Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  His eyebrows rose. "You sure? I’m not much good with my fists, personally, but I’ve got a cousin—"

  "Thanks, Alex," I interrupted. "But that won’t be necessary."

  He studied me a moment, then seemed to decide he could believe me. "Okay, but if you don’t mind, can I have the flowers? One of my listings is getting shot for a television spot this afternoon, and these would look great in the breakfast nook—"

  "Knock yourself out."

  I averted my eyes from the flowers and breathed deeply. I needed to focus. What was important now was determining whether or not my parents’ house had had an unwelcome visitor.

  I scanned the rest of kitchen and noted that the drawer beneath the telephone was sitting out an inch, which it had had the tendency to do for years unless jiggled when pushed closed. I always jiggled it. Seeing the front sticking out had been a pet peeve of both mine and my mother’s, though it was a sight we had secretly missed after my father passed away.

  "Did you open this drawer?" I asked Alex.

  "No," he answered. "But any of the workers might have. Maybe looking for a phone book?"

  I nodded in agreement, trying to stem my alarm. I did keep the phone book in that drawer. I also kept my personal address book there—normally. But I had packed it when I left, in case I needed to impose on a friend for lodging.

  I jiggled the drawer closed. Alex was right—one misplaced drawer was no cause for panic. The explanation could be as simple as a worker searching for a pen.

  "You really should check those messages," he suggested, pointing to the blinking light on my answering machine. "A couple are mine, but it just occurred to me—there could be one from Todd. Perhaps a tidy confession?"

  Perhaps, I thought, my mind racing. I turned to face Alex. "This may not be important, but would you mind asking the foreman if anyone has been in this drawer? It’s not a problem—I’d just like to know."

  He looked at me for a moment, then offered a good-natured salute and retreated. As soon as he left the kitchen, I lowered the volume on the answering machine and pressed the playback button.

  It’s me, Todd’s sniveling voice proclaimed. It’s Sunday night, another weekend lost, and I’m not calling you again. Do you understand that? Not ever. This is it. The end. Finito. We’re finished. Through. Goodbye, and good riddance. You’ll never do any better than me, you know. You’re a dreamer, and it’s going to cost you. And when you hit bottom, don’t come crying back to me, because I’ll be long gone. Hasta la vista, baby.

  I rolled my eyes. And to think that I used to find his cliches endearing. Not very long ago, I couldn’t have listened to such a message without feeling guilty—without feeling personally responsible for not following through with the engagement, for failing to make things work. Now I felt nothing but relief to be free of him. The new Meara had accomplished something.

  The next message was from Alex, giving me an update on the abatement. The third message was the one I dreaded. Jake’s smooth voice boomed from the speaker, and my every muscle went taut.

  Hello, Meara. It’s Jake. Just wanted to tell you again how much I enjoyed meeting you yesterday. I also wanted to let you know that I found your birth certificate, and some other papers you might be interested in. I’d be happy to drop them in the mail to you, but…. Well, I’ve been thinking about our conversation, and I think there are a few more things about your mother that you should know. Could we meet again sometime soon? You name the time and place. I’ll be there. Just give me a ring.

  I drew in a breath and closed my eyes. There was nothing sinister in the message, I assured myself. Jake even sounded as though he had decided to come clean about why Sheila went to prison—not that his motives for lying about that were any mystery. What cop with half an ego would want to admit that he’d been shot by his own wife?

  "Well," Alex announced, returning to the kitchen just as his voice finished up a fourth message. "The foreman assures me that no one’s supposed to be opening your drawers. On the other hand, he admits he can’t watch all his guys 24/7."

  He looked over my shoulder at the answering machine, which was in the process of rewinding. "Any messages from the ex-fiancé?"

  I nodded.

  "Was it him?"

  I shook my head. "I’m not sure. Maybe." I felt numb.

  Alex leaned over my shoulder and picked up the phone. "Tell me his number," he ordered. "I’ll call the guy myself. You shouldn’t have to deal with him, anyway."

  Feeling a rush of gratitude, I delivered Todd’s work number. But my relief was short lived. As soon as Alex was occupied, my mind strayed back to Jake.

  Why was he doing this? The flowers, the phone call? If I was right, and he knew he wasn’t my birth father, what did he want with me? What was the point?

  Dark eyes loomed again in my mind. I had sensed something in that diner. Something that frightened me. I hadn’t seen just coldness in his eyes, had I? I had seen hatred, too.

  Hatred of me.

  Alex hung up the phone with a bang. He had been talking, but I hadn’t been paying attention. My blood had run cold.

  "Simpering momma’s boy," he exclaimed, shaking his head in disgust. "God, I’m glad you didn’t marry that wuss. What a woman like you needs is a good old-fashioned man’s man. I should call my cousin—"

  "Has Todd been in the house?" I interrupted again, deflecting Alex’s well-established matchmaking compulsion.

  "He says no," Alex answered, working his jaw with vexation. "I won’t tell you what else he said. Unfortunately, I believe him on the first count—I don’t think he was here. Do you want to file a complaint with the police about the break-in?"

  I shook my head slowly. If I didn’t get a grip soon, my limbs would start to shake, and that had been happening far too often lately. I was pretty good at keeping a cheerful face, but covering angst was difficult when one was quivering like a spoonful of jelly.

  "I don’t like it," I responded, working hard to keep my voice normal. "But I can’t see that I have any basis for any charges. The foreman could have just forgotten to lock up. Let’s let it go."

  Alex nodded, studying me. "All right, then. No problem. You want to get some lunch? They tell me if everything proceeds on schedule, you can move back in the day after tomorrow." Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over and extracted my bouquet from the trash can, repairing its skewed stems with his free hand.

  As I watched him, my mind played a different picture. That of a seasoned cop, picking a lock as though it were child’s play. Opening my back door. Roaming. Searching. Musing.

  All my best, Jake.

  A shiver ran down my spine. "No thanks." The quivering was seconds away; there was no point in fighting it. My parents had lived happily in this house for decades; I had lived here myself and had always felt safe.

  I didn’t anymore.

  "I have to get back," I insisted, my voice hollow.

  His brow creased. "Get back where?"

  I didn’t answer immediately. It was a very good question.

  Chapter 21

  The inn was unlocked. I moved down the hall at a good clip, then scanned the common room for signs of life. It was quiet.

  "Tia?" I called. "Are you here?"

  There was no answer. I peeked into Sheila and Mitchell’s room and saw men’s clothes strewn on the bed, some already packed into black plastic bags. Evidently, it was Tia who had been elected to sort through Mitchell’s personal belongings. I did not envy her.

  But where was she? Her car was still in the parking lot.

  I exhaled in frustration. Two hours of driving, and my pulse had still not slowed. I was unsettled, and I wasn’t sure how to fix myself. All I had been able to think, as I said goodbye to Alex with an artificial smile on my face, was that I wanted to be back here. Now that I was here, I seemed to want something else.

  "Tia?" I called again. She was not anywhere on the first floor. I moved hesitantly to the bottom of the stairs and looked up. Had it
happened up there…in the end bedroom? Did some part of my mind still know that?

  I drew in a breath and raised a foot. Whatever had happened in the past, it was still the past. It couldn’t hurt me now.

  I forced myself up the rest of the stairs, once again pausing briefly on the landing to admire the clock. Would Tia take it with her? She should. With no one living here permanently now, it might get stolen. I reached the upstairs hall and began walking, looking through each door in turn.

  I glanced into the second bedroom on the right, and relief washed over me. Two plum-colored suitcases lay on the floor, each opened, with various feminine belongings scattered in all directions. Tia herself lay on the canopy bed, fully clothed, snoring softly.

  I smiled. She had arrived at the inn in the wee hours of the morning, hadn’t she? Of course she was tired. Her car was a rental—perhaps she was jet-lagged. In any event, she was still here. And she was safe.

  Safe, I repeated to myself, turning quietly from the door and heading back down the stairs. Why wouldn’t she be? Was I becoming paranoid?

  I brushed off the thought and headed to the kitchen. But though I busied myself by making and eating a grilled-cheese sandwich, then cleaning the range and countertops to obsessive-compulsive standards, I did not feel any better. The uneasiness was still with me.

  I wanted something. And despite my mental protestations to the contrary, I knew exactly what it was.

  ***

  The sight of Fletcher’s beat-up truck on the path below his cabin drew my lips into a smile. He would be here. He had to be—unless he had hiked away or hitched a ride with someone else. I moved to the cabin’s front porch and rapped on the door. It opened within seconds.

  Fletcher stood in the doorway, consuming most of it. He was wearing the most dilapidated clothing I had yet seen: a tee shirt with holes around the pocket and ancient jeans spattered with a combination of deep brown and an odd, shiny substance.

  His initial reaction at seeing me was shock, though the sentiment was less severe than the last time I had surprised him here. What delighted me more was the soft smile that followed—and the pleasure that flashed, perhaps not to his knowledge, deep within his eyes.

  He was glad to see me.

  "Meara," he exclaimed, not moving. "You came back."

  I nodded.

  "What happened?" he questioned, his expression turning worried. "Tia said you got a call from your real estate agent—that your parents’ house was broken into."

  I nodded again, feeling awkward. I didn’t want to talk about what had happened in Pittsburgh. All I could do was look with yearning at his strong arms—one holding the door open, the other resting at his side. But I continued to stand on the porch, and he continued to keep his distance.

  As well he should.

  "I’m sorry to barge in," I lied, cursing my slip in language. Resolution #2 was going poorly. Resolution #1, on the other hand, appeared not to be a problem. Fletcher, unlike every other man I had had the misfortune to be attracted to, did not seem interested in using me. He could, if he wanted to. I was upset; I was vulnerable. I had hiked up to his cabin in search of comfort, and even the most clueless of men could pick up on that. It was a weakness of mine—needing somebody. Needing affection. I might as well admit it. It was a part of my personality.

  Along with the fact that I was a hypocrite. Fletcher might be physically attracted to me as well, but he had been fighting that from day one. He had told me with countless nonverbal cues that he wasn’t interested in me romantically; I was virtually certain that he was committed to someone else. Yet here I had come anyway, looking for solace.

  I was trying to use him.

  "I’m not sure anyone did break into the house," I continued, unable to rid my voice of its melancholy. "The door was unlocked in the morning, but it might have been left that way. In any event, nothing was taken."

  Fletcher smiled, though the concern did not leave his eyes. "Well, that’s good news."

  "Yes," I agreed, now feeling both awkward and melancholy at the same time. Coming here had been a mistake. But could I bring myself to leave?

  "Well come on inside," he offered suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "You didn’t see the cabin before, did you?"

  He swung open the door and stepped aside, and as I perceived the note of teasing in his voice, the awkwardness between us eased. "I wasn’t invited," I said pointedly, my voice stronger. "In fact, I seem to recall I was threatened with a chain saw."

  He grinned. "How odd. I remember it the other way around." His smile broadened, and his gray-green eyes sparkled. Another pang of longing shot through me, but I tried to ignore it.

  "It’s not much," he said as he led me in. "But I like it."

  I looked around. Though plain and sparsely furnished, the cabin was enchanting. Its first floor consisted almost entirely of one great room, through the center of which rose an impressive stone chimney. A small kitchen area protruded to the right, the glass-walled workshop to the left. Doors in the back area of the cabin undoubtedly led to closets and a bathroom. The atmosphere was rustic, with walls, ceiling, and floor made of raw, dark, wood, but still it was comfortable and airy. Light poured in from skylights in the cathedral ceiling; open wooden steps led up to a loft bedroom.

  "It’s wonderful," I said in a whisper. "Can you see the stars from up there?"

  I regretted the question as soon as it had left my lips, but if the topic of his bedroom were awkward, he didn’t show it.

  "More or less," he answered cheerfully. "But the meadow’s the best place for stargazing. Take a look around—you can go up the ladder if you like."

  I didn’t question his invitation. I just went. I scurried up the ladder as anxious as a child, no doubt the spitting image of Heidi, delighting over her grandfather’s cottage in the Alps. I reached the loft and spun around, entranced. Two floor-to-ceiling picture windows flanked the back wall, looking out into the treetops. In between them rested a plain but striking wooden bed, over-long, of an odd width, and unusually high off the ground. I stared at its uneven, quilted surface for a moment, puzzling. Then I walked to the railing and leaned over it to look into the great room. "Is this a feather bed?" I inquired—as innocently as possible.

  He grinned up at me from below. "Yes. I made it myself. I got tired of putting up with too-short mattresses...but I guess you wouldn’t know about that."

  I grinned back. "No, I wouldn’t." I climbed down the stairs to join him again. "It’s fabulous," I complimented. "No wonder you’d rather stay up here than at the inn. It’s so down-to-earth, so inviting. Did you do any of the designing yourself? Or the building?"

  He didn’t answer immediately, and I noted with distress that his face had darkened. It was the pain—again. What had I done this time?

  "I’m glad you like it," he said stiffly, moving to lean against the back of his couch. His eyes avoided mine.

  I clenched my teeth, wanting very much to scream. What was it about me that kept making him so miserable? What was I doing wrong? Was I supposed to tell him I didn’t like the cabin?

  "So this is your workshop," I said, desperate to break his mood. I skirted the simple, plain-wood sectional couch and moved toward the sunroom, but I didn’t make it all the way. On the far side of the chimney I tripped, nearly falling.

  I looked down at the object over which I had stumbled, and my eyes widened. It was an Old English Sheepdog. Not a real one, but a wooden statue. The life-sized dog lay in a relaxed position, paws splayed, head up, tongue lolling. As if he had just returned from a good long run and was looking for a treat before his nap. His shaggy hair was intricately—and laboriously—carved, his face so lifelike I was inclined to stoop and pet him. I had begun to do just that when my eyes rested on the tag that dangled from his collar. I read its inscription, then straightened.

  Ferris.

  My eyes turned to Fletcher. He seemed wary again, almost embarrassed. And yet at the same time, strangely prou
d. "A dog I used to have," he explained.

  The name bounced about in my head, and I said it out loud. "Ferris?"

  "It’s from a movie. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Do you remember it?"

  I nodded. I did remember it. I was also remembering other things. Like the tool that Tia had painted in Fletcher’s hands—the tool I had thought was a screwdriver. Like the pavilion outside filled with drying logs, and the stains on his clothes. Like the look on his face when I had rushed up the inn’s steps to catch the cuckoo chirping. Like the monster check, the expensive suits, and the mystery job in San Francisco. With Herrington’s of San Francisco.

  Ferris Mountain.

  I whirled and looked into the workshop, seeing a back wall covered with tools. Not screwdrivers but chisels, as well as a plethora of gouges, knives, mallets, and saws. I turned again, intending to walk towards him, but found him standing in front of me.

  "I like to carve," he informed, his tone defensive. "It’s been a hobby of mine since I was a kid."

  I didn’t comment, but reached out and took his right hand. I lifted it toward me, palm up, and inspected the crescent-shaped callous on the butt of his palm. He didn’t resist.

  "I use my hand as a mallet sometimes," he explained.

  I dropped his hand and stepped back. My eyes fixed on the stone chimney; my lungs felt tight in my chest.

  "What’s wrong?" he asked. His tone had softened, as if in defeat, and I was sure he knew very well what was wrong.

  I breathed out heavily, and my eyes grew moist. I felt stupid; I felt deceived. I felt hurt, more than I had any right to be, that he had withheld something so important from me. Yet at the same time, I felt an incredible sense of elation—and of pride. I knew that he had a good heart and a sharp mind; I had no idea he was an artistic genius. I was in awe of his talent. I was in awe of him.

  "Fletcher," I breathed, my voice low, but controlled. "Why wouldn’t you tell me?"