Lake Season

by Denise Hunter

  Adam suddenly understood the emotions of every protective hero he’d ever written. Whoever had made her cry was going to deal with him. His muscles tightened reflexively. He fought the urge to demand to know who’d done this to her.

  Comfort first, payback later, he reasoned with himself.

  Molly arranged her face into a haggard smile. “Do you need something, Adam?”

  Always the hostess. Up close he could better see the roadmap of blood vessels in her eyes. The clumping of her lashes. The wobble of her chin.

  His legs propelled him forward. “What’s wrong, Molly? Talk to me.”

  She stood stiffly at his approach and waved him off, emitting a chuckle that gurgled. “Oh, I’m fine. Really. I’m just being—it’s nothing. Have you had something to eat? There’s cake downstairs, and Miss Della made oatmeal raisin cookies this afternoon; did you see them? She actually left out the raisins because she knows you prefer them without, so I guess they’re just oatmeal cookies now. I think she’s already wrapped them up for the night, but I can get them for you and heat them up in the—”

  He pulled her into his arms. The sadness shadowing her eyes had been his final undoing. He couldn’t stand to see his cheerful Molly so wrecked.

  Her head rested in the cradle of his neck, her shallow breaths hot on his skin. But her shoulders were stiff and unyielding, her arms hanging down at her sides.

  His eyes squeezed in a wince. He’d done the wrong thing. He’d just made things awkward between them. Again. His heart kicked into a new gear as he began wondering how to extricate himself from the awkward embrace.

  But before he could move Molly sagged against him. Her arms came around his waist, and her body began jerking with sobs.

  He tightened his arms around her, his palm coming to rest at the back of her head. He was holding her so tightly, their bodies shook as one.

  She was killing him. “Aw, Molly.”

  He wanted to ask again what was wrong, but clearly she didn’t have breath for talking. He wished he could take this pain from her, whatever it was. Just absorb it into his body one cell at a time.

  Or better yet, find out who’d done this to her and bring him to justice.

  He pushed for restraint. He could think about that later. Right now all that mattered was Molly.

  She was trembling. He lowered them to the lounge chair, keeping her tucked into his chest. He stroked her hair; it was as soft as he’d imagined. He wondered idly if he was taking advantage of the situation.

  A few moments later Molly said something, her words garbled, spoken into his chest.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  She took a shuddering breath and tried again. “Today’s her—it’s her birthday.”

  Her birthday? He’d missed the antecedent of the sentence. “Um, whose birthday?”

  “My mom’s.” She sniffled, her stomach shuddering against him. “Today was her fiftieth birthday, and she isn’t here to celebrate with us.”

  “Oh, Molly. I’m so sorry.”

  “I don’t know why this is—it’s been almost a year. I thought I was finished with this. I don’t know why I can’t—I was trying to hold it together for them, for Grace and Levi, and I was doing so well, but then I wasn’t. I just couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

  “You don’t have to hold it in. You shouldn’t hold it in.”

  She wept a little more. He murmured whatever came to mind. He hoped he wasn’t saying the wrong things, making it worse. But she was probably too deep in her grief to comprehend what he was saying anyway.

  The room was growing darker as the sun went down. There were no lights on. His eyes drifted over the suite, outfitted with cherry furniture and plush ivory bedding. Fussy draperies covered the large window, and a large en suite bathroom jutted out across the way.

  Something occurred to him. “This was their room—your parents’.”

  She let a mewling sound. “Yes.”

  He set his chin on her head, letting loose a sigh.

  “My mom used to read to me in this chair.” Her voice trembled.

  “What did she read to you?”

  “All kinds of things. The Laura Ingalls Wilder books, Amelia Bedelia, Ramona, Madeline . . . so many books.”

  “Those are good ones.” He drew in the scent of apples. “But I was partial to Captain Underpants myself.”

  She gave a gurgly laugh. “I found that series incredibly immature.”

  “I assure you, eight-year-old boys are incredibly immature.”

  She snuggled into his chest. “My mom taught me to read before I even started kindergarten. We had alphabet flash cards and all these beginner books. I could write my name in cursive at four. Of course, there are only five letters in my name, and two of them are the same, so it wasn’t that hard. She used to give me stickers. I lived for those stickers. The pony ones were my favorite.”

  He smiled against her hair, breathing in another lungful of apples.

  “When I was four or five I wrote my name on my dresser in permanent marker. I was so proud I could write in cursive like my big brother. I got in trouble for that. But when my dad gave our furniture a fresh coat of paint a few years ago he didn’t paint over it.”

  “They must’ve loved you very much, Molly.” She was, quite possibly, the most lovable human being he’d ever met.

  “They were the best.” Her sentence crumpled like a pier collapsing into the lake. And just like that she was crying again.

  He tightened his arms around her, rubbing the back of her head. He let her sobs fill the silence. As difficult as it was to hear her suffering, he knew tears could be healing. She needed to get it out.

  God, comfort Your child in ways that I can’t. Give her peace. Give me the words to say.

  A few minutes later she took a shuddering breath. “I—I brushed them o—off. The last time I spoke to them I was at college, and I was on my way out the door. They called, and I didn’t have class for another f—forty-five minutes, but I wanted to stop at the coffee shop for a frappe on the way. A stupid frappe! I told them I couldn’t talk and I’d call them later. But I didn’t, and three days later they were gone and it was too late.”

  “Oh, Molly.”

  She wept hard, her body wracked with sobs.

  His poor girl. His chest ached at her guilt and regret. He swept his thumb up and down along her temple, feeling the wetness of her tears.

  He knew all about guilt. He was feeling it right now, in fact. Here Molly was, baring her soul to him, even while he hid his true identity from her. They’d become close, and she obviously trusted him. He was feeling pretty undeserving of that trust at the moment.

  Her sobs began to subside. Her breaths deepened, coming in little hiccups that broke his heart.

  This wasn’t about him. He needed to focus on Molly. Find something helpful to say. He couldn’t bear for her to go on thinking the worst of herself. She was such a positive force. Such an encouragement to everyone around her. Couldn’t she see that?

  He held her away from him and waited until she met his eyes. She needed to hear this.

  Tears clung to her lashes. One of them made a crooked track down her flushed cheek. Those eyes—unbearably sad—tightened a vise around his heart.

  “Your parents knew you loved them, Molly. You couldn’t have known that would be your last chance to speak with them.”

  “I know but—”

  He gave her chin a little pinch. “No. I didn’t know your parents, but I know they loved you, and I know they wouldn’t want you feeling all this guilt. I also know they must’ve been pretty darn proud of you, Molly Bennett. And take it from me, that’s a wonderful gift to give a child.”

  She gave him a long steady look. “Your dad?”

  “Yes, my dad.” It was hard to admit it. Even to Molly. But he felt sure she’d somehow understand.

  “You’re a wonderful man, Adam. If your father couldn’t see that, it was on him.”

  “Thanks.” But he did
n’t want to make this about him. Not when Molly was so obviously devastated over their last phone call. “Your parents raised an amazing young woman. I’m sure they knew that, Molly. I’m sure they bragged about you to anyone who’d listen.”

  Her eyes filled again. “But I brushed them off.”

  “Do you think that, as wonderful as your parents might’ve been, that in the busyness of life with three kids, they never once put you off? They never made you wait while they finished their last bite of supper? Or held you off until they watched the last five minutes of their favorite TV show? Or put you to bed ten minutes early because you couldn’t tell time yet and they were exhausted?”

  She gave a strangled laugh. “Okay . . . You make a good point.”

  “That didn’t mean they loved you any less, did it?”

  Her breath stuttered on an inhale. “No.”

  “Well . . . there you go then.”

  She was silent for a long moment. Catching her breath. Thinking, he hoped, about what he’d said. Could it be he’d actually said the right thing at the right time? If so, he owed God a debt of gratitude.

  She shifted in his arms, turning so her cheek was against his heart. He hoped she couldn’t tell how hard it was beating.

  “I think about it all the time. Like when I fuss with Levi or Grace or just say good-bye. I think What if they die, and this is the last time I see them? Then I try and resolve things so I can live with myself just in case the worst happens.

  “And I think maybe that’s why this letter thing is so important to me. I want Lizzie and Benjamin to have the closure I didn’t get. Well, Benjamin at least. It’s too late for Lizzie. Stupid, huh?”

  “Not stupid at all.”

  “I didn’t even realize what I was doing until my friend Skye pointed it out to me. She’s always psychoanalyzing everything. It’s annoying—especially when she’s right.”

  “Sounds like a good friend.”

  “She is.” She sniffled. “I want to keep looking for him though—Benjamin.”

  “Nothing wrong with trying to find a little closure—for Benjamin or for yourself.”

  He noticed a tissue box on the stand beside the chair. Duh. Why hadn’t he thought of that five minutes ago? He pulled a tissue and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She wiped her eyes, but seemed in no hurry to leave his embrace.

  And he never wanted her to leave. The thought packed a wallop, and his heart felt as though it were collapsing in on itself. It was true, and he knew what that signified. He was falling for this girl. This beautiful, intelligent, giving woman.

  When Molly finished cleaning up, she wrapped her arms around his middle and gave him a tight squeeze.

  “Thank you, Adam,” she said on a breathy sigh.

  Be still my heart.

  “Anytime, mia tesoro.”

  thirty-two

  Mia tesoro. Molly stilled at the Italian endearment, a catch in her achy throat.

  Adam’s heart thumped against her ear, the only sound in the room. Until her phone buzzed in her pocket with an incoming text. She ignored it, still thinking of that Italian phrase.

  Directly translated, the words meant my treasure. The same word was also used to mean honey or sweetheart or darling.

  But if Adam had a good grasp of the language—and he obviously did—then he knew that tesoro was not a platonic word. It was strictly a romantic endearment.

  Had his heart just accelerated, or was that her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears? Did Adam think of her romantically?

  She had to see his face. Look into his eyes. She slowly drew back, giving only a momentary thought to what she must look like: blotchy skin, swollen eyelids, bloodshot eyes.

  Her gaze swept up the column of his neck to his flushed cheeks. Her eyes met his and held. She had a clear view of his lidded gaze behind his glasses. Of his blue eyes, so soft and warm and focused steadily on her. Looking at her with fondness and affection, like maybe she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

  He made no effort to translate the Italian phrase, and she had no need to ask. If the endearment hadn’t told her how he felt about her, the look in his eyes right now did.

  Her phone buzzed repeatedly, an incoming call.

  His palm had shifted from the back of her head to her cheek, and his thumb brushed across the damp hair at her temple.

  “Maybe you should answer that,” he said softly.

  She shook her head. Her hand clenched at the shirt at his waist. She could feel the warm puff of his breath on her lips, and she wanted his mouth on hers as badly as she wanted her next breath.

  She leaned toward him, just a hair.

  “Wait, Molly.” He held her in place. “Wait. There’s something I need to tell you. Something I haven’t been—”

  “Molly . . .” a voice called. Levi.

  She held her breath as if her lapse of respiration might make time stand still, might hold her brother at bay.

  “What?” she asked Adam. She wanted to get beyond whatever he had to say and right back to the kiss they’d been about to share.

  “Molly!” Levi called again.

  Adam’s eyes closed briefly. His thumb stroked her temple again before his hand slowly fell away. He gave her a patient smile, poking his glasses up. “It can wait. Want me to go see what he wants?”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding. The moment was gone. A weight she recognized as supreme disappointment dragged down her spirits.

  She mopped up the rest of her tears with the soggy tissue. “No, that’s all right. I got it.”

  “Molly!”

  “Argh.” Molly stood up and straightened her clothing, not quite meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Adam. Really. I feel much better.”

  That smile. “Anytime, Molly.”

  They walked toward the door, and he followed her out of the room.

  Levi met them at the top of the stairs.

  Conscious of her ravaged face, she was glad for the dim lighting. She narrowed her eyes and perched her hands on her hips. “What?”

  Levi glanced at Adam, then the direction they’d come from. “Where were you?”

  “I was—never mind that. What do you want?”

  “We have an unexpected guest.”

  Okay. And he’d been hollering up the stairs like a hooligan?

  Someone nudged past Levi. Someone tall and broad, someone armed with a suitcase and a winning smile.

  “Surprise,” Jordan said.

  thirty-three

  Adam tensed as he watched his best friend embrace Molly. Jordan’s hand slipped around her waist, coming to rest at the small of her back.

  He was momentarily glad Jordan’s suitcase occupied his other hand.

  “What a surprise,” Molly said in her usual sunshiny voice. No trace of the sadness that had overwhelmed her only moments ago. “What are you doing here? You didn’t say anything about coming.”

  Yes, a little warning would’ve been nice. Adam resumed breathing as Jordan and Molly eased apart, and he managed a stiff smile as his friend extended a hand to him.

  “Hey, buddy.” Jordan pulled him in for a shoulder bump.

  “How you doing?”

  “Not too bad.” Jordan’s gaze returned to Molly. “I was a last-minute substitute at a writers conference in Charlotte. I gave myself an extra day when I booked my flight back. I needed to talk to this guy and figured I may as well do it in person.”

  Adam was sure that a certain innkeeper had no bearing on Jordan’s decision to travel eighty miles out of his way.

  “Well, darn it,” Molly said. “I wish you could’ve come last night. Today was my day off.”

  If she was faking her disappointment, she deserved an Oscar.

  “I know, but I was hoping I might take you to breakfast in the morning? I don’t have to be on the road until one.”

  “Sure. I don’t have to work until noon, so that works just fine.”

  “Great.” He looked at Adam. “You doin
g anything tonight, buddy? Want to grab a pizza or something? I’m starving.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll let you guys catch up,” Molly said, backing away. “I’m heading to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  An understatement. Adam wanted to say something to recognize the truth of that assertion. Do something to show her he understood. But he had no idea what that might be. So he simply exchanged good nights and followed Jordan to the room next to his.

  “I think I surprised her,” Jordan said a moment later as he dropped his suitcase on the colorful quilt.

  “It would appear so.”

  “I thought about forewarning her, but I figured it would be more fun this way. She seemed happy to see me.”

  Indeed she did. Adam nodded, but Jordan was rooting through his suitcase.

  Adam took a seat on the corner chair, his stomach filling with acid. Had he imagined that whole moment between the two of them in her parents’ room? He’d felt so close to her. There’d been an intimacy between them—the kind that came from sharing innermost thoughts and vulnerabilities. He hadn’t just imagined the progression in their relationship. Surely he wasn’t that inept at reading women.

  “You all right?” Jordan glanced at him as he pulled out some clean clothes and closed his suitcase.

  “Sure.” Adam scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, how was the conference? Find any promising new talent?”

  “Listened to pitches until my ears were numb. But I did request a couple manuscripts—a general contemporary, nice voice; and a thriller, high concept, but the writing’s a little raw. We’ll see. Some of the Rosewood team were there—Kimberly, Amanda, Paul. I touched base with them.”

  “Great.” It was always good to stay in contact with the publishing team. Adam knew there was more to the conversation, but he was reluctant to ask.

  Jordan sank onto the end of the bed, giving Adam a long, steady look as he exhaled.

  “What? The outline’s coming along. It’s great.” Not entirely true. But he had developed the idea into a solid story. There was a sympathetic protagonist with a compelling problem and a stoic hero. The plot had a hook, high stakes, and a by-the-book story arc. All the right ingredients.