by Wendy Owens
Christian laughs softly.
“That’s funny?” I snap.
Christian shakes his head, closing the gap between us. “I don’t expect things to feel normal anytime soon. And I don’t think Henry expected you to flip a switch either. Whatever will or won’t happen between us, I’m not worried about right now. All I want right now is to hold and comfort the girl I’ve known and loved since I was a kid.”
He stares at me—waiting for any sign his embrace might be welcome. I bow my head, which he quickly takes as an invitation. He wraps his strong arms around me. The zipper of his sweatshirt presses into my cheek uncomfortably, but the massive warmth and strength of his embrace is so intense I don’t dare push him away. I almost welcome pain inflicted from something other than my cracked-in-two heart.
Gripping the sleeve of his sweatshirt, I crumple into him, the wall coming down and the raw pain enveloping me. “It hurts so bad.” I cough and heave, my words barely audible.
He pets my head, he doesn’t let go, and I cry as he speaks, “Please let me be here for you, Paige. Will you let me do that?”
I nod, unable to speak, the pain in my chest more than I can bear. I have never felt so utterly broken. I can’t process Henry’s letter, I can’t process anything except that I hurt. I hurt, and I don’t want to. The loss is so great my body actually aches. I fall to my knees, curling into a ball, and try to shut it all out.
Christian is there, he moves with me, holding me, rocking me through my sobs. My eyes are burning, and I wonder if breathing will always be this painful. I struggle to breathe, Christian’s broad hand rubbing circles across my back, trying to calm me.
I close my eyes; the warmth of his body and his steady breathing lulls me into the sleep that has escaped me for days.
Chapter Thirty-Two
One Month Later ...
SOME DAYS I feel strong—almost like I might be able to get out of bed and walk down to the table for breakfast. But just before I slip my robe on each time, the sadness creeps in, and I settle for pulling the blankets back over my head.
Then there are the days that I feel like I am a frail and broken leaf, laying on the ground, waiting for the massive storm that is just over the horizon to come and blow me away. Since I spend most of my time here, in this bed, staring up at the ceiling, I also have taken up a new hobby. At least that’s what I like to call it. I worry. That is my hobby.
I worry I’ll forget what Henry looks like. I worry I’ll forget his smell, or his laugh. I worry there’s nothing after this life, and I won’t get to see him again. I worry I will get cancer and die a painful and terrible death alone—like Henry. I worry my friends will tire of me and send me back to New York.
Emmie can tell this is a new state of broken for me, and though she tries every day, I fear I am now becoming a burden on her. I then worry that Henry felt like he was a burden to me.
“Paige?” I hear Christian’s voice and a knock on the tiny green door. I don’t answer. He enters anyway. He’s used to me not answering. “Are you hungry?”
I still don’t answer. I simply stare past him. This never seems to bother him. He sets the tray he is carrying down on the small trunk at the foot of the bed and makes his way over to me, picking up a pillow I’ve discarded to the floor. He places it behind me and gently nudges me into a sitting positing, propping the pillow up behind me.
“Emmie made oatmeal. It’s got raisins and nuts, and I brought up a little jar of pure maple syrup for you in case you wanted it a little sweeter,” he says. I watch him as he retrieves the tray. I don’t understand why he is doing this; I want him to stop.
“I’m not hungry,” I say at last.
“Well, you need to eat something,” he insists, pulling up a wooden chair next to me and placing the tray on his lap.
“I said I’m not hungry.” My voice is dripping with venom.
“Then I’ll sit here until you are,” he informs me.
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I ask, glaring at him.
“Because I care about you; we all do,” he explains.
I huff. Deep inside me, I want the fight. I want to unleash all my hurt, anger, and fury onto him, but I simply don’t have the strength to expel that much energy. Relenting, I scoop the bowl off the tray and shove a spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth.
“There you go,” he commends me.
I study him as he watches me just as intensely. I’ve been so cruel to him since I came down to stay with Emmie. I can’t figure out why he puts up with it. “Can I ask you a question?” I ask after swallowing.
“Anything,” he answers with a half smile.
“I got married to someone else,” I begin. “Why didn’t you move on, start dating someone else?”
Christian thinks about my question for a long time. Finally, he furrows his brow and answers me, “The same reason I didn’t date anyone the last time we were apart. Nobody was you.”
I shake my head, shoving another bite of oatmeal into my mouth. “Are you trying to tell me you would have stayed single forever if Henry hadn’t been sick?”
“I don’t know—maybe. It’s hard to say. Perhaps, eventually, I would have found someone else who I connected with in the same way, but I just don’t think that happens very often ...” He pauses, leaning forward. “For some people, it doesn’t even happen once.”
His dark eyes grab my attention, and I force myself to look away. I don’t want to look at him. I just want to miss Henry. Why won’t he leave?
“Does it make you uneasy when I say things like that?” he asks.
My head snaps back as I stare at him through squinted eyes. “No! Why would that bother me?”
“I don’t know. It seemed to upset you.”
“I’m not upset,” I insist.
“Sorry, my mistake.” I don’t like the way he won’t argue with me. Nobody will argue with me. It’s like they all think I will lose all touch with reality if they push back.
“Do you come up here every day because you think eventually I’ll give us a second chance?” I ask pointedly. I can see the question annoys him.
“I come up here every day because I care about you, and I don’t want you to be alone with your pain.”
“So you have no hopes of me ever loving you again?” I demand.
Christian shakes his head. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“Answer me, damn it!” I shout.
“Pain makes us angry sometimes, and I’ll be here for as long as you need someone to take it out on.”
“Whatever,” I huff.
Christian reaches out and grabs my hand. He pulls me closer, and I am suddenly uncomfortable. “Paige, I’ll be here for you, but you’ll never get me to stop loving you, so stop trying.”
I feel my chest tighten, and my eyes fill up with tears. I wildly yank my wrists away. An awkward silence settles over the room. I wait for him to say something, to leave, to do anything, but he doesn’t. He just sits in that damn chair and watches me.
I look to him, my voice shaking, and I ask, “What if I am never ready to be loved again.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m not even thinking about that,” Christian answers softly.
“Because I may never be able to be with someone ever again. Do you understand that?”
He smiles, that crooked smile with his dimple, which is still amazingly sexy, but can’t seem to pull me out of my stupor. “What happened to you is something you should have never had to go through, but you did. So right now, all I’m asking is that you take it one day at a time and let me be your friend. I’m not thinking about our future, or us, I promise. Will you let me be your friend?”
I feel my chest ache and tighten. I think about Henry’s letter and what it must have taken for him to write such things to Christian. I feel so confused, and I don’t know what to do, but a friend like Christian sounds amazing. I nod, no words seeming appropriate.
He reaches out and takes my hand
into his. “What do you say to going downstairs and seeing Olivia and Colin and Emmie for a little bit?”
“I don’t know,” I say, hesitating at the idea of leaving the safety of my tiny room.
“How about you come down and try, and if you want to come back up, just tap my arm, and I’ll come up with some excuse and whisk you back to bed,” he offers. “Sound like a plan?”
“Okay,” I agree and stand, wrapping my oversized robe around my small frame.
He opens the door, and as I step up to the doorway, I freeze, taking a deep breath.
“You all right?”
“I’m scared.”
“I’m right here, one step at a time. I’ve got you, okay?” he encourages me.
I look at him then back at the hallway. On the other side of that door is the real world, the place where I watched my husband die. I can’t believe there is a world where I am now alone, only looking out for me again. I glance back at Christian, feeling a chill run down my spine.
In that second I realize, I’m not alone; if I let them, I have my friends all around me, helping me one day at a time.
Epilogue
Three Years Later…
PULLING OUT ONE of the cardboard boxes from underneath the counter, I carefully lift and place it on the counter top, running the knife down the row of packing tape. I haven’t seen my designs since I sent the revisions from the prototype off to the manufacturer. Taking a deep breath, I swallow hard and prepare to open the box, hoping this time they got it right. There is no more time for do-overs. There is just enough time to get the bulk order back before for the grand opening.
Opening one side of the box, and then the other, I peek through squinted eyes. I don’t see anything too alarming at first glance—no clown costumes mistakenly packaged inside. Pressing my eyes wide open, I first run my hands along the pieces of clothing, taking in the textures. Pulling out the brown pants, I lift the corduroy to my nose and, with a deep inhale, smell. I’m surrounded by newness, and it’s intoxicating.
Holding the pants out in front of me, I inspect the small plaid patches on the knee and the sliver just above the pockets, smiling at the perfection, pleased I’d made the choice to change things up at the last minute. Next, I pull out the faded denim button-up shirt, the beauty of it in the simplicity. Then at the bottom I see the piece that brings the outfit all together. It is the most delicious cream-colored, lush alpaca-haired vest. The medium-colored cowboy boots that came in the week before are a perfect complement.
Pushing the box to the side, I lift up the next, a small pink ribbon on the front of the label. The excitement in me is growing with each passing moment. I waste no time slicing into the box, my heart melting as I pull out the dress, masses of cream and soft pink tulle, billowing out from under the layers that are draped and synched with the signature pink bow.
A bell chimes behind me as I hear the door open and close. I smile at the sound of Christian’s voice. “Oh, I know you didn’t lift those boxes up on your own, right?”
“Well, I looked around for some big, strong man to do it for me, but then realized we were in short supply of those around here and decided to do it myself.”
“Ouch,” he groans as he comes around the corner, clutching his chest as though my words wound him deeply.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” I ask, staring at the newest pieces of the collection to arrive.
“They are, but certainly not the most beautiful thing in here,” he says, lifting his chin and staring at me. It is that stare that, in my youth, made me uncomfortable, but the one that I now drink in with ease.
“Uh-huh, beautiful is about the furthest thing I feel right now,” I say, pressing a balled up fist into my lower back.
Seeing my discomfort, Christian hops up and immediately takes action, leading me over to a nearby wooden chair and assisting me as I sit carefully. His hands run over my shoulders, and I moan as he begins to work the tension from my muscles.
“You know you shouldn’t be working this hard,” he comments.
“We open in a matter of days, so if I don’t work this hard, we’re not going to be ready.”
“That’s what I’m here for. You need to lean on me a little more,” he insists.
“That’s sweet, but you already built all of the furniture in this place by hand, and somehow managed to even find time to carve the clothing figures as well. I think you’ve done enough.”
“We’re a team, Mrs. Bennett,” Christian says, and from his words I can sense his smile.
“Is that right? Well then, Mr. Bennett, I’ve been here all day stocking, where have you been?” I tease.
Christian lifts his hands, and I worry he may not realize I am just kidding. He walks around to the front of me, and lowering to one knee, he places a hand on my perfectly round belly and says, “I’ve been working on a surprise for the three of you.”
“What?” I gasp, surprised by the news.
“Yup, and I think you’re going to love it.” Standing, he extends a hand in my direction. I rise to my feet, arching my back to support the cumbersome weight of our unborn twins. When I’m finally upright I stare at him for a moment, his eyes so full of happiness that my heart aches. It’s hard to explain, but when you were raised to feel like you deserve nothing in life, to have two men love you the way I have is quite overwhelming.
“All right lumberjack, where we headed?” Lumberjack is the name I’ve endearingly labeled my darling husband with. When we decided to open the clothing store in Bastrop, Christian declared he would not shave until opening day. I never realized just how sexy a full, bushy beard could be. I’ve come to love the way it tickles when he kisses my stomach, and now I don’t want him to part with it.
“You’ll see.” He knows I hate surprises, which is why he insists on springing them on me constantly. I follow him out the front door, and it clangs shut behind me. Waddling down the wooden steps, I stare curiously at Christian when he stops only a few feet from the front of the shop. I look around us, but see nothing.
“Okay, I give up, what’s the surprise?”
“Look up,” he replies with a smile.
I turned toward the store, looking up over the display window and gasp as I take in the most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seem carved onto a hunk of redwood. There, in big scrolling letters are the words Henry and Ella’s, painted over with a soft blue and pink. Below that, in small script are the words Children’s Boutique, painted in white. The background of the sign is the natural wood, and all along the edges are intricate engravings of leaves and vines.
“Christian!” I exclaim.
“Okay, hear me out. We knew we were going with my mother’s name, Eleanor, for baby girl, but it seemed like we were having a hard time settling on a boy’s name since Colin and Emmie named baby Thomas after Dad. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and I wouldn’t have you if it weren’t for him. Hell, we wouldn’t even have this shop; he found this building for you. It seems like it’s only right we name our son after Henry.”
My heart feels as though it might burst. I stand, staring at the sign, unable to speak.
“Okay, now I’m getting nervous, did I overstep? You hate it, don’t you?”
I shake my head no, leaning forward and wrapping my arms around my husband’s neck. “I think it’s absolutely perfect.”
“How’d she take it?” Colin shouts from the open gallery door across the street.
“She took it great!” I yell back, laughing.
Emmie emerges with Tommy in her arms and Olivia running out ahead of her. I watch as they cross, joining Christian and I in the street. This is it, here, all around me. This is what Henry meant. I was his family, and he wanted me to have the same thing after he was gone. He would always be a part of our lives.
Christian’s lips touch mine, and my heart aches as he confirms this is real. I sigh as I think about my life, and how sometimes things don’t always happen how we want them to or how we dream of them, but there
is happiness out there for us if we’re willing to let it in. Love like this, heart aching happiness—it’s not only in dreams.
Acknowledgments
FIRST, THANK YOU to my readers. Without you, what I do would have no purpose.
To my Sister Tammy. I dedicated this book to you because much of the inspiration behind Henry came from Mark. We all miss him every day but I can’t begin to imagine your pain as his wife. I hope you find peace in knowing he waits for you in eternity and I equally pray you are able to find love again her on Earth. Mark loved you so much he would have wanted you to be happy, of that I am certain.
One of the biggest thanks goes out to my editor, Madison Seidler. Your honest and tough feedback helped me turn this book into something I’m very proud of. Thanks as well to Chelsea for polishing up the final product.
Sometimes being an indie author can make you feel like you’re on an island. Thanks to ladies like Samantha Young, Ella James, Amy Miles, and the countless others who take the time to lend advice or sometimes just an ear. Your provide power when I am running low.
To my husband, thank you doesn’t seem like enough. You work hard building your own business, but somehow always manage to find time to help me. Your support keeps me going, and I always know if I have a 2AM meltdown, you will be there to hold me together. You’re a pretty darn good kisser too, so thanks for that.
For my three beautiful children, thank you for tolerating my schedule when deadlines are looming. Thank you for the unconditional love. And thank you for the endless inspiration you provide me with.
THE LUCKIEST
Prologue
I struggle to take a deep breath as the humidity overtakes my lungs; the pressure makes me feel as if I might drown. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try my best to block out all the sounds around me. The random coughs and whispering, the shuffling of shoes, rustling of papers, and in the rear of the room, the cries of a restless baby as the mother tries to comfort him.
