Where Hope Begins

by Catherine West

  Brock drums his fingers on the table, thoughtful. “Remember when we talked about prioritizing, figuring out what you want? Putting the rest aside?”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe, and I could be wrong, but maybe you might want to set this aside now. It seems to have served its original purpose. Don’t you think?”

  “I guess. It’s just . . .” It’s been a part of me so long, a refuge of sorts, that it’s hard to let go.

  “Nothing says you have to quit writing if you don’t want to. But start fresh. This isn’t you, Savannah.”

  “What makes you think you know me so well?” I try to sound annoyed. But he’s right. The angry, bitter, and sometimes spiteful woman I turned into after Kevin’s desertion doesn’t suit my current demeanor or my present-day surroundings.

  “I’m not sure.” He nails me with that half grin again and it’s impossible to look away. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. But somehow I feel I do. Know you.”

  I try not to exhale too loudly. He’s getting awfully close to giving Clarice a run for her money with her mind-reading abilities. Because I feel the same about him and I’m pretty sure he knows it.

  “Well. You have a point.” I smile, feeling more hopeful than I have in weeks. “Maybe it is time to let it go. I think I’m ready to move on.”

  “Good.” The way his eyes search my face sets my heart racing again.

  Food. We need food. And I need to get out from under the heat of that stare. “Um. I have leftover pasta. We should eat.”

  “Shall I open more wine?” He follows me into the kitchen.

  I turn, back up against the granite counter, and shake my head. “I think I’ll stick to water.”

  Brock nods and raises the glass of water he’s holding. “Probably wise.” He takes a few sips, his eyes fixed on me. A light shadow of stubble outlines his jaw and I wonder what he’d do if I ran my finger over it.

  The insane thought almost chases me from the room.

  I must be drunk.

  Except I don’t think I am.

  Which means I’m actually attracted to him. Like I didn’t know that already.

  But seriously contemplating doing something about it? That thought terrifies me.

  “So.” Brock puts his glass down next to mine. “Do you have any other secrets you’d like to share with me, Savannah?”

  Oh boy. I hoist myself upward and sit on the counter, swinging my feet like I used to as a kid. My mother would not approve. Of any of this. “Not right now.”

  “Pity.” He plants his palms on the counter on either side of me. For a long, mesmerizing moment, he just stands there and stares. “I think there must be at least ten different colors in your eyes. They’re kind of fascinating.”

  “My eyes are fascinating?” I tap him on the chest, laughter building. “That’s the best line you can come up with, Mr. New York Times bestseller man?” Okay, I’m flirting now. Shamelessly.

  “All right. Give me a minute.” Brock smiles and tips his head. His thick hair is mussed, a wave curling the wrong way.

  My hand moves of its own accord and brushes it back into place. The moment it’s done, I inhale and close my eyes against the truth of it. Because I know I’ve just crossed the line.

  “Savannah.” The way he breathes my name confirms it. I don’t dare think about what might come next. Not until he moves forward, slides his arms around me, and holds my gaze, seeking some kind of affirmation. He shakes his head, his lips mere inches from mine. “You don’t want this.”

  “Yes, I do.” My husky whisper echoes around the kitchen and startles me. I let my fingers finally touch his face. “You have no idea how much.”

  “You are very wrong about that, darlin’.” He angles his head slightly and presses his lips to mine in one exquisite moment that is both beautiful and unbearable. A low moan gets stuck in his throat as he pulls me close until I’m crushed against him, his hands warm on my back, then tangling through my hair while his kiss becomes more demanding.

  My arms lock around his neck and he lifts me in one easy motion, still searching, seeking, and finding my answer in the way I’m responding to him. It’s only once we’re on the couch and he’s trailing hot kisses down my neck and reaching for the first button on my shirt that I realize exactly what we’re doing and where this is headed.

  And just how far I have fallen in less than five minutes.

  “I can’t. Brock . . . stop.” I push him off me and struggle to sit up. My breath hitches in my throat and my pulse is pounding like I’ve just run ten miles. “Oh, Lord, help me.” I bury my head in my hands and loud, aching sobs wrangle their way from my chest.

  Because I know now.

  It happens that fast.

  Attraction. Desire. Longing.

  It’s that instantaneous.

  That dangerous.

  And that easy to act on.

  “Savannah.” Brock sits beside me and puts an arm around my shaking shoulders. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. That was way out of line.”

  “Yes. No. I wanted . . . Oh, Brock. I wanted it to happen.” I did. I absolutely did.

  I flash him a look and the sadness on his face sears me. I think I’m hysterical, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just sits there, lets me burrow into his wool sweater and weep. For everything I’ve lost, everything I almost gave away, and maybe everything I still want but don’t really believe I’ll get.

  By the time he pulls on his coat, it’s been dark a long time.

  It feels like we’ve talked for days, yet it’s only been a few hours. I’ve told him everything about Kevin. His betrayal. My utter devastation and continued confusion. I’ve confessed my guilt over Shelby’s death, shared my feelings of inadequacy—everything. Things I didn’t even realize I was still holding on to. And somehow he seems to understand.

  Like that first moment we met, when he looked at me as if he already knew my deepest secrets.

  I stand with him at the front door, our fingers laced together. “Why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?”

  He blinks, gives a beleaguered shrug and a sad smile that threatens to do more damage to my already broken heart. “Maybe you have. You just didn’t know my name.” His warm hands cradle my face while a million regrets move through his eyes. “Another place, another time, things would be different.”

  “I think so.” Tears wet my lashes and cheeks and he wipes them away with the base of his thumbs. “But right now I’m not so sure I’ll ever learn to love again.”

  “Don’t say that.” He tips my chin and studies me for an achingly long moment. “You will, Savannah. I know it.”

  “Are we . . . What do we do now?” I don’t even know how to say it. “Can we still see each other?”

  Brock’s laughter warms me, makes me believe we’ll actually get through this moment. “Shoot, darlin’, you’re not getting rid of me that easy. Besides, I need all the friends I can get.”

  “That sounds familiar.” I step back and let him go with a sigh that says more than it should. “And you still haven’t told me your story. Not all of it.”

  “No, I haven’t.” Brock pulls on his cap and yanks up the zipper on his coat. “You’re not ready for it. Not yet.”

  I have no idea what that means and I can’t ask him because he’s already heading down the steps and jogging into the dark night. Away from me.

  A sob rises in my throat as I shut the front door and lean against it. And then my cellphone starts singing, “All You Need Is Love.”

  Kevin.

  I have no idea why he’s calling me again. And at this hour.

  And I refuse to find out.

  CHAPTER 14

  “If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

  —OSCAR WILDE

  Brock stared at that one particular quote, one of the hundreds of quotes he’d amassed over the years, handwritten in his leather-bound journal, for quite some time before he finally fell asleep after re
turning from Savannah’s.

  He didn’t know what time he’d pushed out of bed after hours of tossing and turning, solid slumber proving impossible. He sat in the laundry room awhile, watching the puppies. Willow gave him the once-over as if to say, “What’s your problem now?” He stroked her soft head and waited for his heart to quit pounding so hard, but it hadn’t yet. And every time he thought about the moment he’d taken Savannah Barrington into his arms, it thumped harder.

  He wasn’t sure there’d ever been a time in his life when he’d reacted on pure physical instinct like that. The worst of it was, he didn’t regret it. The only thing he did regret was the look on Savannah’s face when she realized what she’d done. What they’d almost done.

  Would he have?

  He shook off the thought. He wouldn’t let his mind go there. The answer, the truth, was too damning.

  Eventually he left the warm laundry room for the kitchen and made some attempts at fixing breakfast. Now he stood at the kitchen counter and chopped and diced until his eyes began to water. The sun crested over the trees some time ago and he was on his third cup of coffee.

  “Good morning, dear.” Clarice shuffled into the kitchen promptly at seven, already dressed and wearing those abominable pink slippers Maysie insisted on purchasing for her on her last birthday.

  “Coffee’s hot. I’m making pancakes and omelets.” Brock poured milk into the pancake mix and smashed an egg open. Yellow yolk slid into the white batter and he began to beat it mercilessly with a wooden spoon.

  “Lovely.” His aunt fixed herself a cup and sidled up beside him as he reached for the chopping board. She gave a little sniff. “Brock?”

  “What?”

  “Does Maysie like onions in her pancakes?”

  Brock’s hand stilled as he watched a few chopped onions slide into the bowl. Crap. “No, I don’t reckon she does.” He shook his head and marched across the kitchen to the garbage can.

  “Mmm.” Clarice sat and watched him as he moved around, cleaning up the mess he’d made, and started over. “You were out late last night.”

  “Was I?”

  “After midnight. I looked at my clock when the hall light went out.”

  “Was Maysie okay?” A pinch of guilt pricked him. He probably should have called.

  “She was fine. She likes Savannah. I assume that’s where you were.”

  Brock reached for an apple. Apples were safe. And highly choppable.

  Clarice made a little singsong noise in her throat. “I imagine, given the way you’re decimating that unfortunate piece of fruit, you’re thinking the same thing I am.”

  “Which would be?” He kept his back to her. His chest tightened and he knew what he was in for. Knew he deserved it too, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

  “This can’t happen.”

  “Why?” He spun around and glared, ignoring her astonishment. “Why can’t it? What is so wrong with me wanting a little happiness? Tell me that, Aunt Clarice. Then tell me how I’m supposed to do this—deal with this—because I’m all out of answers here!”

  “You might want to keep your voice down.” Clarice’s quiet but pointed words singed him.

  Brock exhaled, picked up his mug, and joined her at the table. He sat for a long time with his head in his hands. Neither of them spoke. Birds sang their morning song like any other day. The clock in the hall chimed on the half hour. Martin squawked his annoyance at not having breakfast.

  Everything happened in sequence the way it always did every morning. But today his heart was in turmoil. Entirely his own doing; he let himself get sucked in, let his fascination with the beautiful woman next door go too far, but he didn’t know how to rectify the problem. Couldn’t write his way out of this one.

  “Brock.” The way his aunt said his name made him snap his head up. He knew what she was about to ask, but let her anyway. “Did you . . . sleep with her?”

  “No.” He breathed out a curse and closed his eyes. “But God help me, I wanted to.”

  “God will help you,” she replied in that soft-spoken tone he loved so well. “I suspect he’s the only one who can at this point.” Her poignant sigh simmered and burned a hole through his conscience. “Is Savannah all right?”

  Brock drummed his fingers on the table and met her inquiring eyes. “She’s confused. Which makes two of us. On top of it, her lawyer told her that her husband hasn’t signed the divorce papers. That he might want to reconcile.”

  “Yes.” Clarice took off her spectacles and wiped them with a paper napkin. “Yes, I suspect he does.”

  This was getting tiresome.

  Brock gave a low growl of frustration. “Don’t you ever get tired of looking in that crystal ball of yours, Aunt Clarice?”

  She stared straight at him and raised both eyebrows, her mouth pinched. “My dear boy, I have no crystal ball. I simply pay attention to what I see and hear and feel. It might serve you well to do the same.”

  “This isn’t fair.” His eyes burned, but he didn’t care. There was too much emotion in him. It had been begging to be let out for so long, and now he couldn’t stop it. “None of this is fair. Not to me. Not to Maysie. Not to—”

  “Since when do you get to make the rules, Brock Chandler? And since when is life fair? It isn’t, and you of all people know that. But we must accept the lot we are given, no matter how much it hurts.”

  “What if I don’t want to accept it?” He leaned forward, paid no attention to the tears in her eyes, and barreled on. “What if there’s another way? What if I . . .” He flinched and put a hand to his head. After a year, he figured he’d be used to the white-hot pain, but it still took him by surprise and sent him sailing. “There has to be another way.”

  “No. There does not have to be.” Clarice shook her head. “I pray there is, but . . . how many doctors do you have to see before you’ll accept the truth?”

  “I’ll see them all until I find one who tells me something different.” He sank against the back of his chair and raked his fingers through his hair. “I have an appointment in New York next week. After New Year’s. A specialist at Sloan Kettering. He’s new.”

  “I see. And you’ll leave Maysie with me, I gather.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Have you told Savannah?”

  “No.” Brock pushed back, the legs of his chair scraping against tile. “I think she has enough to deal with, don’t you?” He steadied his breathing, returned to the counter, and began to fix a fresh batter. Maysie would be up soon and she’d be hungry. Martin squawked again. “Your bird wants his breakfast.”

  Clarice placed her empty mug in the sink, came to stand beside him, and put a hand on his arm. “Brock. You mean the world to me, and I’d do anything to take your pain away. But I don’t think we can. Go to New York if you must. But you won’t be able to hide the truth much longer. And you shouldn’t want to.”

  “I know.” He could barely speak. Clarice nodded.

  “Please be careful, Brock, for both your sakes. Remember you’re not the only one in this world with feelings. Attraction is a heady thing. And sometimes it can be dangerous. Don’t fall in love with her.”

  Brock blew air through his mouth and winced as more white fire shot across his forehead.

  Too late, Aunt Clarice. Too late.

  Christmas Day gaiety reverberates through the entire house and bounces off the walls. Peg’s four kids and Maysie are charging around. I’d shoo them outside but the temperature has dropped and Maysie’s still got a bit of a cough. Graham, Peg’s seven-year-old, screeches like a banshee as he runs through the kitchen, a blur of denim and blond hair. I love my sister, but her parenting skills leave much to be desired.

  From high school on, Peg spent a lot of years on the riding circuit, a hopeful Olympian equestrian at one point. She married later in life, and she and Hugh turned having babies into a recreational activity. I think they’re done now. I hope they’re done.

  Dad and Adam
are watching football, Zoe’s around somewhere, on her phone with Tim, and Peg, Mom, and I are scrambling to get dinner on the table. Much to my surprise, Clarice is having a rather lively discussion about racehorses with Peg’s husband. Paul and his family should be here any moment. And Brock is hanging out with us in the kitchen.

  “Is it cooking? Shouldn’t it be darker than that?” I peer into the oven. Brock puts a hand on my shoulder and looks in. I try not to move. The longer I stand there staring at the turkey, his touch searing through my cashmere sweater, the easier it’ll be to pretend like this is okay. We’ve been sidestepping each other since they arrived two hours ago. Every time I look at him, all I can think about is . . . what I’m not supposed to think about.

  I let the man kiss me.

  I kissed him back.

  And . . . if I must be honest, I enjoyed it.

  The memory has kept me up nights, guilt gaining the upper hand over the self-righteous side of me that says I have every right to act on my feelings. Kevin did. Why shouldn’t I? But it’s not that simple. It will never be that simple. Not for me.

  The kids make another noisy pass through and I jump.

  Brock squeezes my shoulder. “I don’t suppose we can muzzle them?”

  “I wish.” His expression makes me smile, so I turn back to the bird. “What do you think?”

  “Where’s the bourbon?” He steps back and Peg hands him the bottle. Her eyes are positively gleeful as she sends me a knowing look.

  “Oh, I do like you, Mr. Chandler. Savannah, can you keep him?”

  My mother looks up from where she’s putting together the biggest salad I’ve ever seen. Salads are her forte. “Land sakes, Peg. He’s not a stray animal!” She laughs. Like this is actually funny. Nothing about this strange and sad situation is funny. I glare at both of them and hope and pray they get the message and keep their mouths closed.

  “I’d give it another hour.” Brock snaps the oven shut and swishes what’s left in the bottle, looks at me with a wicked grin, and slugs it back.