“Tomorrow? The day after that, at the absolute latest.”
He came up behind her and wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin on the crown of her head.
“Tell me you’ve thought about my offer.”
“I have. I still don’t want to live in Vancouver.”
“Then to hell with Vancouver. We could go anywhere together. New York. Paris. Shanghai, if that strikes your fancy.”
“Be serious, Owen. I meant that I don’t want to live anywhere else at all.”
“I am serious. You’ll never get a better chance to sell this place than after my article comes out. I sing its praises quite a bit, so you’re sure to find a buyer.”
She pulled free of his arms, needing to look him in the face. “You’re not listening. I don’t want to leave right now, and I definitely do not want to sell my home right now. I finally have a chance to see what this business can be without the moral crusaders breathing down my neck every day.”
“Honey, you can’t honestly want to work yourself to death in a backwater like this for the rest of your life.”
The condescension in his voice raised her hackles immediately. “I take pride in my work!”
“Pride doesn’t mean a thing if you can’t sleep at night. I don’t come from money, darling. My father was a chicken farmer. He spent his entire life grubbing away at it, too proud to walk away from a doomed enterprise. It may be honest, but it kills you by inches. Every year, that was going to be the year he finally broke even. He died when I was nineteen. The only time that damned place turned a profit was when I sold it, right after the funeral.
“I think you’re scared,” he continued. “You got married because it was the safe thing to do. You stayed on here because it was safe. Maybe you even surrounded yourself with other women because it made you feel safe.”
“And you’re so brave, is that it? You’re going to rescue me from my life?”
“You’re meant for brave things, Jo!”
“You think it doesn’t take courage to run this place?”
“Jo, listen to what I’m telling you. It’s not pride; it’s cowardice. You have to stop being a martyr for your dead husband’s dying business.”
There was a breathless little pause as she absorbed the blow. He had no right, no right at all, to speak of the most difficult decisions of her life in such a crass way.
“I’m not going to stand here and let you insult me like that.” She tore herself free of the circle of his arms, turned away from his gaze, and headed for the door.
“Jo,” he said softly. “Jo, stop for a minute.” And God help her, she stopped, exactly where she stood. She was so angry, and a foolish part of her still wanted him to take her in his arms, to re-establish that easy sweetness they’d had between them just a little while ago.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to insult you.” But he didn’t move, didn’t reach for her.
She breathed out slowly. “Can we compromise on this somehow? You could leave and take care of the article and then come back. Or we could write.”
“I don’t want to be pen pals, Jo. And it doesn’t sit right, leaving you here without me.”
“Why not? It’s not as if I’ll get engaged to another man while you’re away,” she shot back.
His brows snapped together. “What?”
She shook her head, as if that could clear the specter of perfect, jilted Anne McKinnet from her mind. “It doesn’t matter. I just don’t understand why this has to be everything or nothing, right this minute.”
He crossed his arms. “How long did you wait before you married Wilson?” It was precisely the wrong thing to say. Albert’s proposal had been sudden, yes, and she’d accepted him immediately. But her decision had been made in a moment of fear and vulnerability, and it was only by pure luck that her marriage had been as loving as it had been.
“That’s different.”
“Because he owned a successful business.”
“That’s not why. I needed to marry Albert.”
“And you don’t need to be with me?”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“Then I’ll be as plain as I can, Jo. Do you want to be with me, yes or no?”
“I ... I don’t know, Owen. It’s too soon.”
“Just answer the question.”
“It’s not a matter of wanting you. I have responsibilities. I can’t just abandon them on a whim.”
“I’ll take care of you.”
“So I’ll be your responsibility, the kind you’d never abandon on a whim?”
“Yes. I mean, no. God damn it, now who’s twisting words?”
“Maybe I will sell this place one day. But it won’t be because a man snaps his fingers and tells me to trot along behind him.” She was shouting now. Dear God, how was it possible that this was going so badly wrong so quickly? Falling in love was supposed to be effortless, but when it came all tangled up with fear and uncertainty, it became the most difficult thing in the world. Anger, however, was simple.
“You can’t have it both ways, Owen! You can’t ask me to abandon my life right this minute and then ask me to wait until you’re ready to start a new one. I’ve fought for my place in this town. You helped me fight for it. I didn’t run away then, and I’m not running away now. Or ever.”
They glared at each other until he gave up and scrubbed his hands over his face.
“So that’s what I was for you? A way to help save your business? Or maybe just a nice little roll in the hay before you got back to work.”
She hadn’t thought Owen — cheerful, sunny Owen — capable of the sneer currently twisting his face. Her right palm itched with the urge to slap him. But she’d never laid angry hands on anyone in her life, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“I think you should leave. Now.”
“Good. I’ve clearly overstayed my welcome.” He snatched his coat from the back of the armchair. “I won’t bother you. Ever again.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to look out the window, her arms hugged tightly to her chest, tucking herself completely inward and away from him. Her body was curled like a question mark, but there were no questions anymore. They’d both made themselves abundantly clear.
He slammed the front door loudly on his way out.
Chapter 26
Owen stood in the lobby of the St. Alice, awkwardly accepting compliments and returning tips of the hat. He couldn’t wait for Dubs to meet him for breakfast. After the night he’d had, he needed to talk to someone with a steady head on his shoulders. Dubs had never steered him wrong before. It also wasn’t like Dubs to be late.
Twenty minutes later, Dubs bustled in.
“I was starting to give you up for dead,” said Owen. “Is everything all right?”
Dubs gave him a long-suffering look. “It’s been an interesting morning.”
The details came out over the St. Alice’s dry-as-sand scones, which both men picked at.
“This gives me no pleasure, my boy. I wanted to follow your advice and get to know Jo a bit. I’ve seen too many good men brought down by ... unsuitable women. So I went to see her this morning.” Owen leaned forward in his chair. That dismissive crack Jo had made about getting engaged to another man while he was gone suddenly made more sense.
“You told her about Anne, didn’t you?”
Dubs raised his hands defensively. “I thought you might have already told her. She didn’t carry on about it. Took it quite well, actually.”
“What did you tell her, exactly,” Owen pressed.
“I may have been overly direct, to be honest. I put it quite bluntly: that you had courted Anne and left her in the lurch when it came time to propose.”
It was a very blunt statement of what had happened. “I didn’t ‘leave her in the lurch’! I had a book to finish. How was I supposed to support a wife otherwise? I didn’t know it was going to turn into such a ... a ...”
“Call it what it was: a scandal. Anne wa
s damned lucky to land that Smythe boy afterwards.” Owen slumped back in his chair, like a sullen boy being lectured by an older brother.
“Damn it. The next time you get an urge to help me with women? Don’t.”
“Oh, don’t sulk. That business with Anne is the least of your worries when it comes to Mrs. Wilson.” He stared fixedly into his coffee cup.
“Dubs! Out with it!”
“Frankly, she doesn't seem all that broken up that you're leaving. She’s a widow, and she was lonely. These things happen all the time. She made it quite clear to me that her business is a lot more important to her than whatever mutual arrangement the two of you may have had.”
She’d made it quite clear to him as well. She’d been so angry with him, so dismissive. “That’s flattering. Anything else?”
“I told her that you wouldn’t be happy in Fraser Springs, and that she wouldn’t be happy in Vancouver.”
“And ... did she agree with that?”
“Yes. She did.” Owen must have looked as gutted as he felt, because Dubs reached across the table to grip his forearm. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I didn’t realize you were so serious about the gal.”
It was time to take the hint. Jo had told him, and now his oldest friend had told him the same thing.
Dubs coughed into the silence stretching between them. “At any rate, if we leave now, we can still catch the slow boat out of here today. We’ll be back in civilization before you know it.”
Owen drained the last, cold dregs from his coffee cup with a grimace. “Good. I’ll start packing.”
• • •
The process of returning to Vancouver was easier than Owen anticipated. Within twenty minutes, the hotel bill had been paid and he was up in his room packing. It was so easy to fold Ross Wister’s life away.
Two heavy wool suits. Five pairs of drawers. Five undershirts. One sweater. One shaving kit. Two pairs of trousers. Three button-down shirts. Five collars and ten cuffs. One dime-store novel. One botanical history guide whose pages he had never even cut, let alone read. These were the things Ross Wister had taken with him to Fraser Springs, and these were the things Owen Sterling was now packing. They smelled of sweat and smoke. They smelled of mint salve.
They smelled of her.
And now they were neatly folded in a trunk going back to Vancouver, where his laundry man would press the odours out of them until all they smelled of was starch. He looked around the hotel room. The novel Nils had loaned him was still on the bedside table, so he placed it on top of the rest of his gear, along with a smooth white pebble he’d pocketed in the grotto. Sentimental foolishness. He tossed the pebble into the wastepaper basket.
Owen shaved, focusing on the shush of the razor against his skin, and applied the aftershave, focusing on the salve’s burn, and wrapped his arm in a clean bandage, focusing on wrapping the gauze evenly and tying a secure knot. And then he waited with Dubs in the lobby of the St. Alice Hotel, saying nothing, trying his best to nod politely and make small talk when townspeople offered their good wishes. Word of his leaving had traveled quickly through the town.
The porter brought coffee for them as they waited for the ship. He drank the thin, bitter brew and tried to cheer himself with the thought of how good the fare in Vancouver would taste compared to this. When he got back home, he would enjoy a slice of pie and a proper coffee at The White Lunch and maybe treat himself to a good supper at the Hotel Vancouver. A shave with hot towels at his favourite barber’s shop, and then he’d pop by some of the clubs for a little sorely missed conversation. Yes, it would be good to get back to a real city.
He repeated that phrase—it would be good to get back to a real city—to himself over and over until he started to believe it. Enough of the mosquitos and the hot spring’s sulfur odour. It would be good to hear trolleys and bicycle bells and car horns again. His bags checked with the clerk, he wandered slowly up the boardwalk, away from Wilson’s, until he ran out of boards to walk. Somewhere along the way, Dubs had disappeared. He always knew when to give a fellow some space.
Owen tried hard to focus on the journey ahead of him, rather than searching the crowd for Jo. Instead, he noticed a figure slowly making his way down the boardwalk, using an old umbrella for a cane.
“Come to say goodbye, Doc?” Owen asked. Although his complexion remained pale and his gait was unsteady, Doc’s fighting spirit was clearly back in force.
“Nah. Just came to see you in that plaid monkey suit one more time.” The hand he rested on Owen’s forearm was trembling, whether from emotion or fatigue Owen couldn’t guess. “And to say thank you. Was too busy trying to catch my breath to properly thank you at the time.”
“Don’t mention it,” Owen said. “I only did what anyone would do. You’re looking better.”
Doc smiled. “Got to be. I got to dance at your wedding, don’t I?”
The words slugged Owen in the gut. “Oh. There’s not ... That is, Jo made it clear I’m not ...”
Doc squeezed his hand. “Turned you down, did she? Can’t say as I’m surprised, to be honest. Oh, well. She’s stubborn as a mule, so you’ve got to be even more stubborn.”
“She knows what she wants, and it’s not me.”
“What she wants! Ha!” The intensity with which he interrupted Owen sent Doc into a coughing fit. “She’s not doing what she wants. She’s doing what she believes is right. Give her some time.” He coughed again and gripped Owen’s arm, then looked straight into his eyes. “Don’t give up on her out of pride is all I’m asking. Can you do that?”
Owen patted the hand that gripped his forearm. “Sure, Doc.” No harm in letting a kind old man have some hope.
The SS Minto’s whistle gave several sharp screeches. “Sounds like my ride’s about to leave,” Owen said. “Goodbye. And good luck with the rebuilding.”
Doc grinned. His eyes were watery from his coughing fit. “See you soon,” he said.
• • •
Tomorrow, Jo would have to face all the polite conversations. “A pity Mr. Wister had to leave!” “We’ll certainly miss Mr. Wister around these parts!” “Jo, how are you keeping?” Today, however, all she wanted was to be alone with her thoughts. And so she headed for the grotto.
But just when she needed it most, even the cool stone was no comfort. She had brought along her bathing costume, and the heavy mohair felt oppressive after years of bathing in her underthings. She leaned back against the rock and tried to clear her mind. It was no use. When she closed her eyes, she saw only Owen. The memory of their time in the grotto brought waves of regret, not pleasure. She opened her eyes.
“You are being ridiculous,” she told herself aloud. “Stop mooning.” The grotto turned her voice into an echo, until it seemed that a whole chorus of people were chiding her. The twisted spires of rock looked menacing today, like she was in the mouth of some creature about to clamp down on her. The blue waters and the pale stone only reminded her of a frigid wasteland. Even the cave paintings were just another reminder of how people made their brief impressions and then disappeared.
Owen would return to Vancouver. She would stay in Fraser Springs, maintaining Wilson’s, chasing the tourism money, hoping that the mine didn’t peter out too soon the way the one in Granite City had, and the one in Blakeburn before that.
The charred wreckage of Doc Stryker’s would be turned into wood ash for fertilizer, and soon a new bar would be erected. And one day, inevitably, she would be reading the society pages and see the announcement: noted author Owen Sterling engaged to wed a fresh-faced little debutante. Someone suited to society living, who could be a hostess for literary salons and help Owen’s career. Someone young and sparkling, who’d been following a bright, clear path from the schoolroom to the altar. No haunted dreams, no business to run, just an endless round of teas and afternoon callers and new frocks. She would have soft hands and sing like an angel. And she would have saved her virtue for her wedding night.
Jo’
s entire life took place in less than one square mile. She had not realized how small her life must look to someone like Owen. Or how small it now looked to her without someone to share it with.
She closed her eyes again, trying to distract herself by making a mental list of everything she would need to repair the bathhouse. The glass was the main concern, but maybe in the summer they could take the window out altogether and make the parlour an extension of the porch. No, that was silly. Maybe she could turn it somehow into two smaller windows. She sighed. Try as she might, the numbers never seemed to add up. Not in the account books and not in her life.
The smooth limestone pressed against the knobs of Jo’s spine, reminding her of how Owen had once wrapped his arms around her, fanning his fingers against the small of her back to cushion her from the hard stone. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel the pressure of his thighs against hers. The water was still now, but she could picture how the rhythm of their bodies had churned the water so it’d lapped against them. As they’d rested together afterwards, she had laid her head against his chest so that she could hear his heartbeat under the staticky fizz of the mineralized water. She saw him flushed and shining, smiling at her.
Stupid. She had been so stupid. But it had been a lovely holiday from her life. And all holidays end. As Jo rose out of the water, she heard a low hooting noise so faint she thought it might be a bird’s cry. But, no, she would know that sound anywhere: the SS Minto had arrived. She dressed deliberately. She would not hide in the grotto until the boat was safely away. And she would also not give in to the urge to hurry, to run to the docks, to find Owen and beg him to forget everything she’d said. To beg him to stay. She had made the responsible decision, and she would abide by it. She was entirely calm. And yet her fingers were shaking as they fastened each fiddly button, each hook and eye, each tie. There was no mirror to judge whether she was presentable, so she ran her hands along her body to make sure at least the outer dress was secure. It was.
Jo walked out of the grotto, up the embankment, her heart thrumming in her throat. Little wet tendrils of hair clung to the back of her neck. Owen had stroked his fingers just there, so gently. She could picture in crystalline detail the constellation of little scars across his tanned arms and hands that told the tale of scrapes and misadventures. The strong chest that tapered into a narrow waist and hips. The way he looked at her.
The Scandalous Mrs. Wilson Page 16
