A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  “Two!” He countered with a smile.

  The buzzing in my core increased as I took my next step, as if my body had only now just caught up with my brain.

  “Three.” I looked away from Patrick to a small patch of fir trees on my left. They were the last obstruction to block my view of the abyss below—or the inclined trek ahead. The crescent-shaped pathway stretched between my boulder . . . and the unknown.

  A sliver.

  The clearing Patrick promised was only a sliver from where I stood, yet the cliffside on the left—the stark drop—was gaping.

  My legs felt like a blend of rubber and liquid.

  Gone were the swooping branches. Gone were the protective shadows.

  This trail was fully exposed. To light. To dark. To death.

  “Willa.” Patrick had backtracked several paces, his voice urging. “Four. You’re on four.”

  I blew out a hard breath, allowed the pounding in my chest to propel me. “Four.”

  By step six, I’d crossed the middle of the arc.

  By seven, Patrick’s hair was bathed in golden light.

  By nine, a peek at the horizon wrenched a gasp from my throat.

  And on ten . . . on ten, Patrick clasped my hand and pulled me to his chest.

  Warmth spread through every hollow of my body as his arms encircled me.

  “That was—you are—amazing.” Pride swelled in his voice.

  He stroked my back and pressed his lips to the crown of my forehead.

  In a single heartbeat, the weeks of calculated distance vanished. Memories I’d stored away of woodsy cologne, shallow breaths across my cheek, fingertips grazing over bare skin, overwhelmed me. The pull, the rush, the chemical reaction that sparked in my blood at his nearness . . . all of it had been as real as this moment.

  “We don’t have much time.”

  Must he remind me of that every day?

  Patrick gripped my shoulders and rotated me slowly away from his body.

  And toward the sun.

  “You have to see this,” he whispered.

  Hand to my heart, my breath hitched as I tried for words. Only there were no words.

  Just this thought: Patrick was right. The real thing is so much better.

  Patrick retrieved his camera from his backpack and was lost behind his lens, snapping pictures of a view I could hardly accept as reality.

  My entire town was on display, like one of those winter villages people set up during the holidays. Jonny’s Pizza, the community theater, the high school, McCade Medical Clinic, my church, my home. All of it was lit by a backdrop of colors that made me never want to blink again—a wash of orange with undertones of red and yellow and a smear of pink so bright it could be neon.

  This. This was on the other side of my fear.

  I tilted my chin skyward and let the tears come.

  Not even the tingly rush of unease spreading through my core and into each one of my limbs could taint this new feeling burning inside me. This undeniable, uncontainable, soul-deep free fall.

  How many paths had I avoided in life? How many times had I been content to stop at “close enough”—too afraid to push ahead? Too afraid to let go?

  Too afraid to give up . . . control.

  The series of clicks beside me paused. I turned slightly, expecting Patrick to remark on the glorious scenery before us. Only Patrick wasn’t staring at the town or the sunset or the skyline.

  He was staring at me. Not at a single part of me . . . at the whole of me. As if he could see the very truth I’d only just discovered—the chaos that lived and breathed and ruled inside me.

  “Control.” A single whispered word that held more power over me than I’d ever admitted before. “I can’t let go of it or . . .”

  He lowered the camera to the center of his chest. “Or what?”

  “The people I love get hurt. I get hurt.” Two years of therapy and I’d never been able to simplify it into one cohesive thought. Until now.

  “The ‘people you love’ meaning Chad and Savannah?” Patrick stayed where he was, but again I felt his stare radiate through my entire body.

  I nodded, a familiar guilt playing tug-of-war with my soul.

  “You told me Chad died of a cerebral aneurysm; how could you have—?”

  “I’d been so busy with my master’s and lesson planning for my classroom and preparing for a new baby that my time and focus were divided. When I got the call he’d collapsed that Thursday morning . . . I felt like I must have missed something. Some sign, or warning or . . . something.” The exact way I’d felt the day Savannah was diagnosed with cancer. “If I’d just paid better attention—”

  He stepped toward me. “No, Willa.”

  I lifted my tear-filled eyes to him.

  “Not even the most dedicated wife or mother on the planet has the ability to control life and death. There was nothing you could have done to save Chad—and nothing you could have done to prevent Savannah’s cancer.” He gripped my shoulder. “I’m not only saying that as a physician, I’m saying that as a man who lives under the same rule and authority as you do. As we all do.”

  There were so many things that had attracted me to Patrick McCade—his adventurous spirit, his kind heart, his patient determination—only none of that compared to the freedom that lived inside him. A freedom I was just starting to understand for myself.

  I took a deep breath and then released it slowly. “My brother’s right. I’ve been trying to play God.”

  Patrick gave me a lopsided smile. “That’s a pretty huge responsibility for one person.”

  “I’ve believed for so long that if I shrank my world to a manageable size, focused solely on the people I love, weighed out each and every decision carefully enough, that I could avoid being caught unprepared. Only, instead of lessening my anxiety, I’ve made it so much worse.” I studied the tips of my boots. “I must sound crazy.”

  “No.” He removed his glove and rubbed his thumb across my cheekbone. His touch was as cool as my wind-chapped face. “You sound like a woman who’s learning to let go. That’s not crazy, it’s courageous.”

  His finger traced the curve of my jaw, an intoxicating touch that made my heart ache for more.

  His hand slipped away, and I knew by the look in his eye, and the shift in his stance, and the bob of his throat, that the inevitable was coming. He was about to say it was time to leave.

  Only I wasn’t ready to leave the mountaintop.

  I wasn’t ready for him to pack his bag, or slip on his gloves, or remind me once again of the one thing we couldn’t escape.

  Time.

  I peeled off my glove and took his hand. My warm skin melted against the cold of his callused palm.

  “Just a little longer,” I said on a billow of white breath.

  The rigidity in his posture warned me that he would pull away, retreat back to the calculated distance that had become our norm. But then his arm went slack and his face softened into that open look of moments before.

  “Just a little longer,” he repeated.

  He wove his fingers through mine and then stared out once again at the fleeting light of a dying day.

  A day we’d conquered. Together.

  Savannah ran across the driveway from my parents’ house the instant Patrick opened my car door.

  “We gonna make pie now?” she asked, taking the house keys from my hand and hopping up the porch steps two by two.

  “Of course.”

  “Um.” She twisted around and pointed. “What’s that on your head?”

  “Oh.” I laughed and unfastened the headlamp Patrick had let me borrow. “My night eyes.”

  “Hm. Cool.” She unlocked the door and shot inside the house. “I’ll find the recipe!”

  I was on the top step of the porch before I realized that Patrick wasn’t following me.

  “I have an early morning at the food bank.” His explanation didn’t quite fit with his lack of eye contact. “Weston’s working
the early shift with me.”

  “Oh, right.” Weston.

  “You finally ready to talk to him?”

  I pressed my lips together, knowing full well that what I’d admitted on the mountain tonight would mean having a much overdue conversation with my brother. “Yes. It’s time. It’s been time for a while, actually.” I took a step down the stairs. “Wait—I thought you stayed clear of family drama?”

  He found my eyes again and ran a hand through his hair. “Lenox has a way of messing with my head.”

  Patrick didn’t move, but suddenly he felt very far away.

  Savannah called for me again and I glanced back at the open door.

  “So . . . I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then? My parents are looking forward to having you over for Thanksgiving.” I tucked my hair behind my ear. “So am I.”

  A change in Patrick’s face made me take another step toward him. “Hey . . . are you alright?”

  He tugged at the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” I said, even though I was sure he wasn’t. “Well, good night.”

  But before I could turn back to the porch, Patrick strode toward me, erasing the distance between us.

  With a hug that lifted my feet off the ground, he wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in the crook of my neck. He held me so closely, so securely, that his heartbeat vibrated against my rib cage. And when I exhaled, his hold tightened, as if he were afraid I’d be the first one to let go.

  I wouldn’t have been.

  Slowly, he eased my body down and moved to frame my face between his palms.

  In the half second before he blinked, the torment in his expression stole my breath. “Good night, Willa.”

  He dropped his hands and turned away before I could process what had just happened between us. What had just happened?

  Dazed, I watched him slip into his car and drive away.

  It wasn’t until his taillights receded that I realized for the second time tonight, his actions hadn’t matched his words.

  I rubbed the chill from my arms and climbed the steps to my front door. Alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  One of the benefits of owning an antique store was a plethora of décor options for my mom’s Thanksgiving table. She started hunting for her themed treasures at least six months in advance, usually longer. This year’s theme could be coined “rustic farmhouse.”

  Everything in sight was some variety of shabby chic: candleholders, place settings, napkin rings, and a birdcage centerpiece filled with miniature white pumpkins.

  The aroma wafting from the kitchen—my father’s prized turkey and the far-from-random selection of steaming side dishes—sent a tingling of anticipation throughout the house.

  Yet even with all those distractions, it was hard to keep my concentration off the obvious. Across from me sat an empty plate with a place card that read: Dr. Patrick McCade.

  Weston and my father took the head and foot of the table, while Alex, Savannah, and I sat across from Georgia, Nan, and my mother.

  Where is he?

  Nobody had asked this question aloud—at least not in earshot of me—so to ask it now, while the rest of the guests seemed unconcerned by his absence, would create more drama than my curiosity was worth.

  I checked my phone under the table again. My text to him was unanswered.

  As we bowed our heads to pray, I felt my brother’s gaze burning through the top of my head. Did he know why Patrick wasn’t here? If he did or he didn’t, it wasn’t like he was about to offer that information to me, not when the only words we’d spoken to each other so far had been an awkward “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Dishes passed right, as if in a traffic circle. Mounds of gourmet foods were piled high on my mom’s new-to-her china. Alex’s contribution to the meal, a whipped-cream fruit salad, was the only thing Savannah had asked for a double helping of.

  “What a delightful spread,” Nan said, looking around at everyone. “I am so very thankful to be joining such a wonderful family by way of this upcoming union.” She touched Georgia’s back and winked at Weston. “And,” she continued, “I’m also blessed to have met you, Alex.”

  Alex dabbed her mouth with the corner of her linen napkin. “Oh . . . um . . . thank you.” She took a small sip of her cranberry cider and then smiled. It was hard not to laugh at the extra effort she was taking to be polite today.

  Georgia gestured with a forkful of turkey, her gaze fixed on Alex. “I was telling Willa earlier about a dilemma I’m having at the theater. She thought maybe you could help.”

  “Me?” Alex glanced at me and then back to Georgia.

  “Yeah. I’m casting for the spring production soon and I’m realizing that all my strong talent graduated last year. With the wedding coming up . . . my ability to search through the masses has been limited. Willa thought maybe you’d be interested in trying out? I’ve heard you have a to-die-for voice.”

  The pink in Alex’s cheeks bloomed bright. She gave me a sidelong glance and then set her salad fork next to her plate. “I’m not interested.”

  I knew she’d be a hard sell, but who said peer pressure couldn’t be used for good? Alex needed to use her gift. She had too big a talent to go to waste. “Alex, I’d be happy to take you.”

  Her look could chill boiling water. “No, thank you.”

  Time to go back to Georgia. “What day are the auditions?”

  “Two weeks from today. Six o’clock,” she answered.

  Alex picked up her knife and sawed grimly at her turkey, though it was so moist it could have been eaten with a spoon. The screech against the porcelain plate caught everybody’s attention as if she’d just screamed through a megaphone. “And what day are you supposed to give Megan an answer about the opportunity?”

  I gave her a quick shake of my head, hoping it would silence her. Yet there was only one meaning to the look she gave me now: payback.

  “Megan . . . Hudson?” Weston drawled out.

  “Hey, that’s my teacher’s name!” Savannah said, her mouth stuffed full of whipped cream and fruit.

  I swallowed, wishing myself a place under this table instead of at it. “Hmm-mm.”

  Weston set his glass down and I could practically hear the questions pinging in his head. I would bet a million dollars that the only thing keeping him from asking was pride. The same thing that had kept me from pulling him aside to apologize to him the second he’d walked into my parents’ house that day.

  The exact same reason I hadn’t dared to ask him about Patrick. My eyes flicked to the empty place setting once more.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Sure sounded like something if you asked me. Nothings don’t come with a deadline.” Alex leaned back in her chair, showing me once again just how comfortable she could be in confrontation.

  “Alex,” I warned.

  “You’re not thinking of subbing again, are you, sweetie?” My mother asked from the other side of the table. This was how she posed every question: no before yes, the negative before the positive.

  The apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

  “And why shouldn’t she? She has a degree. She should use it.” These surprising words came from my estranged brother—apparently not even pride could keep him from offering his opinion.

  “Don’t talk to your mother like that, Weston,” Dad piped in.

  “She already has a job,” my mother rebutted, as if I weren’t sitting three seats down from them. “And that takes up plenty of her time as it is.”

  Alex’s head swung left to right, taking in the action around our Thanksgiving table like she was watching a tennis match.

  “I always thought you’d be a wonderful teacher,” Nan said.

  “She wants to give you a teaching job?” Alex asked, her eyes widening. “Take it, Willa. An untrained monkey could do your job at the gym.”

  “Agreed,” Weston said, raising his glass to Alex.

  I swung my gaze back to
the end of the table and stared straight into the eyes of my brother—the traitor. “Seriously? You were the one who got me the job at the fitness center, remember?”

  “Only because I hoped it would knock some sense into you. Get you around people again.” He nodded at Alex and she beamed. “I never thought you’d stay there forever. Nor should you.”

  The mashed potatoes in my stomach turned to cement.

  “I’m pretty sure there are far better topics to discuss on Thanksgiving than my employment.” Cheeks hot, I steered my gaze back to Georgia. “Please, tell us how wedding details are coming along?”

  The room sighed with the change of conversation. Georgia, Nan, and my mother chatted about the final arrangements. The dress fitting was coming up in a matter of days.

  The next hour consisted of nothing but polite talk around the dinner table, wrapping up with a domino challenge between Alex and Savannah.

  “I’ll take care of the dishes today, Mom. You outdid yourself again,” I said, giving my mom a kiss on the cheek. “Go relax and catch up with Nan.”

  Lord knew my dad would be asleep in his chair in less than ten seconds.

  I heard a throat clear as I left the room, but I didn’t turn around. I needed a private second to check my phone. Nothing new from Patrick.

  “He’s at the food bank until four.”

  I whirled around to see Weston standing behind me with an armful of dishes.

  “Who?” I asked innocently. Stupid, sure, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of being right.

  He laughed and shook his head. “The man you’re about to text. The same man you kept imagining was sitting across from you at the table today.”

  Sometimes I really hated that he knew me so well.

  I turned back to the sink. Why hadn’t Patrick told me he wasn’t coming?

  Weston set the plates on the counter beside me, stacking them way too high. My mom would kill him if she saw this leaning tower of fine china.

  A big splat of gravy smacked against the tile floor near my heel.

  “I’ve got the dishes. I don’t need you to help me,” I said.

  “You’ve made that abundantly clear.”