by Holly Jacobs
Praise for Holly Jacobs
Just One Thing
“Just One Thing is an emotionally compelling page-turner. I could not put it down.”
—JoAnn Ross, New York Times bestselling author
“This poignant story about new discoveries, hope, and love is truly unforgettable.”
—RT Book Reviews
Carry Her Heart
“An unforgettable story of unconditional love.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Carry Her Heart is a beautiful story of love and friendship. And, Holly Jacobs’ message of love is strong and touching.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
These Three Words
“A heart breaking love story with exceptional scenes. . .Highly recommended.”
—Obsessed Book Reviews
“These Three Words by Holly Jacobs is about rediscovering love, even during the toughest times.”
—Harlequin Junkie
Also by Holly Jacobs
Just One Thing
Christmas in Cupid Fall
Words of the Heart Series
Carry Her Heart
These Three Words
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Dedication
To Kelsey! I promise; there’s a happily ever after!
Contents
Start Reading
Prologue
Part One: September
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part Two: October
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Part Three: November
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
About the Author
Sometimes home isn’t just a place . . .
I am not your birth father, nor am I the father who raised you, but you are part of me. And when you find Pip, you’ll find me.
You’ll find us.
And when you do, there will be no shock of recognition; there will only be a welcome home.
For wherever we are, you have a home with us . . . you are part of both of us.
And we’ll be waiting for you.
—From Carry Her Heart by Holly Jacobs
Prologue
Ned Chesterfield was done waiting.
He stood on the front porch of the unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar town, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain as his hand froze mere inches from the door.
He knew that once he knocked, Pandora’s box would open wide. There’d be no undoing it.
He also knew this was not what Pip wanted. More than that, she’d specifically told him not to come here. Ned also knew Pip could forgive him almost anything, although he wasn’t sure she’d forgive him this.
But he’d decided that was okay.
If Pip never forgave him—if she carried a grudge for the rest of her life—he could live with that.
What he couldn’t live with was a world without Pip in it.
He didn’t hesitate any longer. His hand came down on the door. He prayed Pip would be mad at him for a very, very long time.
Part One: September
Chapter One
There was a scene in Tolkien’s The Hobbit where the dwarves all arrive unexpectedly at Bilbo’s. It’s chaos as he tries to play host to these unexpected guests. Felicity had always laughed as she read the scene—and she had read it many times.
It wasn’t until she opened her front door and found the entire team on her porch that she began to feel a certain sympathy for Bilbo. As she looked at the team’s faces, she realized an unexpected truth: you can never tell what’s waiting for you on the other side of the door.
—Felicity’s Folly, by Pip
I heard someone knocking on the door. It was amazing that I managed to hear it because Carey was practically shouting.
“So what you’re saying is it’s over?” he asked loudly for the umpteenth time, giving his absurd blond ponytail a flip back over his shoulder.
I didn’t bother to answer his question because I’d already answered it multiple times. Yes, that’s what I was saying.
And I’d kept saying it.
Once I even said, “hell yes.” Carey simply wasn’t hearing me.
“Someone’s at the door,” I said instead of answering him yet again.
I was almost grateful that someone was interrupting this fight. I hoped it wasn’t a neighbor here to complain about Carey’s shouting. Mrs. Carmondy was very particular about noise levels. Once she scolded me because I had a group of mourning doves on my roof and they were causing a racket.
I’m pretty sure that a group of mourning doves is a bevy, but I’d have to look it up to be positive. I’m sure that a group of ravens is an unkindness. I’d always loved that term. An unkindness of ravens. It’s not that I was a bird expert, but I found the group names fascinating, and thinking about them was easier than dealing with Carey.
“I’m getting the door,” I announced and walked toward the front of the house.
“Leave it,” he said. “Let’s finish this. What you’re saying is it’s over?”
I turned back toward him. “Fine, Carey, let’s finish this. I can finish it in four words, and I’ll still have time to get the door. It. Is. Definitely. Over. We are most assuredly over. That’s what I’ve been saying for days. Now I’m saying all that and also adding two more words, get out. Move out. Pack your stuff and leave.”
“Where will I go?” This time it wasn’t so much a shout as a whine.
How on earth had I ignored his propensity to whine for the last eight years? “You are a twenty-eight-year-old man. I’m sure you can figure something out. Maybe your girlfriend will let you move in with her?”
“I told you that she’s not my girlfriend,” he said. “It was just once. I told you that. You’ve been distant lately, and you’ve ignored my needs. Jocelyn was there for me. But it was only that once. I just made that one mistake.”
“No, the mistake was mine. I’m rectifying it now. You need to pack up your stuff and get out by tonight. You don’t have much, so it shouldn’t take long.”
I’d bought the house and most of the things in it. Carey had his video gaming system, his clothes, and not much else.
“I want . . . ,” he started. That was Carey’s favorite way to start a sentence. I want. I need.
Well, I didn’t want to stay to hear the rest of it. I could hear another knock at the door, and I headed toward it.
I was so over Carey
I peeked out the window at the top of the door. I didn’t recognize the man on the porch. I was thankful it wasn’t a neighbor.
The stranger had a nice face. The kind of face that said you can trust me. His short hair was brown—very brown—with just the merest hint of gray at his temples.
I opened the door. I couldn’t quite manage a smile, but I tried not to look annoyed. After all, the fact that I’d wasted the e
ntirety of my adult life on Carey was on me, not on the stranger at my door. “Hi, can I help you?”
For a moment, he simply looked at me as if I were a long-lost friend. He whispered, “Siobhan.”
I nodded. “Yes. Siobhan Ahearn. Can I help you?” I asked again.
“I hope so. You see—”
“Ban,” Carey called. “If I leave I’m not coming back.”
I turned back to Carey. “Good. That’s what I’ve been trying to say. Go. Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out. Oh, and don’t come back.” I turned back to the stranger on my porch. “I am so sorry. You were saying?”
“Ban?” the stranger asked, homing in on my nickname and ignoring the fact that he’d been thrust in the middle of a fight.
I might not be able to answer any of my own questions about why I’d stayed with Carey so long, but this I could answer. People always found my nickname a bit disconcerting. “My name’s Siobhan. It’s pronounced Shove-on, and if I lived in Ireland, I’d probably have a better chance of someone—anyone—knowing that. Every year on the first day of school, some teacher would stumble over it. I was in fifth grade when Mr. Lewis said, ‘Ceo-ban.’ The kids picked up on it and I was Ban from then on. It drove my mom nuts. She said Siobhan was a perfectly good name, and she hadn’t imagined that anyone could find a nickname for it. She didn’t count on my classmates. I was simply thankful I got Ban. Bryce Jazak didn’t fare as well.”
“Oh?” the man asked.
“Lice. He went through grade school as Lice.” I’m not sure why I told him that, other than I was thankful to have a reason to be at the door.
I heard slamming coming from somewhere in the house and knew I was yammering at this stranger in order to avoid Carey. I just wanted him gone, not the gentleman on the porch but Carey. I wanted this drama to be over.
I was ready to move on to a new chapter in my life. Even though I didn’t know what it would look like, I was sure it had to be better than this.
“Plus, I always told my mom that Ban is better than having people shorten my name to Shove,” I added in a lame attempt at a joke. I could hardly manage a chuckle myself.
The man winced and I figured it was a really bad joke.
“Sorry. I’m sure you didn’t come for a lecture on my name.”
He offered me up a forced smile. “Hey, with a last name like Chesterfield . . .”
His name brought back sweet memories of days spent curled up on a blanket in the tall grass in my grandfather’s field, reading. I loved the feeling of being hidden from the real world as I escaped into a good book. “You’re named after a sofa?”
He nodded. “Ned. Ned Chesterfield.”
“When I was a kid, one of my favorite books had a character named Coach Divan. It mentioned Chesterfield sofas in it. I had to look it up. They called him Coach Couch. Sometimes even Couch Couch.” I was sure the book was still packed up in the attic.
Carey claimed my books collected dust and he was allergic. Well, I wasn’t allergic to anything. As of tonight, after he moved out, I might not dust for a month just to prove a point.
A mental image of the Charlie Brown character wafting dust lightened my mood. Yes, I would Pigpen it for a few weeks at least.
I noticed that Ned Chesterfield wasn’t smiling. He made a face I couldn’t quite interpret, so I didn’t even try. “How can I help you, Mr. Chesterfield?”
“Ned, please,” he said, still wearing a bemused look.
“Ned,” I echoed. We were still speaking through my screen door. I didn’t have any more idea of what Ned wanted than when I’d first opened the door. I was pretty sure he wasn’t planning on anything nefarious, so I stepped out onto the porch.
He was taller than I was but not uncomfortably so. I didn’t need to crane my neck to look at him. And as I looked, I noticed his expression—he looked as if he were in pain.
“This is difficult,” he said. “You see, I’m here about your mother.”
I felt my heart constrict. If he knew my mom, maybe it wasn’t my bad joke but my mention of her that made him wince.
I repeated, “My mother? I’m sorry to have to tell you that she passed away eight years ago.”
And eight years later, saying those words still hurt.
I missed my mom. It was an ever-present hole in my life. I’d gotten used to it and even learned to live with it. At least most days. Some days—like today—I wanted her so badly I ached with it. I wanted her to wrap me in her arms and tell me everything would be okay.
I could almost hear her. She’d tell me that my time with Carey wasn’t wasted. Every experience has something worthwhile to teach you. Something you can carry with you into the next chapter of your life, she’d say. I was certain about this because she’d said those words, or something close to them, so many times. Then she’d tell me again about how she’d wanted a baby so desperately and how much she’d suffered when the doctor had told her that she’d never conceive.
But Siobhan, it was such a blessing in retrospect because all along you were the daughter I was meant to have. Every piece of pain we suffer brings us a gift. You were my gift. The greatest gift I’ve ever received.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what life lesson Carey carried, other than I should avoid dating men like him in the future. And certainly he was a warning not to live with a guy like him again ever. Maybe I shouldn’t live with anyone again. I sometimes feel I’m much better on my own than when surrounded by people.
As for gifts, I wasn’t expecting to find one of those on my porch waiting for me. Instead, I’d found this stranger and had to deliver painful news.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. That summed up my feelings about everything that was going on today.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been more clear. I’m here about your biological mother. I met her on a front porch, too, you know,” he added as if the memory were so strong that he didn’t have a choice but to share it.
Another loud Carey-induced noise didn’t faze me in the least now. At the mention of my biological mother I froze. “How? What?”
“Listen, she didn’t send me. She doesn’t know I’m here.” Ned spoke quickly, as if afraid I’d turn around, go back into the house, and slam the door on him.
“She needs you. You’re her last best chance.” He stopped there, as if saying those five words caused him physical pain.
“I would never have bothered you if she had any options left,” he continued. “And she will never forgive me for bothering you now. I’ve decided that I can live without her forgiveness, but I can’t live without her.”
His words sank in. Last best chance. Can’t live without her.
“She’s sick?” I asked.
He nodded. “I wanted to bring you the whole of your story, but it’s not mine to tell. Hell, even this much isn’t mine to tell. I know she’d say I was guilting you into helping her. I probably am. But I brought you this.”
He thrust some papers at me. I glanced at them. They were obviously copies of some smaller handwritten pages. I took them more out of reflex than because I wanted them. I wasn’t sure what to do with this man on my doorstep and some phantom biological mother who needed me. A birth mother who was sick.
I could see the anguish in Ned’s face, and I knew that he loved her.
Truly loved her.
“Ban,” Carey hollered.
I didn’t respond. I looked at this man whose love was written on his face. There’s no way to quantify or measure love, but if there were, Carey’s love for me wouldn’t have measured up to Ned’s love for my biological mother.
“My wife spent years writing a journal to you,” he said. “It’s in your chest with all the other letters and gifts. I copied just these few pages. I wanted you to know at least this much. I came here not to force a meeting but to ask you to consider having the tests done.”
“Tests done for what?” I finally asked.
I wondered if I should b
e crying. I hadn’t cried about Carey, and here I was hearing about the woman I’d always wondered about, and I still felt nothing. It was as if all my emotions were balled so tight that none of them could get through. Not pain. Not fear. Not empathy. Not . . .
I had nothing inside me to give to this man who was pleading his case. So I stood, feeling shell-shocked, clutching papers I didn’t think I wanted.
“Your biological mother, my wife, needs bone marrow. She’s on the national donor registry, but so far there’s no good match. She doesn’t have siblings, and her parents aren’t viable matches, which isn’t surprising. But you could be. The doctors said that it would be a long shot. Kid to parent transplants aren’t the norm, but a long shot is better than no shot.”
The woman I’d always imagined wasn’t someone who was sick. I’d imagined her with a large family. I’d wondered if she had ever thought of me . . . if she ever regretted giving me away.
I loved my parents and owed this woman I’d never met for that. By giving me away, she’d given me such a happy childhood. She’d given me to parents who treasured me and made sure I knew that I was loved every day.
“She isn’t asking. She wouldn’t ask. You need to understand that much. That’s not who Pip is. She’s someone who gives more than she’ll ever take. But I am asking. I’m not nearly as generous as she is. Standing here right now, I realize just how selfish I am. And still I’m standing here. I’m not asking, I’m begging.”
“Ban,” Carey bellowed.
Ned reached into his pocket. “I know I’ve totally botched this, but here’s my card. If you don’t call, I won’t bother you again. But Siobhan, you have to know, Pip never forgot you. You might not know her, but she built a life around you, and she’s never stopped hoping that you’d find your way back to her.”
With that, Ned Chesterfield turned and walked toward a car that was parked in front of my house.
