Always on My Mind

by Susan May Warren

  He frowned a little as if her words touched him, settled inside. Her throat tightened, her words resounding back to her, too raw, too intimate.

  Then he saved her. “You know there really is a lost Knights Templar treasure. They were sort of military priests who protected people in their travels to Jerusalem. People paid tribute to them, and they got so rich that kings borrowed money from them. But they were forced out of the Middle East, along with the treasure.” He leaned forward, his eyes sweet, his voice low. “And they were never heard from again.”

  She giggled.

  He leaned back, stirring his pad thai. “Actually, I’d be happy with figuring out the mystery of Duncan Rothe and whether he left a million dollars of US Steel bonds behind. I don’t even care about the money—just the fact that I wouldn’t be the family laughingstock anymore.”

  “Oh, Casper—”

  He made a face. “Sorry. It’s fine.”

  Except it wasn’t fine, because probably she was to blame for his escape to the Caribbean, to find something that might make him feel accomplished and heal the wounds she’d created. “I certainly hope your treasure hunting days aren’t over.”

  Again, that look, a slow smile that infused his entire face. “Not yet.”

  She took a bite of the pad thai. “This is fantastic.”

  “You’re the cook.” But he took a bite, made a loud, slurping sound that had her entire body turning warm. “Whoa. Divine.”

  She heard the door open, the voice barging in before she could jump up to intercept. “Raina? Who’s here with you?”

  She glanced at Casper, who frowned, and met Monte just as he came into the room.

  He took one look at Casper, his face darkening.

  She pressed a hand to her stomach. “Monte.”

  Inexplicably he smiled. Extended a hand to Casper. “Hey. That looks good.”

  Casper considered Monte’s outstretched hand maybe a second too long before he stood, shook it. “It is.”

  “Mind if I have a plate?”

  Really? “Of course not,” Raina managed. “I’ll get you some.”

  “Thanks, Raina, hon.” Before she could turn, Monte grabbed her hand, his grip tight, and pulled her to him, landing a fast, hard peck on her lips. “You’re a doll.”

  She managed a smile but turned away, tasting the sharp bite of blood.

  IVY’S VOICE DRIFTED from the bedroom as Darek came in.

  “‘Now the little boy, who had been keeping very quiet, had another good idea. He said, “Why couldn’t we leave Mary Anne in the cellar and build the new town hall above her?”’”

  Darek pulled off his boots and hung his jacket on the hook. A half-eaten tuna casserole congealed, cold and sticky, in the middle of the kitchen table, next to an empty plate and a glass of milk.

  He should have called. But the chain broke on the splitter and he’d spent half the evening welding it together. It would have been better to take it to Wade’s machine shop, but he didn’t have extra cash for repairs.

  He walked down the hall to where light streamed from Tiger’s bedroom. Ivy sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard, a book open on her lap. Tiger curled up next to her, holding a LEGO truck, driving it up and down his leg as she read.

  Darek crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, soaking in the scene. The quiet power she had to heal him could leave him weak.

  Sometimes I wish I never had a family. I just let them down. How he regretted his words and the wounds he’d inflicted on their marriage. No amount of apology or her forgiveness could erase from his memory the shocked, broken look on Ivy’s face. Nor did it change their dire financial straits.

  Ivy looked up and smiled at him, her eyes gentle.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi. We’re just finishing here. There’s tuna casserole left on the table.”

  “I saw it. Mom gave me some soup.”

  “Oh, that sounds better. One day I hope to cook like your mother.”

  “You’re a great cook. I’ll put it away.” He walked into the room and leaned over her, kissing her forehead. Then he reached out for Tiger. “How you doing, champ?”

  “Fine.” Tiger didn’t meet Darek’s eyes.

  Okay.

  Ivy caught his hand as he turned. “I’ll be just a moment.”

  He nodded and returned to the tiny galley kitchen, where he covered the casserole with tinfoil and shoved it into the fridge. Then he drank the milk, cleared the dishes, and added the glass and plate to the dishwasher. Started it and turned off the light.

  Ivy was in their bathroom when he returned, washing her face. He came up behind her, caught her hair back, and held it as she rinsed. Then he handed her a towel.

  She patted her face dry before turning to him, so much trust in her eyes that he wanted to slink away. Especially when he cradled her face with his hands and noted that despite his scrubbing, they seemed dirty.

  “I love you,” he said and bent down, pressing his lips to hers. Softly, because he treaded on the edge of hating himself for what he’d decided. But he’d thought it through. Really wrangled it around in his head since his fight with his father and . . .

  He didn’t see any other choice.

  “I love you too,” she said, her eyes shiny. “And I know you’re worried about Tiger.” She caught his hand, put it on her belly. It had seemed to double in size in a week—or maybe he hadn’t noticed how cumbersome pregnancy was before. He certainly hadn’t been around much when Felicity carried Tiger.

  Apparently old habits ran deep. But this time he wasn’t running from the future. He would run to save it.

  “I think he’s just got big brother syndrome,” she was saying. “I’ve never had a sibling, but I remember every time some new foster kid arrived, for about two weeks I fought jealousy. It didn’t help that I got moved around so much, but . . . well, Tiger’s bound to feel like he’s being replaced.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he’s mad at me for being gone so much.”

  Disagreement touched her brow in a frown. Then she took his hand, led him into the bedroom. “Sit. I have something to show you.”

  “What?”

  “We need to talk. At the conference, Tiger’s teacher said he hadn’t turned in any of his assignments in about a month. I thought, what kind of assignments does a first grader have? But I guess he had worksheets and art projects and permission slips and they were all supposed to be brought home, signed, and returned.”

  “What happened to them?”

  Ivy walked to their closet, opened it, and pulled out a plastic bag bulging with wadded paper. “This. I searched his cubby at school, and his backpack, and found nothing. But then I started to think—when I was in foster care, I usually found a hiding spot for food or treasures in every home I lived in. So I came home over lunchtime today and searched his room while he was at school.” She handed him the bag, sitting next to him. “I found this in the back of his closet, in his toy chest.”

  Darek picked out one of the crumpled papers, opened it. A Valentine’s Day card. He smoothed it on the bed and reached for another. A picture of a groundhog. “Why would he do this?”

  “I don’t know. But it makes me want to cry for him.”

  He set the bag down, turned to her, dreading the words forming.

  As usual, she could read his face. “What is it?”

  “I need to go to Arizona.” He said it without emotion, without betraying the twist in his chest.

  “What?” She wore the appropriate expression.

  He got up, not sure how to explain his tumble of thoughts over the past few days, but—it had to be the right decision.

  “I got an e-mail from Jed Ransom, my old fire boss with the Jude County Hotshots. They’re fighting a fire in Arizona, and it’s so early in the season, they don’t have a lot of help. He asked—”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  Just like that, his quiet, patient wife vanished, and in her place was the a
ssistant county attorney, angry, resolute. She kept her voice low, however—a dangerous trick that told him to brace himself.

  “Ivy, listen to me. I can earn money—we need the money. So far we have no revenue for March or April on the books. And if past seasons are any indication, we won’t see any traffic until May or even June. I have mountains of bills to pay—”

  “And a baby on the way.” She held her hands over her stomach as if to protect the child. “I know I have more than a month left, but what if I go into early labor . . . ?” She exhaled hard as if to relieve the pain written on her face and looked away. “Yeah. Right. I get it.” She lifted a shoulder. “No problem.”

  No problem?

  “Ivy?”

  “I’ll—we’ll be just fine, Darek. Go.”

  “I don’t know what else to do. This feels like a solution that I can’t pass up.” He knelt in front of her, took her hands.

  With the gesture, the lawyer vanished and his wife returned. Solid, unwavering. “Darek, I know you’re overwhelmed and that we’re a burden to you, but . . . but leaving us isn’t the answer.”

  A burden? Oh—her eyes had filled, and now a tear spilled over his thumb. She blinked hard, shook it away, and got up, stepping away from him. She wiped her cheek, angry. And like he’d been slapped, he got it. He’d walked right into her wounds, ripping them open.

  “I’m not abandoning you. Or pushing you away. This is not me rejecting you, Ivy. Or our family. I need to do this. We’re broke. I swear to you I’ll be back before the baby comes.”

  She nodded as if that made perfect sense, but he could spot a lie from his wife, despite not being the one with the law degree.

  “Ivy—” He took her arm. She stilled and he turned her. Yeah, tears ran down her face, and they tore a hole through him. “I love you. But . . .”

  Shoot, now he felt like crying. Like the world had opened up around them, taken him under, and he floundered, suffocating, not sure how to reach the surface.

  They were drowning, and he just hoped—no, prayed—that this could save them.

  “I’m in over my head here. And I’m trying to be a good husband. A good father—”

  She reached up, laid her hand over his mouth. “I know. I just wish you could see that you already are.”

  “But I’m not, and I get that. My son is hiding from me and already, in first grade, failing school. My father is trying to figure out why he trusted his resort to me. And my wife—”

  “Your wife loves you.”

  “My wife is too good to me.” He pressed a hand to his eyes, hating the tremble in his voice. He barely noticed as she backed him up to the bed, made him sit. Settled her bulk on his lap, looping her arms around his neck.

  Then she bent his head to her chest, holding him. “When do you leave?”

  He clung to her. “As soon as I can. I need to talk to Casper and my father, of course. But . . . maybe on Monday.”

  She kissed the top of his head, and he didn’t want to move, ever.

  Raina stood at the window, her hand pressed against it as she watched Monte leave, the morning sun bleak behind the clouds.

  According to Monte, he had wanted to propose, and she’d wrecked it.

  He’d come home to surprise her and found Casper sitting at her kitchen table, her betrayal so sour that he’d thrown her pad thai out the back door.

  Of course, he’d waited until Casper left, the meal tense and awkward despite Monte’s attempts at conversation. He’d just wanted to know what they were doing with Aggie’s photos. If only Casper hadn’t turned strangely, morosely, tight-lipped.

  So she’d filled Monte in on the details—how Casper found the wedding dress, then the license, how they’d tracked down the picture at Naniboujou, which he knew. But then she’d dug out Aggie’s picture from the trading post in Mineral Springs.

  She told him about the diary too, despite the frown on Casper’s face. But she didn’t want to keep anything from Monte—that seemed underhanded and sneaky.

  She’d had enough of secrets and lies.

  Monte listened, asked a few questions, even probed into Casper’s memory of the Duncan Rothe story.

  Casper turned downright stingy with his information. What, did he think Monte might steal the crazy legend from him, actually compete with him for the so-called treasure?

  Watching Casper as Monte quizzed him, his mouth a dark line, his furtive glances in her direction, maybe that’s exactly what Casper thought.

  Casper finally left, again shaking Monte’s hand, but the smile had long faded from his face.

  Raina ran her hand over her arm, feeling the bruise from where Monte had grabbed her, pushed her against the wall. Kissed her a little too passionately. But he’d been holding back all night—had driven two hours to surprise her, to tell her that he wanted to propose. She’d wrecked his perfect moment, and now . . . who knew when he’d trust her again?

  So yes, she understood when he returned to the kitchen, took the rest of the dinner, and threw it outside in the snow. And the way he scooped up the plates, dropping them into the sink.

  He didn’t apologize for breaking them until later, but maybe he didn’t notice, the way his shoulders shook. As if he might be crying.

  She’d run her hand along his back, trying to ease him out of his fury. He’d stalked away from her—she thought for a moment he might be leaving. Then he returned and took her hand, pulling her with him to the sofa.

  There, he drew her onto his lap and told her how much he cared for her. Really cared. So much that he couldn’t bear to share her with anyone else. In fact, he’d said, “I want a future with you, Raina. A home. But I’m not sure you want that too.” His red-rimmed eyes betrayed the depth of his emotion.

  She clung to those words, letting him weave his hands into her hair. Pull her to himself.

  And tried to reassure him that, yes, she was his.

  She’d let him stay on the sofa because of the icy roads, and he curled up with his head in her lap, finally sleeping.

  She wove her fingers into his hair, a strange swirl of anticipation inside she couldn’t quite read.

  A future, a home.

  A home for Layla. The thought sprang to her mind the moment he’d suggested a future, and she couldn’t shake it away.

  She could give Layla security. A family.

  It didn’t matter that she didn’t love Monte. He was a good enough man. The man she probably deserved. And he wanted a future with her. That was more than . . . anyone else . . . offered.

  Icy rain pinged against the window, glazing the trees. She had called in sick today, fatigue making her ill. Now she rubbed her arm as she went to her bedroom, changed into her pajamas, and climbed into bed.

  The sun barely dented the weepy palette of the day. She pulled up her covers, her head thick, stuffy, her body achy.

  She picked up Aggie’s diary, thumbed to the next entry. Yawning, she found her place.

  JULY 25

  I can admit now that the feeling I had for Jean-Philippe couldn’t have been love. Nor could the sweet excitement of dancing with Duncan be more than infatuation. Because love feels like the sun on your face after a cold winter, smells like lilacs and wild roses, sounds like the lilting song of the bluebird in my soul. It’s Thor bringing me oranges, or recently, fresh-cut strawberries, and curling up against him as we trace the stars that canopy the magnificent lake. It is his eyes finding mine as I tell him my dreams, our fingers laced as we tread along the rocky shoreline.

  It is the way he kisses me, his hands cupping my face gently as if I might break, his own desire for me tightly coiled even as he trembles. He is so strong, and yet I feel only freedom when he lifts me over the waves to his sailboat or lends me his arm as we stroll down the paths around the hotel. He even drove me into Deep Haven, a tiny fishing village settled upon the marshy bay of the grand lake, and introduced me to his father, a local fisherman. They fed me trout caviar and smoked whitefish.

  Thor said t
o me, as we floated in the big lake, that richness is a state of mind, that money can’t buy safety or even happiness. I know he is hinting at marriage, waiting for me to believe his words, “to live large,” as he puts it.

  He doesn’t have to. I see my life with him. A life so different from what I expected, but right nonetheless, because I never felt more myself, the person free from the trappings of Father’s commands and even Duncan’s designs.

  Thor hasn’t asked, but I see it in his eyes. Perhaps he is simply waiting for me to be free. Thus, I penned the truth to Duncan in a letter and am posting it today. If he never returns, it would be for the best.

  Raina yawned again, the gray sky seeping into her bones, the wind on the pane moaning.

  AUGUST 7

  Duncan is here. He showed up last night, late, burst into my room, and threw my mother’s wedding dress at my feet. He informed me that I’d made him a promise.

  Apparently he means for me to keep it.

  Raina closed her eyes for a moment, fatigue a blanket pressing her into slumber. The moaning seemed to flow over her, soak through her.

  Then, thudding.

  “Augusta, hurry up; everyone is waiting.” Not Augusta. Raina. She tried to say that, but the words clogged in her throat.

  She couldn’t breathe, her ribs constricted, and she touched her stomach, discovering it encased in a hard bodice, her dress—no, a gown, silk that flowed through her fingers like ice. White.

  She found her image in the bureau mirror.

  A long veil draped down her back, her hair pinned up to show her thin neck.

  “Augusta, now. We must take pictures before the magistrate gets here.” The door handle rattled.

  She looked around and identified a dressing room. Wood paneling lined the walls, the scent of summer folding in on the breeze from the window, bracketed in lace eyelet curtains. A steamer trunk sat propped open on the floor next to an empty dress stand.

  Just a dream. Yes. But somehow Aggie’s words imprinted in Raina’s mind and now she’d dreamed herself into Aggie’s story. Or perhaps her own nightmares—she didn’t know. Just heard the racing of her heartbeat as she ventured into the next room and found a suitcase open on the bed. Inside, an envelope lay tucked on top. She eased it out, opened it. Bonds. Made out to Clara Augusta Franklin.