by Susan Wiggs
“Sure,” she said, her breath freezing in the air. She could listen. Yeah, she could do that.
“It’s about… what happened with the shop and stuff.” He stepped up onto the porch. “That night I borrowed your car, something happened.”
Tammi Lee’s head began to buzz, craving her meds. She focused sharply on the nervous young boy. He was so good-looking. And right now, he looked as wrung out as she felt.
“It’s my fault the money in the cash register went missing,” he blurted out. “I didn’t know—I—it’s my fault.”
Tammi Lee sat very still. She was so used to getting kicked in the teeth that she braced herself.
“The cash disappeared when I went into the shop after hours,” he said. “It’s all my fault.”
“Did you take the money?” she asked quietly.
His hands dug even deeper into his pockets. “That doesn’t matter. I was responsible. And I blew it. I went to see Mrs. Jacobs today, and I explained it all to her, paid her what was missing. She feels real bad, and she’s going to ask you to come back to work. That is, if you want to.” He scuffed his foot at a frozen lump of snow on the edge of the porch. “I’m real sorry,” he added. “I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it right. I just—I’d like to have a second chance.”
Tammi Lee felt herself rising a little, hovering above the abyss. Her head pounded, but the pain meant nothing. This was it, she realized. She could forgive this boy and go on from here, or she could let anger and resentment drag her down.
When she looked into his eyes, she saw Sam’s eyes. Sam, who’d given her more second chances than anyone had a right to expect. Sam, who deserved a chance of his own. There was really no choice to be made. She stood up and opened her arms. A tentative smile started in Cody’s eyes as he hugged her. Over his shoulder she saw Michelle Turner standing by her car, watching them, one hand pressed to her mouth.
“I think we’re going to be all right,” Tammi Lee whispered, and she started to soar, lifted by hope. “I think we’re going to be just fine.”
* * *
Sam came out of the main barn and started walking toward Michelle. Her knees felt liquid, threatening to buckle. She was aware of the bruising cold, the snow coming over the tops of her boots, her incision aching.
She used to think healing meant stitching up, scarring over, turning a mess to neatness. Now she understood that she had to let things melt down, unravel, and then come back together in the way they were meant to be.
She had to quit looking for a reason that things happened. This was life, it was messy, and now she knew better than to expect a guarantee. Her heart pounded, she had never felt more alive. She had no idea what the expression on her face was, but she didn’t care. When she looked up at Sam, she saw everything she wanted her future to be.
And no matter what that was, it was bigger and brighter than her dreams had ever been.
Hope and fear were locked, unspoken, in her throat. She and Sam walked to the edge of the snow-covered driveway and stood beneath the twisted skeleton of a crabapple tree.
“Cody blames himself for everything that happened,” she said at last. “He wants to make things right with you and your mother.”
He looked over at the house, where Cody and Tammi Lee stood very close, talking. “I guess I’m glad to see that.”
“Can he?” she forced herself to ask. “Can he make things right? Can we?” She twisted her gloved fingers into knots.
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing.”
“Last night, we were both still hiding things. You didn’t tell me about your mother, and—” she swallowed hard “—I didn’t explain to you that Cody had run away.” She forced herself to meet his disbelieving gaze. “He took the bus to Seattle. I wanted to tell you, Sam, but I didn’t know how. My father brought him back this morning.”
“I guess I’ll just let Cody do the explaining, then.” Sam held her gaze for an endless moment. “We’ll give it our best shot, honey. Okay?”
She managed to choke out his name, and the dam inside her broke like the thawing mountain streams. The sobs of relief came from the deepest part of her, a part she couldn’t discipline or control. Sam was a wall of warmth, silent and steady as he absorbed the brunt of her tears. She found a sanctuary, not a threat, in loving him.
“I was so afraid.” Her hands clutched at his jacket. “I was so afraid you’d decided Cody and I were too much for you.”
His arms slid around her. “Ah, Michelle. Everything’s not going to be perfect all the time. But we can survive the mistakes. You know that. You know.”
“Sometimes I think I’m just not good enough at this,” she whispered.
He held her away from him, and dear God, he had the most magnificent face, so full of hardness and soul, weathered by life’s joys and sorrows. Snowflakes landed and disappeared on his cheeks, his shoulders. “We’ll work it out. You and me and our son.”
“Our son. It sounds just right.” There was a catch in her throat, and she swallowed hard. “I love you, Sam.” It was time to say it, long past time. It was so easy. It had turned from impossible to effortless. “I always have, and I always will.”
He pulled her against him, pressed his lips to her hair. In that moment, the last of her doubts slid away, and Sam said, “I know, honey. I know.”
“You do?”
“Oh yeah.”
Michelle closed her eyes as joy settled over them, as silently powerful as new-fallen snow. And like the snow over a stubbled field, it covered everything else—all the flaws and ruts and bruises of the past—with its perfection and purity.
A Letter from the Editor
Dear Reader,
Packed in the box with the original manuscript were the following pages—apparently written in Michelle’s own hand and taken from her personal journal. We knew these pages were wonderful, yet so intimate we weren’t sure just what to do with them. Well, after discussing it with Susan Wiggs we decided to include the journal pages here, exclusively in the eBook edition. In these pages Michelle has returned home for the first time and is flooded with memories of her first meeting with Sam. They are private and beautiful but now that you’ve read their story we think you will especially appreciate hearing this particular moment in Michelle’s own words… .
Floodlights cast a bluish glow over the parking lot and fairgrounds, desolate in a cloak of winter white. Street lamps line the river road as it curves around Spring Side Mountain. I can’t see its jagged hulk in the dark, but I know the legendary peak is there; I feel its presence. Once, long ago, I even climbed to the top of it.
There, at the bottom of a slope below the arena is a place I know too well. Stupid, I tell myself as I head toward it. It’s incredibly stupid to come here. Salt in a wound. Yet I’m drawn inexorably to the river, unable to resist.
There is no cold quite so piercing as the cold of a Montana winter night, yet I keep walking, the way illuminated by the street lamps. The new snow is powdery and light beneath my boots. The Swan River is almost frozen over. Only a trickle down the middle remains, though in spring it will surely transform itself into a roaring gush of white water.
Sam and I used to walk along the bank, delirious with the wonder of first love. Each sunset burned brighter, more beautiful than the last. Each moonrise glowed with a promise we were certain was meant for us, only for us. We were so naively young back then. We thought we were invincible. We thought our love was like the river, ever flowing, never ceasing; nothing and no one could stop it—not even rock itself. I used to tell him my wildest dreams, and he would confess his deepest secrets. We were so open with each other, so trusting. I’ve never been like that with any other person, not even Brad.
I keep trying not to look to the right, because I don’t want to see the most shattering reminder of all. But I do look, of course; how can I not? The boathouse where Sam and I used to make love on summer nights, where I found magic and dreamy fulfillment in his arms. Where I thought
I’d stay all the rest of my life.
Like a sleepwalker I amble toward the snow-covered structure. Just go and face it, I tell myself. If you can survive that, you can survive anything.
The place is dilapidated, sagging down to the water, the bench outside dusted with snow. I stand looking at it for a long time, waiting for the world to crumble or come apart at the seams.
When it doesn’t, I feel absurdly pleased with myself. There. I stepped close to the inferno of memory, and I haven’t been burned.
But as I turn away from the boathouse, just when I’m congratulating myself for putting the past behind me, I spy the rowboat under the eaves. It’s the same one. I can tell because I’m the one who whimsically painted bared shark’s teeth across the bow.
I feel myself being sucked back into the past, to a time I don’t want to remember. I try to resist, but it’s too late. I stop walking, and stand still, my breath freezing in the night air, my heart compelled to listen to the voices pounding in my head.
* * *
I had been busy painting the first time I met Sam.
“Nice teeth,” said a voice behind me. “But I have to ask why.”
I froze, paintbrush in hand, at the sound of the voice. It was nice, a baritone, but youthful too.
“Why what?” I asked, turning. And it was him, just as I’d suspected—hoped, prayed—it would be. The boy from my father’s ranch. I’d spotted him the very first day I arrived. My first glimpse of him had been from a distance.
He’d been working with a mare on a lunge rope. I’d sat on the porch and watched. He wore boots and blue jeans, a plaid shirt and battered cap with the Big Sky feed company logo on it. He was tall and rangey like Gavin’s favorite trail horse. I knew, to the very depths of my eighteen-year-old soul, that no one in the entire universe had ever looked so good in a pair of Levi’s.
Up close, I noticed that he had sandy brown hair, a lean, suntanned face and eyes the color of my birthstone.
“Why are you painting teeth on the boat?”
I shrugged. “Just felt like it, I guess. I like to paint.” I straightened, suddenly self-conscious in my cutoffs and cropped T-shirt. “I’m Michelle.”
“I know. I’ve seen you around with your sketch book.”
He’d noticed. Hallelujah, he’d noticed.
Montana had seemed so huge and limitless that I got into the habit of drawing constantly just to try to make some sort of sense of the place, to feel a measure of control over something so vast and wild it was overwhelming. I drew everything—the placid bovine face of a cow. The line of trees along the creek with the stars coming out behind them. The silhouette of a mare and her foal on the slope behind the paddock. A common loon nesting in a marsh.
“I never go anywhere without my sketchbook,” I said.
He grinned, and my heart began to melt. If I looked down, I’d see it in a puddle at my feet.
“I’m Sam. Sam McPhee. I work for your dad.”
“I know.” I grinned back, hoping my neck didn’t go all splotchy the way it usually did when I blushed.
“So you’re an artist?” he asked. Not with the hefty skepticism a lot of people had when I told them my ambition, but with genuine interest.
“I want to be.” I gestured at the boat. “This is just for fun. I want to paint for real.”
“You mean like on an easel with brushes and a palette and a beret and stuff?”
I laughed. “Exactly. Well, maybe not the beret.”
“So do it.”
“Do what?”
“Paint for real. Don’t just say you’re going to. You can’t be an artist if you don’t paint, right?”
“Guess not.”
He flipped through my book, admiring the dozens of swift sketches I’d made of the horses. “These are good,” he said. “Do you ride?”
“Not as well as I’d like to.”
“Maybe I could take you riding sometime, up the river trail.”
“I’d love that. It’s the best offer I’ve had all summer.”
“There’s a lot more where that came from,” he promised.
I dropped my brush. Klutz, I thought. Both Sam and I reached for it, our hands touching.
He gave an easy laugh, keeping my hand in his.
* * *
The sound of Sam McPhee, laughing. The feel of his hands, touching me. These were the first things about him that I had loved. In the years that ensued, they were things I remembered more vividly and more frequently than I wanted to.
But it’s winter now, as the blade-like wind off the river reminds me. Turning away, I trudge up the hill and return to the arena.
Reading Group Guide
The novel begins with a quote by Mignon McLaughlin that reads: “Most of us become parents long before we have stopped being children.” What do you think this means? And why do you think the author has chosen this quote to begin her novel?
Cody is clearly going through a rebellious phase—Sam describes him as being “mad at the world” after only spending a few hours with him. Why has Cody suddenly become hostile and sullen at age sixteen? Is his attitude due to adolescence or is something else going on?
Why do you think Michelle never told Cody who his father was? Should she have worked harder to find Sam for Cody’s sake or do you understand why she made the decisions she did? Similarly, was it wrong of Michelle not to tell Sam that she was pregnant with his son, even though she believed he had left her?
Was Sam was wrong to leave town the way he did in 1983? Should he have been in touch with Michelle despite his circumstances?
Sam and Michelle had a passionate love affair when they were teenagers, but then fell out of touch for sixteen years. Yet when they reunite their attraction is as strong as ever. Do you believe that love can sustain itself even after a relationship dissolves? Do you think it’s possible to ever forget your first love?
What do you think of Michelle’s decision to come back to Montana in order to help her father? Not only does her decision have emotional consequences, but it also has physical ones. If you were in her position, would you have done the same thing?
Michelle and Brad have been together for three years, but they aren’t married. Why is Michelle with Brad? How is he different from Sam? Have you ever stayed in a relationship that didn’t make you entirely happy or that lacked a certain degree of passion?
This novel is in large part about parenting and the complicated and imperfect relationships between parents and children. Discuss the different parental relationships in this novel. How are the various parental figures (Michelle, Sam, Gavin, Tammi Lee) alike? How are they different?
Michelle is a painter, but she hasn’t painted in years until she returns to Crystal City. Why is painting so important to Michelle and why hasn’t she been able to paint since leaving Montana sixteen years ago? What role does “creation” play in this novel?
What role does class play in this novel? How do class differences, real or perceived, affect the actions of Sam, Michelle, Gavin, and Tammi Lee?
When Gavin admits the truth of his actions to Michelle at the end of the book, he says, “Sometimes a parent does the wrong thing for the right reasons.” What does he mean by this? Why is Michelle able to forgive him so easily?
How do you interpret the book’s title? Who is the “you” the title refers to?
Contents
Front Cover Image
Welcome
Acknowledgments
Saturday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Sunday
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Monday
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Tuesday
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Wednesday
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Thursday
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Friday
Chapter 27
Saturday
Chapter 28
Sunday
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Monday
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Tuesday
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Wednesday
Chapter 38
Thursday
Chapter 39
Friday
Chapter 40
Saturday
Chapter 41
Sunday
Chapter 42
Monday
Chapter 43
Tuesday
Chapter 44
Wednesday
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Thursday
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Friday
Chapter 50
Saturday
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
A Letter from the Editor
Reading Group Guide
Also by Susan Wiggs
Copyright
ALSO BY SUSAN WIGGS
Passing Through Paradise
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Susan Wiggs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
