by Joanne Rock
He slid the cork free and poured two glasses, his head a hairbreadth from the pans that hung over the countertop. “I can see that. You don’t have the traditional entrepreneur’s mind-set.”
“I work as hard as anyone else.” She tipped her chin, defying him to say otherwise.
“That’s easy to see.” He leaned back on the counter and folded his arms, an amused smile on his lips. “But most of the shop owners I meet for this show are idea people. They have a big vision, but not always the day-to-day organization to make the dream work. You have both. Or at least, you have the follow-through.”
“I can’t afford to fail.” She pointed at the glasses. “If you carry those outside, I’ll start the steaks.”
They moved to the back deck, where the sun was already casting a purple glow. In the distance, she could see the converted barn where Mack and Nina had an apartment, but the lights were off and Erin guessed Nina must be staying at her grandmother’s for the weekend.
“Everyone fails sometimes,” Remy pointed out, his eye roaming the “pasha’s palace” furnishings. “Want me to light the lamps?”
He picked up the igniter she kept near the hurricane lamp on one end table.
“Sure.” She turned up the grill’s heat to sear the meat, keeping half an eye on Remy as he moved to each of the purple glass shades to burn a candle inside the hanging fixtures.
The fading sun caught a mix of gold and brown in the scruff of hair around his jaw as he concentrated on his task. She hadn’t lit the candles earlier, fearing the atmosphere would look too romantic—as if she was expecting more from the night than just dinner. Seeing the space lit up now seemed to turn up the heat on the night. Or was that just on her part?
He turned just in time to catch her staring. More warmth rushed to her cheeks.
“I need to time these,” she blurted. “Do you have a watch?”
“Yours not working?” He set the igniter down and strode closer.
Of course she was wearing a watch herself. She was just way too nervous.
“You wouldn’t need to ask that if you saw what happened to the potatoes.” She pointed to the two sad packets of foil charred to a crisp that she’d left on an upper shelf of the grill. “Can you tell me when two minutes are up?”
“Done.” He kept her company while she waited for the sear to finish. “Until then, how about a toast?” He passed her one glass of wine and picked up the other.
“To Type B Bossiness.” His gaze locked on hers and her heart rate cranked up speed. Thankfully, he turned away before she made an idiot of herself and swooned on him. “And springtime in Heartache.”
Seizing the chance to focus on something besides him, she lifted her glass and admired the flowering dogwood trees and rogue honeysuckle patches that climbed up the potting shed in the backyard.
“Hope springs eternal. Cheers.”
When she faced him and clinked her glass to his, she noticed his expression had changed. His face was totally blank. Skin pale. Eyes focused somewhere else entirely.
She put a hand on his arm. “Remy? You okay?”
He set his glass down unsteadily, a little Chianti splashing over the rim, but he didn’t notice.
“Sorry.” His voice was hoarse as he lowered himself to a seat. “It’s been two years. Two. Years. And stuff still grabs me by the throat sometimes and takes me right back there...”
He shook his head. Shoved a weary hand through his hair.
“People grieve at their own pace.” She switched off the grill and sat next to him. “It takes time.”
She hated to spout lame platitudes, which he had probably heard too often, but she didn’t know what more to do. She’d caught hints of the old pain in his eyes when she had first met him—before she’d known about his wife. And now, understanding where it came from, she felt even more helpless to do anything about it.
It was foolish for thinking anything could happen between them tonight. Remy wasn’t anywhere near ready for a rebound fling. It sure put what she’d gone through with Patrick into perspective.
“You want to talk about it?” She debated the wisdom of taking his hand for about a nanosecond. Then, acting on basic human kindness, she took it and squeezed. “I don’t claim to have any answers, but Type Bs make really great listeners.”
He stared at the open fields beyond the lawn. “You remember, when we made the toast, you said ‘hope springs eternal’? Liv had the words stenciled in her studio above the windows that looked out on her gardens. I helped paint it. In fact, it was one of the few things she didn’t paint by hand in there.” He shrugged. “She was a talented artist. But even I can handle filling in a stencil.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It was.” His voice went rough again. His eyes focused on some point she couldn’t see. “So beautiful, in fact, that she told Sarah’s biological father all about it in a letter one of the many times she wrote to that bastard, trying to get Brandon to acknowledge their daughter.” His gaze returned to Erin again. “I told you he’s been in jail since before I met Liv? He’s some kind of computer genius who, as Liv said, never ‘lived up to his potential.’”
“Liv sounds like an amazing person.”
“Yeah. But some days, it’s hard to forgive her for talking to the waste-of-space felon. He’s the reason she’s dead. He told his cell mate all about our house.” Remy squeezed her hand hard. Not in a bad way. But she wondered if he realized it. Her heart hurt for him. “The cell mate targeted our home for a robbery after he got out of prison two months later. He shot her in the studio where she was working. I kept that place until the trial was done and knew he was in jail for life. Then I burned the studio to the ground before I sold the main house.”
She gasped. “Were you living there all that time?”
“Hell no. I moved Sarah to Miami to start over right afterward. I only went back for the trial to make sure the guy and his accomplice went to jail. Then I torched the place where they ended her life and ruined mine.”
The image of this caring, charming man setting fire to the building where his wife was murdered tore at her.
“It’s no wonder you’re still grieving.” What a horrible, horrible loss for him. “Her death was a shock and you probably couldn’t begin mourning her until after the trial.”
“All I thought about was revenge for a while. I wanted to kill him myself.” He let go of her hand and found his wineglass. Taking a long swallow, he glanced over at her, waiting to see her reaction.
“I’m sure you did.” Who wouldn’t in his position?
“But I had Sarah to think about.” He nodded slowly. “And the last thing I wanted was for my girl to have two fathers in jail.”
“You’re a good man.” She watched the fireflies come out as the sun sank lower on the horizon. “Sarah is lucky to have you.”
“I don’t know about that. I became all kinds of overprotective. Sarah’s counselor had to step in and tell me to cool it.” He balanced the wineglass on his knee. “I’m finding it tough to figure out how to parent in a scary world.”
“So whatever happened to Sarah’s dad? Was he accountable in any way for sharing that information with another felon?”
“Of course not. I wanted Brandon in solitary confinement for the rest of his life, but I couldn’t even get his cable television stations taken away.” He set aside the wine and turned to face her on the love seat. “But in the months where I was consumed with justice, my career started to go south, the host of my top show quit, and Sarah began sneaking out at night since I hardly let her out of my sight during the day. I had to let go of some of the anger to move on. So here I am, ruining your nice dinner and repaying your kindness with maudlin stories that I normally never share.”
“Maybe it’s easier to talk to people who weren’t involved.” She found herself fidgeting and forced herself to stop. What was it about him that had her so on edge?
Her foremost feelings right now should be empathy and comp
assion. It bugged her that compassion and attraction were tied for first place, especially after all he’d told her.
“That’s no excuse for being a bad guest.”
“You brought lemon-berry cupcakes and wine, so you actually rate pretty well on my guest meter.”
“Clearly, you’ve kept some questionable company.”
No kidding.
“I’m much better at fixing other people’s lives than figuring out my own.”
He searched her eyes for a long moment, the candles he’d lit flickering overhead.
“How about you let me salvage the steaks to make it up to you?”
She appreciated him steering them back to less personal terrain.
“I’d never say no to having a man cook for me.” She rose to her feet and forced herself to think about dinner instead of flirting. She’d been all wrong to consider acting on what she felt for him. Remy was still in the early stages of grieving. “Besides, if you can handle the steaks, I’ll finish up the salad.”
Deal struck—and some much-needed distance gained—Erin retreated into the house and pulled the veggies out of the refrigerator. Rinsing and chopping, she could only imagine what Remy must think of her for inviting him here tonight when he was still dealing with so many feelings for his wife. He hadn’t moved on. Who knew when he would be ready to think about taking that step?
The best she could salvage from this tense date was the satisfaction of having reached out to a friend in a way she hadn’t been able to for the past six months. If nothing else, meeting Remy had proved to her she could forget about Patrick and maybe even fall for someone again. But that someone wouldn’t be Remy. For that matter, caring about a man like him could be hazardous to her heart. She’d been able to put Patrick behind her because he was innately an unworthy man.
Remy, on the other hand, was as worthy as they came. A good father and devoted husband.
Six months ago, she had been afraid men like him didn’t exist. How ironic that now—when she was finally ready to move on—she met a loyal guy still very much in love with his wife.
* * *
THREE DAYS LATER, Sarah knocked on the partially closed door separating her father’s room from hers at the Heartache B and B.
“Dad?” She shuffled her bare feet against the floral area rug that looked as though it belonged in a grandmother’s room. Everything about the B and B was slightly worn and kitschy, but Sarah liked it here, far from Miami and the worries that dogged her constantly there.
“Come on in,” he called.
She pushed the door open the rest of the way. A suitcase lay open on his bed, a couple of shirts already folded in a stack beside it. An iron steamed on the folding board nearby, his blue dress shirt freshly pressed. “What’s going on?” She hesitated, a ball of cold dread knotting in her stomach. “We can’t leave yet. The clothing drive is today at The Strand. I told Erin I’d help.”
“We’ll be here for the drive.” He held up a big video camera, the kind she hadn’t seen him use in a long time. “I’m going to take some footage, in fact. But I did find a red-eye flight tonight so we can get back home and sort things out with school.”
“I thought you liked it here,” she blurted, folding her arms across her sleep tank top. She swished her ponytail, crushed and lopsided from bed. “Plus, we were going to do some work together so you could show me what being a producer is all about.”
“You can try out the video camera today.” He passed her the big Nikon and resumed packing. “And I like Heartache just fine, Sarah, but we can’t hide out from whatever is going on back home. You can’t sacrifice your senior year. You’ve already missed a week of school.”
Her heart thudded hard in her chest and she weighed her approach carefully. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing. She took the camera and pretended to study it, not wanting her father to know how much it killed her inside to think about returning to Miami.
“But next week is spring break and we’ll be off anyway. And what about my car? How will I get it home if I take the flight with you?” She pressed a few buttons and saw some raw footage of other towns and antiques shops that he’d recorded in the past.
“I’ll pay to have it transported. I can drive you to school until then or you can ride with Mathilda.” He emptied out the top drawer of the bureau and put the socks into the suitcase.
How could they leave? She hadn’t seen Lucas since Friday night. He hadn’t gone to the drive-in with the rest of his friends on Sunday. She’d texted him despite Mathilda warning her that would be giving him the upper hand in their new relationship. Lucas replied he needed to “take care of some other things” before they spent more time together.
Decoding that particular piece of Boy Speak had resulted in a three-hour phone call to Mathilda Monday night and they’d brainstormed a list of possibilities. At the top of her list was the wishful thought that he was breaking up with his girlfriend. But how long did that take? Surely, he would have had enough time between Friday night when they’d kissed and Sunday when she’d hoped to see him at the drive-in.
“Second semester of senior year doesn’t really matter.” Sarah set the camera on the bed, preparing her argument in her head. “Even the best students slack off near graduation, Dad. The colleges already have our grades on file. At this point, we’re either accepted or we’re not.”
He studied her for a long moment.
“Do you have acceptance letters you haven’t told me about?”
She could hear the cautious hopefulness in his voice, and it made her feel like total crap. And all the more committed not to go back home.
“Not yet.” Tough to be accepted when she hadn’t applied anywhere except UF, an application Mathilda had forced her to fill out.
The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds in the silence.
“You haven’t said much about where you applied.” He strapped on his watch, a gift her mother had helped Sarah choose for him as a wedding present.
He’d worn it every day since, even when his wedding band had finally stopped appearing on his ring finger last fall.
“Those months were mega-stressful.” She reached for the iron to turn it back on. “I’m going to use this since it’s all set up, okay?”
Darting out of the room, she rummaged in her closet through the few items of clothing.
“Sarah,” he called through the door. “If we can’t have productive conversations about your future, we’re going to end up back in the counselor’s office.”
Yanking a halter dress off the hanger, she marched back into his room.
“I’m going to have to talk to her anyway after I ditched the field trip.” Why couldn’t he just pull her out of school for the last eight weeks? What if Brandon—she refused to think of him as her father—knew where she attended classes?
Would he keep trying to send letters if she didn’t respond to the one in her purse?
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to tell me what’s going on?” Dad moved his dress shirt off the ironing board so she’d have room to work.
His arm skimmed the top of her head as he pulled on the shirt.
“Close quarters,” she mumbled, sidestepping him enough to work at the ironing board shoved between the desk and the bed. “Remember when you first moved into that apartment where Mom and I lived?”
“It was small, but not this small.”
“Right. And we were perfectly happy there.” She slammed the iron onto the dress and started ramming it to all corners of the green cotton.
“You don’t like the place in Miami?” He sat on the bed and she sensed his eyes on her. Finally paying attention.
“The apartment is okay. The city—” She shrugged, ironing too fast to do a good job. “Mathilda makes it bearable, I guess.”
“When you start college, you can go wherever you want.” He stood, taking the iron out of her hands and smoothing the wrinkles that she’d pressed into her dress. “We talked about applying to a wide range
of places because you weren’t sure where you wanted to live. Is there anywhere in particular you think you’d like?”
“Here.”
“There are no colleges in Heartache.”
“I meant to live and finish high school, not go to college.”
He turned off the iron and set it aside. “Do you have a list on your computer of places you applied?”
“University of Florida.” She had that, anyway. Sliding the dress off the ironing board, she wished she could go back to her room and forget this whole conversation.
“Where else?” He was a patient father, but she could see the frustration behind the calm facade.
“Just there.” The words fell out. They were too hard to hold in anymore.
His arms stretched over his head as if he was waiting for the sky to fall. Then he laid his hands on his head. He walked around the room like that for a second, dodging the chair and the bed to pace in the half foot of space.
She swallowed. “I’m sorry. The applications were confusing. I haven’t done well in school since we moved.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself for not working on it with you or hiring someone to help you.”
“Lots of kids apply on their own, Dad. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. I knew I was supposed to do more. I just...didn’t.”
She felt relieved to get that off her chest, but worried because the weight of it looked as if it fell on her father. He already carried so much.
She wanted his attention, but not the kind that made him resent her.
“That doesn’t fix the larger problem.”
She scrambled for something to keep the peace—and keep her here. “I can do community college for a year or two while I figure out where I want to go.” Sarah clutched her dress tighter. “Or work.”
He got that “dad scowl,” which almost always meant no. “I’m not sure those are the best options.”
She hit the lever to break down the ironing board and shoved it against one wall.
“Well, I’m tired of living in a city where I don’t know anyone but Mathilda. I don’t want to go to a big anonymous university.” That was the problem with UF, she realized. Fine for Mathilda, but wrong for her. “I’m tired of not having family around me.”
