by Katy Paige
He didn’t want to scare her. He wanted to do everything right.
It had only occurred to him once that they may not have the physical chemistry in person that matched the emotional chemistry they had over the phone, but Paul had quickly pushed the thought from his mind, convincing himself that their first kiss would be so electric, they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off each other after that. He was already so crazy about Holly—certainly with the idea of her—there was no way that chemistry wouldn’t follow.
***
Zoë recognized Nils Lindstrom immediately.
Besides the fact that he held a sign with the name “Zoë F.” printed neatly, Paul had recently sent her a photo of himself with the two older Lindstrom brothers posing near the Roosevelt Arch. She forced herself to note him, then look away, as if scanning the arrivals area for her name, then circling back to him, and catching his eyes.
“Zoë?” he asked as she approached him, his eyes lingering momentarily on her facial scar before holding eye contact.
“Yes.”
She smiled at him tentatively, pushing her freshly-dyed black hair behind her ears. She’d started wearing it in a pageboy recently, curled under at the ends and held back with a simple headband. The style was, as Sandy noted: More preppy, less angry.
He reached for her bag. “Let me take that for you. Got any more coming?”
She nodded and he led her over to the baggage claim area.
“I have a suitcase and my art kit.”
“You an artist?”
Nils’s voice was gruff, as Zoë had expected from what she knew of him. She glanced to her left and realized how massive his body was—tall, and almost overwhelmingly muscular. His blond hair was cut short in a military-style buzz cut and he kept his eyes down.
“Mm-hm. I’ve come to Montana to paint.”
“Yellowstone?”
“Hopefully,” she said, pointing out her black rolling suitcase. Nils hefted it off the belt like it was made of air, pulling up the handle so it was ready to roll.
“Did you book a tour with us?”
“N-no,” she answered. Honestly, she hadn’t given much thought to what she’d do during her week in Gardiner. It all depended on how Paul took the news of her identity. There was every chance she’d be back at the airport by tomorrow, flying home in tears. She tried not to think about that. Stay positive. Stay positive.
“Well, I got a group going out overnight on Tuesday. Bunch of older ladies. There’s space if you want to go.”
“Wouldn’t I be horning in?”
“It’s not a private group,” he clarified. “If it was, I wouldn’t have offered.”
He sighed loudly, and for a moment she thought he was annoyed with her until he gestured to the slowing belt.
“Damn it! Not again. You said you had one more bag, right?”
“My art kit,” she said forlornly, looking at the empty belt as it grinded to a stop.
“Give me your claim ticket.” She fished it out of her purse and without another word he pivoted, pulling her suitcase behind him, headed for the baggage claim help desk.
Zoë plopped down in a nearby chair, trying to steady her racing heart. This was Nils. Nils, Paul’s friend. One degree of separation from the man she loved. She had to get a hold of herself. Did she want to go on a tour? Her answer should have been “Of course!” Saying no made no sense when, as far as he was concerned, she was here to paint.
Nils returned a moment later.
“It’s still in Providence. Didn’t even make it to Minneapolis.”
“Oh…” Zoë furrowed her eyebrows. “Is there a nearby art store?”
“There’s a Target here in Bozeman. Want me to take you there? To buy a few things?”
It was unlikely that Target would have what she needed. She had packed an additional blank sketching notebook in her suitcase. She could surely buy a piece of charcoal or some pencils in Gardiner. As much as she would miss her paints, there was no reason to go out of their way; traveling to Gardiner as an “artist” was mostly just her way of heading off questions about the purpose of her trip, anyway.
“It’s okay.” She smiled up at his blue eyes, relieved to see warmth behind their icy color. “I can sketch instead.”
He nodded, gesturing to the door and she followed him. He sure wasn’t a man of many words. Silent as they walked over to a small passenger car that read Lindstrom & Sons on the side, he popped the trunk and put her suitcase inside. “Keeping your bag with you?”
She nodded.
“Front or back?”
“Excuse me?”
“You want to sit in the front seat or back seat?”
Wouldn’t it be awkward to sit in the back being driven around like Miss Daisy? Anyway, she needed to use the time to get him talking, answer a few questions for her about Gardiner, and, if she was lucky, Paul.
“Front, I guess.”
He opened her door, handing her a bottle of water and pouch of trail mix before shutting it.
They rode in silence for a few minutes as he navigated the airport exit. Zoë unscrewed the cap of her water bottle, looking out the window at the mountains as they made their way onto the highway.
“Hey,” he said, the way someone does when they have an idea. “I just thought of something. My friend Paul is the principal at the local middle-high, and I bet his art department has a bunch of supplies he could let you borrow. I’ll give him a call as soon as we reach Gardiner, okay?”
As soon as Nils said Paul’s name, Zoë gasped, and her big gulp of water went down the wrong pipe. She sputtered, trying to keep water from leaking out of her nose.
“Are you all right?” He turned his head away from the road twice, quickly, looking over at her.
“Water went down wrong.” She coughed, clearing her throat. “I—uh, well, thank you. You don’t think, um, this principal will mind?”
“Paul? Nah. He’ll be happy to lend a hand.”
“You sure? I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” She paused, realizing the opportunity to try to get Nils talking about Paul. “He must be very…kind.”
“Oh, sure. It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone’s willing to give a hand. He’s not from here. Paul. He’s from back east, like you. You from Rhode Island?”
Shoot. She hadn’t thought this through—he learned about her city of origin by tracking down her lost bag.
“Near there,” she hedged. “Where’s he from?”
“Paul? Paul’s from Maine.” Nils looked over at her briefly. “You ever been to Maine?”
“Many times,” she said softly, turning to look out the window.
Paul’s from Maine. They weren’t remarkable words at all, but hearing someone speak about him so casually, so matter-of-factly, made her heart almost burst with tenderness. Nils had spoken to Paul countless times, touched his arm or shoulder inadvertently, maybe even hugged him at Christmas. Paul—the actual, flesh and blood of him—had never seemed so real. So close and yet so uncertain.
She suddenly felt like crying, whether from relief or fear, she didn’t know. Relief because he was so real now, and in a manner of moments, she would see him, maybe touch him, watch his blue eyes flash with understanding…or fury. Her eyes burned with tears and she clenched them shut, hoping Nils wouldn’t notice.
“You must be good and tired,” he said gently. “We’ll be there in about an hour. You just relax now.”
“Thank you, Nils,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on the river that snaked beside the highway out her window, white water rushing south toward Gardiner where her fate awaited in Paul Johansson’s unaware hands.
***
The Mountain View Inn was nothing to write home about, but Zoë reminded herself she wasn’t in Gardiner for a vacation. She smiled at the innkeeper who told her that breakfast ended promptly at nine o’clock, then handed Zoë an old-fashioned metal key, pulling the door to her bedroom shut and leaving her in peace.
> Zoë looked around her room, her Gardiner home away from home.
The bed was covered in a patchwork quilt and looked plush, if lumpy. A wingback chair sat on an area rug beside a window and a simple bureau had a silk flower arrangement in a vase on top of a crocheted doily. The room smelled faintly musty, but not entirely unpleasant, and while there was no TV or telephone in the room, she’d been told she could use the house phone downstairs. She’d paid a little extra to have a bathroom in her room and was grateful for the privacy. She left her suitcase by the bureau, dropped her carry-on bag on the bed and sat down in the chair by the window.
As they had approached the inn, Nils had pointed to a stone and white clapboard house, saying, “Remember Paul, who I mentioned before? That’s his place, there. Used to be a B&B but now it’s his. Lives there alone in that big house.”
Except for Cleo, Zoë thought, staring at the house until it was out of sight.
She was here. She was actually here and there was nothing left to do but freshen up, go downstairs, walk down the porch steps, and cover the half-block distance to Paul’s front door. Her heart beat mercilessly and her hands were icy cold. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, feeling miserable. She’d come a long way to tell Paul the truth, but it was almost unbearable to imagine his reaction now that she was here.
He’d been so up front with her—so clear that he was building their relationship based on honesty and trust. There was no way he would be able to hear her words and still have space for her in his life. This entire plan suddenly seemed like a very, very bad idea.
She heard a soft buzzing sound and realized it was coming from her bag. She got up, unzipped the outside pocket to take out the phone then lay back on the bed.
Two texts: one from Sandy, one from Paul.
She clicked on Sandy’s first.
Hey, Zo. Let me know you got there safe. And don’t get scared. You have to trust what you’ve built. If he really loves you, he’ll recognize Holly in Zoë’s face. Whether you call yourself Holly or Zoë, you’re still you, and that’s who he loves. Good luck.
She took a deep breath, eternally grateful for Sandy’s excellent timing and encouraging words. But at the same time, she grimaced.
Trust what you’ve built.
She shook her head. I’ve built a relationship based on lies. That’s the problem.
Looking back down at the phone, her face softened as she touched Paul’s name with her fingertip to read his text.
Hey, sweetheart. I guess you’re leaving for that conference tonight and I know you won’t be able to talk much this week. These state recertification seminars stink. Maybe we could chat tonight? Travel safely and remember how much I care for you. –P
She put the phone down by her side, reviewing the latest in her long list of lies to him. She didn’t know how much she’d be able to text him once in Gardiner, so she’d told him she was spending Sunday through Thursday in New Haven, attending a mandatory statewide recertification seminar.
She sat up and hit reply.
I wish I could, but I have dinner with colleagues at eight. I’ll try to text here and there when I can, but let’s plan to talk on the phone next week. Until then... –H xoxo
She stared at the screen, waiting for a minute then heard the ping of a new message.
Got it. Text me when you get home. I’ll miss you, Holly. But only 25 more days until our visit. Not long now. –P
She stared at the words Not long now.
That’s for sure, she thought, putting her phone on the bedside table and opening her suitcase to take out some new jeans and a pretty black peasant top that showed just enough skin to make things interesting. She got changed quickly then headed into the bathroom to apply her makeup and brush her hair.
When she was done, she considered her reflection for a moment. Her black bangs dusted the white skin of her forehead and the rest of her hair curled lightly behind a simple black and white plaid hair band. Her scar was pretty well concealed, her eyes were lightly made up and she chose a simple gloss for her naturally rosy lips.
She wore a silver necklace with a single heart charm dangling—a gift from Sandy—that drew her eyes down to her breasts, which swelled appealingly against the curve of the blouse. She put silver bangles on her arm and tucked the shirt into her jeans, which fit like a glove, showing off her curves without making her look fat. She slid her feet into black leather flip-flops that had a simple silver buckle on the thong of each sandal.
Assessing her appearance, she had to admit that while she wasn’t as pretty as Holly-in-the-picture, she didn’t look bad either. She looked nothing like the Holly he was expecting to meet in October. Not even a little bit. She just hoped that was okay.
“Time to go,” she whispered to herself. “Be brave.”
She exited her room, heading off—a bundle of nerves wrapped around a nerve-wracked, heavy heart—to make her confession.
CHAPTER 8
No Holly for a week.
He couldn’t help it.
Paul felt disappointed.
He had become accustomed to talking to her several times a day via text and email and on the phone at least once a week. Thursday felt like a long time.
He thought about writing back one more time, but he needed to respect her work schedule and he didn’t want to be some clingy, cloying virtual boyfriend who wouldn’t give her an inch of space.
He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of cold water, rolling it across his sweaty forehead before taking a long gulp. It was so cold it almost gave him a brain freeze, but tasted so good after his run, he quickly finished the bottle.
Twenty-five days, Paul. That’s not much, he thought. Not even a month. Not even—
His thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched squeal of braking tires followed by the sound of frantic yelling. He raced into the living room, looking out the picture window at the road, where he saw a car stopped on an angle, the driver standing beside his car, talking to a disheveled, dark-haired young woman who was holding something brown and shaggy against her chest.
“Oh, my God!” he whispered. Cleo! She was holding Cleo.
He sprinted out the door to meet Maurice Evans walking the young woman across the street toward Paul’s front porch, his arm around her trembling shoulders.
“Heya, Principal Paul!” Maurice said, worry etched on his wrinkled face as he shepherded the girl up the porch steps. “Cleo came bounding from your front porch into the street. I would a hit her if’n this young gal hadn’t jumped in the way and grabbed her!”
Paul’s eyes shifted to the “young gal” in question. Her dark head was down, grasping the dazed bundle of shivering dog in her arms. Paul reached out to touch her gently on the arm.
“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”
She raised her head slowly, keeping her eyes down, staring at his throat until the last possible second when she raised her eyes to his. He heard her breath catch as she gazed at him, no doubt a vestige of the adrenaline rush that had accompanied her rescue of Cleo. Her deep, dark brown eyes riveted on his face, and he wondered for a moment if she was in shock because she stared at him with such a steady, bewildered gaze, fraught with emotion.
“Um…”
“Did you hit your head?” he asked softly, reaching out and touching her black hair. He took the liberty of running his hands over her head, feeling her scalp under his fingers. No warm, sticky blood, no bumps, just the silky softness of her shoulder-length black hair.
“N-no,” she murmured, her voice breathy and deep. She finally dropped her eyes back to Cleo, scratching behind the quivering dog’s ears.
“Aw, hell, I’m sorry, Paul, but I gotta pick up Mary Beth at the choir rehearsal. She’ll raise hell if’n I’m not there on time. You take care of this little gal, now, huh?”
“Of course,” he said, staring at her dark, bowed head. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Sorry for almost runnin’ you down,
Miss—?”
The young woman looked up at Maurice, blinking at him for a second before blurting out: “Oh. Zoë. I’m Zoë.”
“Miss Zoë?”
“No. Miss F—” she stopped for a moment, then cleared her throat. “Zoë’s, um…fine.”
“Well, Miss Fine,” said Maurice, “you’ve got some courage in that there heart of yours. You take care o‘ her now, Principal.”
Maurice tilted his baseball cap at Zoë and made his way back down Paul’s porch steps to his car, pulling away a second later.
Paul looked down at Zoë, who was watching Maurice drive away. Looking at her profile, he had a better view of the scar on her face. He’d noticed it when she first looked up at him. It was a long crevice on the right side of her face, maybe eight or ten inches long and slightly discolored. Not fresh, but not too old either. He wondered what had happened to her.
She bent her neck back down, cooing to Cleo who looked happy as hay pressed up against Zoë. Her little tail wagged enthusiastically under Zoë’s elbow…which drew his eyes to her chest. It was totally wrong of him to notice her breasts, but her loose, low-cut blouse made it hard to look away. His mouth watered. He forced himself to say something appropriate.
“Were you hurt at all?”
She looked up at him, nodding her head slowly. “I tripped when I caught her and skinned my knee.”
He realized how close he was standing to her, literally in her space, her elbow brushing against his chest. Why was he standing so close to her? What was the matter with him, crowding her like that? It must have been when he felt her head for blood and bumps. He’d never moved away. He stepped back self-consciously, gesturing to Cleo.
“She looks fine. Want me to take her? And if you want to come in, I can see to your knee.”
“Are you okay now, little one?” She asked Cleo, handing the little Yorkie back to Paul.
Paul took her from Zoë and tucked her under his arm where she wiggled in protest, apparently wanting to return to Zoë’s soft warmth.
“Thanks for saving her,” he said. “She came with the inn.”
