Lilies on Main (The Granite Harbor Series Book 4)

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “I just didn’t expect you to come to the front door.” She pulls back to look into my eyes.

  What did he do to you? I want to say.

  Still keeping her against me, I notice she’s wearing a top that dips down, exposing her chest—something Lydia never does.

  “Let’s walk down to Merryman’s,” Lydia says.

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  “Let’s go upstairs, so you can change first. Did you bring clothes?” she asks.

  “In the truck. I’ll grab them.” I release her but barely. Part of me wants to ask if this is okay, and the other side of me says, Fuck it.

  I want her to be mine. I want to protect her heart from the harm she was exposed to. I want to erase her memory from the terror she had to live through. The manipulation. Because, let’s be honest, any motherfucker willing to hit a woman deserves the wrath of hell.

  At dinner, I order the fish and chips, and so does Lydia.

  “Listen”—I set my beer down on the table—“my parents gave us tickets to the Harbor Inn for the weekend. Would you want to go?”

  Lydia’s cheeks turn a shade of pink, and I’m not sure if it’s from the sip of wine she just took or my words.

  Her mouth turns upward. “That sounds really nice. I’d need to get Alex or Bryce to take over the bookstore for the weekend.” She pauses. Wipes her mouth. “But I’d really like that.”

  “Come here,” I tell her as I lean in across the table.

  “What?” She drops her head to the side.

  “Come here,” I say again.

  Lydia hesitantly leans in, but nevertheless, she leans in toward my mouth.

  “I need you, Lydia,” I whisper in her mouth before I kiss her.

  She doesn’t move.

  She doesn’t hesitate but welcomes my tongue into her mouth.

  I don’t care that I’m kissing her in front of patrons at the restaurant.

  I don’t care if the rumor mill starts.

  I’m making a statement.

  I love this woman, and I want everyone to know about it.

  Let them talk because kissing Lydia is like seeing in vivid color. Like feeling the warm breeze. Like the first taste of a beer on a hot summer day. Like the first time you hear I love you against a lover’s lips. The feeling of being wrapped up in a perfect moment. Where your mind is present and not in yesterday or today but right now.

  I pull away but only a little, so I can say, “I’m going to need you to touch my body tonight, Lyd.” I don’t ask if she’s okay with it. Because, looking in her eyes, I know she needs this, too.

  When we leave the restaurant, instead of walking home, I take her down to the harbor. We both need fresh air because, what I want to do to her right now, she might not be ready for it. And I want our first time together to be our first forever. Something she will remember for the rest of our life together. My hand tightens around hers.

  As we approach, we’re welcomed by the song of the sea. The water lapping against the boats. The tiny waves washing against the shore. An occasional sea lion.

  There’s a grassy area off to the left and above the shoreline just a little. A few birch trees. It’s dark outside now, but the moon guides us.

  “This is so beautiful,” she says.

  “It is. Especially at this time of night.” I pull Lydia to me, tuck her head under my chin, and sling my arm around her neck from behind. I bend down only slightly, and instead of kissing her head, I gently kiss her neck.

  Her breath catches.

  God, I need to stop. I came here with her to gain clarity, not a hard-on.

  But I do it once more because I can’t help myself. Feel her skin against my mouth. The soft scent of jasmine. My hands slide to her hips as if they’re not my own, and I hold her to me, so she can feel me.

  “We need to get back.” She takes a few steps forward to create distance. Takes me by the hand, her look hooded. “I need this, Aaron.” Lydia gasps and covers her mouth, as if she can’t believe what she just said.

  I go to her and take her back in my arms. “What?”

  Lydia looks away and then back to me. “I-I just—Brett … didn’t like that.” She’s on the verge of tears, and I can hear it in her voice.

  The anger is right back where it was from just hours ago. Fuming, I try to control it. “I’m not Brett, Lydia, and you deserve so much more than that.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge my words. But she looks up at me. Again, she tries to push down her fear. “Come with me.”

  It doesn’t take any longer than a minute to get back to her place. We’re upstairs, in her apartment, when I lift her up. She wraps her legs around me, and our mouths collide.

  Somehow, I make it back to her bedroom and lay her down on the bed.

  Standing above her, panting, her hands now at my waist, I stare down at her. She stares back.

  “Tell me what you need, Lydia.” It’s not a question. My voice isn’t soft. It’s rugged with want for her. Raging with anger from that fucking bastard who beat the hell out of her.

  “I need my pants off.” Her tone is broken, hushed, and excited all at the same time.

  Bending down, I unbutton her jeans and unzip the zipper, trying my best to keep my cool. I pull them from her heels, and they slide off, just like how, I’d imagine, they rolled on. There’s no tug, no struggle; they slide.

  I drop her jeans on the floor and stare at her bare legs before me. Her panties, black lace, curve around her hip bones.

  “Do you see them? On my legs?”

  “See what?” I stare back at her. “All I see is you, Lydia.” My voice is ragged from the ache in my body for hers.

  “The scars.”

  I look down to her legs, and in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, I see them. Like shark bites. Some bigger than others. Some more raised than others. Some pinker. Some brighter.

  Reaching down, I trace my hand over them. “What are they?”

  I sit down on the bed next to her, and she tries to squirm under my touch, but I don’t allow her to. Her body relaxes, and her legs fall open. As my hands touch in places between her legs—on her thighs, down by her ankles—she tells me what they were.

  “Malignant melanoma.” She watches my hands as I watch her. “It keeps coming back.”

  “Remind me what that is,” I say.

  “Skin cancer. The deadly kind. If I’m not careful.”

  “And what are these?” I trace my hand over her rippled skin.

  “Places where they’ve removed the cancer.”

  I reach up and touch her wrist. “And this?”

  “Same.”

  “Recently.”

  “Yes.”

  Lydia pushes herself off the bed. When she’s standing in front of me, her back to me, she reaches up and slips off her top and then her bra—not in a sexual way, but to show me the realm of what she’s been dealing with. But I know this isn’t for her own good; it’s mine.

  On her back are the same incisions; these are healed, too, except for the different shapes, different sizes. Colors. Shades.

  I stand, tracing my fingertips over her skin, made by God. “How long have you had this?”

  “A while. The first one spread to one of my lymph nodes, and I did a low dose of chemotherapy. That’s when Lilly and I lived with my parents in New Hampshire.”

  “Were you scared?”

  Before she answers, I feel her body change from rigid to limp. Maybe because, by sharing some of your worst with someone, it somehow alleviates some of the fear.

  “Scared of leaving Lilly,” she says with her back still to me.

  She’s holding her breath. I place my hands on her shoulders, and I pull her closer to me.

  While she’s in my arms, I remove my shirt and pull her to her bed. Underneath the covers, I hold her. I don’t kiss her. I don’t touch her where I want to. I lie with her in bed on top of a shop she’s maintained with her own strength, dignity, love, and courage. I hold her as she
finally cries, letting the tears take her apart.

  “Nothing might be all right, Lydia, but everything will still be okay.”

  Eventually, she falls asleep right where she’s meant to be. In my arms.

  Twenty-One

  Lydia

  My eyes and mind adjust to the early morning light pouring into my bedroom window.

  I jump awake, and Aaron is gone. He should be gone. Right? I mean, I showed him my body. The scars. Told him my worst fear—leaving Lilly too early. Of course he left.

  Shit.

  I pull the sheet up to my breasts, realizing I’m nearly naked. I’m also hit with the realization that we spent a night together and didn’t so much as kiss. My eyes feel puffy, red, dry.

  On the nightstand on the side he slept on is a note propped up on the lamp. Leaning over, I grab it.

  Dear Lydia,

  I didn’t think it was possible to care about you more than I had the day before, but it is. I’m in this for the long haul because I love you, and I love Lilly. That’s it. I have to stop denying it or hiding it because of the risk of being hurt or you thinking I might be crazy. I’ve already fallen in love with both of you. I’ve spent a long time searching for the right woman. Hell, I didn’t think I needed the right woman. Just needed someone to pass the time with, maybe have a few kids with and grow old with. But then you and Lilly came into my life. And all of those basic needs about love flew out the window.

  The truth is, I need your love. I need your love more than the guys in all those romance books that you read need love. And the marks on your body aren’t scars; those are marks of a warrior who has walked through hell and back for her daughter. I want you to know that I’d do the same for Lilly.

  A lump forms in my throat as I push my fingers to my lips and continue to read.

  I don’t write love notes. And I’m not quite sure if this qualifies as one, but whatever our future has for us, I’m in. I’m in forever.

  Call me when you get up. ;)

  P.S. I fixed your sink last night. Did you know it was leaking?

  Love,

  Aaron

  A smile turns up on the corners of my mouth. A tear falls.

  He fixed the sink.

  While love can be complicated, complex, love with Aaron somehow seems simple. Do we, as humans, make it complicated?

  I think on my time with Brett, the immobilizing fear that he gave me, and yet I stayed. I stayed for the sake of love. Because I’d married a man and made a commitment and because I thought my love for him would save him. I thought his love for me would save us. But it didn’t. I couldn’t. He couldn’t. And we should have known that from the very start. Sometimes, we just hang on too long.

  It’s easy to make Brett out to be the bad guy. It is. But it’s equally as hard to believe he’s not a bad guy. I know, someday, Lilly will need to see her father. I know, at some point, he’ll need to see her. This makes me grow uneasy. Do I think he’d hurt his own daughter? I don’t want to believe he would. But is that the woman who loved him with all her heart talking?

  I made myself vulnerable last night. A place I’m not comfortable with, especially with men, not anymore anyway. I haven’t had any sort of connection with a man since Brett. But with Aaron? He makes me feel whole, and I want to see the same woman he sees. The warrior.

  My phone vibrates across my nightstand. It’s a text from my mom with a picture of Lilly making homemade bread with a chef’s hat on her head and flour on her nose and a big smile across her face. And there are words written below the picture.

  Mom: Breaking bread. All is good!

  I text back.

  Me: I love this. Thanks, Mom. Give my girl a big morning kiss for me.

  In the picture, a small strand of Lilly’s hair has fallen in her face. Just like mine does. I want her to know what it takes to be a strong woman. I want her to know that, if she’s ever in a situation like I was, like we were, there’s always a way out. That no woman deserves to be hit. That no woman deserves to live in fear and then be manipulated into taking him back. She deserves someone like Aaron if she so chooses to be with a man. I want my daughter to be happy above all else. To be treated as a woman should. With gentleness. With love. Kindness. I want her to find someone in her life who builds her up, not tears her down. I want Lilly to be proud of who she is and the trail she’s blazed and what she’s overcome to get to where she is in life.

  Another text message comes in, but it isn’t from my mom. It’s from Aaron.

  Aaron: Did you know baby giraffes can stand within a half hour of birth?

  Another text from Aaron.

  Aaron: Also, did you know sea otters hold paws as they sleep so that they don’t float away from each other?

  I think it’s time to take the next step with Aaron. My heart swells as I read these.

  Another text from him.

  Aaron: Also, penguins use pebbles to propose to their girlfriends. Don’t panic. I don’t have any pebbles with me at the moment. And you’re not my girlfriend. So, don’t worry; you’re in the clear.

  I text back.

  Me: But you pretty much said you loved me in the love letter you wrote.

  Aaron: I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a love letter. It was an informative note. ;)

  Me: Informing me that you loved me.

  Aaron: Damn. Well played. Hey, I’ll be out of service today, but I will call you as soon as I get back. A hiker got lost on the Appalachian Trail.

  Me: Be safe, Warden Casey. :) I’ll see you when I see you next.

  Aaron: Are you still naked? Well, aside from your panties.

  I blush. Look down at my almost-naked body underneath the sheets.

  Me: I am.

  Aaron: Have you ever seen a grown man cry? Because I am right now.

  He sends me a GIF of a man crying.

  And a follow-up text.

  Aaron: Just so you know and so I feel like I’ve given you enough notice to prepare, I won’t have the willpower to do that again. I’m a good man, but I’m not that good. Consider yourself warned.

  I feel the sheet against my body, wishing it were Aaron’s hands instead, touching me in places that make my body shiver.

  Me: I wouldn’t expect you to. Oh, do you need me to call the Harbor Inn to change the reservations to our names?

  Aaron: Already done. Counting the hours.

  Me: Be safe.

  Aaron: I will.

  Before I jump in the shower, I make another call to Robert Black. This time, my message is sterner, more direct. Direr than it was before. While I’m in the shower, I think I hear a knock at the door. For me to be able to hear someone knocking at the door near the bottom steps of our apartment, it has to be someone knocking really loud. Immediately, I turn off the water and listen.

  Nothing.

  The water drips slowly come to a stop as I strain to listen.

  Silence.

  I hold my breath.

  Fear starts to tickle the back of my throat, pushing my thoughts to spin out of control. I open the shower door, grab my towel, and reach for my phone. I call my mom because my first thought is of Lilly.

  “Hi, honey,” my mom answers.

  I try to push the fear that’s starting to travel down into my stomach, attempting to hide it from my mom.

  “Hey, Mom. Everything okay?”

  “Oh, yes. We’re just fine.”

  “Great. Okay. Hey, a customer just wandered in the store,” I lie to get her off the phone without causing any worry on her end.

  “All right, babe. We’re all good. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.” I hit End.

  Quickly, I dry off. Listen.

  Was this just my imagination?

  With the calls to Corrections, everything has my mind whirling, waiting, I guess for the day I’ll have to face Brett again. They gave him seven years. It’s been three. What if they release him on good behavior? He’s good like that. Tricky. Manipulative.

  I hear the knock ag
ain.

  Inside, everything freezes. I listen.

  Brett’s in prison, Lydia.

  What if he was released?

  You would have received a letter.

  What if he slipped through the cracks?

  I dress in a matter of seconds. I pull my wet hair from my neck and tie it up in a hair tie.

  I tiptoe out to the kitchen and peer down the staircase, but it’s not like I can see anything. Almost silently, I carefully walk down the stairs and look through the peephole.

  Holy fucking shit. I breathe deep, bend over, and allow the fear to go.

  I open the door. “Hey, Leonard.”

  It’s our postmaster.

  “Hiya, Lydia. Have this big box here. Was headed to meet Eleanor down at Level Grounds and thought I’d drop it by for you.”

  “That-that’s really sweet. Thank you, Leonard. I’ll take it,” I say as I try to get my heart and my head on the same wavelength again.

  Leonard stands there. “Are you all right, Lydia? Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Trust me; I’m better now.” I breathe and cover my chest with my hand.

  “Well, all right then.” He turns to leave.

  “Thanks, Leonard. And tell Eleanor that I got the book in that she requested. Calling her was on my list of things to do today.”

  He nods. “Have yourself a good day.”

  I quietly shut the door. Set the box down at my feet and lean against the door. Close my eyes.

  I can’t keep running.

  My insides now feel hollow. Unattached. Cold. My skin breaks out into chills.

  Leaving the box at the bottom step, assuming it’s for the bookstore, I grab the railing and walk back upstairs like I weigh a million pounds and have nowhere to put it. I drag it upstairs, try not to leave it in my wake, but it’s hard to let go of baggage that I’ve carried for years.

  Still with tinges of jumpiness, I get ready for the day. Blow-dry my hair, occasionally looking over my shoulder in the bathroom mirror. Apply what little makeup I wear. Mascara, face powder, and some lip gloss.

  The day is warm, and I feel it from my front window as I look down onto the street below. I watch the ebb and flow of tourists and locals making their way up and down our busy little Main Street.