by Liz Talley
* * *
JOHN SAT IN the living room reading the letter Shelby had left him on the kitchen table, along with a notice of eviction from the Stanton trust and the journal Rebecca had kept.
He’d returned home from his parents ready to share with Shelby the conversation he’d had with his father.
Ready to tell her exactly what she meant to him.
Ready to embrace a new love.
But Shelby’s car had been gone and the house empty.
At first he’d wondered if she’d gone out to the store, but then remembered it was New Year’s Day and outside of a couple of gas stations, the town was shut down for the holiday. So he’d gone up to her bedroom and found the bed made, everything tidy, which was totally unlike Shelby.
He came back down the steps, noting Bart’s full food bowl, and found the letter.
He’d picked it up, shocked at what she’d written.
Dear John,
I know this will surprise you after the wonderful night we shared, but I have decided to go back home to Seattle. I know I should have had this conversation with you rather than being a coward like this, but I couldn’t face you and not be swayed. You’re my personal crack, remember? I’ve spent the afternoon thinking about our situation and contemplating your proposal of marriage. After reflection, I realized that as much as I want to I just don’t belong at Breezy Hill. You, however, do. When I saw the eviction notice, I understood that in trying to do the right thing by me, you sacrificed your livelihood and all that you are, which is not fair.
I don’t want you to worry about the baby. He or she is your child, and I think you know me well enough now to know I would never shut you out of our child’s life. I will send you updates and we can later discuss the specifics. My attorney will be in touch with yours. Tell Carla I’m no longer in the picture. Tell her you belong there.
And I don’t.
Shelby
Holy shit.
A real-life Dear John letter.
He crumpled it up and hurled it across the room, desolation consuming him...along with anger and fear.
God damn Carla Stanton.
And God damn Shelby, too.
The woman didn’t even have the guts to tell him to his face that she didn’t want him or this life. She didn’t have the guts to stand and fight with him for happiness. John kicked the chair across the room and it clattered to the floor, making Bart yelp and run toward the living room. John slammed his fist on the table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers, not caring he made a mess. His heart throbbed and tears clogged his throat.
Looking down, he caught hold of Carla’s notice and ripped it into small pieces. He’d always loved the warmhearted woman who’d made fantastic lasagna and could beat him at dominos, but she’d lost her ever-lovin’ mind in evicting him from his home...the place he belonged.
Carla wanted to erase his life here like it had never happened, like he hadn’t poured his blood, sweat and every nickel he’d ever made into Breezy Hill.
“Goddamn it,” he hollered at the top of his lungs, rattling the glass in the low-hanging light fixture centered over the breakfast table, and then he bowed, defeated, his head lowering to rest on the bound journal sitting on the table. He sucked in several deep breaths, inhaling the leather of the cover. Loss was an old friend—didn’t take long for the pain to latch on.
A knock sounded on the front door and he lifted his head.
Maybe Shelby had changed her mind. Maybe she realized she did belong, not at Breezy Hill, not in Magnolia Bend, but with him.
Didn’t she know she was his damn snowflake, different and wonderful?
More insistent knocking.
He rose and went to the door, throwing it open, half of him annoyed, half of him hopeful.
His sister, Abigail, stood there.
“Where’s Shelby?” she said.
“Gone.”
“Gone where?” Abigail made a face.
“Seattle. She left me a note so she’s that kind of gone.”
“I knew it,” Abigail said, bulldozing her way inside like only she could do. She never asked. She just pushed and finagled her way into whatever she wished.
John closed the door, hoping like hell he didn’t look like he’d been crying. He hadn’t, of course. His eyes just felt raw and achy. “Knew what?”
“Shelby started acting weird. She came back from the kitchen all pale and quiet and wanting to leave. Then when we were in the car, she burst into tears, saying it had something to do with her mother, but then when we got here and Carla—”
“Wait, when she came back from what kitchen?”
“Mom’s.”
“Wait, what?”
“We were taking down the tree and Mom sent her in the kitchen for tape. I think you were in Dad’s office.”
In Dad’s office.
Had Shelby overheard his conversation with his father? And if she did, why would she leave? Because she didn’t want him to love her? Because she didn’t like being compared to a snowflake? Or maybe she heard the first part of the conversation...the part where he doubted what he felt.
Abigail continued. “She got really quiet and sad on the way home. I could feel a change in her. Usually she’s so smart-mouthed and funny, but it was as if someone had taken the wind from her sails. Deflated.”
John shook his head, trying to remember what he’d said to his father at first. Crap. He’d said he didn’t want to bring shame on the family, that he was sorry he embarrassed his father. He’d said he wanted to do the right thing.
He’d never said anything about love until much, much later.
“Then when we got here and she saw the notice, she got even more subdued. I should have invited myself inside, but she seemed to want me gone.” Abigail lifted an apologetic gaze to his. “So she just left?”
“Yeah,” he said, turning toward the mantel, to where the painting she’d given him sat against the pale cream walls Rebecca had repainted the summer before last. “She said things weren’t working and that she wanted to go back home.”
“But she lied,” Abigail said.
John snapped his head up. “Why do you think she lied?”
“Because she loves you, idiot.”
He ignored the insult because he was likely worthy of it and concentrated on the important words. “Loves me? Then why did she leave?”
“Men,” Abigail said, crossing her arms. “You all are on some other plane of consciousness...the dumb-ass plane of consciousness.”
He stared at her blankly.
Giving a beleaguered sigh, Abigail continued. “She left because she didn’t want you to lose Breezy Hill. Because you’re moving slowly in your relationship with her, and she’s fallen head over heels for you. Obviously, you’ve given her the impression you’re not in love with her or still grieving or—”
“I never said anything to make her think that.”
Abigail looked momentarily guilty. “Yeah, but did you dispute it?”
No. He hadn’t. Until earlier that day, he hadn’t been sure what he felt was love. He’d had only one experience with it, and what he felt for Shelby was different than what he’d had with Rebecca. Not less. Just different. “I told her I couldn’t promise love. I wasn’t sure. But now I know.”
His sister hooked a brow. “And you’re sure? Because love is tricky. That flirty wonderfulness you feel at the outset won’t sustain.”
“Thanks, buzzkill,” he drawled, his heart lifting, his anger draining at the thought of Shelby trying to fade out of the picture. At Shelby trying to “do the right thing.” He left the room, heading for the kitchen.
“Hey, where’re you going? And I’m not being a buzzkill. I think you’re smart in being cautious with a new relationship.”
John picked up his cell phone and turned to Abigail. “Of course, that’s what you would think. You’re jaded when it comes to love. Totally shut off. But I’m not. I love Shelby and want to build a life with her. If that’s too fast, I don’t care. I’ve already missed a whole year of life.”
He’d dialed Shelby’s number, but she didn’t answer. He let it go to voice mail, deciding to hang up. What he had to say would be better done face-to-face. He clicked on the internet and began the search for airline tickets.
Abigail hadn’t responded. Instead she crossed her arms and leaned against the cabinet.
“Damn it,” he said, clicking off the phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Booking a flight to Seattle, but there aren’t any out of Baton Rouge until morning.”
“You’re going to Seattle?”
“I’m going to bring her home. Where she belongs.”
“What about the harvest? You’ve got cane—”
“I just got fired, remember?” He picked up the torn pieces of the eviction notice Carla had overdramatically nailed to his door. Probably wasn’t even legal to serve it without the bank or law present, but Carla wanted effect. A twist of the knife for good measure. “Homer can take over for a few days. If anything goes wrong, what do I care?”
“But this is Breezy Hill,” Abigail said, looking at him like his head had started spinning around.
“I know. But what is a house if it can’t be a home?”
“My God, you do love her.”
“Bingo. You’re clueing in. Now, can Bart stay with you for a few days?”
Abigail looked down at the golden retriever at her feet, smiling up at her with a doggy grin. She sighed. “Sure. Birdie will be thrilled.”
“Thanks.”
“So you’re going to give up Breezy Hill for a chance with that smart-ass blonde.”
“You bet your own smart ass I am.”
Abigail laughed. “Life sure surprises you sometimes.”
John looked around the kitchen of the house he’d loved for over a decade and then looked back at his sister. “But thank God that it does.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SHELBY ARRIVED IN Seattle to overcast dark skies and her mother waiting in a Mercedes. That little fact shocked the hell out of her, because the Mackeys sent car service to the airport for pickup.
“Good God, Shelby,” her mother said when she slipped into the front seat after having tipped the porter, “you look like hell.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Shelby drawled, pulling the door closed, grateful for the warmth of the heated leather seats. It was the little things that got a girl through the shittiness of life.
Marilyn pulled away, stopping to honk at someone who cut her off. “Idiots,” she breathed.
Shelby’s mother wore her dark blond hair in a controlled bob. Her touched-up eyes were dark blue, her long fingers elegant, her jewelry tasteful. She reeked of money, power and high expectations. Only the seats were warm in the car.
“How was your flight?”
“Long,” Shelby said, passing a hand over her face, wondering for the sixth time in the past ten hours if she’d made a huge mistake in coming back to Seattle. She didn’t feel like she belonged here, either. Shelby didn’t feel she belonged anywhere. “I’m surprised you came to pick me up. It’s early.”
“I have an early meeting and I couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh,” Shelby said, knowing before Marilyn spoke it hadn’t been about a mother concerned for her daughter.
“And I was worried about you.”
Shelby sat up a bit. “Worried?”
“You know us mothers, we always worry when our children are unhappy.”
Since when?
“Of course,” Shelby said vaguely, staring out at the scant traffic on the road in the wee hours of the morning.
“Are you going to tell me about this man? About why you are back here?”
“Things didn’t work out. It’s best I come home and make a life here.”
“You don’t say it like you mean it,” Marilyn said, shifting lanes and sliding a glance over at Shelby.
Shelby didn’t know how to respond. Bone-deep weariness had settled over her and her mind was fuzzy. “I don’t know what I mean. I’m confused.”
“Yes, you’ve gone through much of your life the same way.”
“I really don’t need this right now, Mom. Really, really don’t.”
Marilyn closed her mouth and stared straight ahead into the darkness. Minutes ticked by. Uncomfortable minutes.
“Did I ever tell you about the time I ran away?” her mother said.
“Ran away?”
“I was twenty, home from Stanford for the summer. There was this guy. A surfer.” Marilyn’s eyes glazed over a little and a small smile tipped her lips. “He was something else.”
Ah, that phrase again. “You ran away with a surfer?”
“For a month,” her mother said. “It was the best month of my life. I planned to drop out of Stanford. We were going to open a surf shop in Laguna and live in an upstairs apartment of a friend.”
“You’re serious?”
Marilyn laughed. “I know it’s hard to imagine, but I had hair down to my ass, smoked weed like a fiend, and my surfer taught me things that blew my mind. I would have done anything for him. It was the most wonderful summer of my life.”
“What happened?” Shelby almost leaned over and pinched her mother to make sure she was real.
“Bobby robbed a liquor store and got sent to jail. I came back home heartbroken...and pregnant.”
Shelby swallowed. “What?”
Marilyn shook her head. “Daddy almost stroked out, but my mother, who spent most of her life in an alcoholic haze, snapped to attention, whisked me away for an abortion and dumped me off on your father.”
“What?”
“That’s why I wish you would have told me before now that you were pregnant.”
“Mom,” Shelby said, taking deep breaths, fighting back the shock and the tears threatening to once again make an appearance.
“After all that, I swore I would take control of my life. I got my degree, set my mind to take over for Daddy and married your father. He’s a good man and we’ve made a good life together, but I remember what it was like with Bobby on that beach, making love around the fire, getting high and being in love. You’ve always been like me.”
“I—I...” Shelby couldn’t even think of what to say. She’d never felt she was in any way like the tough woman sitting next to her. “I can’t believe you just told me that.”
Marilyn shrugged. “It was a secret I wasn’t necessarily proud of, but it was mine. You know?”
Shelby nodded. “Yeah.”
“So what do you want, Shelby?”
“A bed, some food and—”
“No, what do you want, sweetheart?”
Shelby looked at her mother. Marilyn set the car to cruise control and looked at her, eyes intent in the darkness.
“I wanted to live at Breezy Hill, have this baby and make a life in Louisiana.”
“And?”
“Things got complicated.”
“They always do. Do you love John?”
“You know his name,” Shelby said, not believing she sat in her mother’s car having this sort of conversation with the woman who’d disconnected herself from Shelby all her life.
“I make it my business to know everything about my children, which is why I’m really disappointed in Sela scheduling a nose job. She needs a lift. Her nose is perfectly fine.”
“I love him.”
“Then what are you doing here, baby?”
A tear escaped. Her mother had never called he
r baby. Ever.
“I don’t know.”
“Then I suggest you spend some time thinking about what you must do to get what you want.”
And that was the last her mother said of it. She turned the radio to soft jazz, stuck in her Bluetooth and made a call to London.
Shelby looked out the window, wondering what parallel universe she’d just entered, wondering if her mother was right for once. Maybe she needed to think about what she wanted and then figure out how to get it. Maybe for once in her life, she shouldn’t run from the things that were hard. If she wanted John, she should get him.
But maybe that was the kind of stuff that only existed in movies. The whole rush to the airport, feet pounding down the skyway, reaching the gate, yelling, “Wait!” She’d seen those movies, sighing at the implausible happily ever after.
She needed time to think. Shelby closed her eyes, her thoughts swishing round and round, and fell into exhausted slumber.
* * *
JOHN PRESSED THE button again, looking up at the huge ornate gates of Tangled Wood, the estate of the late George Montgomery Inabnet, founder of the largest furniture maker in the U.S., also Shelby’s grandfather.
“Sir?”
“I’m here to see Shelby Mackey.”
“May I say who is calling,” the clipped voice asked.
The father of her child? The man who loved her? The idiot who let her slip through his fingers? He settled on “John Beauchamp.”
“A moment, sir.”
Several seconds later, the iron gates parted. John slipped back into his rental car, cursing the legroom of the only vehicle left at the airport car rental, and pulled into the long drive twisting through the evergreen forest. Thank God his uncle was the sheriff and had access to certain files or John would have never found the private residence. The stone mansion emerging through the clearing made John inhale.
Yeah, it was the most impressive house he’d ever seen.
He parked in the curving drive with the carved marble balustrade and walked up to the grand entrance and rang the bell.
