Some guilt of her own swept through her, and her chest tightened. The thoughts bouncing through her mind went against everything she’d been taught. And everything she’d said to Grant about forgiveness. But at the moment, practicing what she preached was beyond her human capabilities. And divine help didn’t seem to be forthcoming, either, if the cold knot of anger in her stomach was any indication. It was in check, but she couldn’t say for how long.
The old man finally sucked in a deep breath. “I’m staying at the Mountain Vista Inn in town, room one twelve. If you want to talk, even if it’s to yell at me and tell me you hate me and wish I were dead, I’ll be there through the weekend.” He attempted a shaky smile. “It would probably do you good to get it all out. Bitterness can ruin your life if you let it. When the Bible says we’re to forgive our enemies, it’s for our own good.”
The tenuous hold on her self-control snapped, and she whirled to face him. “Don’t go quoting the Bible to me.”
Week after week her mother had taken her to services, and during that whole time, he’d never darkened the door of a church. Who was he to tell her what the Bible said about anything?
His gaze dropped to his feet. “Very well. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Monday I’ll be heading back to Greensboro.”
She nodded and closed the door. No, she wouldn’t change her mind. At ten years old, she’d accepted his leaving and closed off that part of her heart. And it didn’t need to be reopened. Not now. Not ever.
She trudged back to the couch and picked up her book. Bailey and Morgan settled in next to her, slightly calmer after the distraction of a visitor. She dropped her gaze to the page, and a recent conversation flashed through her mind. She had encouraged Grant to let go of the bitterness toward his grandmother and, more recently, his mother. Offering that advice had been easy when she thought she didn’t have any bitterness herself. Now she felt like a hypocrite.
Lord, help me work through this. I don’t know what to do.
Because no matter how convinced she’d been that she had buried the past and held no grudges, her stomach twisted at the thought of letting her father walk back in and pick up where he’d left off. He didn’t deserve any second chances, not after staying away so long. He just needed to go back to where he’d been for the last decade and a half—out of her life.
FIFTEEN
Grant walked through the front door and wheeled his suitcase toward his bedroom. It had been a long day. Actually, he was into the next one, since midnight had passed two hours ago. He couldn’t get a direct flight on such short notice, and his best option involved a two-hour layover. But now he was home, ready to get a good night’s sleep, throw his packed bags in his car and head out. This was the day he’d looked forward to for the past three months.
Except now, the idea didn’t hold any appeal. Touring the country alone. What was the use? What pleasure was there in trying new things with no one to share the experience with? Of seeing new sights with no one to tell?
But he had to give it a try. There had to be a remedy for the malaise that had descended on him over the past several months. What had started as vague restlessness had evolved into complete dissatisfaction with life. Nothing spurred his interest anymore.
And his trip to Murphy had only made it worse. It was supposed to be nothing more than a little hiccup in his plans, a slight delay in his anticipated trip. Instead, what he found was a small taste of the unknown something that made life complete, the elusive ingredient that at times seemed so close but tantalizingly out of reach.
He strode to the bedroom and kicked off his shoes, disturbing the perfectly kept atmosphere of the room. The bed was made, its brushed-nickel headboard reflecting the crisp white light. Tile ran wall to wall, a sea of marble beneath black laminate dressers, nightstands and an entertainment center.
Everything cold and sterile, like his life.
For a brief moment, Jami had brought warmth to his soul. But everything about her was a farce. Maybe she cared for him. But it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t commit his life to someone who would throw away a promise to advance her career. That one decision showed him where he ranked in her life—somewhere below her goals as a reporter. Her career came first.
Realization slammed into him. That was what he’d done to Bethany. How many times had she begged him to take her to one of her social events and he’d offered excuses? There was always that new client to take to dinner, the next big trial to prepare for. Eventually, she’d stopped asking.
He shook his head. He was finally on the receiving end of what he’d so many times dished out. What goes around comes around. Some inner voice told him he deserved it. Maybe it was karma. Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.
Leaving the suitcase near the door, he carried his shoes to the large walk-in closet. A long-neglected black case waited in the back corner, untouched for so long he’d almost forgotten it was there. For several moments, he stood, shoes in hand, staring at the oddly shaped object. He hadn’t picked up his French horn in years—two, to be exact.
Now the forgotten black case seemed to beckon him. He slid the shoes into the same wooden cubby he’d removed them from almost two weeks earlier and hauled the case to the bed, where he unfastened the two silver latches. Polished brass glinted golden under the overhead lights, and he ran his hand over the smooth rim of the bell.
He loved the French horn, its rich mellow tones and soothing melodies. But when he inserted the mouthpiece and raised it to his lips, the sound that came out was neither rich nor soothing. It was a sickly bellow, the cry of an elephant in mourning. He depressed the valves in rapid succession, then pursed his lips again. That attempt wasn’t much better than the first one.
How could he have stayed away so long? How could he have just ceased to live for two whole years?
He placed the horn back in its case and walked from the room. When he reached the kitchen, he headed straight for the fridge without flipping the switch. Stark white light from inside chased away the shadows in the room, and he took a bottle of sparkling water from the top shelf. He’d eaten on the way home from the airport, which was a good thing, based on the contents of his fridge. Except for the other four bottles of water and a half gallon of milk five days past its expiration, the clear plastic shelves were empty. The state of his fridge summed up his life about as well as his décor did.
He sank onto a bar stool, and his gaze fell on the clock over the sink, its black metallic hands backlit by an eerie green glow. He should go to bed. He needed to get some quality sleep, or he wouldn’t be safe to drive. But sleep was likely to elude him tonight.
He picked up the water bottle and took a long swig. A hint of raspberry brushed past his senses, so subtle it was nothing more than a brief aftertaste. Come morning, he would head out. Maybe he would take 95 and make his way down the coast. There were a lot of interesting beach towns along the Atlantic.
But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t inspire any enthusiasm for his trip. He needed to snap out of it. This was the reason he’d rearranged his schedule at the firm and dumped his entire caseload on his partners. He’d promised them that after his trip, he’d come back renewed and refreshed.
But what if it didn’t work? What if the only place he could find what he needed was a little mountain town in southwestern North Carolina?
And the only one who could make him whole again was the sassy, quirky newspaper reporter who’d stolen his heart?
Grant zipped the suitcase closed and lifted it from his bed. It was jammed full of clothes. His iPad was stuffed into the front pouch, along with a couple of books. Another smaller piece of luggage held his shower bag, shoes, belts and other miscellaneous items. He was now packed, ready to leave.
He pressed a hand to the side of his head and closed his eyes. The ibuprofen he’d taken upon awakening hadn’t kicked in yet. Neither had the cup of coffee he’d washed it down with. The night had been way too short.
He rolled bot
h bags from the room and toward the front door, the rumble of wheels against tile echoing through the penthouse. This was it. The start of his long-awaited trip. He was going to do it. And his travel plans were no more concrete than heading south along the coast and seeing where fancy took him.
But something unsettling darkened the edges of his mind. And it had nothing to do with his lack of preparation. It was the sense that he was leaving unfinished business. He still hadn’t spoken with his mother. He’d promised Jami he’d do it when he got back to New York.
Of course, Jami hadn’t kept her promise, either. She’d practically sworn an oath that she wouldn’t use any of the information she’d found in those boxes. Then she’d done it anyway. She hadn’t even given him a heads-up. Instead, she’d let him be blindsided.
But regardless of what promises had been made or broken, he needed to talk to his mother. After all, he was leaving for two months. What if something happened to him while he was gone? What if something happened to her? If his final words to her were spoken in anger, he would spend the rest of his life with regrets.
The same as his grandparents had.
He locked the door, then pulled his bags toward the elevator. Midmorning, the traffic would still be crazy. But he would load his things in the car and drive. Then, once he finished talking to his mother, he could be on his way.
The drive gave him all kinds of time to second-guess his plans, and by the time he reached her front door thirty minutes later, he’d just about changed his mind. What was he going to say to her? He couldn’t tell her everything was okay, because it wasn’t. And he couldn’t say he’d forgiven her, because he hadn’t. So what was he even doing there?
No regrets. That was what he was doing there. He didn’t know if he could put the past behind him, but he had to try.
He rang the bell, and when the door swung open, several emotions played across her face—shock, then relief, then total joy. But it was her eyes that shot a red-hot arrow through his heart. They were puffy and glistened with moisture. She’d been crying.
“Grant.” She reached out to clasp his hand and led him into the condo. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
His gaze shifted to the coffee table, where a stack of photo albums lay, the top one open.
“I was looking at pictures.” She sank onto the couch and motioned for him to sit. When he’d settled in beside her, she picked up the open album. “Remember this?”
He looked at what she held. On the left-hand page was a picture of him at about seven years old, roasting a marshmallow over an open fire. A small dome tent stood in the background. Beneath that photo was one of him and his mother sitting in a canoe, each holding a paddle.
“It was a camping trip.” The only one he’d ever been on. He’d forgotten the details, who they were with and why they’d gone. But as he looked at the pictures, he remembered what it had felt like to spend an entire weekend with his mother instead of the babysitter, to go out and do something fun, to have her be relaxed and attentive instead of stressed and exhausted from yet another fourteen-hour day.
She rested her hand on the book. “I was working as a secretary for a construction company. It was just a temporary job, but it was the best I’d ever had. I still waitressed nights and weekends, but this one weekend, they were doing a company camping trip. I asked off at the restaurant those two days, and the contractor I worked for set us up with a tent, air mattresses, sleeping bags and a lantern.”
Judging from her wistful tone, the trip had been as special for her as it had for him. They hadn’t taken many vacations together. Her work schedule never allowed for more than occasional day trips.
But that was the choice she’d made. If she’d taken help from the McAllisters, she wouldn’t have needed the second job. He’d have been raised by his mother instead of an ever-changing parade of babysitters, and vacation wouldn’t have been a foreign concept.
He pushed the thoughts aside. He was trying to find the path to forgiveness, and focusing on the wrongs wasn’t it.
She turned the page, and he dropped his gaze to the book. After several more pictures from that same weekend, the scene shifted to the beach, one of those day trips. Finally, she closed the book and sighed.
“When you left, I was so afraid I was never going to see you again. I shouldn’t have lied to you, and I’m sorry.”
Yeah, she shouldn’t have lied to him. But what about refusing the McAllisters’ help out of sheer stubbornness? What about putting her desire for revenge over his happiness? Was she sorry for either of those decisions?
She laid the book aside and took his hand in hers. “Will you please forgive me?”
Forgive her for lying? Or forgive her for everything? Would he be able to do either? Using him, then lying to him about it. Teaching him to hate. What she’d done was so wrong.
An admonition slid through his mind—He who is without sin cast the first stone. He’d heard the words quoted several times. They’d been spoken by some great religious teacher, maybe even Jesus.
Grant sighed. He certainly hadn’t been perfect. Bethany would vouch for that. How could he not grant his mother the forgiveness she’d asked for when he’d made so many mistakes of his own?
He met her gaze. She stared up at him, her eyes pleading. The sheen he’d noticed on first arriving seemed to be back. His chest tightened. Until this morning, he’d never seen his mother cry. He nodded. “I forgive you.”
What he said wasn’t entirely true. But was it an outright lie? Maybe not.
Maybe it was what he needed. Because maybe the first step of the forgiveness process was speaking the words.
Jami dragged herself in the front door of the Cherokee Scout, clutching a stack of dog-eared pages. She wouldn’t feel any worse if she’d caught the flu bug that had kept Bernie out the first three days of the week. She hadn’t slept well at all last night. And crying didn’t suit her. It left her with a massive headache and an unbecoming puffiness no amount of artfully applied eye makeup would cover.
Grant never contacted her to apologize for standing her up last night. Not that she’d expected him to. It wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. She was through with him. She was maybe even through with men in general. At least for the time being.
On the way to her desk, she gave brief hellos to those who’d made it to work before her, which this morning was most of the staff. She’d gotten a late start, then made a couple of stops on her way in.
She plopped the stack of pages she held on her desk. It was both versions of the McAllister article, the dull, lifeless one and the one that sparked with vitality. Yesterday, she’d finished final edits and taken them home. Her plan had been to show Grant both and try to get his permission to print the good one. But if not, she at least had a plan B.
She sank into her chair and reached for the mouse, ready to transfer the plan-B version to the news folder on the server. Even though Grant was gone, it didn’t negate the promise she’d made.
Once finished, she picked up a hot-pink folder she’d titled Things to Do in Murphy. She’d gotten the go-ahead for the series yesterday. It would span several weeks. The first installment would be Wild River Outfitters. She already had some great pictures. Now she would work on putting together an article that would hopefully drum up some business for Sam.
In spite of the seventh-grade marching band playing against the inside of her head, she made good progress over the next hour and a half. By lunchtime, she’d finished the draft, selected some photos and come up with good cutlines.
The front door swung open, and Bernie’s coarse voice cut across her thoughts. After greetings and several proud comments about how even the swine flu was no match for Bernie Hopkins, she reached her desk and sank into the chair.
Jami smiled over at her. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
“Me, too. I’ve been dying to hear about how things are going with Grant, but until late last night, I was too sick to even feel like picking up the p
hone. So tell me all about it.”
Jami frowned. “Don’t get too excited. There’s nothing to tell. Grant split.”
Bernie’s eyes widened. “He left? Why?”
“No idea. Tuesday night, he’s telling me to be ready at four because he’s taking me to Crest Mountain Dinner Show, and Wednesday afternoon he’s gone.”
Bernie shook her head. “Something must have happened.”
“Between Tuesday night and Wednesday afternoon? Face it, Bernie. This match is just another one of your disasters.”
“I bet he’ll be back.” She set her jaw in determination. When one of her matchmaking schemes was at stake, Bernie didn’t give up easily. “Meanwhile, how about letting me take you to Downtown Pizza for lunch? I’ve got four days of not eating to make up for.”
Jami retrieved her purse from the bottom drawer and walked to the front with Bernie. Having company for lunch sounded good. Maybe it would help take her mind off Grant. As they rounded the end of the long counter separating the work area from the lobby, Hank stepped inside, and Bernie approached him.
“What are you doing here so early? You don’t usually get your stuff in till midafternoon.”
He laid a sheet of paper on the counter. “I figured if I got my ad to you early, you might manage to get it right.”
Jami stifled a snort. They were at it again.
Bernie angled her face upward, taking on the air of condescension she always managed just for Hank. “That photo was no mess-up. It was payback. A most brilliant one, I might add.”
Hank planted his hands on his hips. “But advertising all our bags of feed free was a mistake.”
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” She waved away his complaint. “How many of the fine people of Murphy have tried to walk out of Wayne’s with a free bag of horse feed?”
“That’s beside the point. See if you can do it right this time.” He pushed the paper toward her, then offered her his back. “Hi, Jami. I wanted to tell you what a good job you did on the story this week.”
Trust My Heart Page 20