Hardly able to keep her eyes open, Mary said, “It’s time I head back to the ferry.”
“No,” he said instantly.
“George, I’m sorry … my strength …”
“I’m not taking you to the ferry,” he insisted.
“But …”
“I’ll drive you back myself.”
“Cedar Cove is a good hour’s drive, possibly longer. That’s a two-to-three-hour commute for you. I can’t let you do that.” George had always been so thoughtful, so loving, and the years hadn’t changed him.
“I don’t care how long the drive is, you’re not taking the ferry.”
“George, please.” Surely he understood how difficult this was for her, and she wasn’t talking about the cancer. Being with him, loving him the way she did, made this visit painful and difficult.
“I can’t let you go,” he said. “Not yet. Not when I have so much I need to learn about Amanda.”
This was what Mary had feared. He would ask her questions that were better left unasked, and he would do it when she was at her weakest point emotionally. George was the only man who had ever broken through the natural reserve that had always been a part of her.
George Hudson was the only man who had ever made her feel weak, and at the same time he was her strength. Mary couldn’t explain this phenomenon. His love made her weak because with him her heart was vulnerable; he made her believe they could be together despite the fact that they lived separate lives. At the same time, his love made her strong. With him, she’d come to understand contentment and joy. She could be herself. He’d been the only man to break through the hard shell of professionalism that had dominated her life. Who could understand how one man was capable of bringing out both weakness and strength in her? Not Mary.
Try as she might, and she did try, Mary couldn’t talk him out of personally delivering her back to the Inn at Rose Harbor. He escorted her to his car, helped her inside, and then left the parking garage and drove into the heavy Seattle traffic.
For the first ten minutes, neither spoke.
Then, out of the blue, George asked, “Did the adoptive parents ever mail you her picture?”
Mary tensed. “No.”
“Why not?”
So it was to begin. Mary waited to answer for so long he glanced in her direction. She swallowed tightly and then whispered, her voice so low she wondered if he could hear, “I asked them not to.”
She watched as George’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Weren’t you curious?”
A rogue tear slid a moist trail down her cheek. “Oh, yes, I was curious.”
“Then why …”
“I did my best not to think about her,” she said, rushing to explain. “I tried to let her go completely.”
Another lengthy pause followed as they entered the freeway on-ramp. “Did you … forget her?”
“No.” Mary looked out the side window and hoped he didn’t notice when she wiped more tears away. She couldn’t allow herself the luxury of thinking about her daughter. Their daughter.
It was pointless to hide anything from George. He reached for her hand and gently squeezed it. “Oh, Mary, my beautiful, smart Mary, I’m sorry. This is painful for you. It’s just that—”
“No, I understand,” she said, interrupting him, because she did understand. This was all new to him. It was only natural that he would want to know everything. “I hit you with this and you haven’t had a chance to absorb it, while I’ve been living with this secret for the past eighteen years.”
Seeing how his questions had upset her, George fell silent. She had deprived him of so much already that Mary felt obligated to tell him what she remembered.
“When she was born, she had a head full of curly dark hair.”
He smiled and patted his bald spot. “Guess she didn’t get that from my side of the family.”
“They say that it’s impossible to tell what color a newborn’s eyes will be, but hers were blue.”
“Like yours.”
“Like mine,” she whispered.
Quiet again. “Anything else you can tell me about our … daughter?”
Mary remembered everything, every minute detail of the babe she’d held so briefly in her arms. “Both her little fingers were slightly crooked.”
“A sign of genius for sure,” George said, a smile in his voice.
“No doubt,” Mary said, grinning herself. “And, George, she had the cutest, tiniest toes.”
“As I recall, you have beautiful feet.”
George said the funniest things. “Oh, George, honestly.”
“Well, you do.”
Mary remembered how he used to place her feet on his lap and would rub her toes after a long day at the office. It had been sensual and romantic all at once.
He glanced at her, and from the smile that teased his lips, she knew he remembered, too.
“I’m grateful she inherited your feet and not mine,” he muttered.
“Why’s that?” Mary couldn’t remember what George’s feet looked like.
“I’ve got stubby toes.”
“I never noticed.”
“Good. I guess you were too blinded by my stunningly handsome features to pay attention to my feet.”
“Clearly, that was it.” Even now George could make her smile.
“You find that amusing, do you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Anything else I can tell you that will make you smile?” he asked. “You’ve done precious little of that this afternoon.”
She grinned again. George made her feel comfortable and relaxed. With him there were no pretenses; she could be herself.
“Do you still think about her?” he asked, growing serious once again.
“Of course I do.” How could she not? “I might not have raised our daughter, but she’ll always be a part of me.”
“And me,” he added.
“The very best of us both.” Mary was certain of that. “On her birthday …” She hesitated and swallowed against the hard lump that had formed in her throat.
“Yes?”
“I celebrated her birthday every year. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I had a little ceremony for the two of us …” It was time to be honest, really honest. “For the three of us,” she corrected.
“You thought of me, too?”
“Oh, George, did you really think I could forget you?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “You cut off all contact with me, remember?”
She didn’t need the reminder. Of course she had regrets. But then, who didn’t? It would fill a dump truck if she were to dredge up the past and some of the decisions she’d made. But when it came to the choice she’d made for their daughter, Mary had no reservations. She’d done what was right for Amanda Elizabeth.
“What did you do to remember, to celebrate?” he wanted to know.
“You’ll think it lame and predictable.”
“Mary Smith doing something predictable? I don’t think so.”
Just to prove him wrong, she stuck out her tongue at him.
George laughed. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Oh, all right. I ate cake.”
“What kind of cake?”
“German chocolate.”
He grinned sheepishly. “My favorite. You tried to bake me a chocolate cake once.”
Again, she didn’t need the reminder. The entire experience had been a disaster. If any proof was ever needed that she was never meant to darken the inside of a kitchen, that was it. She’d spent a fortune getting everything she needed at a high-end home-goods store, purchased the very best of ingredients, and then painstakingly followed the recipe.
For whatever reason, the cake had fallen flat, but that wasn’t the worst of it. After piling four layers of cake and frosting together, the entire monstrosity had unceremoniously slid from the plate onto the floor. George had claimed he loved her all the more for the attempt. The nex
t day, Mary had given everything she’d purchased to charity.
The car was warm, and after a couple of moments she felt herself drifting off to sleep.
“Rest,” he whispered, and gently patted her thigh.
Mary fought it. She didn’t want to waste a moment of this weekend. Not a single moment. When she flew back to New York, she would hold on to this day, review it again and again in her mind. She would always hold on tight to the memory of the look that came over George when she told him she hadn’t aborted their baby and that she’d delivered his daughter. It was a look of pain mingled with profound joy, as if he wasn’t sure which emotion would take dominance. Pain for all the years he had lost not knowing his child, and joy, sheer, undiluted joy, that she had given birth to his daughter.
In that moment, Mary made the decision. “George?” She said his name, barely able to speak.
“Yes.”
“Is there an exit close by?”
Immediately, he was concerned. “What’s wrong? Do I need to get you to a hospital?”
“No.”
His stricken face searched hers. “Are you feeling ill?”
“I’m okay.” She wasn’t, but this had nothing to do with the cancer.
He swerved across two lanes of traffic so abruptly that he cut off another driver, which caused several other cars to blast their horns at him. “What do you need me to do?” he implored.
“George. Don’t panic. I just want to talk to you.”
“I thought we were talking.” His words were rushed, harried, frantic.
Despite the urgency in his voice, Mary remained cool and calm. “We are talking, but there’s more.”
“More about …”
“Amanda Elizabeth.”
He took the exit at nearly double the speed posted, and when he pulled to a stop at the red light, the seat belt tightened and held her in place as the car rocked forward. He went to the first available parking area, pulled in, and shut off the engine.
“Okay, tell me,” he said. “Whatever it is, I have a right to know.”
“I …” Her throat closed up on her, and once again she looked out the side window while she composed herself.
“No matter what it is, I need to know.”
She swallowed again, lubricating her throat. “When I found out I had cancer … I felt the urgency to get my affairs in order.”
“Of course.” He reached for her hand, holding it tightly within his own.
“A large portion of my estate will go to charity.”
George didn’t comment, as if it was too painful for him to discuss these details. It hadn’t been easy for Mary, either. She was relatively young yet, and she’d felt she had a number of years to think these matters through. Oh, she’d completed the most rudimentary basics of her estate, but not the details. Being hit in the face with cancer had put everything into sharp focus and changed her perspective.
“I wanted to be sure Amanda would always have what she needed.”
Again, George said nothing. It seemed like he was holding his breath, waiting for what she would tell him before he was comfortable enough to exhale.
“I came to Seattle.”
“I’m so glad you did, so grateful.” Both of his hands held one of hers now.
“But, George, my dear, wonderful George, finding that you still lived here was a bonus, a gift.”
His gaze delved into hers as it dawned on him what she was telling him, what she was really saying. For a long moment, George went still and quiet as his shock rippled though the interior of the vehicle.
“Are you … Are you saying our daughter … Are you telling me the couple who adopted our daughter lives in Seattle?”
“No.”
George frowned.
“They live in Cedar Cove.”
He blinked as if he hadn’t heard her. “Cedar Cove,” he repeated. “How do you know?”
She looked away. “I hired a private investigator.”
“Amanda is happy and healthy?”
“Very much so. She’s beautiful, George. Smart and beautiful.”
He smiled, and the hold on her hand tightened. “Like I said before, she’s like her mother.”
“The curly hair is gone, and just as I suspected, her eyes are blue.”
He touched Mary’s face, cupping her chin. “Then you’ve seen her?”
“Not yet. What I saw was a photograph.”
“Where?”
“There were a couple of photos on the Internet from newspaper articles regarding school functions.”
“Will you see her personally?”
“No, I don’t suppose I will. I’d like to more than anything, but I won’t disrupt her life. I can’t.”
“Yet you came to Cedar Cove.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I came because I thought … I hoped that I might be able to hear her speak.”
“Speak?” George frowned.
And then, with sadness mingled with pride, Mary added, “Our daughter will graduate from high school Sunday afternoon.”
“Cedar Cove High School?”
Mary nodded, and with pride that flooded her eyes with tears, she added, “Like me, Amanda is the valedictorian of her class.”
Chapter 24
I clenched Paul’s letter in my hands and stared down at the message scrawled across the top in my husband’s stark handwriting: TO BE GIVEN TO JO MARIE IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.
I remained frozen, unable to move. I didn’t breathe, I didn’t blink; all I seemed capable of doing was staring down at Paul’s words. The last words he would ever say to me.
I should read this letter. I knew that in all probability my husband was dead. But until I received absolute verification that his remains had been found and identified, I refused to read what would be his final words to me. Hurriedly, I folded up the letter and tucked it back inside the envelope. It seemed to throb in my hands, pulsing and pounding.
I hurried to my room with such urgency that Rover barked furiously and charged ahead of me. When I arrived, I was panting and breathless, my shoulders heaving with both emotion and exertion. Opening the drawer to my nightstand, I reached for my journal and slipped the letter inside.
Until someone could assure me that the missing body wasn’t that of my husband, I wouldn’t give up the possibility that Paul Rose was alive. Hope was a heady commodity, and I clung to it with desperation, letting myself hold on to the dream that the impossible had happened and Paul had managed to live.
Stepping back from my nightstand, I clenched my hands together to help stop the trembling. I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to center myself. I had an inn full of guests, but I would be forever grateful that the house was currently empty.
As if to remind me I couldn’t give in to my emotions, the phone rang, jarring me back to reality. I waited until the third ring before I felt composed enough to answer.
“Rose Harbor Inn,” I said, as calmly as my pounding heart would allow.
“Jo Marie?”
Mark. “Yes.”
“You don’t sound right. Is anything wrong?”
“No.”
He hesitated, swore under his breath, and then muttered, “I need help.”
If anyone didn’t sound like himself, it was Mark. His voice was low and gravelly, filled with frustration and dread. “What’s wrong?”
Again he paused, as if asking anyone to come to his aid was miles outside his comfort zone. “I tripped with these blasted crutches, and I can’t seem to get myself off the floor.”
It was time to put aside my own personal struggles and help a friend. “I’ll be right over.”
“I wouldn’t have called you if it wasn’t necessary.”
“I know.”
“You’re the one who keeps butting in to my life, and I thought …”
“Do you want my help or not?” I snapped, losing patience with him.
“It’s either you or call nine-one-one again.”
�
�I’m on my way.” Before he could argue further, I replaced the phone. Really, I had never met a more unreasonable human being. At least this time he had his cell phone with him. The doctor, Mark had told me, had suggested he keep his cell close, in case something like this happened. That had proved to be good advice.
“Come on,” I said to Rover. “Mr. Personality has fallen and he can’t get up.”
Rover cocked his head and looked up at me as though my words puzzled him. Nevertheless, he dutifully followed me. When I entered the laundry room, he immediately recognized that we were going out, and he trotted to the door and patiently waited for me to join him and attach his leash.
Once we reached the street and he realized the direction we were headed, Rover strained against the leash. He liked Mark, which confused me, because Mark wasn’t all that likable. My dog seemed to have a special affinity for the handyman that I found difficult to understand. Normally, Rover felt it his dog-given duty to mark his territory every few feet, but he seemed to sense the urgency in me and dragged me along.
When we reached Mark’s house, I didn’t knock. It wasn’t like Mark could answer the door. But when I tried to open it, I found it locked. Oh, great, so we were going to go through this again.
I pounded on the door. “Are you there?” I shouted.
“No, I’m outside playing tiddlywinks,” Mark shouted back from the other side.
“The door is locked. Do you have a key hidden somewhere outside?” I looked around for the normal hiding places, a flower pot, a fake rock, but the porch was bare.
“No.”
If Mark assumed I’d be willing to find an open window and hoist myself inside, then he was sadly mistaken. As much as he’d hate it, I’d contact the fire station that had come to his aid earlier.
“I think the back door might be unlatched,” Mark suggested, yelling again.
“Okay, I’ll try that.”
Rover and I made our way to the back of the property, where his shop was situated. A cement walkway curved slightly between the two buildings. Four steps led to the house. I’d been through the back door only once, and that was when I’d been in a frantic search to find the keys to unlock his door the last time around.
Rose Harbor in Bloom Page 20
