
Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink and Brock’s heart lurched a little. She was really quite stunning when she smiled. Once again, he cursed God’s timing.
“When I saw Maysie that day . . . it was a shock.” She fiddled with the rings on her left hand. The raw anguish in her eyes almost made him stop her from saying any more. But curiosity kept him quiet. “Our first child, Shelby . . . died. Maysie bears a striking resemblance to her.” She took a deep breath and looked away a moment. When she faced him again, her eyes were wet. “She was ten. Out riding her bike. I went inside to answer the phone, came straight back out, but . . . the car had already struck her.”
“Oh, Savannah. I’m so sorry.” Brock drew in a stunned, shaky breath. He knew that kind of pain. That searing forest-fire heat that eventually fizzles to dormant embers but remains a threat, a slow burn, never fully extinguished and easily flammable.
It was the same for him. Years later. Whenever anyone asked and he chose
to tell his story, which he rarely did, the flames sparked and flared and burned twice as bad.
“She was in the ICU for a week.” Savannah shrugged and wiped her cheeks. “We thought . . . well, there were moments when it looked like she was going to make it. She didn’t.”
He nodded. There were no words that would make the slightest bit of difference.
“That was ten years ago.” Her almost apologetic smile didn’t go far. “I don’t suppose it’ll ever get easier to talk about. We tried to go on after that. I was busy with Adam and Zoe, Kevin threw himself into work, but I think the grief was just too much, you know? Eventually we turned into strangers living in the same house. I blamed myself for Shelby’s death. Kevin kept trying to talk around it, saying it wasn’t my fault, but I didn’t want to hear that. So I shut him out. I . . .” Her eyes flickered again, then she blinked and drew in a sharp, beleaguered breath. “Why am I telling you all this?”
“Because I asked.” Brock watched a certain awareness settle over her features. “You thought it was easier not to talk about it, right? Then pretty soon you can’t talk about anything at all.”
“Walking on eggshells.” A shadow of a smile lifted her lips. “That’s what it’s been like the past few years. Constantly wondering what’s going to set things off, where the landmines are buried and how to step around them. I wasn’t the easiest person in the world to live with. I guess Kevin could only put up with it so long, so he stopped trying.”
“Did he . . .” Brock cleared his throat. This was none of his business. But he’d already pegged Kevin Barrington for a first-class idiot. And the look on Savannah’s face confirmed his suspicions.
“He did.” She sniffed and waved a hand, a brave smile lifting her cheeks. “Of course he was the last man on earth I thought would ever cheat. I suppose every wife feels that way. When I began to suspect something was going on, he stepped up the game. Started coming back to church. Taking me out for dinners.” She balled up a paper napkin and let it fall from her fist. “But I knew something wasn’t right. When I began to question him, he denied it. What’s that saying . . . those who shout the loudest have the most to hide?”
“Something like that.” Brock smiled and shoved down a smart remark. It wouldn’t help to agree with her. “How are your kids doing with everything? My parents divorced when Mitch and I were still in elementary school. I know how hard it can be.”
“Oh.” She pulled a Kleenex from her coat pocket and blew her nose. “Adam’s doing okay, I think. He’s busy with school and sports. I think he feels torn, though. He doesn’t want to hate his father, but he can’t condone what he’s done either. Zoe has been vehemently opposed to having anything to do with Kevin since she found out. Kevin just told me last night that she’s finally agreed to see him. They’re going to talk.”
Brock nodded. She wore a neutral expression he couldn’t decipher. “And you’re okay with that?”
“He’s still their father. I don’t want this to destroy their relationship. I guess I just never planned on being in this position. And, to be honest, I’m still furious with him.”
“So that’s why you were in the greenhouse doing a little creative redecorating?”
She raised her eyes to the ceiling and laughed. “Guilty. I mean, he just called out of the blue, like everything was normal between us, and wanted to talk about stupid stuff. Like your books.”
“Really?” Brock cleared his throat and tried to look put out. “My books have been called a lot of things, but—”
“No, no, no.” She waved a hand, looking a little mortified. “I didn’t mean . . . I meant . . . Shoot.” Her face flushed again and Brock almost sucked in a breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this attracted to anyone. And suddenly the air seemed a little dangerous.
He tried not to enjoy her expression of horror, but it was too difficult. “Savannah. I’m teasing.”
“Oh. Okay.” Savannah smiled her relief. “Well. That’s my sob story.” She fixed him with those golden-flecked eyes. “So what’s yours?”
Okay, that was stupid. But I can’t take it back now. And it’s only fair to ask, right? I pretty much opened a vein in front of him.
The mix of surprise and chagrin Brock wears says I probably won’t get to hear it.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Wow. I really am a pushover. It’s a good thing I never went into journalism.
Brock smiles, sits back, and gives a slow nod. “Maybe I will someday.”
“But you don’t want to.” I try not to sound hurt or overly curious. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t. I’ve just spilled my guts to you and . . .” His quiet laughter stops my rambling and I put a hand over my mouth. “You know what, never mind. I’m really not this annoying.”
“I don’t think you’re annoying at all.” Brock’s eyes sparkle under the colorful glass light that hangs above our table. “It’s refreshing to have a conversation with someone over six and under eighty.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to pry.” I’m feeling tongue-tied now and so ready to leave. But he stays in his chair, looking quite comfortable.
“My wife died when Maysie was a baby. Let’s just say the past few years haven’t exactly been a Sunday barbecue. When Uncle Joe passed, I came up here to visit Clarice, and she invited us to live with her. I’ve always loved it here, and Atlanta was getting a little too loud for my liking. That was, oh, about two years ago now.”
“Clarice is a wise woman.” I fiddle with the small silver cross around my neck. “You ever notice how she . . . I don’t know . . . seems to know things without asking?”
Brock chuckles and leans forward a little. “Between you and me, I think she’s a bit of a clairvoyant. Not in the secular sense, you understand. But I do think sometimes she hears God louder than the rest of us.”
“Must be nice.” My smile surprises me. “I feel like he has to hit me over the head to get my attention most of the time.”
“Yeah, I get that.” His face takes on a serious expression I wonder about. “I don’t know what I would have done without her these past few years. She’s a huge help with Maysie. She has more energy at her age than I do most days.”
I have to agree with that. “I don’t know about her plans for the greenhouse, though. We’ve been at it for weeks now and I’m still not convinced the place is salvageable.”
“It looks a sight better than when you first started.”
“True. But . . . do you really think it’ll ever be beautiful again? It’s still seems so . . . desolate.”
He ponders that, tips his head, and gives a smile. “You have a nice way with words. The day you first came to tea, you mentioned writing. I’m curious. What do you write?”
Oh no. No way can I possibly go there. I shake off the question. “Nothing, really. It’s just a bit of a hobby.”
“Poetry? Short stories? Romance? Haiku?” He’s grinning, and I’m tempted to throw something at him.
“It’s a blog. Okay? Nothing exciting.”
He leans back with a satisfied smile. “I’d like to read it.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” I don’t want anybody reading it, actually. I don’t like the direction it’s taken, the hostility, the anger, and the outrage coming from my followers as they share their own tales of woe. Many of my original readers have moved on. I’ve received more than one email expressing concern over what’s happening. It no longer feels like the safe community it was. And I’m no longer okay with that.
“Hmm.” He gives me that skewed look I have no idea how to interpret. “Well. Back to the greenhouse, then. Maybe you’re looking at it from the wrong angle.”
“How so?” Relief floods me. I’d much rather talk about the greenhouse.
Brock tips his head and gives a slight smile. “You can’t change everything overnight, Savannah. Figure out what you want. What’s worth saving, what can be saved, and what can’t. Categorize. When I’m working on a new book, that’s what I do. I have thre
e sections. Crap ideas. Workable ideas. And really good who-in-the-world-would-ever-believe-that ideas.”
“How do you decide which ones to use?”
“I don’t. They usually tell me. But I’ll let you in on a little secret . . .” His wink makes my heart stop. “My last three bestsellers? Crap ideas.”
“No.” I can’t help laughing, but I don’t think he’s joking. He’s collecting our trash and I guess it’s time to go. “What are you working on now?” I push back my chair and he’s already behind me, pulling it out and helping me with my coat.
Brock leans in a little, his hands on my shoulders. “My last book.”
Something in the way he says it, the sadness in his voice, the finality of those three words, makes me shiver.
Two weeks after Thanksgiving I realize I should probably confirm my plans for Christmas. Go home. But the thought makes me feel a little ill. My mother has phoned several times insisting we all go down to them in Florida or they come back to Boston and she’ll have everyone over this year. My mother doesn’t cook. I imagine a gourmet meal being ordered from one of her expensive catering companies. The kids would hate that. So I find the courage to call and ask Adam and Zoe what they want to do this year. And whether they want to see their father. They both ask to come up here to the Berkshires. And they don’t really want to see Kevin.
My brother calls midafternoon, so I seek his advice. Because I’m at a total loss here and I hate the feeling.
“Zoe says she wants a white Christmas. Wants to ‘commune with nature.’ What do I tell Kevin?”
“I suppose . . . maybe you compromise. Say the kids will be there with you for Christmas, but tell Kevin he’s welcome to invite them to stay with him for New Year’s. Do you think they’d do that?”
“I don’t know.” I stand at the long picture window and watch snow swirl around the trees. The season is turning into a skier’s dream. “Zoe finally agreed to talk to Kevin, but I know she’s still angry. Adam would probably go. It’s just so . . .” An awful knot twists in my stomach. I can’t imagine us split into two families. It doesn’t feel right. It’s not right.
Where Hope Begins Page 9
