by Karey White
She was right; he was good at this.
He didn’t do anything fancy, just kept it simple, swaying, every so often pulling her out to spin her slowly and then bring her back in. She wanted to be pulled back in, pressed to him. She felt his lips brush her forehead, and then he slowly spun her away again, and the song ended. He kept her fingers, watching her.
And a battle erupted inside her. Oh, Wren, why did he have to know salsa?
Chapter Eleven
Back at his house, they helped Dot to her room and made sure she was awake enough to dress and get to bed. Wren kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Valentine.”
Then Wren and Seth stood at the base of the stairs. He took her hand again, and she watched his shoes.
“Tonight was fun,” he said softly.
She closed her eyes and smiled. “It was the best time I’ve had in a while. This whole horrible, awful, wonderful week has been the best I’ve had in a long while. What does that say about me? That my grandpa has to die for me to—”
“Shh.” He lifted her chin. “Don’t say that.”
She opened her eyes and a tear fell. He furrowed his brow, but continued to draw her closer. “Don’t cry, Wren.” He lowered his head to hers, watching her mouth. She felt a pull, like a magnet, his mouth toward hers. Just before he reached her lips, she placed her hands on his wrists and pulled away.
It took him a moment to blink and pull up. He ran a hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”
“No. I...” But she didn’t know what to say. “I...”
He brushed a tendril of her hair off her face. “It’s all right. I misread. And you... you’ve been brave all week.”
He hadn’t misread anything. But she was exhausted. “I’m tired of being brave,” she whispered.
He smiled. “I can help you there. Tomorrow is easy. Recovery day. Brunch at the Space Needle and then the Seattle Symphony.” He gave her an encouraging look. “Easy.”
“Then I go home.”
He nodded. “Then you go home.” He touched her face again, gently. “Wren, I’d like to see you again.”
She swallowed, thinking that too. But she shook her head. “You can’t. It’s not—”
“It’s not that far. I get flyer miles. Job perk.”
She shook her head again and pulled away. “No, you can’t. I mean, I can’t.”
“Wren, this whole week was about living life before it’s too late—”
She turned away. “I know what it’s about.”
“And I know what I want to do—”
“How can you possibly know? You don’t even know me.”
“I have a good idea. I’d like to know you better.” He reached for her hand.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?” His fingers found hers.
She spun, throwing off his hand like it was scalding water. He looked like she’d slapped him. She felt like she’d slapped him.
“Because I’m tired of being brave.” She breathed heavily with emotion. Tears fell. He watched her, stunned.
Dot appeared in her doorway, clearly concerned. Wren looked at them both. “I don’t know... what to give you. I don’t know what to promise or even dream about...” She closed her eyes and swallowed. When she opened them again, Dot had stepped out of her room.
Wren spoke to her. “Just before Gramps died, I wasn’t feeling right.” She shook her head. “I went to the doctor. They ran blood tests, all kinds of tests.”
Dot stepped forward. “What did they find, honey?”
“C—cancer.”
Seth ran his hand through his hair.
“They ran the imaging. My uterus. Just like—”
“Billy’s wife.”
Wren nodded. “My grandma.”
She saw understanding dawn in Dot’s eyes. “Oh, merciful heavens. Do they know how far along? Can you start treatment?”
“I’m waiting on more test results.”
Dot put her hands on her heart. “And you kept this from us this whole time?”
“You... you were strangers.”
“Were,” Seth said quietly.
Her stomach flipped with ache and confusion. “I haven’t even told my mom.”
“Dear, sweet, foolish child.” Dot pulled her arms around Wren and hugged her tight. She was good at it too. “Why on earth not?”
Wren sniffled. “Because of Gramps. Because of the funeral. Because I couldn’t... I couldn’t give her the pain that I might be leaving her too.” She cried. “I couldn’t do that to her.”
She lifted her eyes to Seth. His were rimmed with red, his fists clenched. He watched her, though; he wouldn’t look away.
“I couldn’t do that to anyone. Not now.” Her chest constricted with emotion. “I’m tired of being brave.” She lowered her head onto Dot’s shoulder.
Later, when Dot had tucked Wren into the bed on the sofa and kissed her head good night, Seth stayed behind. He knelt down by her.
“Please, Seth.”
“I just want you to know two things.”
She looked at him.
“One, this week has been the best of my life, and it was all because of you. All of it. We were doing it for Gramps, but you were doing it... for you.”
Watching him, she nodded.
He reached for her hand. She let him take it, but she wouldn’t let him keep it long. “Two, it’s too late. You’re already leaving me, and it’s already enough to hurt like hell. I think I understand. But I do know you. You’re a fighter, Wren. So you fight. Be brave enough so that you’re doing yard work and making plans for a week like this one on the day you die.” He wiped a tear and pressed his lips to her palm. “You... you drive with purpose.” He kissed her hand once more then got up and left, hurrying up the stairs.
She blinked at the ceiling, letting her tears get her pillow all wet. She pressed her hand to her chest.
Chapter Twelve
Wren had been home in Palisade for three hours and still, her bag sat unpacked at the foot of her bed. Her last day with Dot and Seth had been subdued, but pleasant and friendly. Every smile and touch was weighted. The goodbyes nearly unbearable.
“You changed my life this week,” she’d told Dot. “Thank you.”
“Oh, my dear. Your life wasn’t changed. We simply lived it. Don’t forget that.”
Seth tried to catch her eye at the end. But she couldn’t look at him. His embrace was quick. His escape was quicker.
She had three days until the funeral. Wren had assured her mother she’d come over later for dinner, and that her quiet behavior was because she was tired, so she was urged to take a nap.
But Wren couldn’t sleep. She sat at her desk, a pen in hand, staring vacantly over a sheet of paper.
Wren’s Bucket List
The rest of the page was blank. It wasn’t that she couldn’t think of anything. It was just that everything she thought of... she couldn’t see doing without—
Seth.
Finally she threw down the pen, wiping tears away, and picked up the phone. She pulled out the doctor’s number.
Chapter Thirteen
The funeral was stiffer than Gramps would have liked, but it was done, and Wren could see the weight begin to lift from her mom’s shoulders. They were holding a small reception afterward, and then it would all be over. She’d give her mom a couple more days, and then Wren would tell her everything.
Wren shook people’s hands as they passed. She smiled and nodded and thanked them, keeping an eye on her mom, yet her thoughts wouldn’t stay focused. She held her hand out to take a young man’s, but he placed an envelope there instead. Several people had given her sympathy cards, which she’d taken to read later. She thanked him and turned to put it in her purse.
“He says to read it now.”
She looked at the young man. “Who says?”
The kid shrugged and continued past her. She looked down at the envelope. Wren-bird.
She excused herself, her heartbeat picking up a litt
le. Her mother looked at her questioningly. Wren reassured her with a nod and, her gaze darting around the room, left the reception to find a quiet place off the foyer.
A few people stopped her and expressed their condolences. She thanked them, trying not to appear hurried, and then moved on, finally finding a darkened area next to the coat racks.
She opened the envelope and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
Her fingers trembled as she unfolded the letter. She took a deep breath, then read.
Seth’s Bucket List
Love Wren
Love Wren
Love Wren
Love Wren
Love Wren
Love Wren…
She pressed the paper to her chest, no longer able to see.
“I thought we should get started right away.”
She turned at the sound of his voice.
He stood there, hands pushed into his pockets, looking for all the world like Christmas morning.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to pay my respects to the man who raised you. I hope that’s all right.”
She nodded.
“And... well, it says there.” He gestured to the letter crushed in her hands. He wrinkled his brow. “Although, I may have to make another copy.”
She shook her head. “This one is good.”
“Yeah?”
She stepped toward him. “Yeah.” She didn’t stop, and he opened his arms. She pressed into him, and he wrapped his arms around her. She gazed up at him.
He watched her. “You’re not looking away.”
“No.”
“I’m starting that list now, Wren. There’s nothing you can do about it. I’m in this.”
Her heart pounded, and she couldn’t protest. “I believe you.”
He pulled her closer, and she lifted her chin. He smiled, then touched his lips to hers.
She closed her eyes and with the kiss, drew her arms around his neck, the smell of him surprisingly familiar. He pulled her closer, and then eased. Their lips parted.
“Yeah,” he said, breathless. He searched her face. “I’m in this.”
She let the words float around her heart a moment. Then a question tumbled out. “Would you be in this if I didn’t have cancer?”
He frowned, and his hands clenched against her back. “Of course I would. Dang, Wren, I loved you the moment you took the mic.”
The gentle flurry of his words settled softly. “That’s good to know. I got the test results back. I don’t have cancer, Seth.” She watched him react: first with hesitation, making sure he understood her, and then his eyes lit up.
“It’s benign. There’s a chance I could still get it because of my family history, but I can do things to pre—”
“Ha!” He laughed, loud. She let out a squeal as he picked her up and swung her around right there next to the coats. His smile blazed.
And all of the suppression, all the secret ache and worry and fear flew out of her like a little flock of birds painfully caged, suddenly set free. Off they flew, down the hallway, and out the doors.
Wren paid them little attention. Seth was kissing her again, his bucket list clutched in her hand, as they pressed into the coats of people attending her grandpa’s funeral. She didn’t care at all.
She was living.
And she thought Gramps would be kinda proud.
Click on the covers to go to the Amazon purchase site:
Nearly every one of KRISTA LYNNE JENSEN’S elementary school teachers noted on her report card that she was a “day-dreamer.” It was not a compliment. So when Krista grew up, she put those daydreams down on paper for others to enjoy.
When she's not writing she enjoys reading, hiking, her family, and sunshine. But not laundry. She never day-dreams about laundry.
Krista writes romance and fantasy. She is the author of Of Grace and Chocolate (a 2012 Whitney Award Finalist), The Orchard (2013), Falling For You (2014), and With All My Heart (2014), through Covenant Communications. She is a member of ANWA, Author's Incognito, and LDStorymakers.
Visit her blog at http://kristalynnejensen.blogspot.com
Chapter One
“Okay, kids, this next letter holds a secret no one has been able to uncover in over three hundred years.” Julie Ashburn looked out at the kids in her classroom, gratified to see her seniors all paying attention for once. She lifted the letter from her desk and held it high in the air. “Most of you know Ludwig van Beethoven as a composer. Does anyone know anything else about him?”
Caleb raised his hand. “He was deaf as a dodo bird.”
Julie lifted a brow. “The expression is dead as a dodo, and as dodos were not deaf, I’m going to ignore the second half of your statement but agree with the first. Yes, he was deaf. He started losing his hearing in his mid-twenties.” She paced in front of her desk. “What else?”
“He was Swiss,” called out Evan.
Julie shook her head. “No, he was German.”
“Same difference,” Evan said.
Julie sighed and, for effect, shook her head sadly. “As this is honors English, not geography, I’ll only comment that the German and Swiss peoples would not agree with your assessment.”
As the kids chuckled, Julie waved the sheet of paper again. “So Beethoven was a German composer who went deaf in his twenties. Anything more to add? Does anyone know anything about his love life?”
Julie was delighted to see all eyes turn front and center. She cleared her throat and started reading.
Good morning,
Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us— I can only live wholly with you or not at all. Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the lands of spirits. Yes, unhappily, it must be so. You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart— never— never…
Julie paced and finished reading the letter aloud, then ended with the valediction.
ever thine
ever mine
ever ours
She finished, lowered the paper, and looked over at the kids. “This letter was found in Beethoven’s possession upon his death. No one knows who this unknown, Immortal Beloved was. To this day, people continue to guess at the mystery woman’s identity. Books, plays, and the movie Immortal Beloved all examine, in great detail, who she might have been.”
“Maybe it was a man,” said Hannah.
Julie laughed. “Maybe so, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about today. I want to discuss how this intensely passionate letter has captured the imagination of so many. And why, hundreds of years later, the world is still trying to determine who Beethoven’s true love was.” She raised the paper. “And all of that is based on this short note.”
She paused. “Why do people even care? At this point, the world will probably never be able to match a face to this mystery woman. Not for certain. No one will know how their relationship worked out for them, as this is all that’s left of the love that once burned as passionately as the music for which Beethoven is known.”
There were a couple of snickers from the boys, but Julie continued as she leaned against her desk. “Can you imagine receiving a letter like this?”
More laughter, but everyone still paid attention.
“Can’t you just feel the emotion? These are not just words on a page, these are heartfelt sentiments that have lasted the test of time. What he felt for her is right here.” She shook the paper. “So, what does this have in common with the letter we read from Napoleon to his wife?”
Brittany raised her hand. “You can tell they really loved the women in their lives.”
“Exactly. These letters eloquently express what the writers were feeling. Remember, they didn’t have airplanes, cars, or even motorcycles
. So distances were a lot greater back then. They didn’t get to Skype, tweet, or call on their cell phones. They didn’t receive email updates or texts about what was going on at home.” She raised her brows. “These men were sometimes separated from their families for months, sometimes years. They missed their wives, and they missed seeing their children grow up.”
She rifled through the letters on her desk, found the one she wanted, and raised it. “Remember the letters from the Civil War? At night, these men were cold, hungry, perhaps wet, muddy, or injured. They didn’t have fancy tents and sleeping bags to keep out the chill. And what did they think about? What did they talk about? Home and family. Wives, girlfriends, children, parents, friends, and other loved ones.”
Lindsay raised her hand. “It’s so romantic. I still love the idea of doing love letters for our fundraiser. Do you think Principal Parker will okay it?”
Julie glanced around, and a twinge of anxiety tightened her stomach. When she and her students had talked about it before, Julie had encouraged the idea. But what if it bombed? “Is everyone on board? Do you really want to write and sell love letters for the fundraiser? Candy bars may be easier.”
The kids looked around at one another and talked amongst themselves for a moment. There were a few grumbles, but in the end, when Lindsay faced forward, she smiled and said, “Yes, definitely. We want to kick butt and outsell any fundraiser that came before us.”
Julie smiled. Competitive much? “Okay, then. I’ll give it my best shot.” She must really like these kids, because they didn’t know what they were asking of her. Six months after the “event” as she liked to refer to her embarrassing behavior, she still could barely look Dane Parker in the face.
Not Dane, she reminded herself, but Principal Parker. She needed emotional distance. His laughter, then embarrassment, over her passionate declaration— it all still felt like it had happened yesterday. Especially when she saw him face to face. The only positive thing to have come out of the “event” was that he seemed to have kept his mouth solidly shut about it. Otherwise, she probably would have tried to transfer to a different high school by now.
