by Laura Miller
“The thing is,” Isaac goes on, refitting his blue Royals cap over his head. “The thing is, I always knew Berlin was looking for someone. And not just anyone, but someone in particular. He never told me outright, of course, but I knew it. Everywhere we went, his eyes would always be scanning the faces in the room. And he probably doesn’t remember it, but once, years ago, he mentioned this little town he spent some time in, and that little town was Sweet Home, Missouri. And then along with it, he mentioned a name—Iva. And that’s when I put two and two together.” He takes a long swig of a bottle and then sets it down. “Berlin,” he says, looking directly at Berlin now, “you’d make a piss-poor detective because all that time you spent looking for her, in the end, it was her who found you.” He picks up his beer again and raises it in the air. “So, thank you, Iva, for saving my friend, here, from a life of always looking at the faces in the crowd, trying to find his other half.”
Berlin squeezes my hand. There’s a tender look in his eyes. Meanwhile, there’s a tear in mine. Somehow, Isaac Thrasher, in his artful rambling, managed to pull on my heartstrings.
“He’ll be taking autographs in the back all night, so feel free to hit him up,” Isaac adds, lightening the mood again. “You got aunts, uncles, Grandma, Grandpa, the family dog—make sure you get everybody a signature.”
The crowd buzzes with a soft laughter, and immediately, Berlin turns to me.
“Tree house?”
I nod.
Isaac keeps hamming it up, while we slide out the back door. I’m pretty sure we go unnoticed.
We get to the little house, and Berlin takes my hand and kisses the back of it.
“I love you.”
I smile.
“I love you, too,” I say.
It’s crazy how easy it is to say those words after all the time that has past. Then again, I’ve said them to Berlin, the boy from Sweet Home, a million times before. And also, I guess, it’s easy to say words that are true.
I kick off my boots and climb up the ladder and find a spot on the boards. Berlin climbs up next and sits across from me.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” His grin is wide. “It’s just that we’ve been doing this for quite some time now, Miss Scott.”
“Doing what exactly, Mr. Elliot?”
“This,” he says, glancing down at the floor of the old tree house. “Sittin’ in tree houses, looking at each other from across the way.”
I press my teeth into my bottom lip. “I like tree houses. And side-by-side is overrated. This way, I get to look at you.”
He lowers his head and laughs to himself.
I listen to the way his voice breaks. In seven years, he still has the same, sultry laugh.
“I thought you were the cutest thing when I first saw you,” I say. “Of course, I’d never admit that then.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he says.
A spry grin edges, little by little, up his shadowed face.
“It was the long hair,” he adds.
I nod. “It was ... among a few other things.”
He breathes in an unhurried breath, and then he pushes it out through the space between his lips. “You want to know what I thought the first time I saw you?”
I nod.
“I thought ...” He pauses. “Now, remember I saw you before you saw me. You were changing that bike tire, and I thought ...” He brings his fist to his mouth. “I thought, I’ve got to find a way to talk to that girl. If it’s the last thing I do, I have to talk to her because I can already tell that when she moves, the world stands still.”
I fix my eyes on his.
“You still think that?” I ask.
He dips his head. “Every day.”
“And you know, I was scared to death,” he goes on, “to sit with you on the bus that first day.”
“No, you weren’t. I don’t believe it.”
“I was. I was so afraid that I would say the wrong thing, and you would think I was weird and you would never want to talk to me again.”
“Well,” I say, laughing, “I did think you were weird.” I meet his stare. “But I happened to like weird.”
He keeps his eyes locked in mine, but he doesn’t say a word for several, faultless moments. And in those moments, I feel something that feels a lot like desire and love and want coursing through my blood, and I just know I’ve made the right choice to stay here—right here with this man.
He sits up. And I watch him, as he carefully moves closer to me and then takes my hand.
“Iva.”
“Yes?” I say.
“I found you, and at the same time, I found us in Angel’s tree house in a little town that’s just as much a part of me as my own heart. And I was lucky enough to find you again ... here, in this old tree house where I spent so many of my days hiding away from the world, dreaming of you.”
He pauses and slides his hand into his pocket and leaves it there. “Iva, I drive 200 miles an hour around a racetrack with dozens of other cars ... going 200 miles an hour, and that has yet to give me the thrill of just one of your glances.”
He removes his hand from his pocket, and I can see now that he’s holding something.
“Iva Sophia Scott. See, I know what it’s like to have you. And I know what it’s like to lose you. And that kind of thing,” he says, pausing briefly, “that kind of thing makes a man who he is. Because I will never live another day of my life like I lived it before I knew you. You forever changed me. You are forever written into my very flesh. And plain and simple, you are my story, Iva Scott. I can’t tell me, without telling you.”
There are tears threatening to flood my eyes, as his sweet words puncture my soul, eternally leaving their footprints on my existence.
“And I don’t know why this little girl from Sweet Home—this little girl, with her pink tennis shoes and her bright smile and her big dreams—was drawn to a boy like me, but I thank my stars she was. And the thing is, Iva, when I dream about my future, your name is written on every wall. Even when I questioned whether I’d ever see you again, I still saw your name.” A slow-burning smile gradually pushes up his face. “And no matter what you say tonight, I’ll still never be without you. I gave you my heart when I was only twelve years old. You didn’t know it, yet, but I did. And somehow, I knew that I’d carry you in my heart for as long as I walked this earth. So,” he says, positioning himself so that he’s on one knee, “Iva Sophia Scott ...” He opens a red, velvet box, and I immediately gasp, as my fingers go to my lips. “What are your thoughts on forever?”
I can feel tears trickling down my face. And I try to speak, but nothing comes out. So, I try again.
“I think forever sounds pretty nice.”
The lines start to blur after that, but it’s not long, and Berlin has the ring out of the box, and he’s taking my left hand.
I watch him slide the silver band onto my ring finger, and I just can’t stop thinking how happy I am to have found him again.
A flash of shiny light distracts me, and for the first time, I notice the yellow diamond on my hand. It’s in the middle, and it’s surrounded by a string of white diamonds.
“Berlin, it’s beautiful.”
“The center stone is your mom’s.”
My eyes flicker up to his.
“What?”
“It’s your mom’s,” he says again.
I look down at the ring. “I don’t understand.”
“When I went to ask your parents for their permission, your mom told me a story about her first love.”
“The yellow roses,” I whisper.
He nods. “He’s the one who gave them to her.”
I rest my hand on his knee. “What happened?” My eyes settle on the ring. “She never told me.”
“I know,” he says, taking in a breath. “Apparently, he was a lot like me. He drove too fast, and he was all sorts of different—too different for her daddy’s liking. But she loved him. And she loved him up until the day
of his seventeenth birthday, when he lost control of his car and the good Lord took him home. And then she just kept on loving him even after that day, too.”
His gaze falters, and he pushes out a lungful of air.
“But she said they found a ring inside the glove compartment. And wrapped around the ring box was a letter, asking your mom to marry him. ... So, it meant a lot to her that you have it.”
I look down at the canary-colored diamond. Tears are filling my eyes, making my vision blurry. “Thank you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.
“I love you so much,” he says, kissing me softly in my hair. “But then, you already knew that.”
I laugh, through the tears, and then he pulls away but keeps me in his arms.
“I can’t wait to tell the world,” he says, his grin wide.
“Well, let’s go do it,” I say, swiping the dampness off my cheeks. “Let’s go tell the world.”
His beautiful brown eyes come to rest in mine. “You’re going to be my wife, Iva Scott.”
I can’t stop smiling.
“I’ve waited so long to say that,” he adds.
I glance down at the ring on my finger, and then I wipe the remaining tears from my eyes. They’re happy tears—every last one.
Berlin takes my hand, and we climb down the little ladder nailed to the tree and make our way back to the barn. And it’s just a matter of moments before Berlin is opening the door.
The first thing I notice is the perfect silence. The talking and loud laughter that were present just a short time ago are gone now. And now, all eyes under the barn’s yellow lights are on us.
Berlin looks at me and then turns his face back to the crowd.
“She said yes!”
The barn erupts with applause and cheers, and the next thing I know, Natalie is throwing her arms around me. She squeals in my ear and then lets go of me to hug Berlin. And for the first time, I see Berlin’s parents and Elin and her kids. And then I see my daddy.
Everyone is here; I had no idea.
But then I see my momma, and the tears return. And immediately, I go to her, and I wrap my arms around her slender frame.
Chapter Twenty-One
So Lucky
Two Months Later
Iva
He can barely get into the door, and I’m running to him and jumping into his arms.
“Hey, baby,” he says, kissing me on the neck. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” My legs still wrapped around him, I kiss his lips. “You were amazing, by the way.”
“No,” he says. “I wasn’t. It was a bad race. But it doesn’t matter. I’m here with you now.”
The phone rings, and I bury my face into his shoulder. It rings again, and I try to ignore it. But then I remember, I can’t. I’m planning a wedding.
I fall out of his arms, run to the phone and pick it up.
“Just one second, babe. It’s the caterer.”
“All right,” he says, setting his bag onto the floor.
I take the call, and by the time I get the chicken and the beef and the vegetarian dinners all sorted out, I go back into the living room. And he’s asleep on the couch.
I sigh and cover him with a blanket. Then I sit on the corner of the coffee table, and I catch myself watching him breathe in and breathe out.
I love him. I love him no less than that little girl back in Sweet Home loved him. And that little girl loved him a lot.
I gently trace a winding path with my fingertips down his arm.
When I saw him across the street after those seven years, I first just saw a strikingly attractive guy. It wasn’t until my eyes lingered just a little too long, that I realized I was staring at that fearless, wild boy from my past—who still had my heart.
And some days, I wish it all were still as easy as those days back in Sweet Home—when he was never more than just a window away and my daddy was the biggest inconvenience we had. I’d welcome my daddy’s disapproving look today if that were the only hurdle Berlin and I had to face.
These days, Berlin is home three days a week. He gets back on Sunday night and leaves Thursday—every week. He’s always traveling or training or racing. I do get to see him race, though. I’m thankful for that. I fly to wherever he is—whether it’s Kansas City or Atlanta or Las Vegas—on Saturday night, and then I watch him race on Sunday. And then usually, I come back home by myself, while he does his post-race interviews and talks about the race with his crew. And I stay up and wait for him to come home.
I miss him a lot on the days he’s not here, but I try to keep busy. I spend most of my time working and planning the wedding. With his schedule, I can’t even imagine when he’d have time to plan anything, much less a wedding. And I know he feels bad about me having to do everything, but in the end, I really don’t mind. I just wish I had more time with him. And sometimes, if I’m honest, I wish I had more time to draw and to paint, too.
I took a job at the library not too long after I moved to Channing. There aren’t many options here, but at least at the library, they let me teach basic classes on art history and how to paint trees and bowls of apples and bouquets of flowers—the types of things you paint when you’re learning to paint.
Berlin and I talked about moving. With his job, we could go anywhere really—as long as it’s in the United States. But his family is here. And he loves his niece and nephew with every fiber in his being, and he sees them less than he sees me. I don’t have the heart to suggest we go anywhere else.
I do wish there was an easy answer, though—an option that would allow us to stay here and him to race and me to make a living doing what I love. And even if I couldn’t paint full-time, I would love to be surrounded by art at an art gallery or something like it.
He shifts on the couch, and the blanket falls to the floor, halting my thoughts. I pick up the cover and gently lay it across his midsection again. Then, I kiss him lightly on his cheek and delicately run my fingers through his hair.
I love art. It’s my passion. But the thing is, Berlin Elliot is my heart. And I can’t live without my heart.
“Geez, how long was I asleep?”
I look back at the couch and then up at the clock on the wall.
“Hmm, a couple hours.”
I set the brush down and spin around, so that I’m facing him. His hair is flattened on one side, and his eyes are barely open. Still, he looks irresistibly handsome.
“Really?”
I nod.
“I’m sorry, baby.” He sleepily walks over to me and kisses me on the lips. “What are you working on?”
I shrug. “It’s just a picture that popped into my head the other day.”
It’s a painting of a shore and an ocean somewhere far away. It came to me, while I was working my normal shift at the library—where exactly five of the same people frequent on a daily basis. I wondered for the first time since I found Berlin again what New Zealand would be like. There, I was going to probably be selling coffee to locals and tourists. But there, I would also be learning to paint like Sinclair Williams, one of the best in the world.
“It’s beautiful,” he says, coaxing me back to the present.
I notice his look hangs on me a little longer than usual. “Is there something wrong, Iva?”
“What?” I ask. But then I shake my head before he has a chance to answer my question. “No, nothing’s wrong,” I say. I think it’s the truth, but I can’t be sure.
He lightly kisses me again—this time, on my cheek. And I close my eyes and savor the feel of his lips on my skin.
“Okay,” he says, nodding. I’m not sure he’s convinced.
I know there are blue and white paint splotches all over my face and probably in my hair, too, but I give him my best put-together smile.
“I love you, baby,” he says, in his raspy, sleepy voice. I don’t think he intends it to sound ridiculously sexy, but it does, all the same.
He kisses me again. And this time, I t
hrow my arms around his neck and kiss him back.
“I think I was just missing you, Mr. Elliot,” I whisper against his face, breathing in his sweet cologne. “Next time, I’m coming with you—inside the car.”
“Inside the car, huh?”
I give him an exaggerated nod.
“Hell, why don’t you just drive?”
I pull away from him a little and meet his stare. “Deal.”
The sound of his sultry laugh fills the room.
“Iva, every day that I get to come home to you is the best day of my life,” he says, squeezing me into his chest. “Some days, I just can’t believe the life I lucked into.”
I rest my head on his strong arm. His muscles were something I had to get used to; although, I admit, it wasn’t that difficult. When I knew the boy I knew in Sweet Home, he barely had a muscle to call his own.
I gently run my hand down his chest and stop near his heart.
“How did I get so lucky to find you again?” he asks, in a low growl.
I smile and nudge my cheek against his shoulder. “You must have done something right.”
“Nah,” he says, moving his head back and forth. “I’m pretty sure that if there was something wrong to do, I did it.”
I laugh. “Then maybe you did all the wrong things right.”
“Yeah,” he says, in that same low voice. “Yeah, that sounds more like it.”
He tucks a few strands of my hair behind my ear. “How are the wedding plans coming?”
I suck in a long breath. “Good,” I say. “I think everything’s going to plan. Natalie and Elin have been a big help with everything here.”
“That’s good,” he says, briefly casting his eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry I can’t help more.”
“It’s fine. I understand. And I enjoy it—most of the time.”
His stare lingers.
“And how’s the library?”
I shrug. “It’s going.”
He uses his finger to lift my chin, so that he can see my face. “Iva, don’t forget, I’ve known you since you were twelve years old. I know when something’s bothering you. You can tell me if you don’t like it here.”
