They walked up the last yards to the summit of the road and stopped at the top of the hill. Finn looked at Bethany. He felt like such a complete shit.
His heart shattered. Future archaeologists would be sure to find a few shards right there in Ptarmigan, Colorado, because he knew his heart would never be the same.
Bethany was staring at a field of wildflowers where the summer house used to be.
She started to walk, haltingly, toward the spot. Her pace quickened, until she was jogging, still gripping the box. She stopped when she got to where the front door had been and set the gift on the ground.
Finn crutched to her as fast as he could. His chest felt like every stone and board from that house was on top of it, crushing the breath out of his lungs.
“What happened to it?” she said in a half whisper. She had been staring straight ahead, looking at the lake. Now she turned to Finn, who was catching his breath beside her. “What happened?”
“Please open it.” He looked at the box. “Then I’ll explain.”
In her pragmatic, Bethany way, she fell to her knees and sat on her heels in the tough, broad-bladed alpine grass, burnt orange Indian paintbrush, and purple fireweed. She jerked the bow loose. Sighed hard. Then attacked the paper as though she had a vendetta against it. “I don’t know why you won’t just tell me.” She opened the box. Seeing the bubble wrap, she pulled the window out and began to unwind the material. As though it was an artifact. Something dead from long ago.
Her fingers trembled as she let the wrap fall and held the window at arm’s length.
It was still beautiful. A small rose window in jewel-toned panes of red, blue, green, and gold, with a heart in the middle. It had been on the wall above the landing of the stairs leading to the second floor. At night, outside, the window had glowed.
It was under this window, bewitched by its shining heart and the radiant brunette in his arms, that Finn had first kissed Bethany on a night when the Milky Way was a bold silver river across the Colorado sky.
She had taken off her sunglasses. Tears pooled on the edges of her eyelids and spilled over, careening down her cheeks. “Finn, why do you have this? Was there a fire?”
In for a penny . . . he thought, ludicrously. He eased his way down, using his crutches for support until he could sit and stretch out his leg. He braced his arms behind him, sighed, and said, “Okay. The real reason I bought the house was you. I thought I’d feel better if I could come here and think of when we were happy. And—brutal truth—I’d hoped I could win you back and we could live in the house together.”
“And then there was a terrible fire?” she asked. “Caused by lightning? An act of God?”
“Then there was a terrible night. This was about a year after we were divorced. I came up, I was depressed, and I was drinking—and I mean drinking. Like Hemingway. I missed you like hell. You need to understand, I was at an all-time low that night. I blamed you, I blamed me, and I needed to destroy something. I decided to remodel. I could change the house a little, and it would be mine while still being yours. I got my sledgehammer and started to take out a wall. It felt great to swing that thing and break something.
“I kept going. I wrecked the house because I didn’t want to live there if I couldn’t live there with you. And then I decided I didn’t want anyone else to live there, either. I didn’t want to see it anymore and be reminded of what I’d thrown away. I kept tearing down walls until I collapsed. Then I called a friend in the middle of the night who brought a crew in the next day and razed the place. I didn’t even bother with permits. I was out of my mind. You called me insane at Winona’s—your diagnosis was about four years too late.”
He looked beyond her, at the high midday sun shimmering off the lake. His memories of that night were the polar opposite of this optimistic, hopeful vista.
Looking back at her, he said, “It was the second-worst night of my life, second only to the night we split up. That night I knew what it was like to live without you and to live without any hope of getting you back. I felt so . . . unworthy of you. More than I’ve ever felt in my life. And you know how great I am at dealing with feelings.” He smiled.
She pressed her lips together in a tense smile.
“But I didn’t do this to hurt you. Hell, I never thought I’d see you again, and I certainly didn’t think you’d know I tore down your old house.”
Beth felt numb, as though she was at the bottom of the lake. There were no thoughts, just emptiness and shock. She shifted to sit with her legs bent to the side. The earth was warm from the sun. Her hands still trembled. She wanted to hug Mingo, but he was more than three hours south.
Still staring at the window, she said, “I can’t believe you did this to my house.” She spoke in a dead monotone. Her breath came in fast little gulps that only filled the top part of her lungs. She looked at Finn and hoped every bit of bile she felt showed in her eyes. She spat out the next words. “You tore down my house! You knew I loved it and you tore it down, you fucking asshole! You were fucking sad? So you—” She dropped her gaze to the window again. Her voice was quiet. “You took it away from me. You took it away.” She fell sideways and pressed her forehead into the green-smelling earth. Grief roiled inside her and she wept as though in a fairy tale where her tears could bring the house back. She cushioned her head with her arms and howled into the coarse grass.
The crying jag lasted for about five minutes, which was an eternity. Huge heaving breaths and sobbing gave way to smaller breaths and quiet wailing. Then hiccups. And then she was done and wanted a tissue.
She pushed herself up and sniffed, and was about to swipe at her nose with her hand when Finn handed her a white handkerchief.
“Here.”
As upset as she was, she couldn’t help wondering when he’d started carrying handkerchiefs. She snatched it. It was all his fault anyway; she might as well soil his hanky.
Crying had helped. Now she sat on the grass with her knees bent in front of her, a barrier from Finn. She avoided looking at him as she placed the soggy handkerchief on the ground between them. When she spoke, her voice was low. “I don’t want to talk to you right now. And part of me wants to hit you in the face with that window. But I won’t.”
She glared at him. He looked sad and helpless, and she was glad. Her throat ached and her face felt stiff from dried salty tears. “This is a big reason you’re giving me the land, isn’t it? Guilt.”
He sighed and hung his head. “I guess. Of all people, an architect who loves to design houses should understand what a home means. I fucked up.”
“Big-time.” After several malingering seconds, she said, “I’m going to the lake. Don’t follow me.”
He nodded.
She started down the hill with the large, three-foot strides she used to count distances between jumps. It felt good to move purposefully and away from Finn.
What a strange turn her life had taken in one hour. But then, life turns on a dime, for better or worse. In a few seconds you could win the lottery or your house could burn down. Like she always said, life is messy.
So easy to hand out platitudes when it’s someone else. Now it’s you. What are you gonna do about this, huh?
Good question. She wanted to Scarlett O’Hara this one, but tomorrow would come eventually. She was so hurt and angry that Finn had bought her house in secret and then torn it down—he tore down her house!—she could effortlessly cry again.
But he was giving her the land. If she took it, she would always have to know he gave it to her and she’d be damned if she’d help him be a goddamn saint after he, yes, she’d say it again, tore down her family home. However . . . would the horses she saved care where the land came from? Would it be better or worse for them if she refused to accept this extraordinary gift?
That answer was, of course, obvious.
Would he take back his offer if
I left him here and drove back to Aspen Creek alone? Okay, she wasn’t that big of a bitch. But it was tempting.
Even though she felt like she was in one of those sappy inspirational posters, she sat on the rocky beach, hugged her knees to her chest, and contemplated the blue, blue water. Her thoughts meandered aimlessly, like a bunch of pony clubbers in a warm-up ring. But she was resilient, and not a brooder, and the stones were digging into her butt, so after ten minutes she stood. She had to take the land, for the horses’ sake.
As for Finn—she wasn’t sure she’d take him back forever. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see him again after this. But she’d take him back to Aspen Creek.
Considering she hadn’t flung the rose window at him, Finn counted himself lucky. Watching her collapse and weep had been one of the most brutal things he’d ever had to witness, especially because he had caused her suffering. He kept telling himself it was the right thing to do, and doing the right thing was often difficult, but no matter how he looked at it and how “correct” it was, today was one of his worst days. He had borne the guilt for more than four years, and he’d hoped he’d feel better after confessing and making amends. But watching Bethany cry had nearly destroyed him.
Predictably, the drive back to Aspen Creek was as noisy and lively as . . . a vacant house. Bethany barely spoke, except for the occasional, “I still can’t believe you did that,” which could have referred to destroying her house, saving the window, or giving her the land. She was having her own private stew-fest, so he looked out the window and felt like shit.
When they got to Aspen Creek, Bethany set the rose window on the table in the cabin, announcing, “I don’t know if I want this.” At the door, she turned to face him. “I have to figure things out, and that’s going to take a while. I hate what you did to the house, but it is very generous of you to offer me the land.”
“It’s not an offer. It’s yours.”
“As I said, it’s extremely generous. This was a rough day for both of us. I can’t be around you for a while. You’re leaving soon anyway, right? Tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” In the turmoil, he had almost forgotten he was going home the next day. He had hoped to spend his last night here in Bethany’s embrace, as a precursor to proposing, but neither was in the cards tonight, or even on the horizon.
“And, uh, the whole thing with Uncle Mitch? Let’s just treat that as a separate entity. It has nothing to do with you and me. If I can get Uncle Mitch a good architect for his project, and you happen to be that architect, so much the better. What matters is you get a fair shot.”
“What matters is that you’re okay.”
She clamped her lips together. “I’m not. I’m angry, sad, and I feel betrayed. But I will be okay. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She opened the door. Mingo wriggled through the opening, presumably to pee on the fountain—his new favorite bathroom—and run a quick reconnaissance mission up to the house and back. Finn thought she’d leave, but she turned around again.
Her eyes met his and she looked unbearably sad. “I don’t hate you, you know.” Finn noted that her eyes didn’t dart to the left for even a split second. Then they roamed over the rose window on the table, then back to Finn, and then she left.
Finn was going to drive his car to his house, but he still needed help to get the suitcase up all those stairs. To Finn’s complete shock, Grady asked to follow him to his house and help. Finn would have preferred Amanda because she might have some insight into Bethany’s state of mind, but he wasn’t about to argue.
Man, he dreaded leaving. He wanted to stick around and see if Bethany would soften toward him and he could convince her to marry him.
And then there was Cormier. Crap on a cracker, as Bethany would say. He had forgotten about the dashing goddamn Cajun. How could he circumvent Jack the Lady Killer? Bethany and her bruised heart would be here, ripe for the picking, by the ad exec with the major-leaguer pedigree and that Harry Connick, Jr. accent. Nobody had ever been seduced by an Ohio accent.
He couldn’t worry about Cormier. He had to get his ducks in a spectacularly tidy, impressive row for Mitchell Frederick. He’d throw himself into his work, but stay in touch with Bethany as much as she’d allow. Worst-case scenario, the only ironclad excuse he’d have to talk to her would be about the land, unless she let a lawyer handle everything. If that happened, he’d figure something else out. He’d given up too easily before, and he’d be damned if he’d make that mistake again.
Finn didn’t want to inconvenience Grady, especially after all the actor had done for him, so when Grady requested they drive to his house on Sunday morning after breakfast, Finn readily agreed. That left plenty of time for Bethany to have breakfast with the Brunswicks. Finn entered the house at eight forty-five and smiled when he heard the cheery sounds of a family breakfast. Wave was doing an impression from a Toy Story movie, Solstice was correcting her, and Grady was the referee. It was Sunday, so Harris was off cooking for Alonso’s soup kitchen. Harris had been cooking for the Sunday soup kitchen for so long, he was the default director while Alonso was out of town. Grady’s assistant, Jacqueline, also had Sundays off.
Finn left his bag in the foyer and as he sauntered to the kitchen, he strained to hear Bethany’s voice, but didn’t. Another bad sign: No Mingo. The smell of bacon, muffins, and coffee made his mouth water. He’d miss being part of a family and having meals with them. For a bevy of reasons, he didn’t want to leave this house, or the cabin, and return to his lonely rented house.
In addition, as usual, every single time he was in the house, he admired its use of space and its graceful, practical design. He’d miss the pleasure he got from looking at the finishing work on the windows, or how the sun influenced the rooms’ moods at different times of day.
“Mr. Finn!” Wave squealed when she saw him. She jumped up from the kitchen table and ran to him, took his hand, and tugged him to an empty chair. “Do you want orange juice or coffee?” she asked. His own pint-sized server.
“Good morning, Miss Wave! How are you today?”
“Good. We’re having pancakes! But what do you want?”
He mimed thinking hard, squinting, tilting his head and tapping his lips with his index finger. “Hmm. . . . I think I’ll have . . . orange juice, please.” While he was “thinking,” he saw that Bethany was skipping breakfast. Or skipping him.
“Coming right up! Have a seat,” she said, and Finn laughed. He’d miss the blond pipsqueak, too.
He exchanged greetings with Amanda, Grady, and Solstice.
“Mr. Finn?” said Solstice, who looked more sophisticated than her twelve years every time he saw her. She sat at the big kitchen table with her dark hair in a ponytail, wearing a crisp, spotless white shirt. “I just wanted to say thank you for the pinball machine. It’s so fun, and it’s so retro, which makes it even better.”
“You’re welcome. I’m glad it found a home.”
Grady, who was manning the griddle, slanted him a look. “You’ve created a monster.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Grady, indicating Finn’s orange juice, said, “Would you like something a little more, uh, lively?”
Bethany. I’d like Bethany, please. But instead he said, “No thanks. Frankly, I should probably have milk. My bones need the calcium to knit.”
“We can do that. Wave, would you please get Mr. Finn some milk?”
“Comin’ right up!” she said.
“She’s got a bright future in a diner,” Grady said.
Wave brought Finn a glass of milk, carrying it as though it was nitroglycerin.
“I almost forgot!” Grady said. “Mort, could you take over pancake duty for a minute? Finn got another package.”
“No! Another one?” Amanda asked, laughing, as she got up from the table.
“Yep. Harris will be devastated th
at he wasn’t here for the unveiling. He told me that fountain is going to send him into therapy. And I have to pay.” Grady left the kitchen.
“Excuse me,” Finn said, “but . . . Mort?”
Amanda laughed. “Inside joke. My first day here I told Grady I was ‘mortified’ because I broke his Emmy, and it became a nickname. Surely you’ve heard that story—Beth tells it to everyone she meets.” She lowered her voice. “Speaking of, shall I go get her? I don’t think she knows you’re here.”
“That might not be a good idea.”
“She went straight to her room after she got back yesterday. I didn’t see her at all. Did something happen?”
Just your average whopping betrayal and abject misery. “You could say that.”
“Tell you what. I’ll go see. Solsty, would you please watch the pancakes? Don’t let them burn.”
“Why can’t Wave do it?”
“She’s not tall enough. And you’ll be better at it. And, oh yeah, I asked you to.”
“All right.” Solstice got up as though thoroughly crippled by arthritis and took the spatula from her mother.
“Thanks.” Amanda left.
Finn was shocked at the frisson that raced through his torso when Amanda left to fetch Bethany. There was every chance Bethany would refuse to come out—she had said she didn’t want to be around him for a while. Maybe “a while” meant overnight. Maybe “around” didn’t include a family breakfast. Nothing ventured . . .
Grady returned carrying a brown cardboard box about four inches square. “Any guesses?” He set it next to Finn’s milk.
“This should be the last thing, and the most expensive of the lot,” Finn said. “I was going to call my credit card people to cancel it, but it’s become a kind of reality show.”
“I know. We’re all going to miss Finn’s Mystery Purchases. Solstice, I’ll take over the griddle.”
Finn slit open the box with a knife and took out a smaller box. From there he took out a black velvet box. A ring box. His heart lurched, much like his body did on crutches.
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