“Well, I mean, I suppose it’s neat to publish famous people, but wouldn’t it be more neat to be one of them famous people?”
Yes, it would. It really would.
“You know, Shelly,” I stepped back, pointing over my shoulder. “I really hate to cut this conversation short, but . . . I should really go check on my dad. See if he needs anything.”
“Oh, okay. It was nice catchin’ up with ya.”
“Nice to catch up with you too.”
I glanced at Bridget who continued to fight laughter. “How much longer are you in town?” she asked, her voice cracking.
“At least a few days. I’ll come by Moe’s before I leave.”
THIRTEEN
Nancy entered the kitchen while I leaned against the counter. Mr. Gilmore’s voice vibrated through the receiver of the phone, the volume added a pounding thud to my budding headache.
“I’m really sorry, Rachel, but,” he heaved a deep sigh, “you’ve already taken so much time off the last couple of months.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry for that. I completely understand. I have a meeting with Pastor Dawson at the church in an hour, and after that, I’ll pack and head back to New York in the morning.” I paused as Nancy flashed me a glare. She raised her arms in the air, exclaiming a silent protest, and my distracted attention bounced from her back to Mr. Gilmore’s voice.
“I’m sorry to do it to you, but I can’t give you any more time.”
“No, sir, it’s quite all right. I think I have everything here taken care of for now. I’ll just come back on the weekends if I need to see to anything else.”
“Weekends?” Nancy whispered.
I waved my hand at her.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Gilmore. Goodbye.”
As I hung up the phone, Nancy rested her hands on her hips, the dishtowel she had in one hand swung from her abrupt movement. “You know you’ll spend more time in the car or on the train than you will here if you only come up just on the weekends.”
“I know.” I cradled my head in one of my palms, tapping the pencil in my other hand against the table. “But, I don’t know what else to do. He wants me back, says I’ve taken too much time as it is.”
“Too much time? You’ve only been here four days. Don’t you get vacation time and sick leave?”
I did. Quite a lot, actually, but I’d already taken it dealing with the divorce. Something I hadn’t conveyed to anyone just yet, even through the endless questions about where my husband was during the funeral.
“Oh, well yes, I do, but I’ve used it. Here and there, you know, for appointments or things.” The guilt behind my lie stung.
“You know, James is going to need someone around the inn to help with his care and just keeping the place together.” She crossed her arms and a half smile curved through her lips. “I can certainly be here, but I still have a business to run and a husband to take care of myself.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“I just thought perhaps you and Paul would like a change of scenery. Your parents were much younger than you were when they took over this place from Helen. With their retirement accounts, your mother’s life insurance, and the sale of your house you could live here quite comfortably, perhaps even fix the place up a bit and open it again.”
Of course, there was thought and reason to her idea; however, there was just one little difference, and it hung over my head with a shadow of shame.
“But I suppose I can’t assume Paul would consider the idea,” Nancy continued. “Your mother mentioned he really liked his job and I know you both love living in the city, so . . .” She let her voice trail off as she turned away from me and began loading the breakfast dishes into the sink to wash. “I guess it’s just something to think about.”
Without saying a word to her, I sipped on my coffee. The sweet, creaminess grew cold during my phone conversation and I scooped up the cup and saucer before handing it to Nancy. “I should get Dad so we can leave for the appointment with Pastor Dawson.”
Why Pastor Dawson asked to meet with me, I didn’t know, but I couldn’t deny the thought of this meeting drew a groan to my lips. Surely, I saw him at the funeral, and even spoke with him, but a meeting, alone, with my ex-boyfriend’s father? The one I’d left in the middle of the beach, on one knee . . .
I didn’t want to think about it.
I helped Dad up the lawn and through the doors into the church lobby. The familiar, dark grey carpet and white walls greeted us as we entered, and I let the door shut with a rather loud thud. Back again to the one place I never wanted to visit again. Not because I didn’t want to go to church, but because it was the last place I saw my mother before they closed the coffin and buried her in the ground.
“I think we’re supposed to meet in John’s office,” Dad said.
He hobbled down the only hallway and knocked on one of the doors. It opened almost immediately, and Pastor Dawson greeted us with a warm smile.
“Welcome, both of you,” he said, shaking my dad’s hand.
Dad moved inside before me, and I hesitated as I entered. “I’m sorry we’re late. I was delayed on a telephone call with my boss and . . . well, I’m sorry.”
“Not a problem, not a problem. I know you must be quite busy with everything. I promise I won’t take up too much of your time . . . or I suppose I should say we won’t.”
“We?”
He dropped his gaze and with his hand against the small of my back, he guided me into his office. My dad sat on the large couch in the corner next to another man, and while he leaned into the cushions, the stranger bent over and fetched a briefcase from beside the coffee table.
“What is going on?” My eyes danced between the three men a few times.
“It’s okay, honey, this is Mr. Richardson. He’s your mother’s and mine attorney.” Dad kept his tone light and smiled while he motioned toward the chair.
“Oh. Well, it’s nice to meet you.” I gave a slight, greeting nod.
“Can I get you some water or coffee, Rachel?” Pastor Dawson asked.
“No thank you, I’m fine.”
As Mr. Richardson rooted around, yanking file after file out of his briefcase, I slid into the chair next to Pastor Dawson. My phone call with Mr. Gilmore this morning had left a jitter in my legs and made it hard to sit still. Of course, being a family man, my boss understood my reasons for needing some time off, but the last several months of days off and a distracted work ethic hadn’t exactly left me as the model employee, and I got the impression if I didn’t return soon or change my ways, I wouldn’t have a job to return to.
I should be packing, not sitting in this room.
“All right, I think we’re ready to begin.” Mr. Richardson set his briefcase on the floor once more and gathered up the files in his hands. He leaned back against the couch as he pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his blazer.
“Begin what?” I asked.
Dad leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, wincing slightly with the movement. He clasped his hands together, rubbing them for a few seconds before he drew in a deep breath and spoke. “I’ve been going over all the assets and accounts since your mom passed. You know, trying to figure out what to do since . . . since, well . . .”
“Since what?”
“Well, since now it’s just me living there.” Dad glanced at Pastor Dawson and then to me.
“Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what you have to say?” I asked.
“I just can’t take care of the place all by myself, and Nancy has her own business to run, she certainly can’t do it. You can’t keep coming back, either.”
I searched his eyes for a sign he was hiding something from me. Gut instinct told me to, and yet, no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find even a glimpse.
“So, with that said,” he continued. “I think it’s about time we make the final decision on what we are going to do with the inn.”
> “So, are you going to sell it?”
“No. I’m giving it to you. It’s yours.”
I caught my breath. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know you never wanted your mother’s life, but she always wanted you to have it. And, of course, I think she was right in wanting to give it to you.”
An itch tickled across my skin. I pressed my fingers into the back of my neck, massaging so hard my knuckles turned white.
“Of course, if you wish to sell it, I’ll understand.” Dad bit his lip as though he didn’t know if he should say his next words. “Rachel, I know about you and Paul, and the divorce, so—”
“How did you find out?”
“After you told me he wasn’t joining you for the funeral, I called him. My intention was to give him a rather stern lecture on how to be a supportive husband during a time like this; however, well, I guess I really couldn’t say anything after he told me the truth.”
My fingers traced along my forehead and I closed my eyes. My shoulders hunched and I hung my head with the remorse of my lie and my omission. Another brilliant work of art hanging on my daughter wall. Another beautiful act of insolence toward someone who loves me. Another successful notch carved into the family tree with the intent of self protection.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter why you didn’t. Nothing matters but your happiness.”
Happiness. Ha. Did I even know what that word meant anymore?
“You don’t have to keep the place if you don’t truly want it. You’re more than welcome to sell it. I just thought I’d let you make the choice.”
“Oh.” With my head spinning, I could only muster enough of a breath to force the word from my lips.
“Of course, you don’t have to make any decisions today,” Mr. Richardson assured. “However, we should at least sign and file all the paperwork for the deed transfer and add you to the bank accounts. Then, if at any time you choose to sell, you can.”
I glanced from the lawyer to Dad. A sense of deep-rooted pleading swam in the greenness of his eyes, and it tugged at my heart. He wanted this for me. No matter how I felt about the situation, he wanted it. And I wasn’t about to let him down.
“Do I have to sign them right now?” I asked.
“No, you can look them over for a few days. I just need them before Monday of next week.”
Mr. Richardson gathered up the paperwork, and the papers tapped against the coffee table, matching the sound the manuscripts make when I line up the pages in order to clip them together.
Manuscripts.
How many of them sat in my email this very moment? How many authors, both seasoned and new, waited on my response to their query letters? While I couldn’t deny hearing the underlying warning hidden behind Mr. Gilmore’s passive aggressive words caused a rush of panic to my senses, I also couldn’t help but notice a twinge of something else stir deep down inside. Since my mother’s funeral, a few thoughts had lingered in the back of my mind along with the conversation with Shelly. I’d spent the last several years making other author’s dreams come true, but I never spent any time on my own.
As Mr. Richardson rose to his feet, so did Dad, his movement stiffer and weaker than the balding gentleman at his side.
“Have a seat, James,” Pastor Dawson said, standing himself. “I’ll see Mr. Richardson to the door.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes, sit down. It’s easier for me to get around.”
The two men left the room while Dad and I sat across from one another. His eyes burned into me and mine burned into the carpet of the Pastor’s office. So many words sat unspoken between us, and while I knew I should say mine, actually doing so was harder than I thought.
“I’m sorry about what happened with you and Paul.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s for the best, or so I’ve been told a dozen times.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I didn’t want the same things as him, so he found someone who did.”
“He had an affair?”
“Worse.” I bit my lip and closed my eyes, fighting back tears. I loathed crying in front of other people. “He fell in love, and they are getting married just as soon as their son is born.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“She can have him.”
Dad opened his mouth but shut it before uttering a word. His brow furrowed and he exhaled a deep breath. I felt the advice sitting on the tip of his tongue. I’d seen that look in him before, the one where he wanted to say something or ask something, but he didn’t know how or if he should.
More often than not, his thoughts or questions rang with a perfect truth for the problem I faced. Annoyingly faultless, he always knew the right thing to say. Probably because he really put the time and effort into thinking it through before he said anything.
“Rachel, are you happy in New York?”
Without looking at him, I rose to my feet and strode over to the window. I clutched the sheer drapes, brushing them open a few inches to expose the beautiful garden in the courtyard. Just as lush as it was when I was growing up, I remembered how I’d always wanted to get married here.
Instead, I married Paul on the beach at his parents’ house.
I didn’t want to admit it, but my mind wasn’t just spinning because of a possible job loss. The thought of returning to my shabby, badly furnished apartment in a cheap building full of divorced people, didn’t exactly sit well in my stomach either. Nor did the idea of returning to the New York dating scene full of men who had one thought—and one thought only—on their mind. My life in New York was slowly mirroring the taste of a bitter wine that soured even the finest of meals.
“Rachel?”
“I don’t know if I’m happy there. I don’t know what happy means anymore.” I spun around to face him. “I love my job, but . . .”
“But that’s all, right?”
I shrugged my shoulders again. “I just don’t know.”
“You know I’ve never been one to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do.”
“No, that was Mom’s job.”
He chuckled. “I would have to agree with you on that.”
“Is it crazy that I wish she was here to tell me?”
“No.” He paused for a moment, staring at the floor with a far-off look in his eye. “For the sake of today, how about I take her place and renounce my oath to stay out of your business?”
“And you’re going to tell me what, exactly?”
“Well, it seems to me like you have a pretty good opportunity here to start a new life.”
“But—”
“But I know this new life is the exact one your mother lived, which is one you ran from. It’s still a chance, though, Rachel. All you have to do is just take it. If you don’t want to, that’s fine. But what if, just what if, it’s more fulfilling than the one you’re trying cling to?”
“So, you think I should move back here and run the inn?”
“When you left Shadow Brook, you did so out of fear and anger.”
“Yes, but I don’t hate New York. I was happy in New York and at my job. I still am, at least with the latter.”
“But is it the job you dream about or is it the job you’ve settled for?”
“An editor is an important part of the publishing world. Authors all over the country rely on me to help them with their novels.”
“And how many novels have you written for yourself?”
“I haven’t really had the time. I mean I’ve got a responsibility to my boss and the publishing house, not to mention to all my authors.”
“But what about you? Don’t you have a responsibility to yourself? It’s just like with Paul. Did you love him or was he what you thought you wanted because he wasn’t from Shadow Brook?”
“Of course, I loved Paul.”
“As much as you loved Luke? Or was your mother the reason you pushed him away and ran towa
rd Paul?”
“Is that why you guys wanted to meet here? You were hoping I would run into Pastor Dawson’s son? Because that is something Mom would do.” I began to pace in front of the window, muttering under my breath. “She practically planned our wedding after we’d only been dating for a few months and she just had to have her daughter wed the pastor’s son, and when I didn’t . . . when I said no to him that night . . .”
“Rachel, he’s not even here, and that’s not why we had you meet me at the church, either. I had you come here because, well, because I thought you could use some support. Your mother found a lot of peace and comfort here.” He inhaled and exhaled a deep breath. “Your mother is gone, Rachel, and so is your husband. If you want the inn gone with them, then fine. It’s yours—you can do whatever you want with it. Sell it. Keep it. Rent it out. I can find another place to live.”
“You don’t have to move—”
“No, Rachel. I will not be a factor in this. No one should be a factor in this. Finally, for once in your life, figure out what you want based on no one else but yourself.”
“All right!” I waved my hands in the air for a moment before slapping one hand over my forehead. “I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, Dad. I promise.”
The soft click of the office door echoed and I flinched. “Am I interrupting something?” Pastor Dawson raised one eyebrow as his hand hesitated on the doorknob.
“No, John, I was just going to see if you wanted to go to lunch.” Dad rose to his feet, once again grunting with pain.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked.
“It’s actually the best one I’ve had all day.” He winked. “I can’t stop living my life, and I most certainly don’t want to go back to my bed, not yet, anyway.”
“I’ll bring him safely back to the inn in about an hour or so.” John laid his hand on Dad’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be out in just a minute. I’d like to ask Rachel something.”
“Well, then I’ll be waiting for you by the car after I hit the restroom.”
As he strode out of the office, I bent down for my purse sitting on the floor. “What is it you needed, Pastor Dawson?”
Another Yesterday Page 14
