by Casey Dawes
“Get me as excited as you are,” her dad said. Show me how you are going to let people know about this and get them here.”
She scribbled notes in her sketchpad.
“And let me have it by Thanksgiving.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Yep. Business requires determination and action. I know you have the first. Let it drive the second.”
Chapter 21
For the next two weeks, Julie rose early and went to bed late, sketching, researching, and typing notes into her computer, in between completing the three paintings the galleries wanted by the start of the holidays.
“It’s a good time to sell,” her former professor said, “especially the almost romantic pieces you create.”
She also started to noodle on a few ideas for the gallery in New York. The retreat space wasn’t to replace her dream of becoming an artist but to enhance it.
The week leading up to Thanksgiving added to the whirlwind of intensity. Her sisters baked pies, and she found herself on the road to Lewistown more than once to get supplies for her mother. Even as she drove through the lengthening shadows of the coming winter, she dictated notes into her cell phone.
She handed the completed, but messy, plan to her father on Thanksgiving eve. He glanced at it and nodded. “Let’s talk about this Friday. I have the day off, and we can go over it in detail then. That’ll give me a chance to study it while you gals are rushing around the kitchen creating all those wonderful aromas.”
“I love you, Dad,” she said, giving him a hug.
But by the time she settled into the den to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade the next morning, her blessings came to a screeching halt.
As the streets of New York came into view, it became difficult to breathe.
Was he there watching the parade? Had his parents succeeded in setting him up with someone more appropriate? While they’d never been mean to her, she’d been aware that she wasn’t the person they’d hoped their son would marry.
For the sake of the day and her family, she hid her distress. Her siblings began to fill the house with their families, and soon she was caught up in the role of favorite aunt. To ease her pain, she gathered the kids one at a time in the living room and sketched them. Maybe portraits for the families at Christmas? One more thing in her busy life, but it would keep her from thinking too much about a man with a sweet tooth.
Was it true that absence made the heart grow fonder?
Nonsense. It just made you forget about all the annoying little habits the other person had. She tried to think of his worst habits, to tarnish the too-perfect image her romantic heart painted.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t come up with any.
“Aunt Julie, why do you look so sad?” one of her younger nieces asked.
“Ah, it’s nothing, pumpkin. But now you’re here, I will have to cheer up.”
“Can I see?” The little girl snuggled into her lap and turned the pages of the sketchbook—right back to the one she’d been avoiding.
“Who’s he? He has a good smile. Like my daddy makes.”
The crack in her heart rewidened. If Thanksgiving was doing this to her, what would Christmas be like—the holiday he’d wanted to spend with her in New York?
When the family settled in to watch Miracle on 34th Street, an annual tradition, she couldn’t bear it anymore.
“I’m going for a walk,” she announced and went to the front hall closet to grab her jacket.
“I’ll come with you,” her older sister, Victoria, said. “I need to do something to keep all this food from sticking to my butt.” She glanced at Julie. “Unless you don’t want the company.”
“No, it’s fine. Come along.” Victoria had been the sister she’d always gone to when things fell apart. She had a nature similar to their father’s and, at six years older, had always seemed to be more of an adult than a teenager.
“Mom told me what happened,” she said when they were a few blocks from the house. The fall sun warmed the chill November air with its brightness. Although it hadn’t snowed yet, odd for this time of year, it was only a matter of time before Mother Nature reminded Montanans of her power. “You okay?”
“I thought I was, but then they showed the city this morning, and ...”
“Must have been hard. Have you heard from him?”
“Not a word. I didn’t really expect to. He has his tennis and his society life. No need for me.”
“Don’t become bitter, Julie. It doesn’t suit you. There will be someone someday. You just need to give yourself time to heal.”
“But how long is it going to take?”
“Patience, girl.” Victoria gave a long belly laugh. “From what you said at dinner, it sounds like you have plenty to keep you busy.” She put her arm around Julie and hugged her. “I’m proud of you, baby sister. We all are. You’ve got ambition, guts, and talent. Some guy is going to understand how special that is and sweep you off your feet.”
The amazing support of her family would get her through this, if anything would.
“Can you believe my oldest is going to junior high next year? I’m getting old,” her sister said.
“No, you’re not. You just started young.”
“The Thompson way. Mom looks great, doesn’t she? And Dad hasn’t aged a bit—well, maybe a little. He’s become softer somehow.”
“Uh-huh.”
Their feet crunched on gravel at the edge of the chip seal road. Others ambled through the small town as well; a holiday air had settled over the post-turkey lethargy. She was in comfortable and familiar surroundings, but for the first time, there was something missing.
Chapter 22
Logan stared at the football game without really seeing it. As his mother had promised, Thanksgiving dinner guests had included a few old friends, with girls she deemed appropriate for his return to tennis.
Fortunately, they hadn’t lingered long. He’d been polite, but the women had one significant problem.
They couldn’t hold a candle to Julie.
He was spending more and more time at the woodworking shop. Jake had offered to pay him a little, but he turned it down. It wasn’t money he was after from the job. He wanted the respite from the stress that was the city—a chaos he hadn’t felt until Julie had walked away.
Creating something beautiful was much more satisfying than slamming a ball at opponents, even though he’d chosen tennis over a ranch in Montana.
Had he made the right choice?
Too late now. The place was on the market. His life there was over, and nothing could bring it back.
His mother’s words broke through to his consciousness.
“I think we should go to Aruba for Christmas,” she said. “You should come, too, Logan. The warm beach will help you get over the funk you’re in. You need to settle down before you go back on the circuit.”
“It’s not a funk,” he declared.
His father cleared his throat.
“I want to have Christmas in New York,” Logan said. “If you’ll remember, I didn’t get much of it last year.”
With Julie by his side.
The hole in his heart widened a little more.
“Sorry, Mom. I guess you’re right. I am in a funk. I’m going to head home. The walk’ll do me good.”
His parents saw him out, but not without a bag full of leftovers.
“Take care, son,” his father said as he walked him to the elevator. “You know,” he continued when the elevator doors opened. “Just because you’ve made a decision doesn’t mean it’s the right one. You’re young enough to change your mind.”
The doors closed in his face.
The walk to his apartment was brisk, but he didn’t notice. The hard cement of city sidewalks became the more forgiving ground of the ranch. Brick buildings gave way to the smell of fresh wood as he repaired the cabins in the summer sun. Peace crept over him—a peace he didn’t truly understand but soothed him like a divine spi
rit.
The blare of a horn as he crossed a street jerked him back to reality.
What a difference a year had made.
Or had it? Here he was, ready to go back to the life he’d known for the last six years. Was it what he really wanted?
He unlocked the door to his apartment, halfway expecting the ghostly image of Hobo to greet him with a questioning look: Why did you abandon me?
Shit. He needed to stop this. Otherwise, he’d wind up in a depression that wouldn’t help at all.
He poured a glass of scotch, sank into his leather chair, turned on the ballgame, and watched it with the glazed eyes of a man who was lost.
• • •
A week later, the holidays were in full swing in the city. Logan’s world rushed by him—practice and planning for the trip to his first tournament taking up most of his days. His only respite was a few hours in the woodshop a week. Although he never brought it up, he knew Jake wasn’t comfortable with all Logan’s rushing around.
The call came Friday, a week after Thanksgiving.
“I have an offer,” Douglas Crowley’s Realtor said after they’d finished the pleasantries of conversation. “It meets our price. There’s only one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“The buyer wants you to be here to sign the transaction. He won’t take a surrogate.”
“Jeez. That’s impossible. I’ve got to practice and get ready to travel.” Plus, his mother was still running her campaign of having holiday events and inviting single women to them. “I don’t have the three days it will take to get there and back just to sign a stupid piece of paper. Can’t they fax it?”
“Nope. They said in person only.”
Crap.
“Who is it? Could we get a better offer if we waited?”
“It’s a company. I can’t figure out the principals.”
Papers shuffled.
“Here it is—Sweet Grass LLC.”
Why did that name sound so familiar?
“As for a better offer, no, I don’t think we can. Our asking price is right, but people don’t like to pay that anymore. They said they’ll take it as is. They’ll even keep the dog.”
“The dog?”
“Yeah, there’s a stray out there most days. It’s like he’s looking for someone.”
Hobo.
A shiver chilled his skin.
He pulled up his calendar on his phone. His mother would be annoyed, but he wanted the ranch off his mind and out of his life. If spending two days battling airport crowds and stuffy planes was what it took, then so be it.
He told Jake what he was up to, and the older man pursed his lips as he studied the grain of a plank he was considering for a table.
“Sounds like a nice place. Good to get away from crowds and such.”
“Too many memories.” Logan went into the well-ventilated varnish room and put another layer of stain on the rocker he’d finally finished, ensuring no drips.
He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Soon it would be over and done, and he could move on with his life.
“Tell me about the girl,” Jake said when he returned. “Girls are powerful creatures. Good thing they don’t always know what they have.” He gave a chuckle. “Mine did.”
“She’s just someone I met in a chocolate shop. I told you all this.”
“Uh-huh. The factual details. That you did.”
What more did the man want?
“I found my gal twenty-five years ago,” Jake said as he made markings on loose papers attached to a clipboard. “She was a pistol. I was just in town for a visit. I’m from Vermont, you know.” He glanced at Logan.
He hadn’t known specifically where in New England Jake had originated, but the soft r’s of the man’s speech had always soothed him. In fact, he reminded him of Willy in a lot of ways.
“I just wanted to go home to Vermont and keep making things. But she had other plans. I tried. I left for a few months. She came to visit, but she wasn’t suited to the land.” He started an outline on the board in preparation for cutting it.
“How’d you wind up here?”
“Couldn’t stay away. I figured I could make things work wherever I was, as long as she was there.” He stopped working and smiled. “We’re going to be married twenty-five years come April. Best decision of my life.”
Without asking for comment, Jake finished his markings, picked up the board, and headed to the table saw. Before he turned it on, he turned to Logan one more time.
“The thing is ... is Julie the kind of woman you can walk away from? Or the one you’ll regret all your life?”
• • •
Logan took an early morning flight but was stuck with a four-hour layover in Denver—the penalty of buying tickets at the last minute. By the time he hit Missoula, it was getting dark, so he got a room at one of the motels close to the airport.
The sky and roads were clear as he drove the highway east in a practical SUV. With any luck, he’d get this over with quickly and be back on the road tonight. He’d booked a red-eye home, with another long layover—this time in Salt Lake City.
Ugly—but out of here.
He arrived at the real estate office at the appointed time to find the buyers weren’t there.
“They’ve already come and gone,” she said. “They’d like you to drop the keys off at the ranch and get anything else you’d like to take with you before they take full possession.”
What a pain in the ass these people were!
He glanced at his watch and began the marathon of signing, not thinking about the legacy he was signing away. Finally, it was done.
A hollow shell sat in the middle of his chest.
“Once escrow closes, the check will be deposited in your account in New York.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a swift handshake and left the office.
He stood for a few minutes in the chill December air, letting the muffled sounds of a small town drift around him.
Quiet.
There was no street corner in New York at any time of day that provided this tranquility.
He suppressed the urge to dash back inside and tear up the papers, if he could even do such a thing legally.
He’d made his choice. He would have to live with it.
Just because you’ve made a decision doesn’t mean it’s the right one. You’re young enough to change your mind.
His father’s words echoed in his memory.
I think you’re wrong about this one, Dad.
Was it something he was going to regret all his life?
He’d simply have to live it and find out.
• • •
Julie stared out the window of the ranch she’d just bought at the SUV lumbering up the driveway.
This was it. A final confrontation.
Had she been a fool to buy this particular piece of property with all its memories? Her family thought so, but she knew she’d found something important here, something that could flow into her art, once the searing pain wore off.
But to move on, she needed to be honest with Logan, clear about her feelings for him so he would know. Maybe the end result would be the same, but if she never told him, she’d always wonder.
She’d been afraid he’d turn down the requirement that he come back and wait for another offer, but here he was, almost at the front door.
He looked strong and healthy but totally unprepared for the animal that shot out from the barn straight at him.
Hobo always had a sixth sense where Logan was concerned.
“Hobo!” Logan dropped to his knees and hugged the dog close to him.
The dog wriggled, his tail wagging furiously while he nuzzled Logan’s face.
The man belonged here. Why couldn’t he see that?
He stood and, with hands on his hips, looked like he was scolding the dog, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Hobo sat and stared up at him, as if he was waiting for him to come to his sen
ses.
Aren’t we all?
She stepped back from the window so he wouldn’t see her.
He knocked, then tentatively opened the door.
“Hi, Logan,” she said.
He dropped his keys and stooped to pick them up before speaking.
Hobo nudged by his legs and took up his customary place in the corner. He sighed and settled into a ball, seeming to indicate that now that everything was put to rights again, he could relax.
“What are you doing here?” Logan finally got the words out.
“I bought the place.”
“But how ... I mean, did you strike big in the art scene and I missed it?”
“Not yet. Come to the kitchen. I have coffee brewing.”
Aware of every step of his feet as he followed her, she made her way to the kitchen. When she indicated the chair, he sat.
“How did you get in?” he asked.
“Spare key.”
“Darn. I knew I forgot to do something.”
“Doesn’t look like anyone else discovered it.” She placed the mugs in front of him and sat.
“I’m amazed you came,” she said.
“So am I. What was the point?” His voice was defensive.
She couldn’t blame him. It must seem like a wild goose chase—an expensive and time-consuming one.
“You know I wanted to create a space for artists and other creatives to have a room of their own and an expanse to create with other like-minded people.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t quite understand how you were planning on making any money from that.”
“People often pay big bucks to get away from the hustle and bustle of their lives. Not only people who make art for a living, but those who want to play around with something else other than their real job.”
“Kind of like me and woodworking.”
“Well, sort of.” As far as she was concerned, he gave woodworking too little thought. He was good at it and he was happy when he was doing it, but she couldn’t convince him to believe in something he didn’t see himself. Her heart sank a little.
“Anyway, I did a lot of research, both here and in New York. I worked with my dad on a business plan, and we found a number of places that were enthusiastic about getting the word out.
