“Last chance to sit back and relax while I whip you up something tasty,” Martina said as I paid for the groceries.
I jammed my wallet in my back pocket and the cigarette in my mouth. With another glance at the magazine, I said around the butt, “Fine, yeah. I’ll meet you at the house.”
Truth was, unless it was grilling, I didn’t like to cook. The few times Martina had come for dinner, the food had been all right, and the sex, too. She never overstayed her welcome, and that was exactly what I needed.
Fifteen minutes later, I turned into my long, winding driveway. The house was private, just how I liked it. It looked as if it belonged in the woods, an extension of the forest rather than an obstruction. My closest neighbor was about a quarter mile away. No grumbly trucks would be pulling up in the middle of the night like the one I’d driven around a nearby neighborhood. No young and dumb twenty-three-year-old would hop my fence with the girl of his dreams. No cops would come knocking on my front door without their tires on the gravel warning me first.
I turned on the porch light as Martina parked behind my truck. She walked up the steps cradling two paper grocery bags. “I know how hard you work,” she said. “Doesn’t hurt to let someone come over and take care of you once in a while.”
I took the bags from her and carried them inside. “You know once in a while is all that works for me, Martina.”
“Oh, believe me, darling—that’s as much as I can handle, too.”
I sat at the kitchen table, smoking while she started prepping the food. “What’s that mean, all you can handle?”
“Just that you’re one of those guys. How do you say . . . ‘emotionally unavailable.’” She rifled through a bag and pulled out seasoning for the steak. “I went through that with my ex-husband and I’d rather be alone than do it again. No offense.”
“Why do you come over then?” I asked, genuinely curious. Not that Martina had been beating down my door, but I sort of figured all women were secretly hoping for something more permanent, and that was something I couldn’t give.
“Because you’re impossibly handsome, and you’re a decent man, even if you try to hide it. Doesn’t hurt that you have the most beautiful kitchen I’ve ever seen.” She looked over her shoulder and winked. “Plus, you’re a good lay.”
I took a drag. “Just good?”
“You could be the best sex I ever had,” she said, “but it wouldn’t matter. Your heart’s not in it, and that makes a difference for a woman. How about you?” she asked, setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. “When do you think you’ll settle down?”
I looked around my state-of-the-art kitchen. I’d picked the best of the best, installed each appliance with my bare hands, sanded down every cabinet door, chosen high-end finishes to complete the look. I put out my cigarette. “What makes you think I will?”
“A castle like this, just for a lonesome king?” she asked, gesturing around the room. “I don’t think so. You must be planning for a queen.”
Planning for a queen. I didn’t want to think too hard about what that meant. There was only one queen, and to have built all this for her, without knowing if or when I’d see her again? I couldn’t face that. And anyway, it was hardly a castle. I still had tons of work to do on the back of the house, not to mention the attic and the yard, and—
“I bought you a present. Keep you entertained since you don’t have a TV and all.” Martina looked into a grocery bag, then tossed Us Weekly in front of me.
“What is this?” I asked, playing dumb.
“You stared at it for a full minute at the store. I figured you were just too embarrassed to buy it. Doesn’t go with your steak-and-potatoes image.”
I ran my thumb over Lake’s face. I’d done a good job of ignoring her sudden fame, but sometimes it found me anyway. I opened the magazine. Page twenty-eight asked, “Who will she choose?”
Lake had an entire panel along the length of the page. The top image showed her on the street walking some dogs in a t-shirt from a Los Angeles rescue shelter. Below were three different photos of her with three different men. The title read, “Fresh on the scene, reality star Lake Kaplan has her pick of the pack.”
My heart beat painfully in my chest as I forced myself to look at each photo. A guy with tattoos and a leather jacket kissed Lake’s temple. Another stood with his arm around her waist on the red carpet. The last, the image from the cover, was Corbin, “A wealthy hedge fund manager who’s moved across the country in hopes of getting Lake to settle down.”
There it was—the nightmare I’d fought so hard to construct for myself. Was it finally enough to see her happy with other men? Was getting what I deserved enough to absolve me for the sins of my father and myself? Of the ways I’d disappointed Maddy, Tiffany, Lake, and the child I’d lost?
So Corbin was back on the west coast with Lake. He’d gone after her like I’d known he would. Maybe Lake had her pick of the mutts but Corbin wasn’t just another dog sniffing around. He’d been there for all of it, all the milestones I’d missed, all the tears I’d caused, and a love I’d barely touched before it was taken from me.
“Any good Hollywood gossip?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I know her.”
Martina leaned over to glance at the spread. “Oh, my. Beautiful girl.”
“Beautiful, yes. Because she looks happy,” I muttered to myself. It should’ve elated me to see that. It was the one thing I’d always wanted for her. Soar, Birdy. After the miscarriage, I’d been in no shape to be a good partner to anyone, but eventually, I’d pulled myself together. For all the times over the years I’d pushed Lake to be the best version of herself, she deserved to have the best version of me, too. She’d wanted me to follow my passions, and once I’d had nothing left to lose, that was the only thing that’d made sense. I’d started making furniture and running a business that was now off the ground. I’d built this house from the ground up, and it would be finished by the end of this year. I earned a decent living and had saved a lot over the years—I had a good life to offer her. But as I stared at the magazine, I had to admit I hadn’t accounted for the fact that Lake might’ve found a way to be sincerely happy without me.
“You never know with these celebrities,” Martina said, picking up the magazine to see better. “It’s their job to put on a performance, after all.”
I glanced up at her. “What do you mean?”
“She does look happy.” Martina’s eyes sparkled, as if she could read every last thought in my head. “But what if she’s not?”
I looked at the ground, shuffling my feet. I’d put Lake through so much heartache already. If she’d found a way to move on, would trying to pull her back in be the right thing to do? But if Martina was right, and Lake wasn’t happy—then I had no choice. I’d have to put my own insecurities aside. If I could give Lake everything she wanted and deserved, I had to. It would be the most important thing I’d ever do.
Martina held out the magazine for me, but I shook my head, my palms sweaty. I’d seen enough of Corbin’s ugly mug for a lifetime. “You can toss it.”
Martina raised an eyebrow at me, but she just put it in a drawer.
I had a beer, and then another one with my dinner, and then I had Martina. After she left, I moved on to whiskey, and when I was sufficiently intoxicated, I went into my office closet and took down a shoebox of important papers. I stuck my cigarette in the corner of my mouth and sat at my desk.
On top was a folder with my divorce papers. The last year of my marriage had been the worst by far. Pregnancy should’ve been a happy time, but Tiffany had resented me for what she suspected happened in New York and took it out on me any chance she got, threatening to leave once the baby was born. I took it without protest, guilty over my inability to stop thinking of Lake and how I’d wanted it to be her. It was unfair to my unborn child and to Tiffany, but Lake had made too strong an imprint on me in the week we’d spent together. When Tiffany lost the baby at nineteen weeks,
we stopped speaking. I drank more than I ever had, trying to drown the what-ifs that hammered me on a daily basis. What if it’d been Lake who’d carried and lost my child? What if I’d been a better husband, and Tiffany hadn’t been so stressed the entire pregnancy? What if I had just kissed Lake that night on the pool deck and never stopped?
After we’d lost the baby, and Tiffany had withdrawn from everything and everyone except her mom, she’d started spending nights at her parents’ house. At the end of it, there was no other path but separation. Even Charles had shaken my hand, told me I’d been good to Tiffany, and supported the divorce.
I shuffled aside the past in front of me. Underneath the papers were the stacks of letters Lake had sent me in prison. Some of them were open, not by me, but by Tiffany. I’d only read a couple, while she’d read many. It was one of the last things we’d fought about. The letters were harmless, but that was exactly the issue. According to Tiffany they were stupid and childish and boring, and if I’d kept Lake’s nonsense all these years, what did that mean?
I picked up a random one and read about a day in her life back then. It’d all been so simple—calculus, running, report cards, friends, animals, the start and end of summer. The letter was upbeat, and I realized in retrospect, she’d hidden her suffering to make my time inside a little easier. One part caught my attention.
Whenever I mess something up, I think about what you said at camp when I didn’t want to ride the horse. I asked what would happen if I fell, and you said I’d get up and dust myself off. After you and I rode together, I felt like I could do it on my own. Not that I wanted to, but that I could. I think one day when I have kids, I’ll take them horseback riding and teach them the same thing. I know it’s cliché and there’s already a saying about getting back on the horse when you fall off, but it’s so true, isn’t it? It’s a good lesson.
I gritted my teeth and drank more. Lake had been so lovely, so naïve. Had I sucked it all out of her, just by loving her? After all these letters with no response, after watching me marry her sister, after probably taking a pill to make sure she’d never have my baby, was she still hopeful? Did she let herself love Corbin as completely as she’d loved me?
An ache radiated through my chest. Surely words written on a page could not cause this kind of pain. I must’ve been having a heart attack. I sat forward and put my head in my hands. This was why I couldn’t read the letters in prison. My mind spun out wherever Lake was involved. I knew I should never read another word. If there was any chance Lake had moved on and left me behind, I needed to turn these letters into kindling instead of keeping them to torture myself.
Against my better judgement, I kept reading, consuming all her thoughts and desires and hopes and dreams. But as I did, I realized that I already knew the truth. It was as plain and simple in these letters as it had been the first day I’d talked to Lake. She’d never asked for much. Unlike her sister, Lake didn’t need expensive things or the best home in the neighborhood or a new car to mark every big accomplishment.
Lake would’ve been happy just to have me.
Despite everything, hope still burned in me for us. Lake deserved that much from me.
24
Manning
A couple months after I’d read Lake’s letters, I had visitors. Henry was the most dependable man I knew. By having my back during my sister’s death, when my parents had tried pinning everything on me, he’d saved me, a helpless teenager, from what could’ve been a shit life. And with all the tragedy he’d encountered as a police officer, it would’ve been easy for him to send me on my way afterward. Instead, he continued to check in on me, making sure I finished high school despite my situation.
The furniture business was booming, and I didn’t trust many people to help me out, but I had a particularly important rush order and needed a hand. Having retired, Henry had been able to come up and stay at the house for a few weeks to help me get the workload under control.
This was his last night in Big Bear, so I picked up some barbeque for the occasion. Since it was the same week Young Cubs Sleepaway Camp was in session up the hill, and Gary was still the director, I invited him and his wife Lydia over for dinner.
Even though it was August, the nights in Big Bear could get chilly. I built a fire in the pit in the front yard and welcomed the closest friends I had with a cooler of beer on ice.
“You’re in a good mood,” Gary said, walking up the drive to shake my hand.
I nodded at Henry, who was prepping the grill. “Henry and I have been working around the clock the past couple weeks. Feels good to do nothing but build furniture day in and day out, but I’m also glad this project is done.”
“So business is good?” he asked.
“Too good. Any time this week you need a break from the chaos up there at camp, I can put you to work.”
Lydia hobbled up the gravel in heels, holding her purse strap to one shoulder and balancing a paper grocery bag in the other. Just like Tiffany, the woman was always wearing something akin to stilts. Always had her brown hair styled, her makeup done. No wonder they’d gotten along so well. “Do you have a website?” she asked, frowning when I shook my head. “You need one. Everyone has them these days.”
“For what?” I asked, handing Gary a Bud. “I already have more business than I can keep up with.”
“You still need one.” When she got to the grass, she gave up and set the groceries down to remove her shoes. “I know a girl who can make you one. Get you some more sales, and then you can hire yourself employees.”
Hire more people—that was what Mr. Kaplan had said when I’d spoken to him on the phone last month and told him I was barely keeping up with orders. I didn’t see how it could work, though. I built furniture because it was my passion. I used my hands to bring my visions to life, and when I finished each piece, it was no longer mine. It saw my customers through good times and bad—births, weddings, funerals, or just plain dinner each night. Not that I was exactly happy to have missed out on being a cop like I’d planned, but I could see now that it hadn’t been my path—my passion was being strong and capable enough to help people, to bring goodness to their lives, and Lake had taught me that there were lots of ways to go about that.
“I like things how they are,” I said to Lydia. “Don’t need too much else.”
An outdoor picnic table was one of the things I had yet to finish for my place. Truth was, four years on and I was still building my own house and the things in it. In the beginning, I worked mostly to push through the guilt and shame I harbored over Lake, Tiffany, and the baby. But then one night, I’d started on cupboards and remembered how Lake had designated a place in her New York kitchen just for guest dishes. She wanted people to feel special in her home. So as I’d made myself a cabinet just for nice china, it hit me just how often Lake had been on mind as I’d laid planks, carved wood, and sanded and varnished surfaces over the years. While my body labored, my mind escaped, often into Lake’s warmth. The things she’d wanted, the pieces she’d be proud to have in her home. That was why this house had taken me so fucking long.
I set up fabric folding chairs around the fire while Henry served us burgers and hot dogs. He and Gary caught up for the first time since the wedding. Once the conversation stalled, I nodded at Lydia.
“How’s Tiffany?” I asked. Gary and I had introduced the girls, but she and Tiff had remained close since the divorce.
“She’s fine. Mostly dating and working. How are you?”
“Also fine,” I said. “Working.”
“Dating?”
I took a swig of my beer. “Nah.”
“Because that girl I mentioned is very pretty—”
“Who?” I asked.
“The one who makes websites. She’s lovely and sweet and hates drama.” Lydia curled her toes in the grass, her smile warm. “I love Tiffany, you know I do, but after her, you need someone who’ll go easy on you.”
“I appreciate it, but no,” I said. Lovely a
nd sweet and drama-free all sounded fine, but not better than Lake. “I’m good with the way things are.”
“You keep saying that,” Lydia replied, “but we don’t believe you.”
“We?” Gary asked. “Don’t drag me into this. Although, I will agree, Heather is pretty. And I’m not just saying that to get you to meet her. She’s nice, and she’d be good for you, Manning.”
Henry and I exchanged a look. He was a simple man, who’d lived a simple life. He didn’t know about Lake, but he’d seen that I was doing work I loved, and that was good enough for now. “Sounds like you’re dragging yourself into it, Gary,” I said.
“Heather needs a good, solid man,” Lydia said. “Do it for her.”
“Wish I could,” I said. “But I just can’t.”
Henry cleared his throat. “Anyone need another beer?”
“Me,” Lydia said.
“I’ll take one,” Gary added.
I put my plate on the ground. “I’ll get them.”
I reloaded the cooler and carried it out, setting it down in the middle of the group—which had gone suspiciously quiet.
“What?” I asked, tossing Henry a beer.
He caught it and held up his hands as if to surrender.
I went to hand Gary one as well but took it back as he went to grab it. “Why do you all look guilty?”
Gary glanced between the Bud and my face, and said, “We were talking about you and Tiff. God knows we’ve heard her side of the story, but in four years, we’ve never heard yours.”
“That’s intentional. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”
“Tiffany made it our business,” Lydia said. “But we want you to talk to us about it. It’s not healthy that you’re up here all alone, taking your emotions out on helpless pieces of wood.”
Something in the Way: A Forbidden Love Saga: The Complete Collection Page 80