by Donna Alward
He opened a can of soup and made a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches for his supper, imagining how good Laurel’s spaghetti was, still thinking of Amy. How had she found him? How long had she been looking? Just recently? A few years? Or since the beginning, when he’d come back home a few months after Ian’s body made the journey?
After the dishes were done he went to his living room, sat on his second-hand sofa, and turned on the TV. He looked around the room and realized that by most standards it was plain and unattractive. But it was his, and he was proud of it, regardless of Amy Merck and the memories her sudden appearance brought back.
He couldn’t change the past. He could only make sure he didn’t make the same mistakes twice.
Chapter Two
Amy drove down Darling, VT’s main drag and wondered how George Reilly had ended up here. It was so quaint and . . . cute. Like a postcard. Not that she didn’t like small towns; she did. But Darling, with its colorful buildings and mom-and-pop businesses, reminded her of a set for something like Gilmore Girls. A little too perfect, right down to the charming little bridge right in the town’s center. And George . . . well, the George she remembered was a little rougher around the edges, a bit dangerous and exciting. A bad boy. Ian had told her once that George had grown up in the foster care system and that the army was the first stable place he’d ever felt he’d belonged. Seeing him crafting Christmas wreaths today had been a shock.
And then seeing his face, meeting his gaze with hers . . . another shock. He’d aged, looking older than forty. There were creases beside his eyes and a dusting of gray hair at his temples. And yet there was still a rough attractiveness about him that echoed back to the soldier she remembered. The strong jaw, she thought, and the determined set to his lips. What she didn’t recall was the rudeness. She’d come all this way to talk to him and he’d been . . . well, “curt” was probably the best word she could think of. And the most favorable. “Jerk” had come to mind a time or two since she’d got back into her car.
She stopped at one of the few stop signs and waited for her turn to proceed through the intersection. It was six o’clock and snow had begun to fall, just fat, fluffy flakes, but in the darkness of an early December evening, she wanted to find her accommodations and get settled. She touched the gas, felt the tires slide a little, and eased through the intersection, scanning for a sign that said Bridge Street. She had to take that and then turn onto Sycamore Avenue and then she’d be at the cottage she’d rented for the two weeks leading up to Christmas.
Two weeks was all she had to convince George to tell her, once and for all, what had happened to her brother, Ian. Oh, her family knew what the official report said, but there were so many unanswered questions. Had he been happy in those last days? Had he died instantly, or alone? Her heart nearly broke thinking of her twin brother being alone on some battlefield, taking his last breath. What she and her parents were missing was some sort of closure.
George was the only one who could give them that, and ever since he’d returned from deployment, he’d fallen off the radar. Now that she’d tracked him down, she wasn’t going to let him slip through her fingers.
She found Bridge Street, appropriately named as the parking lot to the town’s icon, the Kissing Bridge, was on the left. She passed it and kept her eye open for Sycamore. Walnut, Beech, Maple . . . she sighed, squinting through the snow. Was every damn street named after a tree? White Birch Crescent . . . for Pete’s sake.
Then there it was. Sycamore Avenue. The houses were further apart here, and back from the road a little. Tree-lined driveways obscured the view, but the house numbers were visible on reflective signs at the ends of the driveways. She braked, reached over for her directions, and double checked. Number 153.
She kept driving, using her wipers to brush away the increasing snow. How far out of town was this place, anyway? On the vacation rental site, it had said less than five minutes to downtown Darling. Now she knew even the term “downtown” was a stretch. The groceries in the back seat were from the only full-service market in town.
Finally she saw the number and carefully turned in the lane. The cottage was set back from the road about fifty feet, with only a smattering of evergreens in the front yard. A little white-and-black sign swung from a post, announcing BEDFORD COTTAGE. She skidded past it and stopped in front of a small garage. The opener was inside the house, and tonight she figured she’d just leave the car outside and move it in the morning. Right now she was tired, hungry, and relieved to be done with the nearly seven-hour drive from Brooklyn. Her first meeting with George had been less than satisfactory, but she hadn’t come this far to give up after one ten minute exchange.
The key was in the mailbox by the front door, just as the owners had said it would be. Amy heaved a sigh of relief and put it in the lock, then grabbed the handle of her suitcase and tugged it over the threshold and into the house.
Another trip to the car produced a small tote and three big grocery bags, enough to get her through the first few days in the house until she found the best places to eat. Shouldn’t be too hard. There couldn’t be more than half a dozen.
Then she flicked on the light.
It was a nice cottage, as cottages went, she supposed. Certainly more spacious than her one bedroom apartment in Clinton Hill. And decorated nicely, if a little sparsely and “modern” for her taste. She slid off her boots and put them on a mat, then stepped through the small foyer into the living area. There was a lot of white and tan in the furniture; it looked a little like an ad for Ikea. The coffee table was impressively rectangular, the chairs before the fireplace looked more functional than comfortable. Hopefully she’d be proved wrong in that regard.
She reached into her pocket for the notes about the cottage. Then she went to a switch on the wall, flipped it, and a few seconds later, poof! The fireplace flickered to life, casting the room in a warm glow.
She explored the rest of the space, tugging her suitcase down the hall. The master bedroom was decorated in light blue and white, and Amy had the odd feeling it was like a hospital room—just missing the rolling table and mini TV on a retractable arm. The bathroom was done in the same colors, with a splash of beige. “Way to mix it up,” she murmured, laughing a little to herself. And the kitchen was like something from the future. All white cupboards and furniture and stainless steel appliances. Even the countertops were white marble, marred only with veins of light gray.
She put her food in the fridge and leaned against the countertop. None of this really mattered. It was a nice home, and comfortable, and it was in the same town as George, which was the main thing. Her family deserved some closure, especially her mom and dad. If she could provide that for them, she’d be happy. It wasn’t like she was distracting them by producing all kinds of grandkids. And they never said a word about it, but she knew it had to cross their minds. She and Liam had divorced. There were no little Merck babies on the way, nor would there be-ever. And Ian had been killed in action.
That was all they really knew. KIA, in Iraqi Freedom. The only person who knew what really happened, who could give it any context, was George. After today, she knew it wasn’t going to be an easy job getting him to open up.
Amy rooted through the cupboards until she found the glasses. She took out a wine glass and was glad she’d bought a bottle with a twist-off top, since she didn’t want to go searching for a corkscrew. Then she grabbed a bag of pita chips and a container of hummus and carried it all to the very white, utilitarian dining room table just off the living room. The heat from the fire was starting to kick in and she munched on the chips and sipped away at the cabernet until some of her edginess melted away. Maybe she’d just been hungry.
She filled the glass again, went into the living room, and sank into one of the chairs. It was, thankfully, more comfortable than it looked. She leaned back and sighed again, wishing she were home in her apartment, with the little artificial tree in the corner and Christmas lights in the windows. Sh
e’d put them up December 1, as always, even though she’d booked the cottage until Christmas Eve. If she found out what she wanted, she could go home early. Or she could stay for a vacation, since she’d already paid for two full weeks. Still, the owners hadn’t done any holiday decorating. The house felt . . . sterile. And definitely not Christmassy. The holidays were coming and she was fighting the holiday blues, just as she did every year.
In the end she dug out a book, had another glass of wine, drew a bath in the large en suite tub, and then went to bed as the snow continued to fall outside. As she lay in the darkness, she thought about George, and his big hands twisting the evergreen boughs as he worked at a wreath. Wondered what he’d been doing since leaving the army. Did he have family? A wife? Girlfriend? Was his place decorated for the holidays? Did he buy presents for certain someones?
Or was he as lonely as she was?
She flipped over to her side and sighed. Well, one thing she knew for sure. At least she’d made an attempt to do the “normal” things, like put up decorations, and host Thanksgiving dinners for her parents and grandparents. She helped plan office Christmas parties and remembered cupcakes for co-workers’ birthdays.
So what if it was going through the motions? She knew why she did it, and it was wrapped up in her failed marriage. George had been off the grid for years, and she was determined to know why. He owed her that much.
* * *
George threw his shovel in the back of the truck and made it over to the Bedford Cottage before daylight. The snow had continued during the night, easing off just as he was up and making his coffee. He was bundled lightly; the physical exertion would warm him in no time, and so he wore boots, a knitted cap, and work gloves on his hands. The temperatures weren’t too bitter, and there was a hush to the early morning that he appreciated. More so now that he wasn’t sleeping out in it, or in a doorway somewhere trying to keep from freezing.
A little Toyota sat in the Bedfords’ driveway, covered with snow and announcing the latest renter’s arrival. The Bedfords had gone south until the end of February, and listed their cottage on one of those vacation rental places. While they were gone, they’d hired George to look after snow removal. There was a blower in the garage, but today, the snow was light and only four or five inches deep. He could shovel it no problem and get some exercise.
The scrape of the metal blade broke the silence as he pushed it across the paved driveway. While most would consider this an early morning inconvenience, he appreciated it. He had work. He had value. Things weren’t perfect, but the day Laurel Stone—now Gallagher—had sat beside him on a bench and offered him a job was the day his life had begun anew. He was forty years old and he lived in subsidized veteran housing and worked at a garden center. It wasn’t what he’d planned all those years ago. But right now, it was perfect. Right now, it helped heal his soul.
And there was a lot of healing to do.
He’d awakened just after four, sweat popping out on his skin as he was thrust out of his dream. He hadn’t had the dream in months, but mornings like this reminded him of Ian, and his time in the army. Sitting around, chewing the fat about memories back home. George was from South Dakota and Ian had been from Brooklyn. Both had stories of winter storms and power outages and school cancellations as kids, though Ian’s had always been about his friends and close family, and George’s stories had varied, depending on which foster home he’d been in at the time. Sometimes those memories had kept them going in the brash desert heat. Ian had always talked about going home for Christmas that last year they were deployed. He hadn’t made it back. Neither had George. He’d finished out his deployment, then done another. And then he’d been medically discharged after taking a bullet to the knee. The knee had healed. The rest of him had stayed a mess.
The dream always ended the moment before the Humvee exploded. He couldn’t help but wonder if Amy’s unexpected appearance had been the finger that pulled the trigger on the nightmare.
The shovel blade ground against the asphalt over and over as he tossed the snow onto the lawn, working off the residual adrenaline. When he got to the car, he used his gloved hand to brush off the windows and most of the windshield. He wondered for a moment who rented the house and why. Skiing, maybe? The hills hadn’t been open long. A simple getaway? George whistled as he shoveled the front walk and step. His life now seemed more like a vacation than anything. He had a place to put his head at night. People who cared about him—that fact still amazed him. A job. Things he never thought he’d have again.
Things he hadn’t thought he deserved.
Amy’s surprise appearance was just a bump in the road. He certainly hadn’t been forthcoming with any information, though he resented the intrusion of her presence. He was trying to move on from the past, and seeing Ian’s sister felt like a giant step backward.
He finished the driveway and tried to push away the little bit of guilt that pricked at him as he walked back to his truck. He wasn’t a cruel person, but he’d been rude. Sure, it had been pure self-preservation yesterday. He hadn’t had time to prepare. But that didn’t erase the fact that Amy had come all this way for answers and he’d given her nothing. There’d been hurt on her pretty face, along with annoyance and frustration.
He’d broken promises to her, too.
He tossed the shovel into the back of the truck again and then climbed behind the wheel. The truth was, he could only deal with so much guilt at a time, and his feelings for Amy didn’t need to pile on. Because he’d done her wrong in two ways.
He hadn’t brought her brother home safe.
And he’d kissed her and told her they’d pick up where they left off, when he hadn’t been free to make that promise at all.
Once he arrived at the garden center, he parked the truck, took out the shovel and cleared the pathways, and then went to the shed where they kept the garden equipment. He started up the small tractor and backed out, then began the job of blowing out the driveway and parking lot. Laurel drove in around seven thirty, gave him a wave, and went inside. When he was done with the yard, he cleaned out the auger of the blower then put the tractor back inside and locked the door. His jeans had a film of fine snow on them, and he brushed them off best he could, then went inside and hung up his outer jacket to dry and pulled on a Ladybug Garden Center fleece.
Laurel came over to him, carrying a huge mug with steam rolling off the top. “Coffee. Thanks for cleaning the lot.”
“Of course.” He took the cup and inhaled deeply. “It wasn’t bad, anyway. We’ve got months of snow ahead of us. Wait’ll a good Nor’easter hits.” He shivered just thinking about the unrelenting New England storms. He took a restorative sip of coffee.
“You don’t seem so upset this morning. You want to talk about what happened yesterday?”
The coffee turned bitter in his mouth. “Not particularly.”
“She have something to do with why you ran away from your life?”
He looked up sharply. Laurel watched him with steady eyes. Lord, but she was a strong woman. Second friend he’d had in years, with the first being her cop husband. Both had been able to see beneath the damaged exterior to the man inside. He was sure of one thing. Laurel would never judge.
“Something like that,” he admitted. “Indirectly. She just . . . wants to dig it all up again, and I’d like to move on.”
Laurel nodded sagely. “Of course you do. And you’ve been working so hard, so I guess seeing someone from your past is a bit of a jolt.”
He sighed and grabbed the stool behind the cash register, perching on the seat. “You gave me the nudge I needed, you know? And I love working here. It’s just . . .” He hesitated, unsure of what he wanted to say.
“It’s baby steps, and seeing her feels like a giant leap?”
His breath came out in a whoosh. “Yes.”
She pulled up another stool. “Were you in love with her?”
His chest tightened. “No. I barely knew her.” It was true; they’
d only met three times before Ian’s final tour. But the last time . . . there’d been something. It was years ago, but he could still remember how she stole his breath when she came down the front steps of the Merck house in a pair of faded jeans and a Yankees T-shirt. Her hair had been up in a ponytail, long enough that the tips still kissed her shoulders. Twenty-two years old and freshly graduated from NYU, her eyes full of laughter and fun. He and Ian were there for only three days before having to leave again. Ian had begged him to come home with him instead of staying on base. Jennie hadn’t been too happy about his decision to head to New York instead of spending his short leave with her. But he’d promised he’d be back in time for a hot date. Truthfully, he’d liked Jennie a lot. Each time he’d been stateside, she’d been around and, well, waiting.
She’d certainly deserved more that the bits and pieces of himself that he’d given her.
“George?”
His gaze snapped back to Laurel. “Sorry. I guess I got caught up in some memories.”
“Good ones?”
“Sort of.” He smiled a little, gave his head a small shake. “The woman who was here yesterday is the sister of this guy.” He lifted up his arm and revealed the black memorial bracelet on his wrist.
“Ohhhh,” Laurel said, understanding instantly, her eyes softening. “Oh. No wonder it was tough.”
“Yeah. And she wants me to dig up the past. I just . . . don’t. I think she got the picture last night.”
Laurel nodded. “She definitely didn’t look happy. So what now?”
George took another drink of his coffee. “Now I get back to work. What needs doing today? I know there’s a new shipment of trees arriving after lunch. Any other heavy lifting?”
He was thankful she took the subject change with ease. “Nothing I can’t handle. It’s just us today, so it’ll be busy. I’ve got fresh baked goods coming from the bakery and The Purple Pig, and I’m placing my poinsettia order later today. It’ll come in on Friday so we have fresh stock for the weekend.” She frowned. “I’m also ordering an extra fifty, for the banquet a week from Saturday. Do you think you could help with delivery to the golf club on Saturday morning? I have Jordan here all day, which should help.”
