by Naima Simone
And for Nessa to regroup so she could return to her job stronger, more centered. Less fucking fragile. The old her. Nurse Fucking Freeze.
Nowhere on that agenda did she have the time or inclination for a man. Even a man with a pretty face and prettier mouth. And hotter body.
Dammit. She’d been doing so well.
Sighing, she stepped off the bottom stair and into the lobby. A fire crackled in the fireplace of the living room, its warmth reaching into the entry. On this Sunday morning, no one sat on the couches, but she caught the low murmur of voices from the direction of the kitchen. It irritated and dismayed her that she automatically listened for a particularly deep, rumbling timbre. And it also pissed her off and disappointed her when she didn’t catch it. She did hear Ivy, though. Which solved the mystery of where she’d disappeared to this morning.
Nessa sighed. If Isaac’s intention had been for Nessa and Ivy to bond over this vacation, then they were failing at it. The two of them had barely spent ten minutes in each other’s company since arriving. Guilt pinched at her. Because if she were honest, Nessa couldn’t deny her relief at Ivy’s preoccupation with pumping Moe for more information on her parents’ stay at Kinsale Inn, the twins and Rose Bend’s many Christmas activities. Lying, even by omission, twenty-four hours a day and maintaining the everything’s-fine facade around Ivy was exhausting as hell.
“Good morning, Nessa,” Sinead, Wolf’s middle sister, greeted her from behind the reception desk with a smile.
“Morning.” Nessa dipped her chin in the direction of the hall that led toward the kitchen. “I’m guessing I’ll find coffee and my sister that way.”
Sinead chuckled. “Yes. But wait, I have something for you.” She pulled one of the desk drawers open and withdrew an envelope. “This came for you with yesterday’s mail. I missed you in the afternoon and didn’t get a chance to give it to you.”
“Oh thanks.” Nessa accepted the piece of mail.
Bemused, she flipped it over and studied the front of the envelope. Definitely addressed to her. But why would she be receiving mail here of all places? She’d asked a neighbor to gather her mail at home, but all the important things like bills and her paycheck were handled or deposited online. She scanned the top left corner. And frowned, recognizing the name. Isaac’s attorney’s firm.
Her stomach executed a six-foot free fall toward her boots. Letters from attorneys were like phone calls in the middle of the night—they never brought anything but bad news.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, turning and retracing her steps back up the staircase, coffee forgotten.
The brew wouldn’t sit well on the twisting mass of knots that tightened her stomach anyway. Deliberately and quietly closing the door behind her, she crossed the room and perched on the far edge of the bed next to the windows. The winter sun streaming through the open curtains provided more than enough light to read whatever the envelope contained.
She brushed a fingertip across the sealed flap, procrastinating, the unease in her belly building to an almost unbearable pitch.
“Screw this,” she whispered. Then tore open the seam across the top and removed the letter inside. Correction. Letters.
The first, a thicker sheet, bore the attorney’s official letterhead and explained how Isaac had instructed him to hold on to the letter until she and Ivy had arrived at Kinsale Inn. Just that, no further information. And it did nothing to lessen the cloying dread filling her throat.
Hands trembling, she tucked the paper behind the second sheet. A typed, single-spaced letter that contained Isaac’s familiar signature down at the bottom.
Stalling again. Closing her eyes, she blew out a heavy breath. Opened her eyes.
Then read.
Dear Nessa,
First, let me apologize for being so dramatic with this letter. Then follow that up with, if you’re reading this, then I’m dead. I’d apologize again for being morbid, but you get your humor from me, so I’m not afraid of shocking you.
Nessa put down the letter, pinching her nose and loosing a sound between a snort and a moan. Yeah, he was right; that joke was dark as hell, and yet, funny. But she didn’t get anything from him. He wasn’t her father. But Isaac hadn’t known that.
Lifting the papers again, she continued reading.
Second, I’ve failed you as a father. And for that, I do need to say I’m sorry. I know this comes under the heading of “too little, too late,” but your dad was a bit of a coward. I was too scared of saying this to you when I was alive. Too afraid you wouldn’t forgive me for not being the father you needed, deserved. For not being as present for you as I should’ve. Being able to count the end of my life in months and days grants a man a certain clarity he can ordinarily cloud with “someday.” I thought I had time, but even now when my hours are short and so vital, I can’t bring myself to look you in your beautiful, precious face and say, I’m so sorry. Instead, I’m writing it in a letter. Again, I’m failing you. Failing us.
Nessa sank her teeth into her lip to trap a sob. Choking her. Anger. Grief. Oh God, such sorrow it punched at her chest, struggling to break out of her like a wild, desperate thing.
He hadn’t failed her.
He’d robbed her.
Blinking furiously at the tears that stung her eyes, she refocused on the letter, her breath loud and harsh in the room.
I know what you must think of me, and I have no excuse. And as trite as it sounds, it’s still the truth. My failure as a father had nothing to do with you. I need you to understand that. It was my inadequacies, my insecurities. The more time I allowed to pass without us seeing each other, without us speaking, the more I convinced myself that maybe you didn’t need me as much as Ivy. That you were fine without me except for the occasional phone call. I was the adult. It was my responsibility to reach out. You’ll never know how much regret I own when it comes to you, Nessa. So much. And one of them is dying, knowing you believe I didn’t cherish you—love you—as much as Ivy.
Tears slipped down her face, and she wiped at them.
“You didn’t,” she rasped at the ghost of the man who, if she closed her eyes, she could still see so clearly. And not as he’d been on his hospital death bed. But as she remembered from her childhood. Tall, robust with a big smile and even bigger laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
Old sayings were old for a reason. Because they possessed a relevancy that surpassed the constraints of time. Sayings like, “Actions speak louder than words.”
I want to try to make up for some of the hurt I’ve inflicted. It’s why I’ve sent you and Ivy to Rose Bend. Yes, you two are all you have left of family, and I hope the beauty and sense of community there will foster a bond between you and her that I’m responsible for not being there in the first place. But that’s not the only reason. Nessa, I’m your father. But I’m not your biological father. Your mother and I spoke before she died, and she let me know she would be telling you the truth.
Shock battered her, slamming into her with frigid, merciless fists.
He knew? Isaac had known the whole time that he hadn’t been her father? And neither he nor her mother had told her? Every day for twenty-eight years they’d both decided to wake up and lie to her about the most essential part of her—her very identity.
Betrayal scorched a path through her, leaving ashes in its wake. Fisted hands gripped the letter tight, threatening to rip it in two.
When I met your mother, she was seven months pregnant with you. To me, you’ve always been my daughter, regardless of whether or not my blood ran through your veins. Now, though, with both of us gone, I realize the best gift I can give you is the choice of finding your birth father. I don’t know much about him—I couldn’t glean too many details from your mother. But early in our relationship, she did share that she and your father fell in love in a place called Rose Bend, Massachusetts, a small town in th
e southern Berkshires. She didn’t go into detail about what happened between them, but I sensed that whatever had separated them hurt her very much. She only mentioned his name once during that conversation. Paul Summers. I’m sorry that’s all I have for you, but hopefully it will be a place for you to start to find him. I love you, Nessa. And it’s only the wishful thinking of a dying man to hope this in some way can make up for—
“What’s that?” Ivy appeared in front of Nessa, the envelope Isaac’s letter arrived in clutched in her hand. “Is it something about Dad?”
Nessa shot to her feet, bowing her head as she hurriedly folded the papers and swiped at the tears dampening her face. Shit. She hadn’t even heard the door open or Ivy enter the room.
“Nothing.” Clearing her throat of the thick rasp, she grabbed for the envelope, but Ivy backpedaled, hiding it behind her. “Ivy, let me have it.”
“No.” She glared up at Nessa. “And you’re lying. Don’t tell me it’s nothing. I saw the name on the address. It’s from Dad’s attorney. So it has to be about him. What’s going on?”
“Ivy.”
Nessa rubbed her forehead with the heel of her palm. Helplessness and grief swirled inside her. She couldn’t tell Ivy the truth. Couldn’t. It would mean confessing that they weren’t sisters. That the only family she had left wasn’t hers. That she was as alone in this world as Nessa.
That the father she adored had lied to her just as both of Nessa’s parents had deceived her.
As much as they circled each other like wary, snarling dogs most of the time, Nessa refused to do that to this little girl who had already lost her world.
She’d rather Ivy hate her than Isaac.
“Tell me,” Ivy insisted, tears glistening in her eyes. Tears she blinked against. “He’s my father. You have no right to keep anything about him from me.”
“Ivy, there’s nothing to tell. It just has to do with more instructions about the will,” Nessa murmured.
“Liar.” Ivy charged forward the scant inches that separated them, her face screwed up in rage. In a sorrow that tore into Nessa with greedy claws and left her raw. “You’re lying. You don’t want to tell me what’s in the letter. And you’re doing it on purpose because you hate Dad, and you hate me. You’re jealous that he loved me and didn’t like you, so you won’t tell me what’s in that letter.”
A harsh, heart-wrenching sob ripped free of her, and in spite of the words that stabbed into Nessa with unerring accuracy, she moved toward Ivy, arms outstretched. But the girl smacked at her hands, tears running unchecked down her face.
“Don’t touch me. And don’t pretend you care about me. You never have. I hate you, Nessa. I hate you.”
Ivy ran past her and out of the room, the door slamming so hard, the reverberation echoed in her body. For several long seconds, Nessa stood there, frozen by Ivy’s outburst, her accusation hundreds of bee stings burrowing into her skin, leaving welts behind. Her breath, heavy and serrated, filled the room, her chest, her head.
Suddenly on fire, she rubbed at her arms as if she could put out the pain, but the movement only worsened the terrible prickling. Unable to remain still—unable to drag clean, unrestricted air into her lungs—she tunneled her fingers into her hair, tipping her head back until she furiously blinked at the ceiling.
I can’t... I can’t do this.
The wail caught her by surprise. And for a second, she wasn’t sure it actually came from her. But the scalding path along her throat muscles assured her it had. Panic scraped her, and not for one more second could she remain in this room where the walls seemed to be shrinking, closing in on her, threatening to squeeze her until she disappeared.
And the scariest part? The part that sent her barreling from the room?
Disappearing didn’t sound like an altogether bad idea.
* * *
WOLF PICKED UP the mechanical carpenter’s pencil and, bending over the piece of wood centered on his workbench, marked his next cut just above the tape measure. Straightening, he studied it for a moment. Satisfied, he allowed the tape measure to snap home and set it and the pencil aside. If he could devote today and tomorrow to this table, he’d have it finished by the deadline he’d given the customer. Tuesday, he’d ask Trevor to sand and stain it while Wolf worked on the gazebo. Friday and Saturday afternoons, he’d use to complete the engraving and detail work. Then Monday, he’d have Dad ship it off.
Nodding, he reached for his safety goggles, but a flash out of the corner of his eye had his hand hovering over the pair. He frowned and turned fully toward the window of his workshop. Maybe it’d been one of the twins or Ivy or another of the guests that had arrived yesterday. When he didn’t glimpse any more movement, he started to return to the workbench, but a niggling sense of...something stopped him. Striding toward the door, he pulled it open and stepped outside the workshop, glancing toward the trees and the pond beyond.
He squinted. Yeah, there was someone on the path, but...
Wait... Nessa?
Shoving off the doorframe, he charged down the trail, his long strides eating up the distance.
“Nessa.” She didn’t slow. Was she ignoring him? Could be she wanted to be alone. That had to be it because she didn’t strike him as the hiking type. He faltered, then stopped. But then narrowed his gaze on her. She wasn’t wearing a damn coat. Only a long-sleeved, ribbed shirt. In December. Even as he studied her, a shiver worked through her body. What the fuck was going on? He moved forward again and grasped her upper arm. “Nessa. What’s going on?”
She whipped around, jerking against his grip, and he let her go, holding his hands up, palms out.
Until he got a good look at her face.
Red-rimmed, wild eyes. Wet cheeks. Hair that appeared as if her fingers had been tunneled through it several times.
His heart seized and his hands physically ached with the need to cup her face. Erase those tears. Hold her to him.
But she hadn’t invited him to do any of that. Unlike the Santa Run when they’d been tied together and they’d been required to touch, he hadn’t crossed that boundary again since the morning at the gazebo.
Still...fuck. He curled his fingers into his palms and pressed his knuckles to the outside of his thighs.
For a moment, he almost spun around and stalked away from her. Away from the suffocating sense of already letting her down before he even opened his mouth. It strangled him. Yet, it warred with the need to fix what had placed those broken shards in her eyes. Had sent her tearing out of the inn as if pursued by demons.
He knew about that pursuit.
Knew even more about the futility of trying to outrun them.
And that, more than his fear of eventually failing her, of not being enough for her, kept him standing there when a part of him—a part of him he hated—longed to run.
“Nessie, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired.” Her whisper was soft, but it struck him as a shout, grating his eardrums. “I’m so tired. Tired of being the mature one. Tired of being understanding. Tired of being lied to. Tired of being expendable. Tired of being the secret keeper.”
By the time she said that last, enigmatic statement, her voice had risen to a note that he could only describe as frantic. She confirmed his earlier suspicion when she burrowed her fingers in her hair, dragging the thick strands back from her face. With a horrible sound that was too damn close to a strangled sob, she paced across the path, her arms wrapped around herself. Not out of cold, though he didn’t know how she couldn’t be. But more out of self-protection. As if the only thing that stood between her and whatever had chased her out of the inn was the defense of her arms.
Without removing his gaze from her, he pulled his sweater over his head and covered the small distance separating them, barely feeling the chilly air through his white Henley. Employing the skill of a brother who’d had to w
rangle younger siblings, he tugged the clothing over her in seconds and stepped back, letting her thread her arms through the sleeves.
She didn’t break stride, didn’t thank him. Hell, she might have been only half-aware of her actions.
“They lied to me. For years, my whole fucking life, they lied to me, and now I’m left holding the bag, facing the consequences of their actions. My mother kept me, but was it as a reminder of a man she couldn’t have? Was that all I ever was to her? And Isaac didn’t want me. Didn’t love me. He says he did, but—” she loosed a jagged, terrible laugh “—how can I believe him? For sixteen years his actions told me he didn’t. And Ivy? She doesn’t know me, but is stuck with me. And now she hates me when all I’ve ever done is try and protect her. But in protecting her, now I’m a liar.”
“Nessie.”
“I’m mad. So damn mad. Why am I not allowed to be mad? To say, ‘You fucked me over’? So what you apologized. But it makes me a monster to tell a dying man—now a dead man—that he sucked as a father. It makes me a bitch to look a little girl in the face and tell her that the man who treated her like a princess couldn’t give two shits about me. I hate him, dammit. I hate him. I hate him for not being my father. For not needing me like I needed him. For not loving me. Why couldn’t he love me?”
Jesus Christ.
His chest rose and fell on the labored breaths that soughed in and out of him. Every protective instinct howled and raged at him to claim those few steps that would bring him to her.
Pleaded with him to save himself now.
“Baby.” Desperation roughened his voice until it neared a growl. “Ask me.” He shifted forward before forcibly drawing up short. “Ask me. Please.”
She jerked to a halt and looked at him, her hair wild, eyes wilder, trembling like a leaf battered by a winter wind. For a long moment, they stared at one another, both of them shaking. Her with the emotion that had driven her from the inn. Him with the tremendous restraint it required to respect her boundaries.
“Touch me.” Her arms tightened around her chest. “Hold me.”
