Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  Sloane waited.

  “I let what Coop said about you derail me,” he told her, never intending to make this a speech, but it needed to be said. “Even when I wanted to stop you from going away, something held me back. I couldn’t understand. So I went to the first AA meeting, mostly to see what it was all about. The whole big deal about a twelve-step club. I needed to see who these people really were.” Micah gave a short laugh. “They were nothing like what my bias was telling me. They were regular people, there to get help. And to help each other.”

  Sloane’s smile was small, knowing.

  “So I went back. And pretty soon it felt like I was learning about myself.”

  Her brows rose.

  “For the first time,” Micah said, finally ready to put it out there, “I realized what I was so blasted angry about.” He tapped his chest. “Me. My weakness, my failure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told you Stephen didn’t drive because of his seizures. He rode to the party with a friend that night. But his friend had to leave early. Stephen said no problem; he’d call me for a ride home. And . . .”

  Sloane winced. “You didn’t go get him.”

  “I’d ended up with an unexpected date, someone I’d been interested in getting to know. I said I’d come if he really needed me, but maybe he could try to find someone else first. Stephen said sure, he could do that.” Micah’s chest tightened. “I think the last thing he said was something like ‘Never accuse me of getting in the way of true love.’”

  Sloane placed her hand over his.

  “Nowhere close to love. And the truth was, I’d been jealous of Stephen for a long time. His popularity, the way friendships came so naturally for him. Even if I didn’t realize it at the time, I was probably envious he was at the beach party that night—maybe it factored in with what happened. I don’t know.” Micah drew a slow breath. “Afterward, there was all this anger. I know now that it was mostly guilt. Of course, I didn’t see it that way at the time. It was easier to blame the drunk. Even after he served his sentence. And joined AA. And wrote letters to all of us.”

  “Amends. I’ll be making a list.” Sloane gave a small sigh. Her fingers brushed Micah’s much the way they had on that first date, when she’d asked him about his guitar. His heart ached. She was so far ahead of him now, doing the hard work he’d been so stubbornly avoiding for far too long. He couldn’t express how much he admired her. He could only pray he hadn’t ruined everything.

  “I think I understand that,” she said finally, her voice soft. She peered at him, blue eyes filled with compassion. “I think it’s a lot like the situation with my stepfather. I had some awful things happen to me when I was very young. Abuse by my mother’s boyfriend.”

  Micah’s gut twisted. Ah, no . . .

  “I think I judged my stepfather because of that,” Sloane continued. “I was looking for a target for that old anger. And he was there. He wasn’t perfect by a long shot, but I think he really cared for my mother—and me, in his own way. Until I did everything I could to poison it.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I was visiting him when Coop saw me at the prison. I went there to tell my stepfather how much I hated him, how I’d do anything I could to keep him in prison forever. Instead he tells me how sorry he is, how bad he feels about neglecting my mother and me. About his irresponsibility the night she died and how long he wished he’d died instead. And how grateful he is now for God’s grace.” Sloane’s lips curved into an incredulous smile. “Behind bars. Way freer than I was. I get what you’re saying, Micah.”

  “Sloane . . .” His heart filled his chest, and before he knew it, Micah was reaching out to cradle her cheek in his palm. “Thank you. You couldn’t have said anything better. Except maybe . . .”

  “Maybe what?”

  “That we can start over,” Micah said, taking the risk. “Or keep going but—”

  “In a better way,” she finished, reading his mind. She’d tilted her head to nestle her face against his palm. “Both of us sort of working on that ‘personal inventory.’ And being there for each other.”

  “Right,” he managed, hope warming him like the Malibu sun. His thumb brushed her cheek. “And we’ll take it slow, like I promised before.”

  “Um . . .” Her nose wrinkled. “Not quite that slow.”

  “What?” He laughed at her expression. “What do you mean?”

  “It took you forever to kiss me.”

  “Oh yeah?” He’d cradled her face in both hands now. Bent down a couple of inches. “You’re complaining?”

  “Not exactly.” Her dark lashes fluttered. “It was worth the wait.”

  “Good to know,” Micah murmured, brushing his lips against her brow. He leaned back to gaze into her eyes again. Eyes so capable of fire and ice. There was something new and far more beautiful there now. “So what exactly are you saying?”

  She smiled. “Only that while ‘take it slow’ is a good idea, and taking the time to get to know each other is great, wonderful . . .” Her lips twitched. “There’s no need to backtrack on the kissing part. Agree?”

  “Oh yeah.” He bent low again. Smiled. “Like, totally.”

  “And . . . for sure,” Sloane added with a throaty laugh. Or tried to add, tried to laugh. Neither was really possible with his lips on hers. He wasn’t going to be accused of making her wait forever again. It was pretty clear she was good with it by the way she wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers playing in his hair as her mouth clung to his.

  “Did you really do that for me?” Sloane leaned back in his arms.

  “Do what?” Micah asked, opening his eyes grudgingly.

  “Go to bat for me with hospital management. Compare me to Mother Teresa.”

  He laughed. “Harper exaggerated that last part.”

  “But . . .” Sloane’s voice was soft, a look almost like wonder in her eyes. “You went there. And you said what Hope hospital really needed was—”

  “More people like you.”

  “I . . .” Her voice cracked a little. “I love that.”

  And I love you.

  Micah almost said it out loud. But it didn’t fit with his take-it-slow promise. He’d wait awhile for that. Not forever but . . .

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” he said. “Because I meant every word. I wasn’t speaking just as the marketing man or only for the hospital.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I meant—” Micah hiked Sloane closer in his arms, then pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth—“I’ve been waiting all my life for someone. Now I’m thinking . . .”

  “Maybe it’s me? Like the hospital campaign?” Sloane teased.

  “No ‘maybe’ about it.” Micah smiled. “I’m sure it’s you.”

  “Oh. That works.” Sloane’s smile spread slowly. “Great job, ad man.”

  Her sweet, lingering kiss was even more proof he’d said exactly the right thing.

  EPILOGUE

  MARCH

  “I’m glad we’re doing this,” Sloane said, glancing at Micah as he drove. Her heart did the crazy-corny thing it always did, even after five months together. She was okay with that. “A sort of closure and celebration all at the same time. Seeing the first Face of Hope billboard . . . on the heels of your last week as their assistant marketing man.”

  “And speaking of heels, you look great tonight.” Micah sneaked a quick but obviously appreciative glance at Sloane’s legs, though not much showed below the long, shimmery skirt Harper had insisted she borrow in honor of the occasion. Actually, it had been Harper who’d come up with the whole idea of dressing up for the billboard viewing, part of her never-ending quest to introduce Sloane to the art of fashion. She’d tried a dozen times to convince Sloane to take the entire contents of the guest closet home; the happy Irish bride wasn’t coming back. But Sloane had grown to enjoy the girl-time feel of shopping at Harper’s place.

  Her friend had been excited to help outfit Sloane for this particular a
dventure, saying Micah hadn’t had nearly enough accolades for pulling off such a great campaign. She’d added that tonight’s viewing should feel like an awards ceremony in itself. They’d paired the fancy skirt with a casual tank top, crystal beaded headband, and sparkly flip-flops—very “casual wow,” Harper concluded, coining a phrase just for the occasion. Micah had been a good sport and gone along with the hype, especially when Harper gave him a bottle of sparkling cider to use for a celebratory toast. Sloane invited her to join them, but she’d quickly begged off, saying something like “seen one billboard, seen ’em all.”

  Her loss, Sloane thought, and definitely my gain. She didn’t mind having Micah all to herself.

  “I still can’t believe how the timing worked out,” he said, signaling for their freeway exit. “My boss taking the transfer to San Diego Hope, then my promotion to director announced the same week as the gala—and the first billboard going live.”

  “Perfect timing,” Sloane agreed, giving Micah her own appreciative glance. He’d acquiesced to Harper’s nudge and pulled on his tuxedo shirt and jacket over a pair of jeans. With leather sneakers, a loosely knotted tie, and his hair mussed from Sloane’s fingers. A smudge of her lipstick at the corner of his mouth completed his awards-night ensemble. She had no doubt her high-fashion and highly romantic friend would approve.

  “Still, even after all those months of planning, it seemed to happen so fast,” Sloane continued. “The final choice for the Face of Hope and then the gala on Saturday.” She smiled, remembering the amazing moment when By Grace took the stage. They invited Micah to join them when performing a number in honor of Stephen. There had been tears in Micah’s parents’ eyes, and Sloane thought her heart would burst.

  “And Jocelyn’s decision to include California Crisis Care in her fund-raising efforts.” Micah nodded. “That’s worth a celebration of its own. We’re going to be able to do some incredible things with our team.”

  Our team.

  Sloane was still pinching herself over that. But after all she’d gone through and how far she’d come, it seemed only natural she’d be drawn to crisis work. Especially to the area where she planned to volunteer almost exclusively: working with exploited women and girls. Her training was nearly complete—evenings after her ER shifts—and Sloane could hardly wait to start volunteering. A merciful bonus, the training had also gone a long way toward healing her own lingering pain from childhood abuse. She couldn’t imagine anything more rewarding than helping these survivors find a true sense of self-worth and, whenever possible, leading them toward new faith.

  Several local churches had offered help, and after the motel fire and related tragedies, there was increased community interest as well, initially prompted by a human interest article cowritten by one Cooper Vance. His “amends,” Micah had joked. Though they still hoped Coop would eventually grow up, finally get it, they almost never saw him anymore. He’d quit the Times and moved to the beach to work on a novel, a venture funded by the modest inheritance from his grandmother. The remainder had been left in trust for the lifetime care of her cats.

  “Zoey’s all set for summer classes?” Micah asked, accelerating up the highway into the Hollywood Hills. “To get her ready for senior year?”

  “She is.”

  Her mother had been clean for six months now and they’d both been living with Zoey’s grandparents, who’d relocated from the Midwest; they seemed stable and loving. Zoey was continuing with counseling, but she hoped to come to LA for a visit before school started in the fall—a whole year since they met in that fateful ruse in the ER parking lot. So much had happened. Oksana was living under an assumed name at a safe house and working with a team who specialized in assisting victims of trafficking. She’d had several reconstructive surgeries on her throat and continued to benefit from speech therapy. She hoped to eventually join a married cousin living in Des Moines, maybe even find that nanny job she’d wanted in the first place.

  Sloane’s stepfather had been set free, though he’d be the first to say it had happened long before he left the prison gates. He’d moved to Washington State and was close to completing training that would allow him to continue his prison ministry—as an ordained chaplain. He’d told Sloane that the amends letter she’d sent him was one of the biggest blessings he’d ever received.

  “Zoey told me she might want to go to nursing school someday,” Sloane added, smiling.

  “Not surprising. She has the best role model.”

  “Thank you.” Sloane stayed quiet as they climbed farther into the hills; the sun had dropped low in the sky, giving everything a sort of golden glow. Perfect timing. All of it. Sloane had never felt anything so deeply and with such a sense of gratitude. After so many painful years, she now knew without a doubt who she was—whose she was. All the mistakes she’d thought so unforgivable had been paid for long ago on a cross. That amazing gift: grace.

  “Here we go,” Micah said, pulling off the highway and then turning the SUV so that—

  “Oh, oh . . . there!” Sloane slid across the seat to stare out the windshield alongside Micah. Her gaze swept the huge, lit billboard looking down on the bustling freeway. “It looks so awesome. And exactly right. The best campaign in the world, Micah—award-winning. Harper’s right.” She smiled at the familiar face on the billboard. “And he’s the perfect choice for the Face of Hope.”

  Micah pressed a kiss on Sloane’s ear before gazing back at the billboard. “You definitely had a hand in it.”

  “You said anyone could nominate.” She chuckled. “Once.”

  Micah shook his head, thinking, no doubt, of Brill’s resignation. Another accomplishment of this exceptional marketing man.

  “I love it,” Sloane said, grinning at the billboard—as Jerry Rhodes beamed back. “Everything about it. The idea. The selection. The way it looks up there.” She leaned forward a little, squinting her eyes. Then picked up the binoculars they’d brought along. She adjusted the focus. “He has the pencil behind his ear!”

  Micah laughed. “Of course. Have you ever seen Jerry without it?”

  “Maybe at the gala?”

  “Nah, it must have been there. He probably had a tape measure in his suit pocket.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Sloane thought of him dancing with his wife, Ann, while her mother watched with such a sweet, proud expression on her face. Sloane sighed. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Jerry was the finest example of “casual wow.” A humble man who helped everyone whenever he could. The guy who’d come up with the great idea for the new day care center. The hero who carried Piper from her grandmother’s burning house, then worked overtime to rebuild it. Jerry Rhodes knew, absolutely, his true source of hope.

  “Following the best I can after that other carpenter. Long time ago.”

  “So, my brilliant and very hot PR and marketing director . . .” Sloane tugged at Micah’s tie, kissed his cheek. “Should we pop open the bubbly?”

  “Not yet.” His eyes met hers. “I think we should drive up to the Mulholland overlook. Do it there.”

  “Ooh, great idea.” She kissed him once more and slid back to fasten her seat belt. “We haven’t been back there since—”

  “No, we haven’t.” He grinned and started the engine.

  In a few short minutes, they’d made it up there; a few minutes longer and they found a parking spot. Hardly private, but then it was LA, and the view more than worth sharing. It still looked picture-postcard iconic. The hills, the Hollywood sign, the bustling freeways below, tile roofs, palm trees . . .

  “What are you doing?” she asked as Micah turned the car around, backing toward the view.

  “Tailgate picnic.”

  “You brought food?”

  “Deli.” Micah switched off the engine. “And dessert.”

  “Another great idea,” she said, loving the playful look in Micah’s eyes. Playful and something more, too. Whatever it was, she was on board. “Let’s do it.
”

  They walked to the back of the SUV and Micah opened the tailgate.

  “What’s this?” Sloane asked, spotting the expanse of red terry cloth laid across the cargo space, sales tags still attached. “New beach towels?”

  “Yes, but try to imagine them as carpet,” Micah said, spreading the towels over the tailgate. He shrugged, not quite hiding the sheepish look on his face. “Sort of a last-minute, jerry-rigged red carpet. Like . . .”

  “Right. The Academy Awards,” Sloane said. “Because tonight should feel like an awards celebration. Oh, and because when we were here before, I told you about my mother and our Oscar parties.” She smiled, touched that he remembered. “That’s really sweet, Micah. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Well, hop up there,” he said, his hands circling her waist to give her a boost. “Don’t want to miss the sunset.”

  “Not for a second.”

  Sloane moved over to make room, watching as Micah pulled the cooler closer. Thoughtful, generous, and caring. How could she not love this man?

  “Five months since we were here that time,” she said as Micah popped the cork on the sparkling cider and reached for the glasses, the sea-glass goblets Sloane had waited so long to buy; she’d let Marty lap water from one in celebration of the purchase. “I’m glad you thought of this. It’s perfect for our Face of Hope unveiling. Your Oscar-worthy achievement.”

  Micah laughed like she’d said something far funnier. Then he set the bottle down. “I thought coming here tonight felt right.” He reached for her hand. “First time. Last time.”

  “Last? Oh, you mean as assistant director.” She glanced at the cliff edge and shot him a teasing look. “At least with the car turned around like this, I’m not going to worry about some Thelma and Louise cliff dive.”

  “You and your movies.” Micah shook his head, then raised her hand to his lips. “I guess I meant ‘full circle.’ Because our first real date was here.”