by Robin Wells
“When is it?”
“Next Friday.”
I checked my calendar. I’d have to miss a black-tie affair. My boss wouldn’t be pleased, but I was delighted to get out of the obligation. When I’d taken the job, it had been with the condition that I could take a few days off within the first few months if I needed to take care of family business. “Okay.”
After we hung up, I contacted the title company in Wedding Tree, then went online and made arrangements for a fast swoop into town and a fast swoop out. I called Kirsten.
“You’ll stay with me, of course,” she said.
“That’s really sweet, but I’m not staying the night. I hoped I could meet you someplace private for lunch.”
“You’re wanting to avoid Matt?”
She knew me too well. “How is he?”
“I haven’t seen much of him. Peggy says he was grim when you left, like after Christine died, but Freret saw him at the bank yesterday and said he was laughing and cracking jokes.”
My heart sank. Hadn’t taken him long to get over me, apparently.
“You’ve seen Peggy? How are the girls?”
“Adorable. She brought them in last week. They were wearing the costumes from their ballet recital. And Zoey lost another tooth.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’re growing up so fast.”
And I was missing it. I was as crazy about those girls as I was about their father. The empty spot that had ached in my chest ever since I’d left felt like a fresh wound.
“Jillian came back for a long weekend,” Kirsten continued. “And guess what—she’s met someone in Atlanta.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Apparently it’s pretty hot and heavy. She sold her house, and he’s coming with her to the closing next month to meet Peggy and Griff and the girls.”
“Wow.” Jillian was in a relationship—and she, too, was selling a house. “Sounds like a real estate boom in Wedding Tree.”
“It is. That new software business has started moving here. Apparently the founder lived here for a few years when he was a teenager, and he’s decided to move back.”
“I remember Lauren said about a hundred employees would be moving to town.”
“Yeah. It’s not huge, but it’s big for a town the size of Wedding Tree.”
We talked some more, and then I hung up. Something inside, some gnarly little weed of emotion that I thought was dead and gone, oozed some bitter juice. It took me a moment to identify the taste. When I did, a zing of shame shot through me.
Jealousy. I was jealous.
Of Jillian?
No. Not Jillian. I was actually happy for her. It was about time she got beyond the shadow of her sister.
So who, then?
All the new people moving to Wedding Tree, I realized. I was jealous that they got to live there, while I had to live here.
“Whoa, girl,” I muttered to myself. “What’s going on?” A coworker walked by and gazed in curiously. I fiddled with my phone, pretending I was talking into it. I was losing it, talking aloud to myself. I gathered up my things, headed to my apartment, and phoned Gran.
“I just realized I’m jealous of the people moving to Wedding Tree while I’m stuck in Chicago,” I blurted.
“Who said you’re stuck in Chicago?” she asked.
“This is a wonderful opportunity that will never come my way again.”
“Sounds like you’re reciting a line from a script. How can it be wonderful if you don’t really want it?”
That made me pause. “But I should want it.”
“Should is the most useless word in the English language. What would you rather be doing?”
“Painting murals and living in Wedding Tree.”
“Well, then, there’s your answer.”
“But . . . Matt asked me to stay, and I’m afraid that’s influencing why I want to be there. And I don’t want to build my life around a man.”
“Seems to me you already did,” Gran said mildly.
“What?”
“Well, if you’re not doing what you really want to do because you’re avoiding Matt, you have built your life around him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is. But that’s exactly what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
I stared out the window. Was it true? In trying to avoid the very thing I swore I’d never do again—compromise my career for a man—had I gone and done it?
Oh, fudgeruckers. I had! For an entirely different reason, to be sure, but it still had the same result.
Even worse, I’d made a career decision based on the opinions of others. I’d taken a job I didn’t really want because everyone said it was too good to turn down—but who the heck was everyone? Courtney? My old friends from college? People I didn’t know or really like in the art world? People like my ex?
Was I still trying to prove I was somehow good enough?
My eyes filled with tears. A moment later, my chest filled with a sense of giddy optimism. So . . . if I didn’t really want the job, and I didn’t really want to live in Chicago, and I did want to live in Wedding Tree, well, then, what the hell was I doing here?
“Listen to your heart, honey,” Gran said.
I clutched the phone tightly against my ear. “How do I know it’s my heart talking, Gran, and not fear or insecurity or neediness?”
“It’ll tug at you. It’ll pull and pull like a fishing line when the bobber goes under. But you’ve got to get rid of the deadweight that’s got you snagged—all that guilt and anger and fear—before you can fully feel it. You’ve got to forgive everyone who’s ever hurt you, and most of all, you have to forgive yourself. Pack it in a suitcase and send it on its way.”
I hung up the phone with Gran and paced around my apartment. I needed to forgive my ex—and I needed to forgive myself. I needed to let the past go.
And all of a sudden, it hit me: I could. I’d been feeling like a victim and a loser. I’d been feeling so guilty for having the bad judgment of marrying my ex and losing Mom’s inheritance that I’d lost all faith in myself.
I’d made a mistake, yes, but I’d corrected it, and I’d made lots of good decisions since then. Going to Wedding Tree, helping Gran, making new friends—even falling for a stand-up, good-hearted, grounded man like Matt. All of those things were good decisions, decisions that more truly reflected who I really was.
I could forgive myself. And as for my ex—well, he was the one who’d ultimately lost. Yes, he’d used me and run through my money, but it hadn’t made him rich, and it sure hadn’t made him happy. The rumor mill had it that he was courting a wealthy woman nearly twice his age. When it came to the things that really counted in life, he was dirt-poor. He was to be pitied.
And so was I, if I stayed here in a life I didn’t want.
Right then and there, I felt as if I’d put down a backpack full of rocks. The room felt brighter. “Thank you,” I whispered, although I wasn’t sure if I was talking to God, or Gran, or maybe myself.
No. I was sure.
I was talking to all three.
56
hope
Are you sure you don’t want to stop the sale of the house?” Kirsten asked for the umpteenth time on the drive from New Orleans to Wedding Tree. She’d insisted on picking me up at the airport so we could spend more time together since I was only in town for the day.
“I told you, Kirsten—I don’t want to see Matt every time I go outside.”
The thought of seeing him at all was, quite frankly, killing me. I’d treated him terribly. I’d run out on him, avoided his calls, and ignored his texts and e-mails. After a week, he’d given up trying to contact me. He was probably furious at me—and I couldn’t blame him. I’d behaved dreadfully.
All the same, I was plannin
g on moving back. I was going to follow my dream of painting and living in a small Louisiana town.
“I think I might want to look at places twenty minutes or so away—in Madisonville or Covington, maybe. That way I won’t see Matt and the girls every time I go to the grocery store.”
I especially didn’t want to watch him meet and date someone else. If our temporary arrangement to help each other over the hump had worked for him, well, I didn’t want to have to witness the results.
Kirsten gave me a sympathetic smile. “Poor darling. You’ve got it bad.”
I did. And I knew I’d have to address it soon, but I just wasn’t up for it today.
Today, I was selling Gran’s home to a faceless investment consortium, then flying back to Chicago to pack up my belongings. As Gran liked to quote from the Bible, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” In other words, each day has enough trouble of its own without borrowing trouble from tomorrow.
57
matt
I checked my silenced phone for the umpteenth time, not because I was expecting a text or call, but just for something to do. I was in the conference room at the title company, the door closed, pacing. I’d asked the real estate agent to schedule the meeting earlier than necessary, so that I would have time to talk to Hope privately.
The room was cool, but I was sweating. Maybe I’d made a colossal mistake. The more I thought about it, the more certain I grew that Hope would be furious. She would see this as another example of me trying to tell her what to do, to control her, to run her life.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to say, and every time I tried to prepare something—me, an attorney who always had the right words, who practiced and prepared briefs all the time!—I drew a blank. Everything sounded ridiculous.
Because she’d be right. I was trying to persuade her to my way of thinking. My life depended on making her see things the way I saw them.
The door abruptly opened, and there she was. She wore a gray tailored dress and heels, and her hair was different—a little shorter and straighter and more tamed down—but she was just as beautiful as I remembered, and seeing her again took my breath away.
For a second, I dared to hope I was having the same effect on her, because she froze in the door, her hand on the handle, and stared at me. “What are you doing here?”
My hopes were dashed, but not demolished. “Hope, we need to talk.”
She took a step backward, her eyes round with alarm. “I—I have a closing.”
“I asked them to postpone it for half an hour.”
Her chin tilted up a bit. “That was a little high-handed, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. But since you’ve refused to talk to me or answer my texts, it was all I could think of.”
For a moment I feared she was going to turn on her heel, but then her posture slumped. She sighed, closed the door, and slowly walked into the room. “I owe you an apology for that.”
I didn’t want an apology, damn it. “I’ll settle for a conversation.”
She nodded, not meeting my eyes.
“It’s great to see you.”
“Likewise.”
I gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. She smelled like Hope—soft and warm and fresh, like grass and sunshine and flowers—but she held her body aloof and leaned away from me. My heart broke a little. “You look great. Different, but still beautiful.”
She looked down at her dress, then a ghost of a grin flitted across her face. “Yeah, well, shorts and flip-flops aren’t part of the Chicago dress code.”
I smiled.
Our eyes met, and that old connection flared between us. She grinned back, a full-fledged, Hope-like grin. “How are the girls?”
“They’re good. They’re at an equestrian day camp this week.”
“Oh, how fun for them!”
“They’re enjoying it.” I stood there like an idiot, just smiling at her. I could have done that all day. When I finally gestured for her to take a seat at the table, her smile faded. She slowly lowered herself into a conference chair.
Now what? I didn’t want to sit across the table from her, but if I wanted to look in her face, I had no other option. Maybe asking her to sit had been a mistake.
She looked up at me. “Look—I’m sorry I ran out on you like that. I was just . . . well, I didn’t want to drag things out. I knew I was leaving, and it was ending, and I thought . . . well, let’s just get it over as quickly and painlessly as possible.”
Wait—she thought I’d come here to tell her off? Nothing could be further from the truth, but if it made her willing to listen to me, I’d play along for a while. I tried to match her somber expression. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid?”
She nodded. “I know it was rude and inconsiderate. I just . . . well, I guess I kind of panicked. And every time the phone rang and I saw your number, my heart would go into overdrive, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just didn’t answer. I’m really sorry I handled it that way. I—I just thought it was for the best for both us. I didn’t mean to treat you badly. I mean, it was bad for me, too. In retrospect, I realize I should have called you before I left, or maybe told you in person, but . . . well, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was just too painful.”
Painful was good. Painful meant she cared. And apparently she still cared, because she was doing that rambling thing she always does when she’s nervous. I rubbed my jaw, trying hard to hide the delight rising in my chest.
“I don’t blame you for being angry,” she continued. “You have every right. It was selfish of me to just avoid you like that. You deserve to tell me off. You’ll feel better after you vent, so go ahead. Get it all off your chest.”
I stifled a laugh.
“Seriously.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her expression was so earnest that it made me want to grin, even though my chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. “Let’s get it over with. I don’t think you can say anything that I haven’t already said to myself, but you deserve the chance to say it, so let me have it. The buyer will be here soon.”
“He’s already here.”
“Oh, he is?” She turned toward the closed conference room door, then looked back at me.
“Not out there. Right here.” I pointed at myself.
“What?”
“I’m buying your grandmother’s house.”
“You’re Property Investments, Inc.?” She stared at me, hard.
“Yes.”
“But what . . . Why . . . why didn’t you . . .”
I moved around the conference table and sat beside her. “Hope, don’t take this the wrong way. I’m not trying to control you or manipulate you or anything. Or maybe I am, but not in a bad way. It’s just that, well, I thought that if I bought the house, you’d have a place to stay when you visit Wedding Tree. And if not, well, it’s a good investment, with all the new people moving to town, so . . .” I drew a deep breath and decided to just lay it out there. “The truth is, I needed a reason to make you come back, sit down, and talk to me.”
She stared at me, her lips parted. I couldn’t tell if she was angry or incredulous or what. “You bought my grandmother’s house to make me come back here and talk to you?”
I hurried on. “There are some things I wanted to tell you during our weekend in New Orleans, but you skipped out before I got the chance.”
She held up her hands in a “stop” motion. “Is Gran in on this?”
“She, um . . . yes.”
Her wide eyes grew even more enormous.
“Here’s the deal, Hope. If you’re really happy in Chicago, the girls and I can move up there. I can find a law practice easily enough. Jobs and places aren’t home. People are. And you . . . you feel like home to me.”
Her arms dropped, and so did her jaw. “What . . . what
are you saying?”
“What I wanted to tell you in New Orleans, damn it! I love you, Hope. I want a life with you.” It took my entire air supply to say that—and then I couldn’t breathe until she answered.
She took so long my vision started to grow fuzzy.
“Matt, I know you’ll always love Christine,” she said. “And don’t get me wrong—that’s beautiful, and you should. But . . . the thing is, I don’t want to be second best.”
Was that her only objection? Relief flooded my veins. “You aren’t. You never have been. You never could be.”
“But . . .”
“No buts about it. Yes, I loved Christine. But loving her doesn’t mean I can’t love you just as much—or maybe even more.”
Uncertainty clouded her eyes.
I leaned forward. “I loved Zoey to death when she was born. I couldn’t imagine ever loving another child as much as I loved her, but then we had Sophie, and I fell head over heels all over again. And any children you and I have together—well, it would be just like that. Love isn’t something you run out of. It’s not a finite resource. The more you give, the more you have to give. I’ve had more experience loving now than I did when I married Christine. And when you project it out over the course of our lifetimes, that means I’m going to love you more.”
She looked at me, and I could tell that now she was the one holding her breath. I took her hands. “Look—I know you might need some time to absorb this. It might seem like I’m kind of springing this on you. But here’s the bottom line: I’m willing to make whatever changes you want so that you and I and the girls can be together from here on out.”
58
hope
I stared at him across the table, trying to keep my heart from bursting out of my chest. Did I dare believe what I wanted to believe?
I knew all about denial and self-deception, about not seeing things you don’t want to see or deal with. God knows I’d done that with Kurt.
But was it possible that self-deception could work the other way, as well? Was it possible to keep yourself from believing that the thing you wanted the very most in the world, you already had? Was it possible that I was getting—that I already had—my heart’s desire?