I do, and that’s when I hear it, my mom’s voice reading the story.
“Oh my God,” Sydney gasps, her arm tightening around me.
My eyes fill and tears spill over as she reads. When her voice stops, I hurry to turn the page. She reads the next page and I grin in spite of my tears. Page by page, I listen to the entire book.
On the last page it hurts to breathe when I hear the catch in her voice on the last line and know without a doubt she cried when she read it. My mom knew she’d be gone by the time I heard it. When the recording ends, I trace the words she spoke with my finger. Sydney quietly sobs beside me.
Slowly, and carefully, I close the book and hug it to my chest. “When?” I ask.
“The day after you brought Sydney to meet us,” he replies.
I kiss the top of Sydney’s head.
My dad gulps. “She wanted you to have that for her grandbabies.”
That sounds like her. She took one look at Sydney and knew she was it for me.
“You’re coming home from Denmark, right?” I ask, unable to hide the fear in my voice.
My dad’s head jerks in surprise. “Yes, son.”
I don’t pull the book from my chest but I do tug it upward. “Why are you giving this to me now?”
He takes a step forward and lifts his hand to grip my shoulders. “It got mixed in with all of the house stuff during the move. I unpacked it yesterday and didn’t want to wait to give it to you because your mom wanted you to have it.”
My heart stops pounding in my chest and Sydney steps aside as I lean into him. “I miss her.”
He hugs me. “I do, too, son. I do, too.” He breaks the hug first and coughs. “I’m going to take off.” He looks to Sydney. “You take care of him.”
She moves closer to me, her arm going around my waist and nods. He takes the tin of cookies off the roof and sets it on the passenger seat. We watch as he drives away. It doesn’t surprise me when he goes left instead of right. Left will take him to the cemetery. After earlier, he might need to be near her.
“How are you doing?” Sydney asks.
I drop my chin to meet her eyes. “I feel like I got run over by something.”
She shifts to stand in front of me and presses her cheek to my chest. “I’ll bet.”
We get in her SUV and she drives while I continue to hold the book to my chest.
When we get to the apartment, time passes before I’m able to set the book on the little bookshelf Sydney has next to her TV stand.
No matter where I am in the apartment, my eyes drift over to it. She died months ago. I thought I was past the worst of it. Right now, it feels like no time has passed. The pain is as raw or more so, now.
“Want to talk about it?” Sydney asks.
“It’s hard to describe,” I admit.
She leads me to the sofa, tugging me down to sit next to her. “Try.”
My eyes move to the book. “I have a voice mail saved on my phone from her. I’ve listened to it so many times it’s like I’ve become numb to it. Hearing her today in a new way caught me off guard. Since it was her saying things I’ve never heard, it was like she was right there.”
She crawls into my lap, draping her arms around my neck. “It’s such a beautiful gift to have it now.”
I gulp. “So she can read to our kids.”
She might not have my ring on her finger yet but I’ve got it, not the one I gave Kacey, though. There’s no way I could give that ring to Sydney. Nope, the one I bought her is one I designed myself.
The center stone is a red apple ruby surrounded by diamonds set in platinum with a leaf-patterned filigree band. If I can wait, as soon as the house is finished, I’m going to propose to her on our front porch.
She tucks her face into the spot where my shoulder meets my neck and repeats, “Our kids.”
This is my fourteenth book. You’d think by now, writing the acknowledgements would be easy.
It isn’t, but I’ll still try . . .
First and foremost, I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for each and every reader who picked up one of my books and liked it enough to read another, and another, and . . . you get the point. When I wrote my first book, all I wanted was a book written by me, on my bookshelf. I am so grateful that with your support and encouragement, I have met that goal and continue to set new ones.
To my family and friends, I love you all so much. Thank you for caring. Thank you for getting emotionally invested in my words. Thank you for sticking around even when book stuff makes me mental.
This book is dedicated to my kids but I’d like to give a special shout out to one of them here. Zach, the book is done, you can stop breaking bones . . . seriously. Between him and my own jaw surgery, the research for parts of this book was done first hand.
Finally, to Seth, thank you for being my guy and inspiring the romance I write.
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author with thirteen books out and many more to come. She was born and raised in Alexandria, Virginia. Ever the mild-mannered citizen, Carey spends her days working in the world of finance, and at night, she retreats into the lives of her fictional characters. Supporting her all the way are her husband, three sometimes-adorable children, and their nine-pound attack Yorkie.
I’d love to hear from you!
[email protected]
www.careyheywood.com
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Did I turn off the stove burner? The question was stuck in a loop the whole drive to work. I glance randomly at my cellphone while I sit at a red light. I could sneak a quick text to Mike. I’m trying to be good about not using my phone at all in the car, no calls, no texts, no random checking of Facebook updates. I turn back and look straight out the windshield. I’ll be at work in less than five minutes.
Mike doesn’t have to leave for another thirty minutes. I can call him and have him check, no big deal. I hate not knowing. The wondering bugs me, the unanswered question of ‘if it’s still on’. That question gives birth to another. What if Mike decided to go into work early today? Then another. If he went in to work early, is our place burning down as we speak?
When I pull into my usual spot at work, the one that sides up to the second mulch island, I grab my phone. I don’t text. I call.
He answers on the second ring. “Hey.”
Just hey. “Hi, honey. Can you check the stovetop for me? I can’t stop thinking I forgot to turn the burner off.”
“Really, Court?”
Shit, he sounds annoyed. “Please, babe.”
He doesn’t answer but I can hear him move from wherever he was in the background. After a minute, he replies, “It’s off. Happy?”
I ignore his shortness. “Did you have to turn it off or was it already off?”
“It was already off. Did you need anything else? I don’t want to be late to work.”
I roll my eyes; he works in sales, and unless he has an actual appointment, he makes his own hours. “Thank you for checking. I hope you have a good day. I love you.”
“Thanks, babe.” His tone softens, “I love you, too.”
I smile to myself after we hang up. Tomorrow is Friday, and then it’s the weekend. Maybe we can go out to dinner or go see a movie. Mike has been so grouchy. I know his job stresses him out. He sells heavy machine equipment. He’s always been really good at it. I don’t think he’s ever not hit his monthly goals. Considering the last few years have taken a real hit on the construction industry, that’s saying a lot.
His problem is he sets his own goals beyond what is expected of him at work. His drive, his ambition is one of the things I love about him. I wish he wasn’t so hard on himself.
I’m the first one at work. I’m a secretary. No, it wasn’t my lifelong aspiration to be one. I just fell into it. There is something about being the only person in the office before anyone else arrives, a peaceful calm before the storm. I flip on the lights before I make my way to my desk, dumping my purse an
d umbrella into the bottom drawer before I head to the break room with my frozen lunch to make coffee.
I don’t drink coffee every day, and if I do, not in the morning. I’m more of an occasional afternoon pick me up coffee kind of girl. However, I do love the smell of brewing coffee. For this reason, I’m the self-appointed office coffee maker. This way I can sit in the break room and hog all the fresh coffee smell to myself. The sound of movement from the hall surprises me. I peek my head around the corner. No one is ever here this early.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively.
I jump when I see Elliot, another secretary. He looks surprised to see me.
“Hey. You’re here early,” I say in greeting.
“Uh. Yeah.” He looks away. “I wanted to take care of some stuff.”
We aren’t work besties or anything, but he’s acting weird. I suddenly feel bad for not making an effort to get to know him better. I make a mental note to go out of my way to do that. Now is not the time though. I head back to my desk and start my computer. My boss, Mr. Fulson, will be here any minute and he’s meeting with a potential client at nine.
Today my long, blonde hair is pulled into a low ponytail; but no matter how frequently I smooth it back, strands around my face always seem to come loose. My hair has curling tendencies, not enough for my hair to be considered curly, enough for it to frizz when it’s extra humid out. Which is April to October in North Carolina.
“Good morning, Mr. Fulson,” I greet as my boss approaches.
“Morning,” he returns, rushing past my desk.
I stand and trail after him to the door of his office. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
Most mornings he drinks his brew at home with his wife. Mrs. Fulson is great and I can’t help but watch them together, and hope someday that will be Mike and me.
We aren’t high school sweethearts as they were. We met in college and we almost didn’t meet at all. It was our senior year, a month before graduation. I never went to very many parties because I was on an educational scholarship, which didn’t pay room and board. For that reason, when I wasn’t studying, I was working.
Jen, my roommate, talked me into going to a party with her. It wasn’t a crazy, frat party or anything; I never would have gone if it were. Not many people were there. I didn’t intend to stay long; however, once I met Mike that all changed. His gravitation toward sales after we graduated was no surprise. He is a born salesperson. That night he sold himself to me.
I don’t know what about me drew him in. I do know, previously, I had never felt so pursued. I wasn’t naïve or new to dating; but his level of interest from the start just seemed different. Here we are, eight years later, still together. As intent as he was on us becoming a couple, he seems uninterested in getting married.
We’re engaged, have been for three years. Things have happened during that time to explain why we haven’t actually gotten married. Understandable things, I guess. Only, I see or hear about couples all the time who have even more going on but still somehow manage to make it happen. I tell him it doesn’t bother me, but it does. Most of our friends are married now too; it’s hard to go to their weddings and not think about the fact Mike and I have been engaged longer than any of them were.
“Courtney?”
I shake my head and realize I’ve been standing there lost in my own thoughts. “Sorry, Mr. Fulson. I zoned out. Did you want coffee?”
He looks annoyed. “No, I had my coffee at home this morning. I asked you for the Offenheim file.”
I nod, giving him my best professional expression. “Yes, Sir.”
I turn and hurry to my desk. The Offenheims are well known in town, and every business locally has tried to add them to their client lists. The company I work for acts as an asset manager. On staff are estate teams, retirement teams, tax advisors, and growth experts. Mr. Fulson is one of the best relationship managers in the business.
I pass Elliot in the hall and give him a small smile. He looks distracted and avoids my eyes. Maybe I could ask him out to lunch; he seems so stressed. I grab the Offenheim file and bring it back to Mr. Fulson. Most of the records we have are duplicates of stuff he could have easily found on our computer network. My boss is old school; he doesn’t like reading documents electronically. He likes to spread them out on his desk to review them.
Old-fashioned, yes, but it works in his favor. He has a knack at being able to identify what a client seems to be missing. Most of the time, the clients, themselves, have not been able to figure out how to put into words what they need. He can, and when presented correctly, he has won accounts frequently that way. I look up to my boss. He is a good guy and smart.
I have tried to emulate the way he evaluates situations. It wasn’t my dream in life to be a relationship manager. I was a history major. I had hoped to teach; but even though I applied all over, I couldn’t find any openings near where we lived. I thought about subbing, but Mike knew someone who was able to get me an interview here.
“Here is the file.” I reach out to hand it to him.
“Were you able to add the real estate reports yesterday?” he asks, flipping the folder open.
“Yes, they’re right on top.” I smile, hoping he would be happy with all of the work I had done yesterday.
“This looks good, Courtney,” for some reason he seems almost disappointed as he says it. He pauses before continuing, “They should be here in less than thirty minutes. I’ll be meeting with them in the small conference room. Please prepare a beverage tray, and then run to the bakery to pick up a few scones.”
I hurriedly start a new pot of coffee before going down to the bakery located on the first floor of our building. Because the food’s so good, I avoid the place like the plague. I am past the days where I can eat whatever I want without worrying about gaining weight. Mike still looks the same. He is better than I am about working out.
Sometime over the last eight years, I have managed to put on an extra ten, or so, pounds. It wouldn’t be a big deal if I weren’t freaking out that maybe the extra weight is the reason Mike is putting off wedding planning. I need to go to the gym; but I don’t want people to see me working out until I am smaller. How dumb is that? Avoiding the gym because there are in-shape people there.
There’s a small line at the bakery. I glance down at my watch to see how much time I still have before the Offenheims get there. Luckily, when it’s my turn to order, I don’t need them to prepare anything. I only need five scones and I’m back at my desk in no time. I open the small conference room to air out the stale smell in there, while I set up the refreshment tray.
I transfer fresh coffee, cream, and sugar to a small coffee set we have. I also fill up a water pitcher and add ice. Once everything is set up, I roll my shoulders back a couple of times to release the tension gathering there. I’m only at my desk a couple minutes before I get the call from the front desk that the Offenheims are here.
I notify Mr. Fulson before going out to greet them. He will meet us in the small conference room once I have them seated and offer them refreshment. I glance at my reflection in the glass window of an office before going to greet them. I wore my best suit today to make a good impression.
I hate hose; so today, I only wore pants to work to avoid them. My suit is a simple black with thin white pinstripes that I have paired with a cerulean shell. Mr. and Mrs. Offenheim are joined by their eldest son, Grant. Grant Offenheim is something of a local celebrity around these parts. He is a frequent addition to eligible bachelor lists locally, and I think a national magazine one year.
This is the first time I have met him. He is stutter-inducingly beautiful. I plaster my most professional face on and try not to sneak too many glances at him. I don’t think it’s cheating to ogle attractive men. He seems pleasant. I don’t expect him to throw himself at me or be overly cordial; if anything, he seems distracted.
Both Misters Offenheim take coffee, while Mrs. asks for tea. I pass Mr. Fulson on my way to the break
room and explain. He looks annoyed I hadn’t thought of tea ahead of time. Maybe I’m assuming he’s annoyed because I’m annoyed with myself for overlooking it. I return to the conference room with the tea in no time.
I have made one cup by itself and have more tea steeping in a pot on a tray. After I add, per her request, milk to her tea I excuse myself. Our office manager is waiting for me when I get back to my desk.
“Courtney, can you please come to my office?”
I give Beth a confused look. “Sure, everything okay?”
She shakes her head and turns, so all I can do is follow her. Once we’re in her office, she closes her door. Why did she close her door?
My palms start sweating and I rub them across the tops of my pant legs to dry them.
“Courtney, after an investigation, we believe you have been misappropriating funds from petty cash. If you are able to replace the amount you have taken, we will not contact the authorities; but in either scenario, your employment is being terminated immediately.”
As if it was the starting line of a horse race, my heart begins to gallop. Soon her voice is a dull distant noise against the rumble of the stampede echoing in my ears.
“What?” I stammer, “I haven’t stolen anything from petty cash. I took ten dollars today to buy scones from downstairs. I have a receipt. I haven’t entered it into the system yet because I was making coffee and tea for Mr. Fulson’s appointment.”
“I’m sorry, Courtney, but this is more than ten dollars.”
“You’re joking.” I nervously laugh because it doesn’t feel like she’s joking. “I swear I didn’t steal anything. Please give me a chance to somehow prove it to you.”
“I will escort you to your desk so you may collect your things. You will need to give me your key at that time. If you are not able to write me a check for the amount missing from petty cash, we will take it from your final check.”
When she stands, I mimic her movements blindly dazed by everything she just said. Something isn’t right. They have to know I wouldn’t ever steal from them. Beth grabs a flattened box on the way out of her office. When we reach my desk, she hands it to me.
Why Lie? (Love Riddles #2) Page 23
