Hearts Divided

by Debbie Macomber

  “Does he? Why?”

  “She’s the woman he loves! The woman who loves him. He can’t hide such important emotions from her. It would be wrong.”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes.” It was so clear to her. How could it not be to him? But it obviously wasn’t. A new darkness shadowed his eyes. It looked like sadness, she thought. Loneliness. He didn’t agree with what she was saying. And yet, it seemed, he wasn’t going to argue the point. Maybe, if she quit arguing, he’d explain. “Why would he hide what he was feeling?”

  “Because he loves her. He wants to protect her, Elizabeth. Her—and them. The love they share.”

  “You’re saying he did something in combat that would make her love him less—or stop loving him at all? Because if so, I don’t believe it. Granddad would never, ever, have committed the kind of atrocity that…Never.”

  “You’re right,” Nick said. “He wouldn’t have. He’d have died first. You know that. I know that. And he trusts that your grandmother will know it, too. War can’t change a man like Charles MacKenzie, Elizabeth. Not even war can do that.”

  Elizabeth heard in Nick’s voice the same emotion she’d heard in Granddad’s when he spoke of Nick. She couldn’t define it. But it was solemn. Important. And very deep. Gram had said the two were alike. And close, Elizabeth realized. Bonded in some special—reverent—way. Maybe Granddad had told Nick about the letters, what he’d shared and hadn’t shared with Clara…and why. Or maybe Nick was only guessing.

  Either way, Nick seemed to know.

  “You’re not going to find any premeditated betrayal here.”

  Nick gestured toward the letters as he spoke. Here referred, of course, to what Charles had written to his love. And yet, for a crazy unsettling moment, it felt as if here—where there was no betrayal—was anyplace she happened to be. With Nick.

  “No betrayal,” she murmured. “But you said Granddad wants to protect Gram. And them.”

  “He needs to believe that the world he knew before he went to war still exists. That’s the world he’s fighting for, where a girl climbs down a tree to meet the boy she loves, and you don’t have to strain to hear an owl above the sounds of mortar and the cries of wounded men. That’s why he’s fighting, Elizabeth, to protect that innocence, that ideal.”

  “So when he writes about Gram being beside him, he’s not bringing her to war with him.”

  “No,” Nick said softly, “he’s going home.”

  Home felt like here. Crazy. Except, in his blue-gray eyes, the sadness—and the loneliness—were gone.

  What filled the void was so unsettling, in a giddy, glorious way, that she turned from him…and started babbling.

  “Maybe we should look at your color schemes. Not that I’m going to make any suggestions. In fact, don’t let me. I’d never have come up with the choices you made for Gram’s kitchen, and they’re wonderful…”

  “She’s going to love these.” Elizabeth’s assertion, made thirty minutes later, was a grateful one. “The colors you’ve chosen are so cheerful. Just walking from room to room will make her smile.”

  “I hope so,” Nick said. “Assuming she can see them.”

  “She’s having trouble with her vision?” Elizabeth frowned. “She didn’t say anything about it.”

  “I’m not so sure she would, even if she knew.”

  He was right, of course. Gram wasn’t one to complain. “She doesn’t know?”

  “She’s aware that her vision isn’t what it used to be. But if it’s what I think it is—cataracts—the impairment has come on so gradually she’s adapted to the changes without realizing how significant they are.”

  “But you think they’re significant.”

  “Very, and probably have been for a while. But because she has adapted, it’s only been three weeks since I first began to wonder.”

  “What made you wonder?”

  “Because of what happened when she looked at the sky on a crystal-clear night. She grabbed my arm and pointed to the moon. She was alarmed by what she saw, didn’t know what it was. I thought she was confused. But as I was deciding how to suggest that to her, she began to describe what she was seeing. An immense sphere of light, she said, bright and glaring. A UFO, she thought, and was stunned I wasn’t remarking on it, too. When I told her all I saw was the moon, she tilted her head, changing the angle of the incoming light and, with a laugh, chalked it up to her eyes playing tricks on her.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “No. I did a little reading online and began to notice other things. Her reaction to oncoming headlights, for instance. She squints at them and, sometimes, she even recoils.”

  “I didn’t think she drove at night.”

  “She doesn’t, and hasn’t for a while. But she’s been a passenger in my truck. I’ve made a point of being a passenger in her car, too, during the day. She’s okay if the ambient light is good and it’s a familiar route. She’s a careful driver. Cautious.”

  “But if her overall vision is significantly impaired…What else have you noticed?”

  “She doesn’t read the way she used to. Not for pleasure.”

  “Or,” Elizabeth said, “maintain what was once a daily e-mail correspondence with Winifred.”

  “And that’s after increasing the magnification of her reading glasses to the strongest she can buy at the market. She listens to the radio, and listens to, but doesn’t watch, TV.”

  “You said she might not see the colors you’ve chosen.”

  “I’m not sure she sees color at all anymore. When she showed me the hatboxes you painted, she was dismayed that they’d faded despite the lacquer finish.”

  “They haven’t faded.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Elizabeth searched her memory for what else she’d observed since her arrival. “She uses the railing to go up and down stairs. And she was very eager to turn the letter-scanning project over to me. And equally eager not to be here when you showed me the color schemes. And last night, while we were sitting at the kitchen table, she got up a couple of times to flip a light switch.”

  “Only to discover the light was already on.”

  “All the lights were on. The kitchen was bright.”

  “Her world may be very dark.”

  “A visual darkness,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “that makes sense to her, feels appropriate to her, given the emotional darkness of losing Granddad. Not being able to see must make that loss, and the prospect of her life after Granddad, seem even more hopeless. But it was her idea, she said, to have you paint the house.”

  “The outside.”

  “The gold that guided Granddad home after the war. She wants him to see the glow from wherever he is—even though she can’t.” Elizabeth saw a glow then. Or believed she did. A glitter of wanting, of longing, in his solemn gray eyes. In a flicker it was gone. Its impact left her momentarily confused. She forced the moment, and the confusion away. “Gram needs to see an ophthalmologist.”

  “She has an appointment for eleven on Wednesday morning. I made it once I figured out what was going on. I called Charles’s neurologist at the Clinic and asked who he’d recommend. Next Wednesday was the earliest opening, but the timing was good. I didn’t want to talk to her about her vision until after you and Matthew had come and gone, and I knew that beginning today I’d be here all the time. My plan was to show her the color schemes I’d chosen…”

  “And to gently, patiently, point out to her what she couldn’t see.”

  “Something like that. She knows her vision is failing. She just doesn’t know there’s a chance it can be improved. I’m expecting resistance to the idea of seeing an ophthalmologist.”

  “Eye surgery is daunting, even for an intrepid climber of trees. She’s been in such wonderful health all her life. As far as I know, she’s never had surgery of any kind.”

  “Daunting,” Nick agreed. “And not without risk—assuming my diagnosis is even correct.”

 
; Elizabeth was certain it was, that his research had been thorough, his conclusions sound. And if she asked him whether he happened to be an ophthalmologist, she could predict his stern reply.

  No, Elizabeth, I’m a handyman.

  “They’re just old,” Gram said when Nick and Elizabeth raised the issue of her eyesight. “I’m just old.”

  “You’re not old, Gram, and once your vision’s restored to what it can be, you’ll be as active as ever. Not being able to see has gotten in your way. You would’ve gone on the cruise to Victoria with Helen and Winifred, you know you would have, if you hadn’t felt uncomfortable about making the trip from Sarah’s Orchard to Seattle. The thought of trying to read signs in airports, and finding your way in unfamiliar places in what felt like darkness…don’t you think that influenced your decision not to go?”

  “I don’t know, Elizabeth. Since Granddad died, everything’s been difficult.”

  “Of course it has, Clara,” Nick said. “The loss is immense. But that’s all the more reason to fix what can be fixed.”

  “The two of you spent the afternoon rehearsing your pitch, didn’t you? I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those interventions.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Maybe we rehearsed a little, Gram. Is it working? If not, we have reams of information downloaded from the Internet that we’re prepared to read aloud to you.”

  “You’re dear things, both of you. And I’m very grateful for your concern. But—”

  “You could at least have an ophthalmologist do an exam. Cataracts or not, having your eyes checked is a good idea.”

  “I’m not going to have an exam unless I’d be willing to have surgery if something was found. I’m all right the way I am. I’m getting along fine. I see the two of you quite well. And you’re both gorgeous.”

  “Just think how much more gorgeous we’d be, Gram, not to mention how colorful.”

  “Nice try, Elizabeth. But it’s really my decision, isn’t it?”

  “Entirely your decision,” Nick said. “Just promise us that you’ll consider it.”

  “I promise. Now, can we please talk about something else?”

  An hour later, Nick announced he was going home to get a good night’s rest before the painting project that would commence the following day.

  Elizabeth walked him to the porch.

  “What do you think?”

  “That she’s her granddaughter’s grandmother.”

  “Argumentative?”

  Nick smiled. “Determined. And smart. Like you, she’s able to listen and argue at the same time. She heard every word we said, and she’s going to give it some serious thought. Ultimately, though, it’s her decision.”

  “You’re the man who likes to fix things.”

  “That’s right. But we can’t make her do this.”

  “And pushing her is likely to backfire.” Elizabeth sighed. “You’re probably thinking we shouldn’t mention it again?”

  “Not unless she brings it up.”

  “And we don’t tell her about the appointment you made.”

  “No,” he said. “We don’t. Not yet.”

  She admired the reasonableness of his approach. When she shook her head, it was with resignation, not protest. But her movement was forceful enough to dislodge a strand of auburn hair from where it belonged, behind her ear, into her eyes.

  As she reached up to tuck it away, another hand moved to touch it—touch her—too.

  Her hand was quicker. Impatient. She watched his hand, as if in slow motion, drop away.

  By the time she looked up, it was too late to tell what expression had accompanied his gesture.

  It was just as well, she told herself after they’d said good-night. Gram’s eyes were seeing too little, and hers were seeing too much.

  Nick was a sensual man. He undoubtedly touched women, casually, all the time. And he was polite. Chivalrous. He’d brush a lock of hair from a woman’s eyes as reflexively as he’d open a door for her.

  She might have misinterpreted his expression as longing. And completely misunderstood his touch….

  Eight

  The sanding of teal-colored paint, to create a pastel canvas for the cream that would cover it, was hard work, hot work, even in the morning.

  Elizabeth appeared, at 9:00 a.m., with a glass of lemonade.

  “Thanks,” Nick said.

  “You’re welcome. Gram probably has a cooler somewhere. We could fill it with ice and a few pitchers of lemonade, and you could—”

  “I prefer this.” You. Nick raised the glass in a silent toast and met her eyes over its frosted rim. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Good. What have you and Clara been doing since breakfast?”

  “I’ve been scanning. She’s been puttering.”

  “And?”

  “The scanning’s going to work. It’ll take time, but I have time, and the result will be worth it. That’s the good news.”

  “Clara hasn’t mentioned her eyesight.”

  “No.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Not really. But I’ve been watching her. And you’re right. The impairment’s significant. And that’s from the perspective of someone on the outside looking in. I keep thinking what it must be like for her, peering through prisms that both block her view and scatter light.”

  “She’s thinking about it, too.”

  Elizabeth nodded, and frowned. “I lay awake last night worrying. What if she decides not to do anything? She could get in an accident, Nick. Even in broad daylight on a familiar route. The idea of her being hurt is terrifying enough. And if she injured someone else…She’d never forgive herself.”

  “We’re not going to let that happen, Elizabeth. No matter what she decides.” There was nothing idle in Nick’s reassurance. It was a quiet promise. A solemn vow. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  After a moment, he smiled. “I could use another one of these in forty-five minutes or so.”

  “You’ll have it,” Elizabeth said as she took the empty glass. “More lemonade coming up.”

  “Not just lemonade,” he said. “Lemonade and conversation.” Lemonade, he thought, and you.

  By midafternoon, forty-five minutes or so had become forty-five minutes on the dot from when the last lemonade-and-conversation rendezvous ended.

  And, for both of them, forty-five minutes had never felt so long.

  By late afternoon, when the sun blazed its hottest, they’d moved to the shade of a nearby apple tree.

  And talked.

  And talked.

  She wanted to know all about him. He said there was really nothing of interest to tell.

  She responded in kind about herself. He proved her wrong, greeting her replies to his questions—question after question—as if he’d spent his life waiting to hear them.

  She told him, because he wanted to know, about her girlhood summers in Sarah’s Orchard.

  “My happiest memories are here,” she said as she gazed at the orchard. “I wonder if I’ve ever realized that before.”

  “What made you happy?”

  “Everything. Being with Gram and Granddad, of course. And spending time with the trees.”

  “With them?”

  “Until I was big enough to be in them. I remember Gram’s horror the first time she saw me scrambling up. Little did I know that I’d inherited my tree-climbing ability from her.”

  “You didn’t fall?”

  “Never! Nor,” she added, “did any of these trees ever so much as creak in protest. I was a sturdy girl. Heavy.”

  “Healthy,” Nick countered.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Very. But the trees held my weight as if I was just another bird dropping by.” She shook her head. “Poor trees. My weight was the least of what I subjected them to. I’d climb up, as high as I could go, and sing to the orchard at the top of my lungs.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” said the man whose life h
ad been joyless until, as a boy, he’d discovered the same joy. “Singing to the trees.”

  “It wasn’t bad for me. I loved it. Love to sing. Unfortunately, I can’t begin to carry a tune.”

  “I’m sure the trees didn’t care. You said they never creaked in protest.”

  “They’re pretty gracious. Like my grandparents. I serenaded them endlessly, too. The price of unconditional love, I suppose.”

  “A price they were delighted to pay.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “They’d even suggest that I sing, if I hadn’t for a while.”

  “Happy memories.”

  “So happy. So lucky. What about you, Nick?”

  “Go right ahead,” he said. “Sing for me.”

  “That wasn’t what I was asking.” I wasn’t asking, she thought, for your unconditional love. But the serious eyes that met her startled ones seemed willing to offer it. Another mirage, she told herself. And a lingering one…“I—What I meant was, are you a singer? Do you love to sing?”

  The questions were logical. Their answers, she’d have imagined, straightforward.

  But Nick frowned.

  “I can sing,” he said at last. “And there was a time, when I was a boy, that I loved singing. Since then, I’ve only sung when people needed me to.”

  “Needed you to? Because you sing so well and your voice is so comforting?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You don’t love it anymore?”

  “I haven’t sung for a while. Perhaps if I sang with someone who loved to sing, it would come back to me.”

  “Assuming that someone could carry a tune.”

  “It wouldn’t matter a bit.”

  “I can’t just break into song.” Not now. Not yet.

  Nick smiled. Neither could he. Not now. Not yet. “Maybe later.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You probably like Christmas songs.”

  “I do.”

  “Do you have a favorite?”

  “I’ve never thought about it. But I suppose, if I had to choose, I’d say ‘Jingle Bells.’ What about you?”

  “If I had to choose,” he answered softly, “I’d say ‘Jingle Bells,’ too.”