by Nicole Deese
“Oh . . . uh, I will. Thank you.” I’d asked to come in two hours late on Tuesdays so I could volunteer in Savannah’s classroom.
Two strides away from my desk, she pivoted on her heels to face me again. “And thanks. For creating that new member profile system. It’s far more efficient. I’ll be sending my new hires for you to train next week.”
With a bob of her head, she was off again.
At least my administration skills were being put to use.
Too bad my front desk responsibilities didn’t include peppering those annoying vixens with a box of protein bars and telling them to keep their claws out of Patrick McCade.
As soon as I thought it, I slumped back in my chair and tried to pretend it had never entered my mind.
On the way home from school, we stopped in at my mom’s store, Antiques Plus. My parents inherited the store when I was only two and Weston was just a colicky newborn. They’d threatened to sell for years, claiming their only profit came between May and September, but obligation was often associated with the family business, and neither of my parents was ready to let the place go. No matter how heavy the burden.
The smell of dusty books, polished wood, and fanciful soaps overwhelmed us as Savannah pushed the door open. When she skipped inside, I realized I hadn’t heard a single cough today. The dry bark had vanished. Just like Dr. Patrick had predicted.
The Superman bandage had fallen off after a couple of hand washings, but I found myself brushing my fingers over the pin-tip scabs on my palm.
“Mom?” I called, searching the dimly lit open space. She was likely in the back, working on a new project. The woman was a wonder when it came to refurbishing. She could take the old, the ugly, and the lifeless and transform them into something worthy of putting on display.
“Willa? I’m in the back. Just a minute!”
Mom pushed a red velvet curtain to the side of the doorway at the back of the store. Her blond hair was freshly dyed and twisted into an easy updo, her makeup flawlessly applied, but it was her eyes that spoke the truth of her age. They were underlined by a bluish tint of worry that no primer could erase.
She kissed Savannah’s forehead and then fished in the front pocket of her jeans. An old garnet ring appeared in her hand. The kind Savannah loved to collect. Huge and gaudy, and in desperate need of costume jewelry cleaner.
“Is it for me, Grandma?”
“Of course it’s for you.”
Savannah turned to me. “Can I find a box for it, Mommy?”
I reminded her where the jewelry boxes were kept at the far side of the store and she walked down the aisle, a bounce in her step.
My mom sighed contentedly. “She looks so vibrant, doesn’t she?”
“She really does.” A statement I’d yearned to say for far too long.
“But you look tired.” Mom’s eyes drifted over my face.
Usually this was her opening line. Perhaps I should feel grateful for taking second place on her worry list today?
She touched my cheeks and assessed the pallor of my skin. “Are you sleeping well at night?”
“Yes.” If sleeping well meant waking up several times clutching my chest and reaching for the peppermints I kept in my nightstand.
She dropped her hands, a temporary white flag raised between us. “How’s the job going?”
If she was still hurt that I hadn’t asked her about working more hours at her store before accepting the job at the fitness center, her tone didn’t indicate it. She knew as well as I did that she didn’t have the work to give me. Weston was right. Living in their guesthouse these last few years was enough intermingling of finances and schedules.
“It’s a good fit for me,” I said evenly. “The staff’s friendly, and the work keeps me busy until it’s time to pick up Savannah. I’ve been able to save some, too.” I picked up a porcelain doll from the counter, touched the stiff braided hair and then the barely visible scar on the doll’s hand where my mother had patched her up. “Really, I have nothing to complain about.” My smile was so plastic I could have been put on display.
She studied me, as if searching for a new way to say the same old statement, a statement I’d heard more times in the seven years since losing Chad than most people would in a lifetime.
“Dad and I are concerned about you, Willa.”
Yep. There it was.
She continued without missing a beat. “It’s just a lot at once—Savannah back in school and you working again. We don’t want you to have a setback.” She eyed the doll in my hands. “It’s fine to take your time getting settled back into life with Savannah. There’s no rush.”
There’s no rush. But there was a lingering promise to expand my daughter’s world, to give her back the time she’d lost. To be the mom she deserved me to be. The mom I’d been too afraid to be for far too long.
“Everything’s fine, really.” It sounded convincing enough, yet the crease in her brow remained.
“You know, Davis stopped by the shop yesterday. Said he’s left a couple of messages for you.” She swiped a rag from behind the counter.
My fake smile faltered.
She spritzed the display case with streak-free window cleaner, wiping away smudges no eye could detect. “That man is mad about you, Willa. And he has the patience of a saint. You two could be a good match if you just agreed to go out with him—gave him a chance to be something more.”
Because to my mother, the pairing up of a widow and a widower was a formula destined for eternal happiness and bliss.
“He’s a good friend.” I respected him, admired him, cared for him, but—
“A good friend who would propose to you in a heartbeat if you showed him the least bit of romantic interest. He has so much to offer you: a steady career, a nice home, a faithful, God-loving family. A good helpmate is hard to come by these days.”
Helpmate. The word bucked against my heart.
Davis Carter had never spoken to me as frankly as my mother just had, but I knew she wasn’t wrong. I knew his feelings ran deeper than the friendship boundaries I had set long ago, which was precisely why I hadn’t picked up the phone to return his calls. Calling him would mean agreeing to a conversation. And agreeing to a conversation would mean being asked to make a commitment I was in no way ready to make.
And no choice was always better than making the wrong choice.
I set the doll back in place and she slumped onto her side, unable to sit upright without assistance. Was that how the people in my life saw me, too?
A bitter taste filled my mouth. If there was a reason to pretend to be stronger, braver, bolder than I was, it was for them.
Unlike this store, I refused to become another life-sucking burden on my family.
Chapter Six
Fall was most people’s favorite time of year in Oregon, and I could understand why. The mix of deciduous and conifer trees offered vibrant patches of orange, yellow, and red against a backdrop of Crayola green—a stunningly artful combination.
Yet as gorgeous as fall was, winter had always been my season of choice. It was a season I’d been taught to prepare for even as a young girl. To chop extra wood for the woodpile, buy extra food for the pantry, gather extra blankets for storage under beds and in hallway closets. I appreciated its routine and predictability. I’d survived whiteouts, blizzards, and power outages—all because I’d learned how to properly plan. To never be caught unprepared.
If only this rule applied to life and not just to the changing of seasons.
Nan’s cottage, which Georgia would share for only a couple more months, sat on the south edge of Lenox, across from the community park. Sparse branches clapped in the breeze, a few golden maple leaves spiraling to the ground below. I exhaled and rolled the tension from my shoulders as I pulled up to the cute little white house. Nan’s presence—and her home-cooked meals—had a way of making weariness disappear.
Savannah was already halfway up the porch steps and knocking on Nan’s front
door when I popped my trunk to retrieve a store-bought pie. Before Savannah’s diagnosis, I baked a lot, my weekly contribution to the hospitality table on Sunday mornings at church. But that particular hobby had been buried under immune-boosting recipes and organic supplements. And despite my brother’s many invitations to join him and Georgia, my church attendance had become as sporadic as the use of my oven mitts.
“There’s my little superstar pianist! When are we gonna start up lessons again?” Nan’s voice was an unmistakable mix of sugary sweet and savory sass.
Savannah hugged the short, spry woman who pecked kisses all over her face. “Tonight?”
“I think that can be arranged,” Nan laughed.
Savannah scurried off inside the house to find her uncle.
Nan greeted me with a warm embrace. “It’s so lovely to see you, Willa.” As her gaze shifted to my store-bought dessert, it was easy to see that she didn’t feel quite the same way about my pie.
“Here, let me take that for you.” She took the tin from my hand, then wrapped her free arm around my waist.
“Georgia tells me you’re working at that fancy fitness club of Sydney Parker’s.”
“Yes, I am.” I planted my feet on the top porch step. “It’s been a good place to work. A nice flexible schedule.” I was so used to rehearsing those lines that they almost felt natural now, as if my life’s ambition were to scan memberships and answer questions about personal training. As if I didn’t still picture myself in a classroom full of young, smiling faces.
Nan patted my cheek in her grandmotherly way. I braced for a comment about my tired eyes or my too-thin frame, or any of the million other remarks I’d heard from my family. But instead she simply said, “You’re a beautiful young woman, Willa—inside and out. Savannah’s one very blessed girl to have you as her mother.”
My eyes flooded unexpectedly and the wrinkle lines around her mouth stretched into a dozen happy parentheses. She gave me another side squeeze and then patted my hip. “Come on, let’s get inside. Georgia and her beau are doing my prep work for dinner tonight. If I don’t oversee them, I may not have a house by night’s end.”
I laughed and swiped at a rogue tear. “Sounds good to me. We came hungry.”
Nan’s cottage had the same comforting scent no matter what time of year you entered her home: a blend of nutmeg, cinnamon, and clove. Two steps inside the living room, I saw my daughter sitting atop her uncle’s shoulders in the kitchen while he swayed side to side, slicing an apple. He glanced up from the cutting board, wiped his juicy fingers on Savannah’s jeans to make her squeal and kick, and then crossed the room.
“Hey,” Weston said, lowering Savannah to the ground. He knew how I despised heights, and yet he paraded her around on his shoulders every time we were together.
Savannah meandered toward the dining room.
“I’ve asked you not to do that with her, Weston.” I kept my voice quiet enough not be overheard by Nan or Georgia.
“Sorry.” He offered me a throwaway shrug. “But she loves it.”
“She would love eating candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too. But we’re the adults in her life.”
“Who said I was ready to be an adult?” Weston clamped his hands on my shoulders and waited for eye contact, ready to engage in a childish game of Who Can Blink First.
I lost.
“Maybe next time, sis.” Weston patted me on the back and then strolled back to his post at the cutting board.
If I didn’t love him so much . . .
“Willa, I’m back here if you need a break from your brother,” Georgia called from the dining room. “And Nan, could you please check on the enchiladas? I forgot to set a timer.”
I unzipped my jacket and slipped it over the back of a dining room chair, saying hello to my soon-to-be sister-in-law. I reached for the pile of silverware at the center of the table. “I can finish this up if there’s something else you need to do in the kitchen.” I counted the place settings twice. There was an extra. “Was Misty able to come tonight after all? I thought you said she was out of town this weekend.”
Misty, Georgia’s assistant at the theater, was a genius crafter and Georgia’s only other local bridesmaid. Her maid of honor lived in L.A. and wouldn’t be coming to Lenox until the week of the wedding.
Georgia flashed me a look I couldn’t quite interpret and shook her head sharply, as if trying to get my attention without having to verbalize it.
My hands stilled and I mouthed, “What’s wrong?”
“Nope,” she said loudly, flashing the mystery face at me again. “Misty’s still out of town.”
“Hey—” Weston yelled from the kitchen. “Don’t you dare ruin the surprise!”
“What surprise?”
Georgia wasn’t one to appear nervous—never the biting-her-nails type of gal. She was confident, self-assured, and very vocal about her opinions, so when her eyes shifted to the front door and back . . . I was utterly lost.
“Make way for one steaming-hot enchilada tray.” Weston carried the hot pan and set it on the table between Georgia and me. Savannah followed, carrying a large bowl of tortilla chips.
I looked at my brother, who stared unblinking at his soon-to-be bride.
“Okay, what is going on here?” I asked again.
Georgia raised her hands in the air, palms turned upright. “I just want to say this was all Weston’s idea.”
“Whoa.” He held out his own palms. “You were ninety percent in agreement just thirty minutes ago.”
“What? I was not!” She picked up a fork and shot it at him like a javelin. She missed and Savannah busted into a fit of giggles. “You need to march yourself down to church right now and repent for such a bald-faced lie.” Georgia swung back to face me. “I swear this was a hundred percent Weston.”
My blood pressure climbed so high it was practically pumping out of my eardrums.
“Weston,” Nan announced to the house. “Your friend’s here.”
Surprises were not my thing—not in any size, shape, or color.
Weston knew this better than anyone on the planet.
Savannah followed him into the living room.
“Who’s here?” I stared Georgia down, my mom eyes fully engaged.
“His friend Ricky—from the gym,” Georgia said at the same time as I heard Weston’s greeting from the other room.
I tried to gather the pieces, to make sense of the trail of clues she’d dropped. There was only one reason I could imagine as to why Georgia would be so apologetic about a surprise dinner guest. A male dinner guest. Tonight was a setup: my brother’s new pal and his widowed sister.
My cheeks were so hot they could have cooked a second dinner.
“Weston asked him to dinner because he thought—” Georgia’s words stopped short as Weston rounded the corner with my daughter and his friend.
“Mommy, look, it’s the funny doctor! He’s here to have dinner with us!”
Chapter Seven
Apparently, my brother had several nicknames for Patrick McCade. None of which were his actual name.
“Can you pass the salad?” Weston asked Nan, the only two adults at the table who dared to speak over the awkward glances and mindless water sipping.
Blissfully unaware of my brother’s matchmaking scheme, Nan passed the bowl of leafy greens and filled us in on her plans to expand her garden next spring.
After two minuscule bites, Savannah pushed her plate away and asked to be excused so she could play Nan’s piano.
“You need to take at least three more bites, please, Savannah,” I said.
“But, Mommy, Dr. Patrick said I needed to leave room for the dessert he brought.”
Patrick tried to hide his laugh with a cough before glancing away.
“Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean that you should skip your dinner.”
Patrick caught my gaze and shook his head dutifully. His smile seemed to stretch across the table, and I couldn’t help but r
eply with a smile of my own.
“Not at all, I simply meant you shouldn’t eat this entire tray of enchiladas,” Patrick added while every eye at the table ping-ponged between us.
“That’s just silly. I couldn’t eat all of those!” Savannah pointed to the tray.
“Are you sure about that? I heard you had a pretty huge appetite. Isn’t that what you told me, Wes? That she could out-eat you?”
I could only imagine what else my lovely brother had shared with his new buddy, “Ricky.”
Weston played along, making up ridiculous tales about Savannah’s insatiable appetite. In truth, she was small for her age, and for her wit. Yet she was completely enamored with these two men, giggling between every coaxed bite of her enchilada.
While the men were entertaining, Georgia scrunched up her shoulders and shot me a please-don’t-hate-me look that quickly morphed into a please-don’t-murder-my-fiancé plea—her fiancé who was currently using his fork and knife as horns to imitate a mountain goat.
“Have you seen a real-life zebra, Dr. Patrick?”
Patrick leaned forward in his seat and mimicked her rounded eyes. “Just once.”
Savannah gasped and then furrowed her brows. “Wait—it doesn’t count if you were at the zoo. I’ve seen one there, too.”
Everyone laughed and Nan patted my daughter’s hand. “You’re too smart, darling.”
“You are smart,” Patrick replied. “But no, I wasn’t at the zoo when I saw the zebra. I was on a safari, in Zimbabwe.”
“Zimb—what way?”
“It’s in Africa,” I said, allowing Patrick a few extra seconds to recover before Savannah’s next round of questioning could begin.
I pushed out my chair, but before I could stand, Patrick was on his feet, asking if he could help me clear the table.
A half-dozen pairs of eyes were focused on us now, waiting for my response, as if accepting help with dishes were the same as accepting a marriage proposal.
“Oh, I can handle it, you don’t have to help—” I began.
“Neither of you have to help. Guests don’t wash dishes. It’s my house rule,” Nan declared, saving the night.