Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  Yet, her Oxy dependency had to do with several complex things—pressures and fears and hurts. All of those had joined together to open the door of the cage where she’d trapped the childhood trauma of the earthquake, which had come snarling out, bringing with it flashbacks and nightmares.

  She understood why she needed to work through all of that in order to identify her triggers and manage things in a healthier way in the future. It’s just that the old saying “too much of a good thing” certainly applied to introspection.

  Since Sam’s departure from the cottage yesterday afternoon, she couldn’t seem to quit assessing her motives, reactions, and bad habits.

  Her dim, morning-lit surroundings spoke of charm and comfort. She’d filled this building with high-quality, tasteful items. Yet the air inside the cottage felt cold. The light leaking around the curtain’s edge looked cold. The regret and self-loathing lodged in her stomach? Also cold.

  She huddled more deeply under her luxurious duvet. Lying on her back, she contemplated the wooden beams supporting the ceiling.

  Sam had asked her if she responded to uncomfortable situations by lying. He’d said that her lack of transparency was strangling her.

  He’d been right on both counts. Even in the moment, she’d known he was right. She wished she’d simply taken responsibility for her lie and apologized. Instead, she’d attempted to protect herself by striking back. Her response had alienated Sam, leaving her wretched without his friendship.

  Why was transparency so hard for her?

  It hadn’t been, back before she’d started Oxy. She’d been a truthful person once, fairly open about her mistakes in her writings and on the stage. Of course, in those days, she’d never made any mistake half as shameful as an addiction to prescription drugs. So the truth hadn’t been quite so expensive as it later became.

  How could she have come out and confessed Oxy publicly? Doing so would have jeopardized her entire ministry. Christian women didn’t read books or line up to hear speeches by drug addicts.

  As a consequence, and because she hadn’t succeeded at kicking her Oxy habit in secret the first two times, she’d started lying. Just like anything, with practice she’d become more and more skilled at it. The lying, like her reliance on the pills, had become more and more automatic. White lies smoothed over awkwardness. They helped her avoid confrontation. They made her likable. They made her seem more perfectly Christian.

  She knew the lies were wrong. Over time, though, the more she’d sidestepped the Holy Spirit’s conviction, the quieter the Holy Spirit’s voice had become. She’d told herself that the results of her Christ-honoring ministry justified the means. But deep down, her integrity wailed, and shame grew inside her. The lies increased. The shame increased. And her relationship with God unraveled.

  She hated the lies she told. “I’m so sorry, God. Please forgive me,” she whispered.

  Genevieve rolled onto her side and tucked her hands beneath her pillow.

  Over and over in the Bible, God’s love was described as steadfast. In fact, she’d written an entire study on that facet of His character. So even though it felt—when longing for Him, when searching for Him—as if He’d drifted away, He hadn’t. He was steadfast.

  She’s the one who’d drifted. When you’d walked with Him as she’d walked, her mortal life weaving with His immortal hand, His absence echoed.

  The shame that had driven a wedge wasn’t from Him. The lies weren’t from Him.

  She had to find a way to lay down the shame, and she absolutely must stop her knee-jerk reaction to lie. But that was easy to say and hard to execute when you’d done something that embarrassed you deeply.

  After twenty-nine years of stellar choices, she’d spent the past year messing up in spectacular ways. The most recent of those with Sam. The only thing she could do about that at this point? Try to repair the damage. Which she would do, once she’d given him a bit of space and time.

  The alternative—the two of them existing here at Sugar Maple Farm with animosity between them—absolutely would not do. Especially now that she knew about Kayden. Obviously, Sam had loved Kayden deeply. He’d loved her in a way that no man had ever loved Genevieve, and so Kayden’s death had gutted Sam.

  In light of this information, she understood why he was living in a self-imposed prison. He was grieving and probably condemning himself, wary of connections with people that could cause him pain.

  Her phone alarm sounded. She plucked it from the bedside table and punched it off. Empathy had always come naturally to her. She earnestly wanted to lighten Sam’s load. To make him smile more. To bring him joy. But today, she didn’t even have the energy to walk to the coffeemaker and brew herself her morning cup. She certainly didn’t have the heart to follow her schedule.

  Forget breakfast. Forget walking the property.

  Sam answered a knock on his farmhouse door Thursday evening to find Gen’s sister standing on his front porch.

  Her presence immediately put him on guard.

  He hadn’t spoken with Gen since their argument Monday afternoon. He’d hoped putting some distance between them would improve his state of mind. Instead, his state of mind had been a war zone for the past three days.

  He’d liked Natasha when they’d talked the other morning at The Kitchen, but he didn’t want reminders of Gen in the form of her sister.

  “Good evening,” she said cheerfully. The sky behind her blazed orange and pink with sunset.

  “Good evening.” He flicked on the porch light.

  “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “No problem,” he replied automatically. Even though the way that Gen and, in this case, her family member, disturbed his solitude had become a very big problem for him. “Would you like to come inside?”

  “No, thank you. I can’t stay.” She lifted the bag she carried. “One of my husband’s clients owns a butcher shop that specializes in grass-fed beef. He sent several steaks home with Wyatt today. More than we can eat. I’d like to give these last two to Gen, but, Sam. This is filet mignon. Gen can’t cook, and even if she could, I doubt she could cook this properly on a hot plate. So I wondered if you’d like them.”

  “Sure.”

  “Great.” She passed them over.

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely, “for allowing Gen to rent your cottage. Living on your farm has been really good for her.”

  He inclined his chin.

  “She told me that you know about the Oxy,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been worried about her, but she’s now made it to day fifty-eight. She’s almost two-thirds of the way to the ninety-day sober mark.” He read acute hope in Natasha’s face. He could tell that she loved her younger sister, that she desperately wanted Gen to succeed at recovery.

  He understood. He’d experienced that same intensity of determination toward Kayden’s recoveries once. He’d hate for Gen to let Natasha down. At the same time, no one—not him, not Natasha—could will another person to change.

  “She’s doing well, overall,” Natasha continued. “But the past few days, she’s had trouble sticking to her schedule.”

  Worry sliced him. “She has?”

  “Yeah. I just wish that her recovery were the only thing on her plate right now. That would be more than enough to deal with. But, on top of that, she has to write a new study and handle this thing with our parents.” Natasha hooked her thumbs through her belt loops. “I know you went with her to Clayton a while back.”

  “I did. But she hasn’t told me any information about your parents since then.”

  “I’m not surprised. We haven’t even told our parents what we’ve found yet. And what we’ve found is . . . heavy.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’ve been keeping tabs on her, but I can’t do so all the time. It’s reassuring to know that you’re nearby and can keep an eye on her, too.”

  He wanted to insist that he had no plans to keep a
n eye on Gen. But that was only true in theory. In practice, he’d been keeping an eye on her since the day she’d moved in, and was apparently physically incapable of stopping. Since he’d walked away from her on Monday, he’d been every bit as aware of her movements around the farm. Maybe even more so. He knew when she was home, when she was away, how late she went to bed, how early she rose.

  “I’ll let you know if I notice anything concerning,” she said. “Will you please let me know the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gen’s lucky to have you in her corner, Sam.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “She has a ton of acquaintances and a ton of followers. But she needs more people like you in her life. People who actually know her, who care.”

  “I agree that she needs people in her life to know her and care about her, but it would be better for her if I wasn’t one of them.”

  She pondered him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I still think she’s lucky to have you in her corner.”

  “She’s lucky to have you in her corner,” he told her, meaning it.

  “Good night.” She gave a small wave and made her way to her car.

  He watched her pull away.

  Had Gen told Natasha about their fight? Was Natasha trying to patch things up between them by bringing him two steaks? Did she expect him to cook one for himself and one for Gen?

  Back inside his empty house, he picked up his cell phone and reread the text Gen had sent him more than an hour ago. I’m sorry about the other day, she’d written. Will you allow me to buy back your friendship? At present, I can offer you three purple pens, a coupon for a free iced coffee at The Grind, or a jar of rosemary olive oil that I’ve never opened.

  He’d yet to respond.

  For long minutes, he peered at her words, conflicted.

  His logic demanded that he keep her at arm’s length. Further involvement with Genevieve Woodward was guaranteed to injure him, because she made him hungry for things that weren’t good for him.

  On the other hand, Natasha’s words ripped at his conscience. “Thank you for allowing Gen to rent your cottage. Living on your farm has been really good for her. . . . It’s reassuring to know that you’re nearby and can keep an eye on her, too. . . . She needs more people like you in her life. People who actually know her, who care.”

  In giving up her prescription drug habit, Gen had done something hard and brave. In deciding to distance himself from her, he’d done what was safest for him.

  He wasn’t a Bible expert like she was, but he knew Scripture well enough to know that God hadn’t called him to live the safest possible life.

  Restless, he went to his front porch to water his pots. Usually, he told his plants about the forecast or complimented them on their growth. Tonight, he caught himself grumbling to them angrily about Gen.

  “I’ve been worried about her,” Natasha had said. “The past few days, she’s had trouble sticking to her schedule.”

  With a growl, he set down the watering can and pulled out his phone.

  Have you eaten dinner? he asked Gen via text, then hit send.

  Almost instantly, she replied. No.

  Of course she hadn’t. Taking care of herself by eating early made far too much sense. I’ll sell you my friendship for the jar of olive oil if you’ll sell me yours for a steak dinner tonight. I’m cooking.

  Sold! When should I arrive?

  Thirty minutes.

  Genevieve climbed Sam’s front porch steps wearing an outfit she’d debated way too hard.

  She’d finally settled on the fifth ensemble she’d tried on: a long, sheer navy shirt embellished with deep pink flowers that she wore over a navy cami, gray stretch pants, flats.

  She came bearing olive oil. Her mom had given her the oil and several other items as part of a housewarming basket back when she’d visited Genevieve during the throes of withdrawal. She hadn’t opened it since because she was far more inclined to use a toaster or microwave while preparing a meal than upscale olive oil.

  The oil didn’t seem the right gift for a hunky single man. But it made more sense than her other offerings. Purple pens, too feminine. Coffee coupon, unnecessary because he could drink the best coffee in town for free at The Kitchen.

  She paused at his door, then rang the bell. Anxiously, she wiggled her toes inside her shoes. It frightened her a little, just how important it was to her that she get their friendship back on track.

  Sam answered his front door wearing clean work pants and a plaid shirt, rolled up at the wrists and hanging open over a white T-shirt.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to ignore the attraction tingling at the backs of her knees.

  “Hi.” He stepped back. His neutral expression gave nothing away.

  She walked into the foyer and handed over the olive oil. “For you.”

  “Thanks. Dinner’s almost ready.” He moved in the direction of the kitchen. “Hungry?”

  “Yes.” She realized it was true. She wasn’t always in tune with her own hunger or lack thereof. She tended to eat because it was time to eat and because she knew she’d get weak and shaky if she didn’t. Or she ate because she was nervous. Or sometimes because she was bored. When she did eat because she was hungry, she was really hungry. At that point, if she opened a bag of chips to tide her over, she’d end up inhaling the whole thing.

  She came to a stop beside him at the counter, then watched him drizzle her olive oil on top of a bowl of dip. He smelled fantastic, bracing and crisp. His damp hair looked finger combed. “This is my riff on hummus,” he said.

  “What do you mean by a riff?”

  “There aren’t any chickpeas in it.” He gestured with his head toward the plate holding cut squash, zucchini, and carrots.

  She dragged a circle of squash through the dip and sampled it. The subtle, rich, creamy flavors took her taste buds on a sensory roller coaster of delight.

  “I love it.” She helped herself to another bite. “What’s in it?”

  “Squash, macadamia nuts, tahini, roasted garlic, lemon juice.” He chewed a bite of carrot. “The olive oil’s excellent.”

  “Excellent enough to establish a truce between us?”

  Their eyes met.

  “I’m sorry about Monday.” She set her palm against the counter’s lip as if doing so might steady her. “When I realized that you’d searched the cottage for Oxy, it made me feel, well, crummy. You’re completely entitled to search, of course. But after hanging out with me and listening to me talk about everything I’ve been through to make it this far past withdrawal . . . I’d hoped that you believed in me.”

  “I do believe in you. I didn’t want to find Oxy. But when I got your text and suspected that you weren’t telling the truth about where you were, I felt like I needed to check.”

  “I get it.” Thoughtfully, she ate a piece of zucchini and hummus. “You were right when you said that I respond to discomfort with lies. I’m going to work on that. In the heat of the moment, I got defensive and said things I didn’t mean that I now regret. Can you forgive me?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry that my search of your guesthouse made you feel crummy.”

  “I forgive you. The truth is that I don’t want you to write me off. I need people like you and Natasha to call me out when I mess up. Even if it doesn’t feel great at first to be called out. Even if I don’t respond well. All right?”

  “All right.”

  She waited for him to say that he needed people, too, for the same reasons. But he said nothing more. Stubborn, complicated, wonderful Sam. “Are we okay?” she asked.

  “We’re okay.” As if that settled it, he went to the cutting board and began slicing tomatoes with fast precision.

  She’d made peace with Sam. Relief started to unknot the tension she’d been carrying since their argument. Quiet, slow bluegrass music hummed on the air.

  “What can I do?” she belatedly remembered t
o ask.

  “I’ll put you to work in a minute.”

  On top of his very professional range, a pot boiled next to a sauté pan and a cast iron skillet that supported a melting square of butter. He arranged the tomatoes on a plate and began prepping asparagus. “I’ve been watching your videos,” he said.

  “My videos?”

  “The video teaching sessions from Bearer of a Woman’s Soul.”

  “You have?” she exclaimed, astonished.

  “You’re a brilliant speaker.”

  “I am?”

  “Yep,” he answered patiently.

  He was doing one of her studies? Sam thought she was a brilliant speaker?

  She had women in mind when she researched and wrote her studies and when she shared from her own life in print and on stage. On the rare occasions when she discovered that a man had done one of the studies or watched her videos, it always felt a little like discovering that a boy had infiltrated a tree house meeting for girls only.

  Sam was one of the most manly men she knew. Imagining him watching her videos was equal parts endearing and disconcerting. “Have you been doing the homework that goes along with the videos?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re not following the order?”

  He lifted a brow. “Are you going to issue me a fine?”

  “I’d like to!”

  He placed two steaks into the cast iron skillet. They sizzled loudly. “What topic are you writing about in your current study?”

  “Living a life transformed by grace.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “Slowly and painfully. I’m behind schedule, and I’m uncertain about the quality of what I’ve written so far.”

  He drained the boiling pot into a colander, revealing handfuls of glossy fingerling potatoes. After moving them into a serving bowl, he dropped a few pats of butter over them.

  “You eat so healthy that I would have expected butter to be your enemy.”

  “Empty carbs are my enemy. Not fats.” He added fresh dill and seasonings to the potatoes. “When your sister dropped off these steaks earlier, she told me that you haven’t been following your daily schedule.”