by Shirley Jump
Went out of town. Where? Why? With someone?
That thought pained him the most, and drove home the other fact that Cole had yet to face. If he and Emily couldn’t repair their marriage, then at some point she would move on, find someone else. Another man would see her smile, make her laugh, hold her in the dark of night.
And rightly so, because they were over and had been for a long time. Didn’t matter if Cole was having trouble accepting the fact.
Against his hip, his cell phone buzzed. He flipped it out and answered the call. “Cole here.”
“We’ve got a wrinkle in the product launch,” said Doug, his project manager. “There was a bad storm in Japan, and the plant that’s supposed to make the screens for us was damaged pretty heavily. They aren’t sure when they’ll be back online.”
“Call someone else.”
“I did. There’s a backlog on the materials. Seems we wiped out the inventory. It’ll be two weeks before they can produce more—”
“I’ll take care of it. Get me on the first flight to...” Cole fingered the note in his hands. I need some time to think. To figure out my next step.
The next step. There were only two options—get back together or get divorced. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out which way Emily was leaning.
Don’t call me.
She didn’t want him to contact her. The bridge he’d hoped might still be there between them, the connection he’d been counting on when he’d shown up with wine and roses, was gone. She’d underlined the words. Made it clear she didn’t want him coming close.
His marriage was over.
“Cole? Did you want a flight to the plant in Japan? Or to the manufacturer in Poland?”
Cole Watson, who had never had an indecisive moment in his life, stood in the empty foyer of the house he no longer lived in and wavered. “Uh...”
He glanced at the note again. Figure out the next step.
Then he glanced at his left hand. At the gold band that still sat there, and had for the past ten years. He imagined it gone, imagined this house gone, sold. Neither of those thoughts gave him more than a flicker of loss.
But then he glanced at the five letters at the bottom of the note. Emily.
Gone.
That thought ripped a seam in his heart. He crumpled the note in his fist and dropped it into the copper bowl. It circled the bowl, then landed with a soft plunk in the center. “The screens can wait,” he said to Doug. “I have another matter to take care of first.”
“But, but—”
“Don’t worry, Doug. I’ll handle it.” Cole could hear the panic rising in Doug’s voice. The man had a tendency to panic first, think second. “By the time I’m through, we’ll look back at this moment as a blip on the radar. A momentary setback.”
But as Cole hung up the phone and tried to figure out where in the world his wife might have gone and how he was going to deal with whatever next step was coming his way, he realized he wasn’t talking about the screens at all. He was talking about his marriage.
CHAPTER TWO
IN THE SMALL but cozy bedroom where she’d spent many a childhood summer, a blank computer screen and blinking cursor stared back at Emily, waiting for her to fill it with words. Something it had been doing for the past twenty minutes. She’d type a word, backspace, delete. Type another. Backspace, delete. What had happened to her? In college, she had been able to write short stories like a chicken producing eggs. Now when she finally had time and space to write, she couldn’t manage to get a word onto the page. This was her dream, and all she could do was stare at it.
Her focus had deserted her. Heck, it had left town months ago. She needed to get her priorities in line again. Somehow.
A light fall breeze whispered through the couple inches of open window, dancing with the white lace curtains and casting sparkles of sunshine on the white-and-blue space. The low sounds of a radio playing downstairs, probably while Carol worked, made for a harmony with the chatter of the birds outside. It was a serene, perfect setting, the kind of place any writer would love to have. Well, any writer without writer’s block, that was.
Emily crossed to her bag, and tugged out the envelope she’d tucked into the front pocket. Melissa’s last note, mailed to her, and she presumed, also to the other girls.
Dear Gingerbread Girls,
I’m laughing as I write that little nickname for us. Remember those crazy summers we had at the Gingerbread Inn? All those adventures in town and late at night? It’s no wonder someone dubbed us the Gingerbread Girls. Heck, we were always together, thick as thieves, Carol used to say.
I miss that. I know we’ve all got older and have gone on with our lives, but oh how I miss those summers, those connections. That’s the one big regret I have now. That we couldn’t figure out a time for a reunion and now it’s too late. I won’t get to see you all one last time.
Promise me you’ll get together. Promise me you’ll keep the Gingerbread Girls alive. Promise me you’ll all follow your dreams, the ones we talked about that day by the lake. I still have my rock. Sometimes I hold it and think back to that day.
You are all the best friends I could ever hope for and I will be forever grateful for the summers we spent together.
Melissa
Tears blurred the letter in Emily’s eyes. She drew in a shaky breath, then propped the letter beside the computer, holding it in place with a small oval stone that she had kept with her for the past fifteen years. Somewhere out there, two other matching stones sat in drawers or on desks, or somewhere. Did Andrea and Casey see the stones the same way? Did they remember that day?
The women had fallen out of touch over the years, separated by busy lives and families. Maybe it was time to get the Gingerbread Girls back together. Before Emily could think twice, she shot off a quick email to both Andrea and Casey, including her cell phone number and an invitation to come to the inn. She left off the news about the For Sale sign, because she hoped to find a way to talk Carol out of that choice.
And in the process, she would write this book, damn it. She would follow her dreams. Emily needed this do over. Needed it...a lot.
A knock sounded on the door. Emily got to her feet and opened the bedroom door to Carol. “Good timing,” Emily said with a laugh. “I’ve got writer’s block on the first word.”
“I’ve got some coffee and cookies that should help with that,” Carol said. “But first, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Someone here to see me?” How could that be? She’d told no one where she was going, and had only sent the email to the other girls a couple minutes ago. Unless they were in the driveway when they got it, there was no way either Andrea or Casey could show up that fast. No one else would be able to track her down so quickly. No one but—
“Cole.”
Carol grinned. “How’d you guess? Yes, he’s here. Waiting in the parlor to talk to you.” Then her good friend’s face fell. “Are you okay, honey? Do you want me to tell him to come back later?”
“No.” Emily knew Cole and knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer. The qualities that had made him a successful businessman had made him a terrible husband. Win at all costs. That pretty much summed up Cole. When they’d been dating, she’d seen that attitude as one that meant he wanted her and their life together more than anything in the world. But she’d been wrong. What Cole wanted, more than anything or anyone, was success, regardless of the cost to attain it. Then as the years went on, he’d employed that approach to arguments, major decisions, everything. She’d had enough and walked away.
But Cole refused to get the message.
“I’ll talk to him,” Emily said. “Just give me a minute.”
“Sure, hon. Take whatever time you need. I’ll talk his ear off. Might as well make him suffer.” Carol let out a
little laugh, then put an understanding hand on Emily’s arm. “If it helps, he looks miserable.”
Emily thanked Carol, then shut the door. She faced her reflection in the oval mirror that hung over the antique dresser. She was still clad in a pair of pale blue flannel pajamas, her hair in a messy topknot on her head, and her face bare of makeup. She looked a million miles away from Cole Watson’s wife.
Perfect.
Without doing so much as tucking a wayward strand of hair back into place, Emily spun on her sock-clad feet and headed out of the room and down to the parlor. She no longer cared what she looked like when she saw Cole. She was no longer going to be the woman who stressed about every crease, every spot, who worried about her public image as the CEO’s wife. She was going to be who she was—before.
Cole stood by the window, his back to her. He wore a tailored dark blue suit that emphasized his broad shoulders, tapered waist, the hours he spent in the gym. His dark hair was getting a little long and now brushed against the back of his collar. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw him, just as it always had. That was one thing that had never changed—her attraction to him. Her hormones had never listened to her brain.
He turned as she approached, even though she’d made almost no sound entering the room. “What are you doing here?” he said, or rather, barked.
So much for some kind of tender moment. What had she expected, really? They were no longer together, and maybe someday her heart would get the message. “How did you find me?”
“There is only one place in the world that you have talked about missing, and it’s this place. I took a chance that’s where you’d go, and I was right.”
Well, he’d listened to her talk about the inn. Too bad he hadn’t listened to any of the other problems between them. “Where I am and what I’m doing is no longer your concern, Cole,” she said.
“You’re my wife, Emily.”
“We’ve been separated for six months. I’m not your anything anymore.”
His face took on a pained look, but it disappeared a split second later. “Be that as it may, I should at least know where you are, in case something happens.”
“Well, now you know.” She turned on her heel and headed out of the room.
He caught up to her, his hand reaching for her, but not connecting, as if he’d just remembered they were no longer together. She noticed the glint of gold, the ring he still wore. Because he hadn’t thought to take it off? Or because he hadn’t given up yet?
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t go. I want to talk to you.”
She wheeled around. When she met his blue eyes, a little hitch caught in her throat. A hitch she cursed. “We’re done talking, Cole. Nothing’s changed in ten years—nothing’s changing now. Just—” she let out a long sigh “—let me go. Please.”
And this time, he did just as she asked. Emily walked out of the room, and Cole didn’t follow. She paused at the top of the stairs, waiting until she heard the click of the door. Then she returned to her room, put a hand on her belly and told herself she’d done the right thing.
* * *
Cole stood on the ramshackle porch for a long time. How had it got to this point? What had he missed?
There had been a time when he could smile at Emily, or take her out for a night on the town, and whatever was wrong between them would disappear for a while. But this time, he’d sensed a distance, a wall that had never been there before. Or maybe he’d just never noticed it until now.
Until his wife had crossed two states to get away from him. To this place, this...inn.
He glanced at the run-down house behind him. The overgrown grounds. The peeling paint. Why had Emily come here, of all the places in the world? With what they had in their joint bank account, she could have afforded a five-star hotel in the south of France. Instead, she came to this...
Mess.
Frustration built inside him, but there was nowhere to go with that feeling. Nowhere but back home to New York, and to work. He took a step off the porch, and as he did, a crunch sounded beneath his foot and the top step crumpled beneath his weight, sending his leg crashing through a hole and down onto the soft earth below. He let out a curse, then yanked his leg out.
The door opened. Cole’s hopes rose, then sank, when he saw the inn’s owner, Carol, not Emily, come onto the porch. “Are you okay? I thought I heard a crash,” Carol said.
“The step broke.” Cole put up a hand of caution. “That porch isn’t safe. You might want to block it off or hire someone to fix it.”
“Okay.” One word, spoken on a sigh, topped by a frown.
Cole had been in business long enough to read the signs of a beleaguered owner, one who had more bills than cash. “I could call someone for you. Considering I broke the step, I should be the one to fix it.” Sympathy filled him. He still remembered those early, cash-strapped days when he’d been building his business, watching every dime and trying to do everything himself. Sacrifice had been at the top of his to-do list for many years.
Carol shook her head. “I couldn’t possibly ask you—”
“Consider it done,” Cole said. He had his phone halfway to his ear before he reconsidered.
Fixing that board would only take a minute or two. Calling someone to fix that board would take a lot longer. At least an hour, even if he paid a rush fee, to get someone out here, just to nail a board in place. Judging by the looks of the place, the inn’s owner had enough problems on her plate without adding in a wait on a contractor.
“If you have some nails and a piece of wood, I could put in a temporary fix,” Cole said. Where the heck had that come from? He hadn’t done contractor work for years. His hands were so soft from working at a desk they might as well be mittens.
“I have lots of supplies,” Carol said, pointing to a building a few yards away. “Help yourself.”
“Will do.” Maybe it would feel good to work with his hands again. And maybe he was just trying to delay leaving, hoping for a miracle with Emily.
Carol went back inside, so Cole headed for the garage. It took him a little while, but he found a tape measure, some plywood and a hammer and nails. He measured the space, ripped the board on a dusty table saw, then hammered the wood onto the risers. The actions came naturally to him, as if he had never walked away from construction.
The sun beat down on him, brought sweat to his brow and a warmth to his back. He had hung his suit jacket over the porch rail, taken off his tie and rolled up his sleeves. By the time he finished, all four stairs had new treads. And yes, it had probably taken as long as it would have taken had he called someone, but he had the bonus of feeling like he’d done something productive. Something he could look at and see, an almost-instant result, the opposite of how things happened when he made decisions at his desk.
Emily came out onto the porch. Surprise lit her features when she saw him. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing the board I broke. Then I noticed the other steps were about ready to break, so I replaced those, too.”
She moved closer and peered over the railing at his work. “You still remember how to do all that?”
“Like riding a bike.” Cole leaned against the handrail, which he’d made more secure with a few nails earlier. “It was just like the old days.”
Did she remember those days? That tiny apartment they’d lived in, how they’d rushed home at the end of the day, exhausted but excited to see each other? She’d bandaged his cuts, he’d bring her a glass of cheap wine, and they would sit on the fire escape and watch the city go by. The world would be perfect for a little while.
“I guess you don’t forget some things,” she said.
“No, you don’t.” But he wasn’t talking about hammers or measurements or anything related to construction. “Do you remember those days, Em?”
“Of cour
se.” Her voice was soft, her green eyes tender, then she cleared her throat and drew herself up. “We’ve moved a long way away from those days, though. In more ways than one.”
He pushed off from the rail and stood beneath her. “What if we could get them back? What if we could be the people we used to be? Would we have a chance then?”
She bit her lip and shook her head. “Fixing some steps doesn’t bring us back there, Cole. You’ve changed...I’ve changed. What we want has changed. You can’t turn back the clock.” She gave the railing a tap. “Have a safe trip back.”
Then she went inside and shut the door, closing the door on him, as well. Cole stood there a long, long time, then picked up the tools, returned them to the garage, got in his car and drove away. He’d done all he could here, he realized. And the sooner he accepted that fact, the better.
But as he left the Gingerbread Inn, and the run-down building got smaller and smaller in his rearview mirror, Cole wondered...if he could turn back the clock with the inn, maybe it would be enough to turn back the clock with his wife, too.
CHAPTER THREE
BY BREAKFAST THE next day, Emily had ten pages written and a swelling sense of satisfaction. They might not be good pages, heck, they might not even be publishable pages, but they were closer than she’d got to her dream of publishing a novel in years. All those years in high school and college when she’d written short stories, and made fits and starts at different novels, but never finished any of them. Now with hours of uninterrupted time, her creativity exploded, with pages springing to life as fast as she could write them. She got to her feet, stretching after the long hours in the hard wooden desk chair.
Nausea rolled through her in a wave. She gripped the back of the chair, drew in a deep breath and waited for it to pass. It didn’t.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said to her belly, “I thought this was supposed to end with the first trimester.”
The baby, of course, didn’t answer, and the nausea kept on pitching and rolling her stomach, neither caring that the calendar said Emily was just past three months pregnant. Her clothes still fit, if a little snugly, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she would start to show.