Luke heaved a deep sigh, letting the breath out slowly. “What about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want me back?”
The weight of his question hit me square in the chest. While a part of me screamed ‘yes’, the other part of me was too scared to say anything. I bit my lip, spinning away from him for a moment. My breath shortened while my heart kicked up, beating quicker and quicker as my eyes danced around the room.
“Rachel?”
“I know. I know.” I faced him again. “I know I should answer you.”
“Then why don’t you?”
I shrugged and he moved toward me until his body was inches from mine. His shirt was still just as wet, and it stuck to his skin.
“Then why don’t you?” he asked again, his voice a whisper.
“Because I’m scared.”
“Scared of what? Scared I’d say no?”
“Scared you’d say yes.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “So, you don’t want this? You don’t want us?”
“No, I do, but I’m . . . I’m also afraid.”
He wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground, setting me down on the desk. “You don’t have to be.”
“I don’t?”
He shook his head then kissed me. His lips were soft at first, just like in the kitchen. But as our hands wandered each other the heat rose between us. It had been months since I’d felt a man’s touch and I didn’t know how much I’d missed it. Of course, it wasn’t just any man. It was Luke. A man I’d known since we were toddlers running around the inn and church on Sunday afternoons. A man who was my best friend in elementary school, and who I would ride bikes with all over town before the awkward teen years caused us to spend time with other friends—me with girls and him with boys. A man who, after scoring the winning touchdown during a freshman football game one night, winked at me from the sidelines which caused me to see him a little bit differently. A man who asked me out one night during our junior year and tried to kiss me, nearly knocking me off a rock. A man who took me to prom, dancing with me until the sun came up on the beach just because I wanted to, even though he hated it. Every memory and every big moment, my childhood was wrapped up in this man.
I pulled away from him, pressing my forehead into his. “I still love you,” I whispered. “And I wish . . . I wish I hadn’t walked away from you that night.”
“And I wish I hadn’t just let you.”
While he yanked his shirt over his head, I slipped mine off too, letting the wet material slap against the ground as it fell next to his. He unhooked my bra and discarded it next to our shirts before he moved onto the buttons of his pants. I slipped off the desk, unbuttoning my shorts and letting them slide down my legs.
He knelt in front of me, kissing my stomach as he inched my underwear down to the floor.
I looked down at him while he looked up at me. Our eyes locked, and I dropped down to my knees, climbing in his lap. He smiled, studying my face as he brushed a few strands of my hair away from my eyes.
“I never thought we’d be here again.”
“Good thing I live here,” I said, laughing as I yanked a new pair of shorts back up my hips.
“As opposed to me who has to put wet clothes back on.” As Luke dressed, the material of his shirt and jeans rebelled and skidded across the goose bumps freckling his skin. “And they’re cold. Oh my goodness, they’re cold.”
“Just put them in the dryer in the laundry room.”
“And then do what, walk around naked?”
Tempting thought.
“Get a robe from the closet.”
As he left the office, I grabbed a shirt from my dresser, throwing it over my head as I caught site of an old box sitting in the middle of my desk. I turned the box around, running my finger over my mother’s name etched on the front in black ink.
“Oh, you found it.” Luke shut the door and made his way over to me as he tied the robe closed. He had a towel tucked under one arm and he handed it to me for my hair.
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure. I think it’s a box of books or journals or something.”
I wrapped my hair up in it before taking the other one and wrapping it around my shoulders.
“Well, let’s open it, then, I guess.”
Before he could agree or disagree, I flipped open the top. Several journals lay inside and I began taking them out and laying them on the desk. Red, blue, yellow, and green, they all had different years on them from 1962 to 1966.
“Wow. Those are old.”
“I don’t ever remember my mom writing in a journal.” Yanking out the last one, a bundle of wrapped envelopes fell out of the book. Tied with a ribbon, the paper fibers had turned brown and some of the writing had faded. I flipped them over, reading the front.
“To Maggie Wilson, from Private C. Wilson. It’s addressed to my mom, with an address in Washington, and it’s from Vietnam.” I glanced up at Luke. “I don’t know what these are.”
“They look to be letters.”
“But who is Private C. Wilson? And why is my mom’s last name Wilson too.”
“Was it her maiden name?”
“No. Her maiden name was Halverson. And that still wouldn’t explain Washington.”
I inhaled a deep breath as I untied the stack of envelopes, flipped the top one over, and slid the letter out from the inside. The paper crinkled as I unfolded it and began reading the slanted, cursive words written on its pages.
My dearest Maggie,
It’s been hot here for the last several days . . . oh, who am I kidding, it’s been hot here since I landed. I miss you so much it hurts, and yet, I know I have a job to do to protect my brothers and my country—the country we will live in as a family when I return. Kiss that baby for me. I miss her just as much as you. I can’t write much this time, but I promise the next letter will be longer. I’ve got so much to tell you. For now, I’ll leave it with a simple I love you more than words. I miss you, and I can’t wait to see you again soon.
Yours always,
C
“I don’t understand this.” I set the letter down, staring at it. “Who is this man? And who is the baby he misses just as much as her? Did . . . do I have a sibling somewhere?”
“What’s the date of the letter?”
I glanced at the tip, sucking in a breath as I read: October 10, 1966.
“But I was born July 8, 1966.” I went to grab the letter again, but before my fingers touched the paper, I stopped. “Am I the baby?”
“But then who is C?” Luke asked, studying the letter himself.
I grabbed the stack of letters, flipping through each of them. All of them were the same—addressed to Maggie Wilson in Washington from a Private C. Wilson stationed in Vietnam. The date stamps in the corner ranged from October 7, 1966 to December 15, 1966.
I glanced at Luke and a lump formed in my throat. “Is . . . is James not my dad?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Maggie
July 1967
Helen spent the better part of the last few weeks training me through every inch of the business. When she wasn’t at the inn, she was with Jerry, taking day and weekend trips throughout most of Maine, and leaving me with a pendulum of emotions. Happy for her, and yet, scared to be alone, I waved goodbye at her with a smile on my face and my heart pounding at the same time. While the guests kept me busy and distracted, there was always a sense of relief when she was here.
I trotted back down the stairs from taking a couple of guests to their room, and made my way through the dinin’ room and into the kitchen. Helen stood at the counter, choppin’ up onions and bell peppers in preparation for dinner.
“The Thompson’s just checked in,” I said to her
“Did they like their room?”
“I think so. I don’t know whether we will hear them fightin’ later on or not.” I chuckled thinkin’ of their back and forth banter which had a hint
of annoyance to it.
“Why do you say that?”
“Just a feelin’.” After tellin’ her what they had said to one another about the time the husband spent at work versus the time he spent at home with his wife, and how the wife spent too much time participating in functions with her friends so why did it matter, Helen smiled.
“Oh I do hope they make for an interesting three days.” She laughed. “As awful as that is to say.”
“Eh, it’s not awful. I kind of was thinkin’ the same thing.”
“Is Rachel still taking her nap?”
“Yeah. James plans on pickin’ her up when she wakes up. He can watch her this afternoon and this evenin’ until I’m done here.”
As she continued to chop the vegetables, I grabbed the bowl of chicken from the refrigerator and lifted the wax paper, exposin’ several raw breasts—their pink skin shined.
“There is nothin’ more I hate than raw chicken.”
“But it’s so delicious when it’s cooked.” Helen laughed.
“Yes, but gettin’ it there . . .” I grabbed one of the breasts, layin’ it on the cuttin’ board before I chopped off a huge chunk of white fat. “That’s a whole other story.”
While I still was far from a chef, the more I cooked, the easier I could manage myself around the kitchen. Recipes weren’t as cumbersome, and I’d found with some dishes, I didn’t need one at all. “Cooking is a lot like a fine wine,” Helen once said. “The longer you do it, the better you get.” I didn’t know if that was true or not, but I did know the more meals I made the more confident I became. I felt better that I wasn’t servin’ the guests horrible food.
Or at least they said I wasn’t.
After layin’ the breasts in the casserole dish, I washed my hands. A slight breeze blew through the open kitchen window, bringin’ in the scent of the sea with the cool air. I inhaled a deep breath, lettin’ the smell wash over me like the water from the facet washed over my hands.
“Hello?” a voice called out.
As I spun around, the door to the kitchen opened and a huge bouquet of roses entered with Nancy behind it.
“What on earth?” I asked, grabbin’ a cloth to dry my hands.
“Again?” Helen laughed and shook her head.
“Bouquet number twenty-one for the twenty-first day.” Nancy set the flower vase on the counter near the one from yesterday and the one from the day before that. Ten others were already displayed on each of the dinin’ room tables, while seven more were either in the front desk foyer, my office, or the guest rooms. “Courtesy of a Mr. James Grey.”
“Who else would they be from?” Helen said, her question more of a mockin’ statement as though askin’ was as ridiculous as the question. “Other than the handsome, slightly older gentleman who seems to spend an awful lot of time here, I mean.”
“Har. Har.” I said. “I don’t know what ya are talkin’ about. But I will say, this has got to be costin’ him a fortune. Why is he doin’ this?” I asked.
“Because he loves you.” Helen answered, pointin’ the knife in her hand toward me.
“Loves me? He doesn’t even know me.”
“Of course he does.”
“Still, he’s got to be spendin’ so much money on these.”
Nancy shrugged as she laughed. “I don’t mind. It’s good for business.” She moved around the table. “And it’s going to help me pay for a rather expensive party I’m giving next spring.”
“What party?”
“A special one where I walk down the aisle in a white dress.” With her words, she held out her left hand and wiggled it. A gold band with a single diamond glistened on her ring finger.
“Oh my gosh! Nancy! Evan proposed?”
“Yep. Last night.” She gushed as she bounced on her toes a few times. “I didn’t expect it at all. We were on the porch swing just talking when he slid off and got down on one knee. I about sucked tea up my nose.”
I rushed toward her, grabbin’ her hand so I could see the ring. “It’s beautiful.”
“I know. He did perfect.”
“A spring wedding, huh? That will be quite pretty around here.”
Nancy glanced between the two of us. “That was what I was thinking. And I just know how you love to host weddings here, Helen.”
“Oh, I do. I do. They are so pretty here and so much fun to plan.”
“Minus the work. But Evan said if you need anything, he and his parents are available.”
“I actually might take them up on that for this one.”
“I’ll be here to do anything you need and so will Mom.”
“And ya have me this time,” I said.
“And James. I’m sure he will help.” Nancy winked as she cocked her head to the side, her tone mockin’. I cast her a grimace and she held up her hands. “I’m sorry, but since I’m engaged, I just want everyone around me to be happy and in love.” She bounced on her toes again and I threw the cloth at her face.
“Yeah, well, just keep those feelin’s to yourself, ya hear?”
She laughed and bit her lip. “By the way, I wanted to tell you. After he proposed . . . well, we popped open a bottle of wine he stole from his parents and things got a little . . .” She winked. “You know.”
“Let me guess, ya did somethin’ your mama would have a fit over.”
“Or to put it as you would, she would be hotter than a fox in a hen house.” Nancy cocked one hip out as she drew her tone into the best southern accent she could.
“And how was it?”
“Um, well.”
“Uh oh, that can’t be good.”
I glanced at Helen who crossed her arms, shakin’ her head as she tried to hide her smile.
“You never want to start out with the words ‘um, well’ when asked how sex was with your fiancé.”
“No, it wasn’t bad. It was, well, it was awkward. We were both nervous and it just took a while to . . . get into it, if you know what I mean.”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“Well, we can’t all be perfect like you.” Although, she hardened her words, she wasn’t mad, and she waved me off. “It gets better though, right? I mean, it will get better.”
“Yes, it will.” I reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Now, can ya take these flowers out into the dining room before they become part of dinner?” I laughed.
“Everyone has gone to their rooms for the night.” I slid onto the porch swing next to Helen and leaned back as I exhaled a breath. “I didn’t think I would—or could—be this exhausted.”
Helen closed her eyes for a moment. She had stolen one of the roses from the vase and was holdin’ it under her nose so she could inhale the delicious scent as the soft petals touched her skin.
“I’ve always loved the busy season,” she said. “Oh, I know there can be times when I would hit my pillow utterly exhausted and fall asleep within seconds. But it’s a fulfilling exhausted. Like you’ve done something good in the world and you’ve earned your place in it. There was always something about working my own business, I feel free.”
“I can understand that now.”
She let the rose glide over her cheeks and under her nose again, and she kicked her feet against the porch, pushin’ the swing so it swung back and forth. She looked at peace, and seemed so relaxed, I almost envied her.
“Been awful quiet today. Anythin’ on your mind?” I asked, hatin’ to break our silence, but wantin’ to know the answer more.
“Nope. Just happy. Content. Jerry called this evening. He wants to take me to Nova Scotia this weekend.”
“Nice.”
“Do you think you can manage at the inn?”
I waved my hand. “Of course. Go. Have fun.”
“But what about Rachel?”
“Don’t even worry about her. James reminded me this afternoon when he picked her up that he can take her most weekends if I need. Most days too.”
“He sure has taken quite the lik
ing to her, hasn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
With her words, my eyes focused on the sand of the beach. The glow of the moon made it look white as snow, and it glistened with the soft light. A view I’d come to know and love, just as everything else around me.
“Now who is awfully quiet?” Helen whispered. “Should I ask if you are all right?”
“Just tired. But also happy and content.”
“It’s a good feeling, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
A yawn threatened and I held it in, ignorin’ how the act burned my nose.
“You should go home and get some rest. Tomorrow morning will be here before you know it.”
“Yeah, ya are probably right.” I rose to my feet, makin’ the swing shake a little until Helen steadied it with her feet. “I’ll be here around six o’clock to get breakfast started. I was thinkin’ waffles with whipped cream and berries.”
She closed her eyes. “I think it sounds like heaven on a plate.”
As I left Helen on the back porch, I glanced over my shoulder, catchin’ a tiny bit of her through the screen door. I loved that she finally found Jerry and loved that she was finally living a life that seemed to complete her.
For a bit of a moment I almost envied her, and yet, when I stopped and thought about my own life, I couldn’t deny the similarities of peace, comfort, joy, and hope. While I’d lost so much, I’d gained just as much in return.
We don’t always get to pick our family. At least not the ones related by blood. They come into our lives for one reason or another. Perhaps it was a chance meeting, something where ya would never expect to meet someone who would end up changin’ your life or perhaps it was meant to be from the start. No matter the case, though, the mystery of it all is why. Why does God bring them in? Is it a reason we are to know? As though, there will be a point in time where we will sit back and say ‘there, right there, that is the reason.’ Or will we go to our deathbed never knowin’ their purpose in our lives?
Of course, with that, I wonder why I even needed to know the reason. Wasn’t just havin’ Helen in my life enough? Or James? Or Nancy? I suppose their reason could be as simple as I needed them. Alone and scared, I had no one, and in one rainy night it all changed. Even if I didn’t know it at the time it happened.
Another Yesterday Page 25
