by Alison Kent
Pregnant? As in a new little Keller? As in more family to love? She jumped up and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Tennessee! That’s wonderful!”
“Yeah. It kinda is,” he said, but nothing in his voice or his expression—he was frowning when he should’ve been grinning like a loon—led her to believe wonderful was what he was feeling.
The door chime sounded, and she glanced over in time to see Will walk in, returning his wave as he headed toward the rear of the house, then giving her attention back to her brother. She guided him to an empty chair at the table’s near end, then pulled her own around so they sat knee to knee. “Now, tell Sister Indiana what’s wrong.”
He leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, his hands twisted together, his chin tucked all the way to his chest. If she hadn’t just seen Kaylie in the kitchen, she would’ve sworn he’d just lost his best friend. “What do I know about being a husband, much less a father? I’m going to screw everything up. I just know it.”
Ah. Silly man. “Socks will help with that.”
“Socks?” He looked up, frowned, then rolled his eyes. “This isn’t about cold feet.”
“Sure it is.” She refused to let it be anything else. “The cold feet of uncertainty. You didn’t come into this world an expert at everything the way you are now,” she said, earning herself an arched brow. “You’ll be a master at diapers in no time. Just put on your socks and shoes, one at a time like everyone else. You’ll be fine.”
Sitting straight now, he crossed his arms over his chest. “So you’re the one who got all the smarts in the family.”
“Yep. That would be me,” she said, and this time when the front chime sounded, it was Oliver walking through the door. She started to stand, stopping because her brother deserved better than a fraction of her attention. But then Dolly came into the room, shepherding everyone into their seats, giving Indiana time to do nothing but catch Oliver’s gaze and smile.
The afternoon passed in a whirl of food and drink and conversation. There was turkey and gravy and cornbread dressing, homemade cranberry sauce with pecans and whipped cream and red grapes. There was coffee and tea, water and wine, something for those who were expecting and those who were not. There were Two Owls huge hot rolls, and pumpkin muffins, and thick slices of warm honey wheat bread.
With so many at the table involved, talk turned often to the Caffey-Gatlin Academy, and then moved across the street to the Gardens on Three Wishes Road. Dolly put dibs on the first crop of zucchini for the café. Luna begged for tomatoes. Kaylie’s face blanched, and Indiana refilled the expectant mother’s water, giddy with the news.
Tennessee chose that moment to rap his knife on his tea glass and stand. “Kaylie and I have an announcement—”
“I knew it,” Dolly said, clasping her hands beneath her chin, her new wedding band sparkling in the candlelight. Tears welled as she said, “You’ve finally set a date to get married.”
“No date yet, though it’ll be soon,” Tennessee said, his face, always ruddy from his time in the sun, coloring. “But that’s not the announcement.”
“We’re having a baby,” Kaylie said, and the words were barely out before the dining room erupted in cheers and tears and cries of joy and congratulations. “We’re due late in May, so I’m hoping the café gets its sea legs before I’m too unwieldy to navigate.”
“Listen to you,” Dolly said, having left her chair to give Kaylie a hug, her eyes glistening, “worrying about Two Owls when you know your father and I will be here to handle every little thing.”
Mitch appeared speechless, rubbing a hand back and forth over his crew cut, his own eyes growing red, his accompanying laughter gruff. “A grandfather. I’m going to be a grandfather. Aren’t I too young to be a grandfather?”
Everyone laughed, Kaylie saying, “No, sir, you are not. And I’m going to expect you to spoil this little one rotten every day of his or her life.”
Because he hadn’t been able to do that for Kaylie.
The thought came unexpectedly, and had Indiana wondering if anyone in the room wouldn’t change something in their past if they could. Maybe not Harry and Julietta Meadows. Luna’s parents seemed to have a perfect marriage, a perfect life.
Then again, they’d suffered with Luna as she’d mourned the loss of her best friend in the tragic car accident that had changed so many lives. Yet like every person here, their eyes shone with happiness as they celebrated Tennessee and Kaylie’s news.
Was the Meadowses’ relationship stronger because of all they’d endured? Was Luna and Angelo’s? Kaylie’s childhood spent in foster care had been one of the saddest Indiana could imagine, but she’d moved on, eventually reuniting with her father, making a new life with Tennessee, establishing the business she’d dreamed of.
“And just think,” Harry was saying to Mitch. “You’ll have a grandkid the same age as my daughter. So if anyone around here should be feeling old, it’s me.”
The laughter started up again at that, Indiana recalling that Mitch and Harry had been in the service together not long after Kaylie and Luna were born. She thought about Dakota again, wondering if, wherever he was, he was married, settled down, a father with kids in grade school, or a newborn.
The thought of both of her brothers with families had tears welling in her eyes. Happy tears, yes, but also mournful tears for the time they’d lost, the milestones. If Dakota had children, did they fight over the turkey’s drumsticks? Did they still believe in Santa Claus? Did the tooth fairy leave coins or cash? Did his boys play baseball, following in Daddy’s footsteps? Did his girls love to dig in the dirt like Aunt Indiana?
Aunt Indiana. Oh, how she loved the sound of that. And now her brother would be Uncle Dakota, a realization that had the melancholia she’d been keeping at bay pushing into the room where it didn’t belong. She didn’t want it here.
There was so much here, in this room, to be thankful for. Just like there was so much in her life to be thankful for. She couldn’t lose sight of that, of her business and now her bees, of Kaylie and Tennessee’s news, of this bounty of food when so many had so much less, yet were still buoyed by the spirit of the day.
Just then, Oliver’s phone rang, snagging Indiana’s attention. He lifted a hand in apology to those at the table, then turned in his seat to take the call while the chatter went on around him. He didn’t say much; he mostly listened, and the few words he did speak were terse and exact.
And it wasn’t but moments later when he said, “I’ve got to go,” and scooted back his chair at the same time he clipped his phone to his waist.
“Is everything okay?” Indiana asked, knowing from his voice, the tone as worried as it was sorrowful, what the answer would be.
“It’s my father. Oscar’s . . . He’s had an infection, and it’s worsened. I’ve got to go.”
Around the table, murmurs of sympathy and prayers and best wishes followed Oliver to his feet. He placed his napkin across his plate and looked only at Indiana. “I’ll see you later?”
Nodding, she replied, “Do you want me to come with you?” trying to remember what he’d told her—if anything—about Oscar being ill.
“I don’t want to take you away from your family,” was what he said, but Indiana heard more in his voice, saw more in the relief that filled his expression at her question. She pushed to her feet, turning to Kaylie. “I’ll come back and help you clean up.”
“You go on,” Dolly told her. “Mitch and I will help Kaylie.”
“Sure, sure,” Mitch said. “If you can get back later, make it for coffee and pie. You, too, Oliver. If you can.”
“Thanks, Mitch. Dolly.” Oliver lifted his hand in good-bye. “Kaylie, the meal was wonderful. Tennessee, thank you for inviting me to share it. And congratulations to you both.”
“Thanks, and glad to have you, man,” Tennessee said, pushing back his chair and leani
ng forward to shake Oliver’s hand. “Let us know how things go.”
Indiana smiled at her brother, then glanced at Luna and Kaylie, receiving concerned and knowing looks from both in return. She gave a small wave to the rest of the guests, meeting Will’s gaze and receiving a nod. Once outside, Oliver said nothing. He simply took hold of her hand, squeezing it with his as they hurried together, a couple, to his car.
It took almost no time at all to reach the Hope Springs Rehab Institute from Two Owls Café, but even less time with Oliver driving. Indiana held tight to the armrest and the edge of the console, finally closing her eyes until the car slowed, and he turned into the lot and parked.
She reached for her door handle, but glanced over before stepping out of the car, and though Oliver had turned off the engine, he’d yet to move. Taking her cues from him, she waited, but the air grew still and the delay uncomfortable, and the pressure in her chest had her feeling incredibly sad.
“Oliver?”
“I know. I know. I need to go in,” he said, his hands so tight on the wheel she knew he was nowhere near ready to release it.
She reached over without thinking and brushed his hair from his forehead. His skin was cold, and dry, and she suddenly wished she had a blanket. “It’s okay. Just take a minute. Or take as long as you need. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He looked at her then, the strangest expression in his eyes as they glittered in the parking lot lights, as if only just then was he really seeing her. As if only just then was he realizing something even she had yet to see, and then a shudder coursed through him and the look vanished.
She moved her hand to his shoulder, wondering what had happened, what had gone through his mind, or if it was best she not know. The possibility didn’t stop her from asking, “Are you all right?”
“I just can’t . . . I know what I’m going to find. What the outcome of tonight’s going to be.” He let his head fall back on his shoulders, and he laughed, a brutal, brittle, terrified sound. “I’m going to go home from here an only child. Even if I don’t leave until tomorrow. Or a week from tonight.”
Indiana almost couldn’t breathe. Her chest was so tight, her throat so swollen, her stomach tied in such knots. And to think what Oliver must be feeling . . . “What can I do? Please, if there’s anything, please tell me.”
“Can you turn back time so that we don’t have to be here now? My mother. My father. My brother most of all?”
And yet he didn’t mention another word about himself, what he was feeling, all of the things he as the oldest son, the survivor, was going to have to face. “Are you ready?” she asked, squeezing his shoulder.
But he was trembling, and when he released the wheel, he reached for her, his hands holding her head and slamming his mouth against hers, the taste of his emotions bitter and tortured and salted with tears.
She didn’t know what to do except kiss him back, give him the connection he needed, the life in the face of death she wasn’t even sure he was looking for. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe all he needed was to feel something that wasn’t so crushingly sad.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him close; he leaned over the console, pressing her down against the cushy leather cradle of her seat. She wanted him with her, and told him so with her fingers at his nape and the base of his skull, rubbing circles, comforting him, soothing him.
He let her go, and fumbled at the base of her seat. It reclined with an electronic whir, and Oliver came with her, covering her, his upper body as heavy as his sorrow. She bore both weights willingly, inviting him in, giving him solace, giving him all that he asked for, with her lips, with her tongue, with her hands on his shoulders, in his hair, at the buttons of his shirt.
His moved to his pants, freeing his erection, then to the hem of her skirt, and she didn’t know how he fit above her, or once sheathed, inside her, as cramped as they were on her side of the car, but he was there, and she was lifting her hips to meet his thrusts that were desperate and lonely and pained.
He panted against her neck and she held him there, her eyes closed, her entire body abuzz. This made no sense, yet made perfect sense, and she would never have chosen this time or this place, yet she wouldn’t change a thing, because he needed her.
He needed her, and for reasons that had less to do with bodies than with the tidal wave of emotions drowning them. He was breaking, and looking to be healed, or at least glued back together before he completely cracked.
This wasn’t the sort of intimacy she’d known in the past, and it was glorious, exploding with emotions, fear and longing and regrets and the burrowing sense of nothing between them ever being the same again.
How could anything be the same after this? He fit her as if they were one, filled her and left room for no one to come between them. He made her ache and burn and pulled her toward a completion from which she feared she would never recover.
But it was too late to consider consequences, too soon to wonder where they went from here. All that mattered was this, this, this . . . She shuddered beneath him, finishing, her legs tangled with his but holding him as he surged into her and shook until he was done.
Then he rested against her, breathed against her, stroked her hair, and whispered against her, “I don’t know what that was, or where it came from.”
“Shh. It’s okay. I know. It’s okay.”
“This was not the first time I wanted with you,” he said, pulling free from her body and smoothing down her skirt before lifting his hips and tucking himself away. He found a napkin in the glove box for the condom. Then he looked down at her, the soft smile on his mouth almost reaching his eyes. “A bed would’ve been nice.”
“A bed would’ve been,” she said. “And more time.”
“Next time. More time. For certain.”
“Good,” she said, holding his gaze, a flood of tenderness rushing through her, a flood of hope, a flood of possibilities. “Because I didn’t want to think—”
It was all she got out before his mouth was on hers again, telling her not to think about anything but this: his lips and his need and his tongue and his promise. Then just as quickly he was back in his seat, adjusting his clothing before opening his door, coming around the car, and opening hers.
Once they were inside the facility, she asked, “What’s the room number? I need to”—she waved a hand toward the restroom—“clean up a bit.”
“Of course,” he said, adding, “It’s two forty-two. I’ll see you there.”
The words were automatic, his mind having switched gears to what lay ahead, and that was okay. That was expected. Her mind, on the other hand, was still reeling enough for the both of them.
What in the world had they just done?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As much as she longed to give Oliver whatever support she could, Indiana sat outside his brother’s room in a chair one of the nurses had carried over after seeing her pacing the width of the hallway and back. She hadn’t known Oscar Gatlin, though she’d known of him, his tragic accident, the death of Sierra Caffey in the same. One didn’t spend time in Hope Springs and get to know two of the Caffey-Gatlin Academy board members without learning about the decade-old catastrophe.
Oliver had respected her wishes to give him this private time with his family, though the weary sadness in his expression as he’d walked away had nearly broken her heart. Still, it was better this way. She would’ve hated to intrude and give Merrilee Gatlin true cause to hate her, as opposed to the reasons the older woman had manufactured. It was best she stay out here. Where she belonged.
Because even if she and Oliver were friends, or had been friends—she had no idea what they were now—she wasn’t family. And whatever had just happened in his car didn’t change that. But wow. It had certainly changed her.
She might feel differently tomorrow, but when she could still sens
e him every time she moved, her thighs aching, other parts of her sore . . . There was no way this feeling, this experience, this premonition of nothing ever being the same again wouldn’t linger.
How could it not? She’d had sex with Oliver Gatlin.
In. His. Car.
In what part of her world did that make any sense? With her history, her guilt, and the trauma of all she’d lost, why would she do something so incredibly reckless?
Because he needed you. And because you love him.
No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. How could anyone love someone they barely even knew? She’d met him a little over a month ago. That was it. They’d had breakfast. They’d had coffee. They’d shared Thanksgiving, and he’d taken her to see his father’s show.
And yet . . . He’d been on her mind constantly. Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought about something he’d said, or remembered a look that had flashed through his eyes, or wondered if she’d see him when she stopped by her cottage.
No. This wasn’t love. This was a bit of infatuation. Maybe a crush. Something as simple as enjoying a man’s company and his attention. As a friend.
But it wasn’t, it wasn’t, love.
And no matter what they’d done in his car, tonight was not the time for such musings. His brother was near death, if not already gone, and she was only here should Oliver need her. And yet telling herself that didn’t stop her from closing her eyes and remembering his desperation, his strength and his sorrow, the smell of him, the sweet intrusion of him . . .
She hadn’t realized she’d dozed until Oliver woke her, kneeling in front of her where she’d curled into a contorted fetal position in the chair. Her back aching, she straightened, pushing her hair from her face. Sobs from inside the room registered, as did Oliver’s solemn, damp eyes. “Oh, Oliver. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”
The last of her words came out choked, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to catch them back, before cupping his face in her palms. Oliver shook his head, then reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “It’s been a long time coming. Truth be told, he died ten years ago with Sierra. This last decade . . . He should never have had to endure all of this. And I don’t want you to be sorry for that.”
