A Season to Love

by Nicole Deese

  “Beautiful.” A sweet caress spoken into the arc of my neck. “All of you.”

  “I . . .” The burn at the base of my throat stole my voice as my fingertips grazed his chest and explored the grooves and dips in his shoulders. He breathed out, I breathed in, and our next kiss was everything the first was not. Sedated and unhurried.

  It was the kind of kiss that could disintegrate doubt. Erase hurt. Erase time. Erase the worry of the unknown.

  Patrick clutched the fabric at the curve of my waist, his fingertips searing my skin through the loose knit of my sweater.

  Every lightly feathered kiss across my jawline brought back the mountaintop feeling of the night before, that same heart-pounding anticipation. That same weak-kneed exhilaration. As if gravity didn’t exist.

  As if fear didn’t exist.

  Words formed in my heart and then spilled out through my mouth. “I’m not afraid of this. I’m not afraid of us.”

  Patrick’s lips stilled on my neck and the rise and fall of his chest beneath my hand went motionless. All at once, the warmth was gone.

  Patrick twisted away from me.

  He propped his elbows on his knees and scrubbed at his face with both hands. “This can’t happen.”

  Only it had.

  It had happened—my pulsing lips were proof enough.

  I sat up and forced my breathing to regulate. Then I reached for him. “Patrick.” The muscles across his back tensed the instant my fingers touched him.

  He stood up and took three steps away from the sofa. Another hand swipe down his face. Harder this time. “We have to stop.”

  “We did. We did stop.”

  He pivoted and blew out a ragged breath. There was a chilling resoluteness in his eyes. “Not soon enough.”

  I went to him. “We’ll know how to handle ourselves better next time—”

  He held my shoulders. “Willa.” The regret floating in his eyes stung me. “There was never supposed to be a this time. My attraction for you is too . . .”

  I held my breath, waiting for him to acknowledge what I’d felt in the way he’d kissed me, held me, spoken to me—

  “I should have ended it last night.”

  His sharp words seemed to puncture my lungs while a memory, one barely old enough to be boxed away, surfaced in the space between us.

  The unexpected hug at my doorstep.

  Spurs of rejection climbed my throat at the memory of his arms around my waist, his face tucked into the crook of my neck, his hands firm against my back. His “good night” was not intended as a “good night” at all. It was meant to be a good-bye.

  The old Willa would have tacked this hurt to the walls of her self-preservation. She would have shrunk her newly expanded world and returned back to the carefully managed, tightly controlled avoidance of life and all its possible hurts.

  But that woman hadn’t hiked ten steps to freedom.

  I raised my chin and stared at him. “Did the staff at the food bank ask you to work an extra shift today or did you volunteer?” My suspicion gained traction when he dropped his hands from my shoulders.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Did you volunteer?”

  His gaze dragged back to mine. “Yes.”

  The confession was as painful as it was promising.

  I softened my voice. “Because showing up at Thanksgiving with people who care about you, people who want to invest in you . . . is the one risk you aren’t willing to take, isn’t it?”

  The clench of his jaw was confirmation enough, but there was no joy in this discovery. No thrill in being right.

  “I have commitments to keep. Organizations that count on me.”

  “And who—apart from God—do you count on?”

  This time, the desire to touch him was too strong to ignore. I reached out and Patrick caught my hand midair, held my wrist with his forefinger and thumb. “I watched all three of my brothers trade their calling—their passion—for their comfortable lifestyles. Little by little: marriage, kids, office hours that end before dinnertime . . .” He released me. “I’m not the kind of man who settles.”

  I dug for truth under the sting of his words. “So, instead, you live for the short-term.” And there it was, perched on a shelf in the corner of my mind. It was the mystery I’d sensed in Rex’s scribbled journal entries yet couldn’t seem to solve. Until now. The fragments flitted through my recollection like ribbons lost to a windstorm. “The way Rex did.”

  “Rex lived without compromise.”

  “But he didn’t live without fear, Patrick. And neither do you.”

  His lips were pressed thin and his eyes were focused on something beyond me. Something I couldn’t see even if I tried. I stepped into him.

  “Rex was, without a doubt, a man who should be admired.” I touched my heart, my bottom lashes wet with unshed tears. “I learned from him, too. His determination, his faith, his honesty, his willingness to go and be and do. But Patrick . . . Rex was lonely. He didn’t always express it with words, but it’s there—all over those journal pages. It’s in his tone, it’s in the way he spoke about people and relationships. It’s even in the scriptures he meditated on.”

  No answer.

  “You don’t want to be tied down. I get it.” I searched his face. “You want to go everywhere, experience everything, live a life with no regrets . . . and all of that is truly inspiring. But in the end, what will you have? In the end, what did Rex have? A long list of adventures and some amazing stories to tell?”

  I pressed closer; the pulse point at his neck was my focal point as I splayed my fingers over his chest. “Who will share your heart, Patrick? Who will invest in your life? Who will know your hurts and your heartaches? Your passions and your dreams? Who will cheer you on when you succeed and hold you close when you fail? Life is a balance—one I’m only just figuring out for myself. But even though I’ve loved and lost . . .” A sob caught in my throat as I lifted my hand and brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. “I’d risk my heart again. For you.”

  His eyes closed for the briefest of seconds before he stepped to the side and severed our connection. And my heart.

  “I told you my time in Lenox was limited from the very beginning, Willa.”

  “You’re saying there’s no option for us to try—”

  “I’m saying I have obligations to keep.”

  Tears I could no longer hold back spilled down my cheeks. “I’m not asking you to break them.”

  “Then you don’t know what you’re asking. In my line of work, relationships don’t last. They’re not worth it.”

  I rocked back a step and then another, my strength dwindling as quickly as my courage. “You mean I’m not worth it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He didn’t have to.

  A thick, uncomfortable silence spanned between us before Patrick shoved a hand through his hair. The blue of his eyes darkened to an unfamiliar shade.

  “You should get back to your family.”

  On numb legs I carried myself past the kitchen island, past the lonely apple pie, past the clutter of mail stamped with Patrick’s temporary address.

  He followed me into the entryway and opened the door. My invitation into his home and his life had been revoked.

  “I think it’s best we don’t see each other again. Until the wedding.” His parting words wove through my ribs the way grief weaves through a heart.

  But I wasn’t sorry I’d risked mine again.

  I was only sorry that Patrick hadn’t risked his.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “An indecisive mind breeds minimal achievement.”

  —Rex Porter

  After years of living at the speed of caution, my laundry list of Required Action Items was longer than I cared to count. So I didn’t count. Instead, I’d spent the last three days prioritizing.

  “Willa?” The receptionist at Valley View Veterinary Clinic smiled. “Dr. Davis said he’ll meet you in the br
eak room in a few minutes. He just finished up with his last client.”

  With the exception of a poodle who shared the same hairstyle as her owner, the waiting room was empty.

  “Thank you, Marie.”

  I followed her down the hall and into the space Savannah affectionately called the Vending Machine Room.

  The large panoramic window at the far end of the room displayed a town I knew as well as my own backyard. This vantage point of the valley wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the one from Cougar Mountain, but I wasn’t thinking about that right now.

  I pursed my lips and scanned the streets of downtown.

  Longtime residents worried that the recent hike in population and resources would compromise the heart and integrity Lenox was built on. But I knew the charm of my hometown could never be lost.

  The same way I knew I could never be the woman Davis Carter needed.

  “To what do I owe such a nice, unexpected visit?”

  I pivoted and pushed the courage from the base of my belly into my throat. “Hi, Davis.”

  He hugged me, hands lingering at my sides.

  “Please tell me you’re not here to cancel on the holiday bazaar?”

  If only that were the reason I was here.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Good,” he said, offering me a dashing grin. “Best to keep your name off Santa’s naughty list.”

  My give-it-all-I’ve-got chuckle failed. Miserably.

  The warmth in his expression cooled. “Hey . . . is something wrong?”

  I swallowed. So much for small talk.

  “I was hoping we could talk?”

  Despite the foreboding in his eyes, he gestured to the table and slid out a chair for me. “Okay, then let’s talk.”

  I reached for a copy of Dog Nation Magazine and ran my finger down the rough edge of the spine. Maybe if I gave myself a paper cut the words would come out easier.

  “What’s on your mind?” Ankle crossed over knee, he appeared relaxed, although I didn’t miss the steady tick of his thumb against his thigh.

  “I haven’t been fair to you.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  I flicked the corner of the magazine with my thumbnail until he stilled my hand, forcing my gaze back to his.

  I exhaled slowly. “You’ve been a good friend—a faithful friend who’s given ten times what I’ve given back to you.”

  “That’s not how I see it at all,” he challenged.

  “Davis.” It wasn’t perspective. It was fact. And he knew it.

  Hope drained from his eyes. “But?”

  “But . . .” I sighed. “That’s all we’ll ever be. Friends.”

  Two blinks and then, “The doctor?”

  Patrick’s face surfaced in my mind, and just like the other million and one times today, a ribbon of sadness curled around my heart.

  “Is still leaving after Christmas,” I finished.

  He stared at our layered hands for several seconds. “I gave you too much space.”

  “No. You gave me exactly what I asked for. What I needed.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. Davis had given me an abundance of time. And Patrick had given me none at all.

  “You’re the only woman I’ve cared about since Stephanie.”

  And though I understood his grief, I knew I wasn’t his answer. “But I’m not the woman you deserve, Davis.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Three months ago I wasn’t sure either.

  But three months ago, I was content to wade in still water. Now I craved the pull of a rushing river.

  “Someday you’ll meet a woman who will see you for everything you are. She’ll appreciate your kind heart and your sense of humor and your gentleness toward animals and people alike.” I paused, my gaze shifting to the window behind him. “The kind of life partner who can visualize your future and love you enough to help you achieve it.”

  The concentrated lines etched into his handsome face began to soften. “That’s what I want for you, too.”

  “What?”

  “Love. The way you just described it.”

  I offered a timid smile to fight off tears.

  Today had marked a new beginning. Choosing action over indecision and love over fear.

  Yet none of that changed the fact that Patrick hadn’t chosen me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “What’s that in your hand?” I asked.

  Alex whirled around.

  Much like her newest shade of hair—bing-cherry red—the neon flyer in her grip was impossible to hide. That didn’t stop her from trying, though.

  I reached around her and snatched the crinkly paper from behind her back.

  “Hey!”

  I rushed through the lobby of the fitness center, dodging her efforts to retrieve it. “Tryouts for the spring musical are—”

  She ripped it from my hands and stuffed it in the nearby trash can.

  “Next Thursday,” I continued from memory.

  Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth set in a tight line. “Somebody left that here.”

  “Oh?” My tone lifted an octave. “Somebody like . . . Preston Wilkerson?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t see who.”

  Sure she didn’t. “I hear he’s Georgia’s hope for a male lead.”

  “What?” She practically spit the word. “Why? He’s a jock.”

  “Who says he can’t be a theater geek, too?”

  She narrowed her eyes into slits. “The laws of nature.”

  “Nope.” I pulled a cleaning rag and glass cleaner from the cupboard below my desk. “People can be more than one thing.”

  “Maybe that’s how you’re a teacher and . . . a glorified window cleaner.”

  I tossed a second rag at her head. “And maybe it’s how you’re an incredibly talented singer, yet you spend your time hiding out in a fitness center.”

  She stuck out her tongue.

  I faked an aim at her face, then squirted the glass doors.

  “Geesh. You’re sassy today,” said Alex. “But I’ll take sassy over Eeyore.”

  “Eeyore?”

  “Um. Yeah.” She gave me a sidelong glance while she wiped. “You’ve been moping around here like you lost your tail since Thanksgiving.”

  The circular motion of my hand slowed as her words struck home.

  I hadn’t lost my tail. Just my heart.

  If only this streak-free formula could wipe away the smudges Patrick had left behind with his whispered words, sultry smiles, and hungry kisses.

  “. . . you decide?”

  How long has she been talking? “Oh, what?”

  The damp rag slapped her thigh. “I said”—she drew it out—“what are you going to do about the job? What did you decide?”

  In fact, I’d actually done something about it already—taken the first step at least. Last night I’d called Megan Hudson after Savannah went to bed.

  But maybe Alex didn’t need to know that. Not yet anyway.

  An idea pinged in my head. “I’m not sure if I’m going to take it.”

  “What?” Her arms became goal posts in the air. I hushed her.

  “Are you crazy?” she asked.

  “Some days.” Most days was probably more like it.

  “You can’t not interview.”

  “That’s a double negative.” I moved to the next window, leaving her mouth agape.

  She marched after me. “See? That right there is a very teacherly thing to say.”

  “It’s been a long time since I was in a classroom, Alex. What if I forget how to do lesson plans? What if the kids hate me? What if the parents prefer Ms. Hudson’s style over mine?” Playing the game of life with an angst-driven teenager was far more fun than I’d imagined.

  “But it’s what you do! You helped me understand that English paper a few weeks ago, and how to study for that history exam—which I passed, by the way. I bet when you stand in front of that classroom for the fi
rst time, you’ll feel like you never left it. It will just be . . . natural, you know?”

  “You’re willing to bet me?” I couldn’t help but seize the opportunity she’d just provided me.

  “Uh . . .” She shrugged. “Well, I don’t have any money, so—”

  “It’s a good thing I don’t want your money.”

  Her eyebrows formed a deep V. “Then what do we bet?”

  “How about, if I agree to interview for the position . . . you’ll agree to audition for Georgia?”

  The whoosh of air that left her lungs was audible. “I . . . I . . . uh . . .”

  “It’s always easier to be brave for someone else, isn’t it?”

  Story of my life.

  She eyed me. “You’d really try for the position if I sing a stupid solo?”

  I smiled. “I promise you I will.”

  After six full seconds ticked by without smiling or blinking, Alex gave me a single nod. “Fine. But don’t even think about making me wear a dress.”

  I dropped my gaze to her combat boots. “Never in a million years.”

  “This has to be a mistake.”

  The outfit—if one could call this crushed red velvet minidress edged in white fur an outfit—lay strewn on my bed. I checked the bag again for the rest of the ensemble: the white poodle wig, the wire-rimmed glasses, the puffy baking hat, and the padded apron to tie around my waist.

  None of it was there.

  Instead, I’d been given half a dress, a pair of candy-cane-striped tights, and a Santa hat.

  Oh, and lest I forget, a pair of patent leather knee-high boots. In red.

  Unless Mrs. Claus had exchanged her grandmotherly ways to become a North Pole streetwalker, something had gone terribly awry at the costume rental shop.

  “Mom, Uncle Wes is here!”

  Savannah’s announcement jump-started my panic. I checked the clock and combed my fingers through my hair. Maybe when I put it on it wouldn’t look as . . . uh . . . incomplete as it did lying on my bed.

  The boom of Weston’s laugh from the other room hurried me along like a ticking second hand.

  I tugged the stiff bodice over my head and secured the sewn-in black leather belt around my waist. To my relief, the dress was slightly longer than I’d visualized.