Where Hope Begins

by Catherine West

  “You did not just do that.” I grab the bottle from him and shake my head. Good thing there’s none left because I’m tempted to do the same. “I thought southerners were supposed to be all refined and genteel like. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me, Mother?”

  “Well, now, that depends, sug-ah.” She folds a dishtowel and slips an arm through Brock’s. “There are those refined southern gentlemen who have much to offer, to be sure, but then there are the bad boys . . . and I suspect you’re a little bit of both, aren’t you, Mr. Chandler?”

  “I reckon so, ma’am.” And he actually winks at her.

  “Yeah, he’s a regular Rhett Butler.” I roll my eyes and pitch the empty bottle into the trash. I knew they’d get along the minute my mother laid eyes on him. She knew who he was at once, of course. She’s also a fan. Unfortunately, she took one look at me and in less than ten minutes had pieced together the entire scenario without me saying a word. I am so not looking forward to the moment she hustles me off alone.

  “Tim says hi.” Zoe wanders into the kitchen and resumes work on the vegetable platter. Maysie skips in and throws her arms around her daddy’s legs.

  “I just love Christmas!” she declares with all the enthusiasm a child her age should have this time of year.

  “Me too.” Zoe’s smile warms my heart. I can’t remember when I’ve last seen her so happy. She remembers Shelby, of course, and stared slack-jawed when I introduced Maysie to her earlier the afternoon she and Adam arrived. But I simply shrugged and she recovered, and I think she’s found a new best friend for life.

  “Can I stay in here with you? Those boys are loud!” Maysie sticks her fingers in her ears.

  Zoe laughs, pushes her dark curls over her shoulder, and nods. “Sure. Sit up here beside me and you can help me make this look pretty.”

  Brock plops Maysie on a stool next to Zoe, and they’re soon busy setting out tomatoes and cucumbers, carrots and red and green peppers, and singing along to “Jingle Bells.” Brock pokes his finger in the dip to taste it before putting it in the middle of the platter.

  “Ew.” Zoe rolls her eyes but smiles anyway. Brock Chandler has that effect on women. She’s watching me too carefully, though, and I do my best to avoid eye contact with him. I’m not sure if it’s just me or if everyone has picked up on the energy that seems to sizzle between us. If I could get rid of it, I would, but for now I’ve decided the best course of action is to pretend it’s not there.

  “Want to check the potatoes, Brock?” Oops. I looked at him. Big mistake.

  “Sure thing.” He’s staring back at me, and for a moment I can’t remember what I asked. His grin says he can’t either. “Um . . . what was that?”

  “Check. Potatoes.” I think.

  “Now?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind.” I want to get lost in those eyes. Seriously lost.

  “You’re kind of in the way, darlin’.” I’m standing in front of the stove. He clears his throat and moves me aside.

  “Mercy, it’s warm in here!” Peg crows.

  Sometimes I really do not like my sister.

  Time to set the table. I reach for the plates and do another mental head count. My mother is a big believer in owning more china and silverware than she will ever use, so we’re good to go.

  “Can I help, Miss Savannah?” Maysie is done with the vegetables and jumps off her stool, sticks the landing, and throws her arms up like the professional gymnast she’s recently decided she wants to be.

  “Sure.” There’s a commotion in the living room and I go to see what’s happening. Adam and the kids are at the long window, their noses pressed to the glass. “Is it Paul?”

  “Sug-ah.” Mom comes up beside me, waves her cell phone in my face. “Paul’s flight was delayed. He says he’s sorry, but there’s a snowstorm and they won’t get in until tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” I squint and try to make out the shadowy car coming up the drive. “Then who—“

  “Ma.” Adam walks toward me, confusion stamped across his face. He scratches his chin and gives his lanky shoulders a shrug. “I don’t know what he’s doing here, but that’s Dad.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Things do not change; we change.”

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  Always expect the unexpected.

  Except I never do.

  Oh, this is so not happening.

  “Seriously?” I press my face against the cold glass and stare through the snow. My chest tightens and I think I might throw up. What is he doing here? “Did you or Zoe ask him to come?”

  “Not me.” Adam shrugs again and folds his arms.

  “Did you just say Dad’s here?” Zoe is aghast. Clearly she didn’t invite him. My parents would not have extended an invitation. Peg definitely wouldn’t have. I’m floundering. I don’t know what to say or who to look at or what to do next. I walk slowly toward the front door. My mother wisely ushers Peg back into the kitchen while Brock saunters past us to the living room with Maysie trailing him.

  “The plot thickens . . . ,” he says in a low voice that is way too sexy, amusement simmering under raised brows. If he were close enough to pummel, I would.

  “Do you want me to talk to him, tell him to leave?” Zoe’s offer is kind, but the tremor in her voice begs me to decline.

  “No, of course not. You guys just . . . go wait in the living room. Let me talk to him first, okay?” Talk, scream, punch his lights out. Not sure what I’ll do, really.

  The kids skulk off and I stand at the front door, watching my husband make his way up the slippery walk. That final scene in Jerry Maguire flips through my mind. My favorite movie of all time. We’ve both seen it probably ten times.

  If Kevin dares to walk into this house and announce that he’s looking for his wife, I really will hit him. Hard.

  I take a deep breath and open the door just as he lands on the front step. He’s holding a large shopping bag, presents poking out the top.

  “Kevin. What a surprise.” My voice is trembling. My entire body is trembling.

  “Yeah.” He exhales, cold air swirling around us. His eyes meet mine, and he’s searching my face for I don’t even know what. Permission, acknowledgment, absolution, and a thousand other things he probably wants from me, none of which I feel capable of giving at this particular moment.

  “Do you have a death wish?” I have to ask. A sane man in his predicament would not dare show his face within firing range of my father.

  “Ellie . . . is my old hunting rifle still in the attic?” Dad yells to prove my point.

  “There’s one in the back of my truck,” Brock drawls.

  Kevin rakes a hand through his hair and almost smiles. “They’re all here, aren’t they?”

  “Yep. Well, not Paul. Their flight was delayed.” My sigh sounds impatient, but I’m not heartless. “You’d better come in. We’re letting all the heat out.”

  He stamps his boots on the rug in the foyer and I shut the door behind him. Snow falls from his hair onto his leather jacket. He’s got jeans on. Weird. Kevin usually prefers cords or smart trousers with a button-down shirt, doesn’t matter where he’s going.

  “Merry Christmas.” He shoots me a tentative smile and I back up.

  Is he kidding me?

  “What are you doing here?” My throat is too tight. I take a deep breath and let it out. Slowly. “You could have called.”

  “I did. Left you a few messages. You’re not returning my calls.”

  Well, that’s true.

  He has called about five times since the afternoon I spoke to him on Beth’s phone. Since the afternoon I let Brock Chandler into this house. And possibly into my heart. But what does my heart know? It has been broken, stomped on, and shattered into a million splintered pieces. By the man now standing in front of me.

  “Look, Savannah. I’m sorry. But I wanted to see the kids. It’s Christmas.” He holds up the bag of presents as if that explains everything. Like he thinks he still has
the right.

  “You can’t stay here.” My voice is frosty but I don’t care.

  “No. I know.” He sighs and places a hand at the back of his neck. “I’ve got a hotel room. I just . . . well, I didn’t want to be alone today.”

  “And why would you be—” I can’t finish the question because Maysie suddenly appears beside me. Kevin takes one look at her and almost stumbles, color draining from his face. I quickly move to place a hand on his back. “Kevin . . . this is Maysie. Brock’s daughter. From next door.”

  His eyes dart my way, then land on her again. “Maysie.”

  “Hi.” She bounces on her toes, smooths down the front of her crisp red velvet dress. Clarice dressed her, no doubt, but the Christmas dress with its white lace collar is perfect.

  She is perfect.

  Emotion pools in his eyes, his jaw working as he tries to recover from the shock. “She looks so much like . . .” He can’t say it, but I know what he’s thinking, feeling. That same visceral, gut-churning reaction I had. The one that reminds us Shelby was once so young, so beautiful, and so full of life. And is no longer with us.

  Kevin crouches a little and stares at Maysie. She glances up at me but she doesn’t seem bothered by his reaction.

  “Hi, Maysie. I’m Kevin.”

  “You’re Zoe and Adam’s daddy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Kevin.” She offers a tiny hand and her manners make me smile. After giving her hand a small shake, Kevin straightens, runs a hand down his face, and looks toward the living room, then back at me. It’s awfully quiet in there.

  “Maysie, come back here.” Brock steps out of the shadows, hovering at a safe distance. I’m keenly aware of his eyes on me, and Kevin’s on him. “Sorry,” Brock apologizes. “She skipped out on me.” He moves forward, placing his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. He looks Kevin up and down, his smile tight. “Hi. Brock Chandler.”

  “Yes. You are.” Kevin actually grins. “I’m a big fan.” They shake hands, and I’m caught in what is possibly the most awkward moment of my life.

  “Well, since you’re here, Kevin, you’d better stay for dinner.” Speaking of manners. I can’t escape them even when I want to push him back out the front door into the pile of snow on the side of the walkway. I send Brock a despairing glance and make good my escape.

  “Zoe, Adam!” I rush past the two men and wave the kids out of the living room. “Your father is here to see you.” The kitchen seems safe at this point. And the last thing I need is for the turkey to burn.

  “Did you know he was coming?” Peg thunks the bottles of salad dressing on the counter, her cheeks flushed with anger and the heat of the kitchen, but mostly, I think, anger. I inspect the bird, turn off the oven, and face her. And finally let out my breath.

  “No. Of course I didn’t.” Does she actually think I would have invited him? Should I have? The thought was so far from my mind the last few days that I almost feel guilty about it. But why would I have bothered to ask Kevin what his plans for Christmas were? “Don’t start anything, Peg. Please.”

  “Well, what’s he doing here? He’s got some nerve, showing up like this. If I—”

  “Peg! I can’t do this right now.” Can’t think about why Kevin is here and not in Boston with Alison. I have most of my family congregated in the next room and need to get dinner on the table. But I feel sick. Totally nauseated. How do I deal with what the rest of today might bring? And how will we get through this meal without World War III breaking out?

  “Peg, leave Savannah alone. Put the salad on the table and get the kids to wash up.” My mother takes command the way only she can. She never shouts but simply speaks with an authoritative tone none of us have ever dared defy. Peg leaves the kitchen in a huff and I stand at the sink, trying to calm down and trying not to cry. “Honey.” Mom places an arm around my shoulders and holds tight.

  “I don’t want him here.” It’s an awful thought, an awful thing to say, but right now it’s the truth. “I can’t believe he’d just show up like this. It’s not acceptable.”

  “Well, he is here and we’ve got to get dinner served, so I suggest you buck up, do your best to be polite and get through the meal, then deal with him.”

  “I can’t even think.” My heart is racing and my brain won’t work properly.

  “Savannah?” Brock’s deep voice sends my heart rate skyrocketing again. This is not helping. Why did I invite him? The minute this day is over I’m going to join a convent. I’m not Catholic, but perhaps they’ll make an exception.

  I wipe my eyes, turn to face him, and shoot my mother a desperate look. She smiles and gives a slight nod. “I’ll get your father in here to carve.”

  Brock waits until my mother is out of earshot. “Are you all right?”

  “Do I look like I’m all right?”

  His brief smile answers that quite nicely. “Should I leave?”

  “No. That would make things worse.” I push my fingers through my hair and meet his worried gaze. “Heck of a plot twist, huh?”

  “Didn’t see it coming.” He gives my shoulder a light squeeze as he moves past me to the wine bottles I set out earlier and begins to open them. “Kind of ruined my appetite, actually.”

  “Ha. Mine too. I’m about to puke.” I force myself to function, get things done so we can eat. Gravy. I need to make gravy. “I can’t kick him out, can I?”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “You could, but it wouldn’t be pretty. You need to talk to him anyway.”

  “Do I?” I do. He knows it. I know it. I just don’t want to accept it. Or do it. “I think he’d rather talk to you. He’s probably got all your books in the back of his car, waiting to be signed.”

  Brock looks up and meets my gaze. Whatever he intended to say, he thinks better of it and resumes the task at hand. “We’ll stay for dinner, but we’ll leave right after. I think that’s best.”

  I can’t answer him because my parents come into the kitchen and I have to pretend Christmas Day hasn’t been entirely destroyed.

  Eventually the evening draws to a close. True to his word, Brock hustled Clarice and Maysie home shortly after dessert. Clarice assisted by admitting to being overcome with exhaustion after such an exciting day, but I caught the worry in her eyes as she kissed me good-bye.

  Peg and Hugh round up their brood and head upstairs. My parents are already up in their room, and Zoe and Adam are in the living room with Kevin. I don’t know if they’re talking. Zoe’s eyes were red earlier and she had to excuse herself from the table twice. Adam barely touched his meal. My son not eating everything on his plate and then asking for seconds is a foreign concept.

  Kevin didn’t eat much either. He did manage to hold a fairly intelligent conversation with Brock, who played along and answered every question with more civility than I would have. Apart from complimenting me on the meal, Kevin and I haven’t spoken. I wish he’d leave. I’ve been hiding out in the kitchen, putting dishes away and avoiding him.

  “Need help?” Kevin appears behind me, reaches for a dish towel.

  Perfect timing.

  “No.” Except there are still about twenty glasses in the dish rack and I’m on the verge of losing my mind. He sidesteps me in silence and reaches for a glass to dry.

  I go to the fridge and attempt to make room for the leftovers.

  “That was a great meal. Thanks for letting me stay.” He is apparently determined to talk. I shut the fridge and face him, fuming.

  “Did I have a choice? What were you thinking, showing up here out of the blue, no warning, nothing! You can’t do this, Kevin. It’s not fair.”

  “It’s not fair? I don’t get to see my kids on Christmas Day and you want to talk about fair?”

  “Don’t.” I point a finger in his direction and think how lucky he is I’m not holding a glass. Or a knife. “Don’t you dare talk to me about what’s fair! You did this. You made this choice for us. Okay? The soon
er you man up and take responsibility for that, the better off we’ll all be.”

  In the background I hear the front door open and close, but I can’t think about that now. All I can think about is how to prevent my hand from making contact with my husband’s face.

  “I didn’t come here to fight.”

  “Then why did you come? Did you honestly think you could waltz in here and pretend the past year never happened? Pretend we’re not getting a divorce because you couldn’t . . .” I don’t bother finishing the sentence. It’s not worth it.

  Kevin puts a couple of glasses away, braces himself against the counter, and sighs before he turns around. He blinks at me through eyes loaded with hurt and remorse. And maybe a bit of leftover anger, which he doesn’t have the right to own.

  “No, I don’t think that. I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen. I never said what I did was right, Savannah. I know I made a choice, a wrong one, a stupid one . . . but I refuse to take all the blame here. Our marriage was in trouble long before that. You made choices too. You chose to shut me out of your life. To shut us all out. And when you hurt so bad you couldn’t take it anymore, you tried to take the easy way out.” He breathes out a curse and slams a palm on the counter.

  “What? What did you just say?” I run trembling hands through my hair, my throat dry. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “You’re actually going to use my suicide attempt to excuse your having an affair?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He gives that toss of his head that hints at his own frustration. “I’m just trying to sort through things. To figure out why our marriage failed. To maybe figure out where our relationship went so wrong that all I could do was walk out.”

  “Well, good luck. You have no idea what that did to me, Kevin. That level of betrayal? Yes, I knew things were bad between us, but I never imagined you’d cheat. And back then, when I wanted to die, I was an emotional mess. You know that. I was so unstable I thought it was my only option. You don’t understand what . . .” I put a hand to my mouth. Our years of counseling clearly taught me nothing. Never start a sentence with an accusation. You’d think I’d have learned that by now.