Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  He faced me again, the worry lines on his brow proving that my bravado wasn’t fooling him. My knees began to weaken.

  "It’s not like it was a total disaster," I sputtered, making one last attempt to get a grip on myself. "He was perfectly—" I broke off as words failed me. What was he? Jake’s steely eyes flashed across my memory, and my lungs failed me too. I attempted a deep breath, but made only a choking sound. I turned quickly to the side.

  It was no use. I was going to cry. Right here, right now. And if the sight of a woman bawling made Fletcher as uncomfortable as it made most men, he would hie himself away at the earliest opportunity and never be seen again. Then I would be alone here, too. Truly alone.

  The sobs came fast and furious. I covered my face with my hands and concentrated on standing. I wanted to walk away, but my legs wouldn’t respond. Staying upright seemed enough of a challenge. I was miserable and embarrassed, and I cursed my lack of composure. Had I not known perfectly well that learning the truth about my origins could be unsettling? Had I not sat in this very room last night and insisted to Fletcher that the risk was worth it?

  Yes, I had. I had told him that I wanted to find my birth family, and that I was willing to suffer through whatever would be required to make that happen. Yet when I finally found the one man who could answer all my questions, what had I done? I had walked out on him.

  My knees gave way in one motion, and I braced myself for a fall. But miraculously, none came. I stayed right where I was, with my face pressed firmly against Fletcher’s chest.

  My eyes flew open. He was holding me. When and how this had come about, I didn’t know. One of his arms was around my waist, expending some degree of effort to keep me upright. His other hand rested on the small of my back, unmoving. He was holding me like my father used to when I was a child and fell off my bike, or when I was a teenager battling the dramas of adolescence. It was the sort of embrace that gave without taking, comforted without demand. There was no hint of grudging obligation, no overtones of desire. Just support. And empathy.

  I had almost forgotten what that felt like.

  My legs steadied, and my eyes went dry. I felt a strength flowing through me, and in a moment I raised my head.

  Fletcher loosened his hold, and on determining that I was supporting my own weight again, dropped his hands and took a half step back. His eyes surveyed me critically, but the results seemed to please him. "Better?" he asked softly.

  I nodded. "Much."

  He released me entirely and returned to the window, looking out. "You know," he said pleasantly, as if the last few minutes had never occurred, "it’s a gorgeous Tuesday, and as far as I know, neither of us has a job to go to." He turned back to me. "How would you like the grand tour? The hike up to my cabin only scratches the surface of this place. I’d love to show you the rest of it—now that I’m not worried about your stealing it, that is."

  The last words were tongue-in-cheek. He offered a friendly grin, and I found myself returning it. He was right. It was a beautiful day. And the last thing I needed after the morning’s revelations was to wallow inside a gloomy inn. What I needed was warm sunshine. And good company.

  "Give me ten minutes," I responded, drawing in the first full breath I’d managed in a while. "And you’re on."

  ***

  Eight minutes later I opened my bedroom door and started down the hall toward the common room. My hiking boots were on, my energy level was climbing, and I found myself inordinately anxious to feel some sun on my shoulders. Wearing a tank top in the mountains in June was risky, even on a day as warm as today, but with my sweat jacket tied securely around my waist, I felt prepared for any chilly stretches. The cold water I had splashed on my face could not entirely remove the redness from my eyes, but it had raised my spirits. That and the joy I felt at the prospect of seeing more of the ridge, not to mention spending more time with its owner. The concern in Fletcher’s eyes seemed, at least temporarily, to have eclipsed that damnable look of hurt he always carried, and if comforting me was also therapeutic for him, I was more than willing to cooperate.

  I caught sight of him at the table nearest the kitchen, hastily eating something from an aluminum tin. He was so absorbed in the process that he failed to notice me until I was practically beside him. At which point I realized, with a start, what the tin contained.

  My pie. The homemade peach pie he had so bizarrely rejected last night had now, within the span of eight minutes, been reduced to no more than a sliver. If I hadn’t come out of my room when I did, I suspect the evidence would have disappeared entirely.

  "I thought you didn’t like pie," I said smugly, beaming.

  Eyes averted, he put down his fork, rose, and carried the tin back into the kitchen. "I never said that," he defended sheepishly. "I just asked for a rain check. Now I’ve collected. That okay?"

  "Perfectly," I responded, still smiling. "Did you like it?"

  He walked back out into the common room. "It was—" his words broke off as his eyes swept over me, from head to foot, then up again. It was the sort of glance men had favored me with since puberty, but that the more gentlemanly ones seemed to assume I wouldn’t notice. I smiled at the compliment, but the communication went unseen. Fletcher’s gaze never reached my face—at its second pass over my shoulders his color went pale, and he whirled around toward the kitchen again.

  "It was very good pie," he said over his shoulder, his voice tense. "I, um, left you a little." He rummaged in the cupboards a moment, looking, I was sure, for nothing at all.

  "I’m glad you liked it," I offered, watching his machinations with amusement. "Pies are my specialty."

  He was in the middle of swinging open a high cabinet when his arms paused in mid air, his eyes staring straight ahead. For several seconds, he remained motionless, then he closed the cabinet with a slam and clapped his hands together. "All right then," he announced, leaving the kitchen empty-handed, "let’s get going. You’ll need a water bottle and maybe a snack. We’ll be out for a while." He moved past me toward the French doors, his gaze missing any part of me by at least three feet.

  "I’m ready," I answered, patting the small pack I had fastened around my waist.

  The gesture was lost on him. He was already outside.

  ***

  I followed my guide obediently through the woods, sometimes on barely visible trails, sometimes on no trails at all. He started off moving slowly, but when he realized I had no trouble keeping up he increased his pace, moving over rocks and down cliffs like a deer. I continued to follow without protest, and I could tell that he was impressed.

  It was some time before he slowed, informing me that we had reached the oldest, most well-preserved section of the forest. The pride in his voice was plain, and his face shone with the simple joy of being here. His enthusiasm was contagious, but then, my own delight needed no prompting.

  The stands of timber arising from the steep slope were magnificent. The mature, high canopy created a forest floor that was almost eerily quiet, dappled with the faintest traces of sunlight and awash with the fresh fragrance of spring-dampened earth. The complete lack of other human sounds or trappings lent the woods an ageless, fairylike aura, giving me a curious desire to skip between the giant, gray trunks as if I were a child. I refrained. But as we walked slowly through the centuries-old hardwoods, I did occasionally let my fingers drift across a stretch of bark, spinning fantasies of the history each tree might have witnessed.

  Fletcher spoke little on his own, but he was quick to answer my questions, his eyes twinkling at my interest. I no longer had any doubt of his expertise in forestry, though the nature of his work in California—and the source of his personal wealth—remained obscure. No more did I witness any of the curious nervousness he had displayed in the kitchen. Out here in his chosen element there was a peace about him, a contentment not even my peach pie could ruffle. Here he was relaxed and confident—even though, as I couldn’t help noticing, he was still reluctant to look an
ywhere near my shoulders.

  "We're almost to the swimming hole," he informed me much later, after a prolonged jog around another hill brought us to a trail heading sharply downward. "It’s only ten minutes from the house, if you go directly."

  I cast my eyes to the ground, watching carefully for the ubiquitous roots and stones that could so easily fell the unobservant. His news was welcome. I was enjoying myself immensely, but the limits of my endurance were swift approaching, and I had no desire to admit it. The wind picked up suddenly as we descended, and though the sound of bending tree boughs and ruffling leaves was pleasant to hear, the gusts were chilling to my bare skin. I was in the process of reaching to untie my jacket when I realized that the trail was opening up before me, leading to the shores of a wide creek bathed with sunlight.

  I took my hand off my jacket and moved out into the sun.

  The clear, flowing creek was mesmerizing. Upstream it was broad and shallow, trickling no more than a foot or so deep over a maze of smooth boulders that broke its surface into small whitecaps and eddies. Just before me a straight line of larger boulders stood guard as the earth dipped, creating a modest waterfall. Downstream the creek narrowed sharply, the water funneling into a circular area whose darker color betrayed an abrupt change in depth.

  Fletcher had left the water’s edge to climb up a bank downstream, and when I heard him call out to me, he had reached a ledge eight feet or so above the water line. No sooner had I glanced up at him than an odd feeling took hold of my senses, and I found myself staring at the rock on which he stood.

  "This is it," he shouted cheerfully. "Ye ol’ swimming hole. It’s only about five feet deep in the middle, but that’s all it took to keep the kids happy. There aren’t any stiff undercurrents here, so it’s reasonably safe, too."

  I continued staring until he climbed down and joined me again. He pointed to the dominant boulder above the waterfall, an elephantine structure capped with a smooth, flat surface. "Now that was a boy’s paradise," he explained. "Designed by God specifically for serious games of ‘King of the Mountain.’ To be played only when no adults were watching, of course. Only caused two broken bones over the years, as far as I know."

  "How many of them were yours?"

  He grinned. "Well, both. But one was only a hairline fracture."

  I wanted to smile, but something was stopping me. Something about the swimming hole. Something about the cliff above it. It was percolating in the foreground of my mind, but I couldn’t seem to grasp it.

  "I only had real fun when I was little myself," he continued. "Once I got old enough to play lifeguard, I had to be the bad guy. Then it was no more ‘King of the Mountain,’ and one at a time on the trolley. You see, there used to be—"

  He pointed toward the cliff, and a flash of understanding jarred my brain. I could picture a child jumping from the boulders. Sliding down some sort of cable, holding on tight until just the right moment, then letting go and plunging into the water below. It was frightening. Exciting. One of most amazing things I’d ever seen.

  "A trolley line," I interrupted, staring toward the water. "Stretched from one bank to the other."

  "Exactly," he confirmed. "You can see the layout was perfect for it. Fantastic fun. I’d go for it myself right now if it were still here."

  The sun was beating down on us soundly now, and a fine sheen of sweat had begun to break on Fletcher’s brow. My own skin felt clammy.

  Children. I could picture them as if part of a dream. Jumping. Sailing. Splashing. Laughing.

  "Meara?" Fletcher’s voice turned serious. "Is something wrong?"

  I didn’t answer him. All I could do was stare at the deep circle of water, listening to the children’s laughter in my mind. It was real to me. Too real. I couldn’t be making it up.

  I barely noticed as Fletcher sat me down on a large, chair-height boulder beside the creek’s edge. Without hesitation he untied my jacket, opened it up, and flung it loosely around my quaking shoulders. Then he stretched out beside me and propped himself up with his elbows, basking in the sun.

  Minutes passed before either of us said a word.

  "Fletcher," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "Yes," he answered, not moving.

  My heart began to race. "Did you ever have so many things going on in your head at the same time, you wondered how much more you could stand?"

  He didn’t respond right away, and I plowed on.

  "I know you must think I’m some sort of lunatic, and I really don’t blame you. I come here out of the blue, threaten to take your land, start claiming I’m a long-lost foster child, and then fall apart in the middle of your inn. It hasn’t been a stellar performance."

  My voice was self-conscious. None of the men I knew had much patience for weighty conversation—certainly not for emotional topics with no direct relation to themselves. I hated to alienate Fletcher further, but if I didn’t talk to someone soon, I feared I would explode.

  "I’m sorry to lay all this on you just because you’re here," I continued. "But this morning didn’t go quite as I expected, and I don’t seem to be dealing with it well."

  Fletcher sat up. He waited a moment, as if expecting me to say something else. When I didn’t, he tried to help. "So, you found out Jacob Kozen is your birth father?"

  God, no, I thought. My pulse pounded; I couldn’t seem to speak.

  "If he wasn’t the person you hoped he’d be, I’m sorry," Fletcher offered. "But don’t blame yourself for not feeling like you think you should. You may share some DNA, but that doesn’t mean you have to like the man."

  I turned my head and looked at him, amazed once again by his perceptiveness. I swallowed, gathering the courage to say out loud the words that had been badgering my brain, begging for acknowledgment even as they pummeled my soul with guilt.

  "Fletcher," I forced out, the venom in my tone chilling even me, "I despised him."

  Chapter 16

  Fletcher stiffened. When he spoke there was anger in his voice. "What exactly happened at that diner? What did he say to you?"

  "It wasn’t what he said," I clarified quickly, not to defend Jake so much as to avoid upsetting Fletcher. I hadn’t intended to make this his problem. "He was civil. He was polite. Nothing happened. It was just—" The coldness of Jake’s eyes flashed through my mind once more, and I shoved the image away with a fury. "Like you said before," I tried to explain, "I just got bad vibes. That’s all."

  "That’s not all," he argued. "You said you despised him; I think you meant it. You don’t seem the sort of person who would hate someone without a reason."

  I paused, considering. Did I really hate Jake Kozen? I was feeling so many things, it seemed impossible to know where one ended and the next began. I felt disappointment. I felt hurt. I felt an uncanny sense of fear I couldn’t bear to contemplate. But at the forefront now was a burning pressure that began in my gut, then radiated painfully upward through my chest and behind my eyes. It had to be hatred, an emotion with which I was wholly unfamiliar, and wholly uncomfortable. It hurt. It was wrong. I wanted to be rid of it.

  "Can I ask you a question?" I blurted.

  He nodded.

  I took a ragged breath. "Imagine that you are twenty-nine years old, stuck in an unhappy marriage with a drug addict. You have no money, no extended family. You have a baby, but your wife is too messed up to take care of it. Then—" I cut myself off sharply, realizing that my listener wasn’t completely uninvested in my story. Painting Sheila as a demon would only call Mitchell’s judgment further into question, and there was no point in laying that on Fletcher now. "Then suddenly your wife is out of the picture, and you’re all that child has," I continued. "You’re in debt. You have to work. If you kept the child it would spend long, odd hours in day care or with a sitter."

  In the back of my mind, I could hear a child crying as I spoke. A small, auburn-haired little girl. I could see her mother crouched in the corner of a cramped apartment, shooting
up, oblivious to her daughter’s distress. I could see the cop husband coming home after a long day on the beat to find the house filthy, his child miserable, his wife passed out on the floor…

  "Might you consider giving the child up for adoption?" I finished, desperate to quell the horrible images. "Would you consider that, maybe, a home with two parents would be better than what you could provide?"

  Fletcher looked away from me, and my heart raced. I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say. I only knew that his answer was important to me. "I mean, might that be considered a selfless thing to do? The thing that was best for the child?"

  He stood up and stepped toward the creek. Then he leaned down and grabbed a fistful of stones, wound up his arm, and sent one sailing to the far bank.

  He said nothing.

  "Please answer me," I pleaded.

  He threw another stone. Then another. At last, with a giant exhale, he turned around. His eyes brewed with anger, but I knew that none of it was directed at me. "I’m not the right person to ask that question," he stated. "I can’t give you the answer you want."

  "I’m not asking you to judge anybody," I insisted, realizing as I spoke that I was lying. "I’m just asking what you would do."

  He shook his head. "It doesn’t matter."

  "It matters to me," I returned, frustrated. "Just tell me the truth. Please."

  He threw the last few stones together, creating a star cluster of tiny splashes in the rippling creek. Then he faced me again. "All right," he began, his voice hard. "Here’s the truth. If I were ever fortunate enough to have a child of my own, he or she would be the center of my world. And whether I was twenty-nine, eighteen, or seventy-three, I’d move heaven and earth to be the best damn father I could be—no matter how poor we were, or how hard I had to work, or what else I had to give up. Because the child would come first."