by Susan Sey
“You just have to bear it, Eli. You can’t keep running from it. There aren’t enough miles in the world, and trust me, I know. Killing yourself won’t balance the scales. Neither will refusing to live. But people make mistakes, and you didn’t make this one alone.”
“I was the captain,” he said again, almost desperately. “It was my responsibilty to—”
“You were twenty-seven years old,” she cut in gently. “And probably trying to lead a team of bullet-proof cowboys just like you who’d been your peers and equals a year or two before.” He shut his mouth and frowned. It had been a guess but had evidently hit the target. “You’re no better or worse than any of the men who died on that mountain, Eli. You were luckier, that’s all. And the price you pay for that luck is that you get to keep this mistake. You get a future, but you also get to carry that mistake. It’s yours to carry and yours to honor. So honor it. Let it teach you how to be better. Let it build you into somebody stronger, somebody wiser. Somebody who would make a different decision if given the chance. But you live, Eli. You didn’t die, so you have to live.”
He sighed and tipped his head until his cheekbone rested on the top of her head. They sat that way for a long time, Willa’s hand on his back, his breath in her hair.
“One day,” he said softly, “you’ll tell me.”
“Tell you what?” She’d let her eyes close, let contentment drift through her veins, make her limbs heavy and warm.
“How you learned all this.” He put his hand on her knee, and it was heavy and warm, too. “Why you can talk about it with an authority that makes my throat hurt.”
“It’s an old, sad story,” she said lightly, even though it put its claws into her soul at random moments. “It’s behind me and done.”
“Do you ever think about what you’d do differently?” he murmured. “Do you ever wonder what you’d do today if you were given a second chance?”
She tried like hell not to let her mind even wander into such dangerous territory. “I made my peace with it a long time ago.”
“Did you?”
The ache was old, almost sweet. “I like to think so, yeah.”
Some days she wasn’t so sure, though.
Eli told himself to stay away. He told himself to give Willa some space. He didn’t know what the hell had happened between them the other night, didn’t know what it meant or what kind of black magic she’d worked on his soul but he did know he needed some time alone to figure it all out. Because for the first time in nearly three years, his head was quiet. It wasn’t silent, not by a long shot, but it was quiet enough for him to breathe, even when he was standing still.
And he wanted to know — he needed to know — if it would stay that way without her.
In the end, the mice forced his hand.
Two days after the first-date-turned-horrifying-therapy-session, Eli pulled his tuna can up to Willa’s cabin. It was morning, early enough that he thought she might still be at home, but not so early that he’d look desperate. Though, Jesus help him, he was desperate. Maybe his head was still quiet — quiet-ish, anyway — but he was a desperate man. Desperate for the sight of her, the scent of her, the feel of that warm, strong hand of hers on his back, on his scalp, on other parts of his body she hadn’t gotten around to exploring, probably because he’d been in such a goddamn hurry the other night.
So, yeah, he was definitely desperate. But he didn’t want to look desperate, so he made himself wait until eight-thirty. That was almost business hours. He could get away with eight-thirty, especially as he was bringing her a gift. That had to count for something.
Her dad sat on the front porch steps as Eli pulled up, a laptop balanced on his knees, a cup of coffee steaming beside his boot. Eli got out of the car, his gift carefully cradled in both hands.
“Hey, Mr. Zinc.”
“It’s Brett.”
“Brett, then. I’m Eli Walker. Willa’s friend from the bar the other day?”
“I remember.”
He stopped at the steps and pointed his chin at the laptop on Brett’s knees. “How’s the job search coming?”
“About like you’d expect.” Brett lifted his coffee cup for a long sip, eyed the beautifully crafted nest in Eli’s hand. “That for Willa?”
“Yeah. She around?”
“You know, most men would bring flowers.”
“I’m not most men.”
“I guess you’re not.” A corner of Brett’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Not if you’re courting a woman with a mouse nest made of—” He tipped his head. “What is that, anyway?”
“Best guess? Half a box of tampons and my favorite pair of socks.”
Brett blinked, then shook his head slowly. “You have a lot to learn, son.”
“Trust me. Willa will like this better than flowers.”
“I wish she were here so we could find out but she’s not.”
“No?” Disappointment flooded him and he gave himself a stern mental slap for visible desperation. Pull it together, Walker. “I’ll just leave it for her, then. Kitchen okay?”
“Okay by me, especially if you bring the coffee pot out here. You got me damn addicted.”
“I know the feeling,” he muttered and went inside. A minute later, he was back with the coffee pot and a mug of his own. Brett lifted a brow.
“Help yourself,” he said.
“I did, thanks.”
“You didn’t bring the cream or sugar,” Brett pointed out and held up his mug. Eli obliged him with a refill.
“Real men drink it black, especially when Willa makes it.” He treated himself to his first sip and sighed. “Woman’s got a gift.”
Brett’s sigh was more resigned. “I was working my way up.”
“Congratulations. You’re there.”
“Shit.” He took another sip, then set aside the mug to poke at the keyboard on his knees.
“Any luck?” Eli asked.
“On the jobs? Nah.” Brett scowled and poked some more. “I hate computers.”
“Me, too. That’s why I hike for a living.”
Brett clicked and cursed. “Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what I did just there. Let’s assume I’m not getting that one.” He shut the laptop’s lid and set the thing aside. “Tell me how to hike for a living, Eli. I don’t even care if it makes me so addled I’d give a woman a mouse nest and call it a gift. I’m that desperate.”
Eli knew enough about desperate to recognize the thread of utter sincerity inside the frustration. “You a hiker?”
“Never was, but after eight years inside walls and fences? I am now.”
Eli considered that. “The other day, after I met you at the bar. Did you really hike here?”
“I did. And every day, after I spend two hours on that godforsaken thing—” He sent the computer a look of pure dislike. “—I take myself on another little walk-about.”
“Walk-about?”
“A mile or six. It blows the cobwebs out. Had mandatory anger-management in jail. Didn’t put much stock in it except I had this one shrink. Dude lived through Vietnam, three tours. Said when he got back, he ended up on the shrink’s couch, too. Lady told him to exercise and journalize. That was it. That was therapy. Exercise to wear out the body and journalize to bleed off the crazy in his head before it took root and started making sense. Exercise and journalize. It was like his religion.” Brett’s smile was rueful. “Saw a lot of shrinks when I was inside, but he was the only one who looked like The Rock. Only one who ever said anything useful, either.”
“You journalize?”
“Hell, no. I never had two thoughts to rub together. But I had a lot of strength when I was angry or drunk or, hell, let’s face it, both.” He met Eli’s eyes directly. “I was both a lot of the time.”
“Okay.
“And when I was?” He moved his shoulders. “Well, it’s like Sinatra says. Regrets, I’ve had a few.”
“How many miles do you think you cover a day?”
“Maybe. How many?”
“At least five. Sometimes ten. Why?”
Eli lifted his coffee cup. Sipped and considered Willa’s dad. Considered that tentative spark of hope in eyes he’d have sworn were dead. He knew something about how hard it was to die, even when you wanted to. Eli would be damned if he’d do anything to snuff out something so determined to live.
“Get in the car, Brett. You impress me today, you’ve got yourself a job.”
“Doing what?”
“Hiking.”
CHAPTER 16
WILLA STEPPED INTO the Davis Gallery, and immediately wished she hadn’t. Willa’s family situation had never been particularly stable, but Diego Davis’ selfishness had kicked its last, tottering legs out from under it. Loving him — or what passed for love in the heart of a lonely young girl — had cost her plenty. She avoided worshipping at the shrine of his talent when she could.
It had been one hell of a talent, though. She had to admit it, if only to herself, as she wandered farther into the airy space, bright with morning light. The gallery didn’t open until ten but Georgie’s summons — no other word for it — had demanded Willa’s presence at nine sharp. But when you didn’t know what the hell was going on, it was never a bad idea to catch the other party off-guard, so it was still a few minutes shy of nine when Willa paused in the center of the gallery to ponder Diego’s Angel.
It was the masterwork that had shot Diego to celebrity, a portrait he’d done of Addison when he was still stupidly, besottedly in love with her. Willa didn’t know much about art, but she knew when a painting shoved its hand into her chest, grabbed her still-beating heart and yanked it out.
Diego’s Angel was that kind of painting.
The rest of his stuff wasn’t far behind.
The faint scent of iron and ice drifted over her shoulder and Willa knew that Georgie had arrived. She didn’t need to see her; nobody smelled as cold or as beautiful as Georgie Davis.
“It’s a classic for a reason.” Georgie stood beside her, gazing at the Angel. “When Diego fell in love, he fell in love.”
Willa wouldn’t know. “Sure looks that way.”
“Too bad he fell out of love the same way.”
Willa pointed her chin at the painting. “You got to keep the prize.”
“Addy’s a peach, all right.” Willa would never like Georgie but she had to give her credit for assuming — correctly — that Willa hadn’t been talking about the painting. Georgie was wearing some silky tunic-like thing in a soft lilac over a pair of slim white pants. She folded her arms and studied the painting as if she didn’t see it every damn day. “Wouldn’t have minded keeping my brother, too, though.”
A pulse of hatred surprised Willa. She might not like Georgie but she’d also given up truly hating her years ago. She’d refused to let any of the Davises matter enough to hate, except maybe Bianca. Hating Bianca went deeper than Willa’s self-control. But was Georgie really expecting Willa’s sympathy? Georgie, with her big house, her piles of money, her perfect face and her intensely loyal family? Willa had never been in line for any of those things, nor had she ever expected them. But she’d had a family once. It had been a little trashy and drama-prone, sure, but she’d had a family nonetheless. Now she had none. Maybe that wasn’t Diego’s fault per se, maybe her family had been primed to blow, but he’d sure lit the fuse. So she wasn’t sorry he was dead, and she’d be damned if she’d say she was.
Georgie sent her a sly sideways glance. “Nothing to say, Willa?”
Willa met her eyes with perfect indifference. “Nothing you want to hear.”
“You might be surprised at what I want to hear.”
“I’m sure I would be. I just don’t care.”
Georgie smiled. “I wonder why we don’t chat more often. It’s always so pleasant.”
“For you, maybe. I get bored.”
Georgie tipped her head and gave her a narrow study. “Sometimes I can almost see why Addy likes you.” She let her gaze drift over Willa’s well-worn jeans and Zinc Pest Control t-shirt. “Then I look at your outfit and horror chases everything else from my mind.”
“It’s a short run.”
Her lips twitched. “Nice one.” She shook back a sheet of silvery hair with a satisfied flick. Formalities observed, it was time to get down to business. Whatever the hell that business might be.
Georgie turned on the heel of what looked like a ballet slipper and headed toward the back of the gallery. “Come on,” she said. “I want to show you something.”
Willa followed, curiosity at war with foreboding. Georgie slipped past the white curtain that separated the gallery proper from the staging area where Bianca was planning to show Diego’s naughty paintings for Devil Days. There was a table against one wall holding several pieces of pottery and a couple wooden sculptures but Georgie led her to the other wall. A series of frames stood propped on a narrow shelf that ran chest-high along the length of the wall. Track lights on the ceiling bathed the frames in warm, generous light, and even Willa — no art lover — recognized the artist.
“Welcome to Diego After Dark,” Georgie said.
“This is the final line up, then? This is the display that has Gerte all heated up?” Willa asked. Rumors had been circulating for months now that the Davises were planning to show some of Diego’s previously unshown works for Devil Days, and Diego being Diego, Gerte was utterly convinced it had to be porn. She’d whipped herself — along with most of the town — into a torches and pitchforks frenzy over it. Willa squinted at the painting in front of her. “I see the boob made the final cut.”
“Along with its companion piece.” Georgie indicated a matching frame right next door.
“Huh.” Willa stepped to the next painting. Tipped her head. Blinked. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Probably.” Georgie nudged her with a pointy elbow. “Speaking of which, how was your date the other night?”
“Shut up.”
“Got all dressed up for nothing, huh?” Georgie laughed. “Well, not everybody can be as lucky in love as our Diego.”
Willa glanced down the row of paintings. “Is that why you asked me to come here? So you could show me a bunch of vagina paintings?” She paused. “Wait, has Gerte seen these?”
“Are you kidding?” Georgie rolled her eyes. “I’m no Gerte fan but even I don’t want to be responsible for the stroke that takes her out of this world.” She paused thoughtfully. “No, I don’t,” she decided. “Not yet, anyway. Addy will want pie at the reception.”
“She told me she was thinking about a doughnut tree.”
“What in the holy hell is a doughnut tree?”
“How do I know? She already talked to Walt about it, though. Or, wait, maybe that was the shower, not the reception?” She shrugged.
Georgie scowled and produced a slim phone from an invisible pocket somewhere. Maybe from thin air. How the hell did Willa know? Georgie’s clothes existed on a plane outside Willa’s experience. Definitely outside her budget. Georgie opened an app and thumb typed something with shocking efficiency. “For cripes sake, Addison,” she muttered under her breath, “I’m only your maid of honor. Keep me in the loop, why don’t you?” She tucked the phone away and smiled brilliantly. “But no, I didn’t bring you here to rub your nose in your lack of romantic success, nor to discuss the wedding. I want to talk to you about my mother.”
Willa sighed. She’d wondered when Georgie would get around to this conversation. “She thinks we should be civil to one another for Addy’s sake.”
“It’s more than that.” Georgie’s mouth was grim. “I think she wants to tell Matty about you.”
“What?” Shock was a bright white light, and suddenly Willa’s brain was a blank sheet.
“She hasn’t said as much but I think she’s toying with the idea.”
“Why?”
“How do I know?” Georgie rolled an elegant shoulder. “Mom’s mind follows its own twisty paths. Maybe she wants to get ahead of the story. I mean, he already knows Mom isn’t his biological mother. He knows I’m not his biological mother, either, which is more than I can say for most of the other idiots in this town, your asshole brother included.”
“My asshole brother has a lot of idiotic ideas about you,” Willa said faintly.
“Had.” Georgie’s smile was chilling. “He’s been disabused of the most egregious.”
“Nice vocab.” She wondered if Peter had been aware of precisely who he was dealing with when he’d screwed over Georgie Davis.
“Even magazines with shiny pages use big words sometimes.”
“Mmm.”
“My point, Willa, is that Matty’s at the age where he’s going to start asking questions. And with the wedding coming up, he’s going to be seeing a lot more of you. You and those goddamn eyes you two share. He’s not a dumb kid, for all that he does dumb things. So it’s entirely possible that he’ll put two and two together and end up asking you some interesting questions before Mom decides how she wants us to answer them.” Georgie folded her arms and gazed at Willa, flat and cold. “If that happens, I want to know what you’re going to tell him.”
Willa’s heart crashed into her rib cage like a bird mistaking a window for freedom. It lay stunned inside her chest, not beating, not bleeding, just suspended somewhere in between. She waited for it to make up its mind — hope or resignation? But even as she waited, she knew the answer. The truth was her burden. She carried it the way Eli carried those men’s deaths, a nonnegotiable weight she’d learned to live with. She’d made her bargain years ago, and she’d held up her end. Even when the loneliness was a physical presence inside her, grinding her soul into dust, she hadn’t reached for Matty. Hadn’t reached out to the one person who shared her blood who hadn’t rejected or abandoned her. The one person she could honestly say she loved with her whole heart, whatever was left of that poor, battered thing.
