Meant To Be

by Неизвестно

  The trail began to flatten, and I held my breath. When a bright blue shirt came into view through the green leaves ahead, I exhaled with relief. Sure enough, he was standing near the rock on which we had sat together three days before, throwing stones.

  I approached him without speaking. He must already have heard me coming, because he took no notice of me as I emerged from the trail and settled myself on the flat-topped boulder. I could tell from his face that he was not particularly pleased to see me.

  I had expected that. After all, he thought he wanted to be alone. He assumed that my presence couldn’t possibly help and would only aggravate him. I might indeed aggravate him—if he had a taste for tight jeans and scoop-neck shirts. But he was wrong about my not being able to help. I could, and I was going to.

  I sat silently for a while, giving him the opportunity to speak first if he wanted. He didn’t, so I took the lead. "I couldn’t make much sense of the letter, either," I said casually, as if we were already in the middle of a conversation. "But that’s all right. The details of went on between your mother and Sheila aren’t important to me."

  Fletcher said nothing. His jaws remained clenched, his face stony. The pebbles he was throwing weren’t landing in the creek anymore, but were sailing into the foliage well across the far bank.

  "It sounded as though your mother loved your father very much," I offered, prompting.

  He looked back at me with a glare, the pain in his eyes intolerable. My own gut ached abominably, but I pressed on. "I know what you’re thinking. But you shouldn’t jump to conclusions."

  He bent down, retrieved a larger hunk of sandstone, and threw it. It hit the giant boulder in the middle of the stream and splintered into pieces.

  I took a breath and continued. "Whatever happened between your parents in the past—"

  "What happened," he interrupted, his voice hard, "is that my mother cheated on my father. Why don’t you just say it? The letter was pretty clear on that point."

  I disagreed on the latter statement, but didn’t argue. "The letter said that whatever happened, they worked through it," I emphasized. "She was trying to apologize."

  "Well, I’m sure that made him feel all better," he said cynically. Another fistful of stones flew across the creek and into the woods.

  I sighed. I could hardly blame him for being unable to view his mother’s alleged infidelity objectively. What happened with Isabella had shaken him to the core; now, with the mother he idolized crashing posthumously from her pedestal, he was undoubtedly feeling that he couldn’t trust any woman.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  I drew myself up on the rock. "No," I agreed. "You’re right. An apology wouldn’t have made your father feel any better, at least not right away. But with a sincere apology, over time—"

  "Apologizing for stabbing someone in the back," he retorted, interrupting me again, "does nothing but add insult to injury."

  I said nothing else for a moment, uncertain how to proceed. I wanted him to know that I understood. I supposed I might as well be straightforward.

  "I know," I admitted. "I’ve been there myself. Derrick even used the cliché: I never meant to hurt you. What he really meant, of course, is that he hadn’t been thinking about me at all. Perhaps it was his preference that I not get hurt; but it was certainly a risk he was willing to take."

  Fletcher stopped throwing rocks. He turned and looked at me.

  "That’s what I meant by a sincere apology, as opposed to an insincere one," I continued. "He claimed that he still loved me. He claimed that we could stay together if only I were willing to forgive him. But in his mind I was the real problem, not him. Because the truth was that he never really loved me at all."

  I hopped off the rock, my reverie eating at my insides a little more than I would have liked. My ill-fated first love might be ancient history, but it was still an unpleasant place to go. I reached down and grabbed a pebble myself.

  "But your parents obviously did love each other, Fletcher," I continued, tossing it. The stone hit a nearby boulder and bounced off into the churning water. "You can’t fake a lifetime of devotion. That means something. Maybe one or the other was unfaithful once upon a time, but you don’t know the circumstances, and it isn’t fair to speculate now."

  I looked up at him. He was still staring at me, but his expression had changed. He was incredulous. "What moron," he asked gruffly, his eyes flashing with anger, "would ever be stupid enough to cheat on you? What—were you still in high school?"

  I suppressed a smile at the compliment. "No. I was in my early twenties. We dated all through college, but then went to different graduate schools. The understanding was that as soon as I finished my masters, I would move out to join him. We were young, but I was in love with him; I wanted to marry him as soon as we had jobs. He said he wanted the same thing. We’d been living apart for a little over a year when I found out what was going on.

  "He never would have told me. At least not until he decided he wanted to break up. He liked having me waiting for him in the wings; he enjoyed my visits. But in between, he couldn’t resist sleeping around. He was very good-looking; there was no shortage of willing candidates. He figured that as long as I didn’t find out, I’d be fine, and he could have the best of both worlds."

  I cursed the churning in my stomach, reminding myself I was telling the story for a reason. "But of course I did find out. One of his exes cornered me on campus during a visit—said she felt it was her duty to inform me what a jerk he was. Of course, she was only trying to get back at him for moving on, but her story was real. He eventually confirmed it."

  I cast another glance at Fletcher. His expression remained amazed. "Unbelievable," he whispered roughly.

  "Why?" I asked. "People cheat every day."

  "Not on women like you, they don’t," he said emphatically, his eyes flashing again. "Was the man insane?"

  This time, I let myself smile. "No," I answered. "Just stupid. Stupid, thoughtless, and immature. The world is full of people like that. And they’re not always easy to spot. I beat myself up over Derrick for a long time. But eventually I got over it. I realized it wasn’t me. He would have cheated on anybody. It’s just the way he was put together."

  I looked Fletcher in the eyes, my voice low. "And I was vulnerable to him because of the way I’m put together. I loved him, and I didn’t want anyone else. But even if I had, I would never have acted on those feelings, because I could never have hurt him like that. I couldn’t bear it—it would be like hurting myself. My mistake was believing that his idea of love was the same as mine."

  I stood silently for a moment, remembering against my will the sorrow my naivete had wrought. I had learned from Derrick; I had not made the same mistake again. The next two times, I had made different ones.

  Fletcher stepped close in front of me, his eyes filled with a tumultuous mixture of empathy and indignation. In a natural motion he brought his hand to my face, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing my cheekbone. I stood without breathing as his hand moved to my temple, then gently swept a lock of hair behind my ear.

  My heart skipped a beat. My face flushed.

  "I’m sorry, Meara," he said tenderly. "You deserve better."

  I was afraid to move. His hand retraced my cheekbone with a feather touch, then moved down my jawline toward my chin.

  "Thank you," I agreed. "So do you."

  His expression clouded. His hand fell to his side. He turned away from me and dropped down heavily on the rock.

  Oh, no, you don’t, I resolved with passion. I was doing the right thing by being honest with him—by getting everything out in the open—and I was not going to let him make me regret it. I walked over and sat down beside him, making sure our shoulders touched. Predictably, he shifted away.

  "Tia had no business—" he grumbled.

  "Tia loves you," I interrupted, my voice firm. "And don’t you dare say a word against her, because you’re darned lucky to have her in your
life. I’d give anything to have a sister like her."

  He growled low in his throat. But when I moved closer again, he stayed put.

  "So, I know about Isabella," I challenged, my voice lighter. "So what? Everything I just told you was the truth. You want me to apologize for having the gall to talk about something that might make you feel better?"

  He threw me a sideways glare. "Our situations were different."

  "How?" I pressed. "Because Derrick and I weren’t engaged? Or because he didn’t sleep with a friend of mine? None of my friends were anywhere near him at the time, but I’m sure he would have considered them fair game if they had been. And the only reason we weren’t engaged is because he didn’t ask; if he had, I would have said yes, God help me. Now, as far as quality of betrayal—timing, cinematic flair—I agree with you, Isabella wins. But for sheer quantity, college-boy gets the prize. I’m pretty sure he went through the entire women’s tennis team."

  He avoided my gaze. But in the corner of his eye, I was certain I caught the faintest glimmer of amusement.

  "I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you," he groused.

  I grinned. "And why not?"

  "Because I don’t want to talk about it."

  "Who’s talking?" I teased. "All I hear is myself."

  He growled at me again, and I decided I liked the sound. Distinctly bearlike. Mighty, but sweet.

  "You’ve been so much help to me, Fletcher," I said seriously, trying to catch his eyes. "I only want to return the favor."

  He lifted his eyes to mine, and the expression I saw in them suffused me with joy. It was a difficult look to define—a certain sparkle, a warmth. But I knew what it meant. He was falling for me, too. He was fighting me, but he was losing.

  Our faces were inches apart, and I longed to kiss him. I had no qualms about making the first move—despite my mother’s etiquette training—and having a man actively resist me was tantalizing uncharted territory. But something else held me back. If Tia’s tale were to be believed, Fletcher had been living like a monk for months. Watching him now, I decided I believed her. Though he remained perfectly still beside me, his taut muscles and rapid, shallow breaths showed just how deprived that inane resolution had left him. Strong will or no, he was at the end of his rope. One touch of my lips would finish him.

  I didn’t move. Whatever idiotic vow he had made to himself, the decision to recant it had to be his own. Physical coercion from me would be a cheap shot. Pleasant as the process of his undoing would be, I didn’t want him to succumb purely out of lust. I wanted him to open his heart again—knowingly and willingly. I wanted him to trust me.

  The fun part could follow.

  I pulled back and stood up. "Now, I don’t know about you," I said brightly, wondering if he could sense my own frustration—and hoping that he could. "But I’m starving. I forgot all about breakfast, so the only reasonable course of action now is for me to fix a huge lunch." I looked at my watch. "Why don’t you come to the inn around noon? I’ll have to make a grocery run first."

  He didn’t answer immediately. He sat looking at me, a parade of emotions racing across his eyes. Irritation, gratitude, fondness, desire. I took them all in with exhilaration. The pain was not completely gone, but at least it wasn’t dominant. That slot, I noted with satisfaction as his gaze rested briefly over my scoop-neck shirt, belonged to the latter.

  "That sounds great," he said finally, rising to his feet. "I’ve got work to do this morning, anyway."

  I watched him as he turned and started up the path to his cabin, his eyes once again looking anywhere but at me.

  I couldn’t wait till lunch.

  Chapter 28

  When I reached the French doors at the back of the inn, I was practically skipping. My birth mother had not been a gold digger, much less an attempted murderess. I had stayed here as a child because she had been a friend of Rosemary Black’s; whatever had happened between the women later, I really didn’t care. The sun was shining, and Fletcher was unattached. All that mattered to me now was the present and the future—and at the moment, both seemed wonderfully bright.

  I opened the doors and floated inside. "Tia?" I called, seeing that she was no longer bent over the cluttered table. "Where are you? You want to go out with me for a while?"

  I received no response, but noted a single sheet of paper sitting prominently on the kitchen counter, weighted down with the tea kettle. I stepped over to read it.

  Off to see James P.—T

  My heart sank. Not only was I disappointed at the lost prospect of an outing with a new friend, but I was beginning to wish I had discouraged her from her fact hunt. I didn’t want to hear any more revelations today. The process would only drag me down, and after having just spent such a promising few moments with Fletcher, I was prepared to fight that current any way I could.

  A floorboard squeaked overhead, and my face broke into a smile. She hadn’t left yet. I could still catch her.

  "Tia!" I flew down the hall and up the stairs, my voice bubbling with excitement. "Forget James P. Whatever! Come with me to—" I stepped into her room and stopped short, disappointed. She wasn’t there. Her purse and keys were gone from the dresser. I exhaled sadly.

  Had my hopeful imagination run away with me? It must have—though I could have sworn the creak I heard was a footstep. Perhaps Estelle was here? She could have slipped in while I was out and began cleaning the upstairs—she might not have heard me calling. I turned around toward Tia’s door. "Estelle?" I called, louder this time. "Are you—"

  My words broke off, mangled. My own breath seemed to choke me.

  The figure in the doorway leaned to the side, one broad shoulder and arm falling heavily against the doorframe. He crossed his legs casually in front of him, then stretched his free hand across the opening. His dark eyes twinkled. His lips curled into a satisfied smile.

  Jake.

  My limbs turned to lead. I couldn’t move. Jake could not be here. Not at this place, not now. But he was. And I was.

  We were alone.

  "Hello there, sweetheart," he crooned. His voice was gravelly, and not quite stable. My heart pounded.

  He was drunk.

  "Thought I’d come to see ya," he continued, staring at me. He made a show of squaring his shoulders, his large frame virtually occluding the undersized doorway. "You weren’t too nice to me on the phone, you know, missy. Not too nice to your dear old dad. I didn’t like that."

  My arms and legs began to tremble. Jake was intoxicated. He was angry. And as his body language was making painfully clear, he also had me trapped. There was only one door, and I could not go through it. This bedroom had no bath. Its lead-soldered windows cranked open only a few inches. There was no other way out.

  He had me, and he knew it.

  "I didn’t mean to be rude," I forced out, finding my voice. My mind was reeling. Whether or not Jake posed a real physical threat to me, I didn’t know. But I could not afford careless optimism. He was stronger than I was, and I had no weapon. I had to tread carefully.

  "How did you get here?" I asked with as casual a voice as I could muster.

  It was a poor effort. Jake’s crocodile smile widened. "I followed you here, you silly woman," he patronized. "Just when I thought you’d never show up at your house—you did. Then you led me right back here. Didn’t even notice me, did you?"

  I didn’t answer. Obviously, I had not. I was hardly in the habit of studying cars out my rear view mirror, and yesterday I had been particularly flustered.

  "Of course you didn’t," he bragged, "because I’m good at following people. No one gets away from me. I always find them. Eventually." His eyes held mine, their dark depths glinting with a sentiment that chilled me. A sentiment I had recognized before.

  Hatred.

  "Why did you want to see me?" I asked quickly, willing away my urge to panic. Screaming and making a run for the door would accomplish nothing. No one would hear a scream from inside; even if I
did reach a window, Fletcher had to be most of the way to his cabin by now. And no matter how tempted I was to try, I knew that I could not forcibly push past Jake. Even though he had been drinking, he could not be falling-down drunk. No driver that far-gone could possibly have maneuvered all the twists and turns on the road to the inn.

  "Have you been waiting long?" I finished.

  He grinned at me again. "I asked you to call me. But you were being a little stubborn. I could have dropped in yesterday, but I wanted to meet with you in private."

  Tia’s car, I thought miserably. It had been in the lot when I returned to the inn yesterday—it had stayed there all night. Had Jake driven by more than once, checking? He was home when I called him this morning. He must have set out immediately afterwards—only to find my car conveniently alone this time. He had probably looked for me inside the inn. Sifted through my stuff. Wandered up here…

  "What is it you want, then?" I braved, squaring my own shoulders. If Jake got a charge out of intimidating women, I would do my best not to give him the satisfaction.

  "What do I want?" he repeated in a sing-song, mocking me. "What do you think I want?" He stood up straight in the doorway. His voice dropped. "A little respect wouldn’t hurt."

  I took in a deep breath and stepped closer to him, figuring that the less defensive I acted, the less alert he would stay. If I could convince him I wasn’t afraid, wouldn’t bolt—he might let his guard down. And if he would move only a little bit, I might have a chance. All I needed was a head start down the stairs. I could be halfway across the meadow before he made it out of the inn, and he wouldn’t have a prayer of catching me on the mountain.

  "I’m sorry if you think I’ve been rude," I said with feigned remorse. "I didn’t realize. It’s just that this whole thing has been a shock to me. Finding out about Sheila going to prison for drugs—it really threw me for a loop. I didn’t think I could handle any more right now."

  An idea struck me, and my pulse quickened. I turned my back to him and moved toward the window. "You see, I’m getting married in a couple of weeks, and I thought it would be easier if I could put everything about my birth parents on hold for a while. Todd thought I was getting too stressed about everything, and he was probably right." I pulled back the curtain and gazed out. Jake’s blue Ford Taurus was parked high on the hill, the farthest spot from the inn. Perhaps he had rolled in quietly, not wanting to be heard. Or perhaps he envisioned a fast getaway.