Love Will Find a Way

by Barbara Freethy

  The two men were as different as night and day, Gary with his golden-blond looks, Dylan with his midnight-black eyes, Gary with his sunny disposition, Dylan with his dark moods.

  Dylan. Today her faded memories had been washed in bright, beautiful color, and the shadowy figure in her mind had become vibrant and real and distinctly unsettling.

  As she got into her car, she told herself it was the circumstances that bothered her, not the man. There was too much at stake to allow a momentary indiscretion from a long time ago to get in the way of what she needed to do. Dylan had probably forgotten all about it. Chalked it up as no big deal. He probably didn't even realize she'd been avoiding him all these years.

  It had been easy not to see each other. She lived two hours away. When Gary was home on the weekends, he was with her family, her friends. Dylan had rarely invaded that space.

  Gary had always told her that Dylan felt more comfortable in the city, and she'd accepted that explanation.

  Whether or not it was true didn't matter. And whether or not Dylan made her uncomfortable didn't matter. What did matter was that Dylan had been Gary's best friend for more than twenty years. If anyone could help her figure out what had been going on in Gary's mind the last day of his life, it was Dylan.

  Rachel started the engine and pulled out behind Dylan's car. It seemed ironically fitting that their vehicles so perfectly represented their lives, Dylan in his fast, big-city, successful guy Mercedes and she in her practical-mom minivan. The minivan was exactly what she needed to drive Wesley and his friends around, but she couldn't help admiring the sleek lines of the car in front of her.

  Within minutes, Dylan pulled up in front of a four-story apartment building in Pacific Heights. He waved her into a driveway, for which she was incredibly grateful, since she was reluctant to park on the steep hill.

  When she got out of the car, she was dazzled by the view, the shimmering blue waters of the San Francisco Bay turning silver in the moonlight, and the gleaming lights of the Golden Gate Bridge brightening the darkening sky. She was more comfortable with wide-open spaces and endless quiet, but there was a beauty here that she hadn't expected. For the first time, she wondered how Gary had felt living with one foot in each of his worlds.

  "Ready?" Dylan asked her, meeting her by the front door.

  She nodded and followed him into the elevator and up to the third floor, where he inserted a key into the lock and opened the door.

  For a second she froze, suddenly terrified to step inside. Did she want to know -- if there was something to know?

  Wouldn't it be better to keep her memories, her love, her faith, intact? But they were intact, she reminded herself. She just wanted one last look at the other part of Gary's life -- the part she hadn't really understood.

  Gary had taken the apartment for practical purposes. With his long hours and long commute, it made sense for him to have a place in the city. She hadn't been able to argue with his reasoning, although she'd never gotten used to the idea of her husband having another home. Whenever she'd raised her concern about the distance between them, Gary would pull her into a big hug and tell her they had the best of everything.

  She'd believed him because she wanted to believe him, and perhaps because changing the status quo might have meant having to come with him and live here in the city, she thought guiltily.

  "You don't have to do this," Dylan told her. "I can check things out and let you know what I find."

  "I've come this far." She walked through the doorway and halted just inside to get her bearings. It was a man's apartment: heavy, dark furniture; a big-screen television set; a state-of-the-art stereo in one corner; a treadmill in the other. Her gaze moved from the big stuff to the little stuff: the pair of tennis shoes kicked halfway under the couch; sunglasses on the counter; a newspaper spread out on the dining room table the way Gary had always spread it out, driving her crazy by never closing one section before opening another right on top of it. Oh, God! She put a hand to her mouth, feeling suddenly sick.

  "Are you all right?"

  Dylan's voice sounded like he was speaking underwater. The blood pounded through her head so loudly she couldn't hear a thing. She found herself being pushed down onto the couch, her head forced between her knees.

  "Breathe," Dylan ordered. "Just take a breath."

  She forced some air into her lungs and began to feel better. Embarrassed, she sat up. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

  "It's all right. I should have cleaned this place up a long time ago. I had the same reaction when I walked in after the funeral. I guess that's why I didn't come back. I should have sent the cleaning lady in. The dust is an inch thick." He got up from the couch and dug his hands into his pockets as he walked toward the window.

  She was grateful for the chance to regroup. "It wasn't your responsibility, it was mine. But the apartment was never a part of my life. After Gary's death, I forgot about it." She picked up a childish drawing from the coffee table, Wesley's birthday card to his father. The words I love you, Daddy were scrawled across the page. Rachel's heart broke just a bit more. "What am I doing here?" she murmured, a tiny sob escaping her throat. "A man who saves a little boy's cards doesn't kill himself."

  Dylan turned around at her words. "Why don't I pack everything up and send it to you? You can go through the boxes when you're ready."

  She stood up, thinking that was a good plan, although she didn't quite trust the expression on Dylan's face. He seemed uneasy. Of course, after her reactions, almost fainting, then getting soppy over a silly card, he probably wasn't sure what she would do next.

  "Won't it be hard on you?" she asked, instead of saying yes.

  Dylan shrugged. "I can handle it." He cast a quick glance toward the bedroom door, then looked back at her. "I'll walk you out."

  "Maybe I should check the bedroom." It wasn't what she meant to say; it wasn't even what she wanted to do, but once the words were out, she couldn't take them back. So she walked into the bedroom, telling herself with each step that it would be fine. There were no monsters here. This was just a place where Gary stayed during the week. No big deal.

  The bed wasn't made, no surprise there. The half-open closet door revealed a pile of dirty laundry in a hamper, suits and shirts hanging from the rack. They were Gary's work clothes, his architect clothes, not the comfortable Dockers and polo shirts he wore at home. She began to breathe more easily as she looked around the room. These were her husband's things. True, she didn't recognize many of them, but so what? That didn't mean anything.

  "Are you done?" Dylan asked from the doorway.

  "Yes." But as she turned, her gaze caught on the dresser, on a strangely-shaped glass bottle. It drew her like a moth to a flame. She knew it was perfume before she crossed the room. She knew it wasn't her perfume before she reached the dresser. But she didn't know the bottle was only half full until she picked it up. "Oh, God!" she whispered as she turned around to face Dylan. "Who does this belong to?"

  His face grew so tight she wasn't sure he could answer even if he wanted to. It quickly became apparent that he didn't want to.

  "Gary always said you were an honorable man, someone he could trust. Does that also mean you would keep his secrets?" she asked.

  "Don't do this, Rachel."

  "Was he having an affair?" She put a hand to her heart as her voice filled with the doubt she'd been trying to suppress. "Oh, my God, was my husband cheating on me?"

  Chapter Two

  Dylan's breath stalled in his chest at the look in Rachel's shocked eyes. A dozen answers came to his mind, but it wouldn't matter what he said. She was too caught up in some unspeakable scenario of betrayal that her imagination had conjured up. Despite the fact that his own stomach had taken a nosedive a second ago, he couldn't let her go in that direction.

  "Stop it," he ordered. "Just stop it. You jumped about a million miles in logic. There's a perfume bottle sitting on a dresser. So what?"

  "So what?" s
he echoed in disbelief. "It's not mine. That's so what."

  "Maybe it belonged to a client."

  "What kind of a client? Why would Gary be holding business meetings in his apartment?"

  "I don't know, but neither do you. Think for a second. We don't know who left the perfume bottle here. We don't," he repeated when she opened her mouth to argue. "It could be perfectly innocent. In fact, I'm sure it is innocent. And you should be sure, too."

  "You're right. I should be sure. I am sure," she added, deliberately raising her voice. "I knew my husband. I knew him. I did."

  She was trying to sound convinced and was failing abominably. Dylan didn't know what to say. He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to defend his friend. He wanted... Hell, he wanted everything to be the way it had been. No, that wasn't even true. The way it had been hadn't been right either, but it had been better than this. Anything was better than this.

  "I can't be here right now," Rachel said. "Nothing makes sense here. I don't know this place. I don't understand it."

  "Then go home, Rachel. Go back to your apple farm and your son and your family. I'll box everything up and ship it to you."

  "Not the bottle. Don't send me that bottle." She wrapped her arms around her body as if she could somehow protect herself from it.

  "I won't.'

  "No, you should. It could be a clue. No, don't. Oh, God, I don't know. Tell me what to do. Please, just tell me what to do, Dylan."

  The painful plea in her eyes made him want to pull her into his arms and protect her. But he forced his hands deeper into his pockets. The very last thing he needed to do was touch her. "I think you should let it go," he said. "Gary is gone. None of the rest of it matters."

  "But it does matter."

  "If you need money -- "

  "It's not just the money, although God knows I'm not sure how I'll manage without it. But that's not it. I can't stand these doubts I have. Gary deserves my loyalty, yet there's this little voice inside my head telling me something is wrong with the way he died. I think I felt it even before I talked to the insurance company, but when their report said suicide, I couldn't run from the feeling anymore. I want to know what Gary was thinking when he drove down that mountain road six months ago. I want to know why he took cash from our bank account. I want to know why he bought the life insurance policy without telling me. I want to know if I somehow missed something. Maybe if I'd paid more attention, been a better wife, I could have stopped him -- "

  "Stopped him from what?" Dylan interrupted. "From dying? How could you have done that? How could you have possibly done that?"

  "I don't know, but I was his wife -- "

  "And I was his best friend," he said harshly "I could have stopped him, too. If you want to blame someone, blame me." Because if Gary had driven himself off that road, then Dylan should have seen it coming. He'd always been able to gauge Gary's moods, but not this last time. This last time he hadn't asked any questions, hadn't inquired why Gary was heading up to Tahoe on his own, hadn't pressed him about why he looked so tired or seemed so distant. In retrospect, Dylan knew that things hadn't been right, but he'd hesitated to ask, because... well, because he'd been afraid Gary was cheating on Rachel, and he hadn't wanted to hear it. Dammit, there it was. But he couldn't tell Rachel that. God, he couldn't tell her that.

  "I can't blame you," Rachel said, catching his gaze and holding on to it. "Gary loved you, Dylan. You were his best friend in the world."

  Her words pierced his heart like a knife to the chest. "Yeah, I was a hell of a best friend." He drew in a much-needed breath. "Look, this isn't getting us anywhere. None of this was your fault. In fact, I don't think it was anyone's fault. It was an accident. Gary took a curve too fast and lost control of his car." Maybe if he said it forcefully enough, he'd believe it, too.

  She stared at him for a long minute, searching his face for something, but he wasn't quite sure what. "I have to know, Dylan, and not just for me, but for Wesley. I have an eight-year-old son to protect, a little boy who loved his father and still can't accept the fact that he's gone. I can't allow any doubts, any secrets, to jump out and hurt him even more."

  "That won't happen."

  "I won't let it happen. I can't. I wish I'd never filed that insurance claim."

  "So do I," he said heavily.

  "Will you help me, Dylan? I hate to admit it, but I don't think I can do this alone."

  Such a simple sentence, yet such a difficult request, for so many reasons.

  "Gary would want us to do this together," she added.

  Rachel was probably right. Gary had always wanted them to get along better, never understood why neither one of them had shown any interest in the other; but then, Gary had never known that once, just once, the distance between them had been covered by a kiss -- a kiss they said they would never remember, but one that Dylan had never forgotten.

  He owed Gary for that lapse in loyalty. And he'd been trying to pay off that debt for the past nine years. This might be his last chance to make things right. He needed to restore Rachel's faith in Gary. He needed to protect Wesley's love for his father. It was the least Dylan could do for his best friend.

  "I'll help you," he said.

  She looked him straight in the eye. "And you'll tell me the truth, no matter what?"

  "I can't promise that. Gary was my best friend."

  Her lips tightened. "Well. I guess I know where we stand."

  "Where we've always stood," he agreed. With Gary in between us.

  And just like that, they were back to the beginning.

  * * *

  His blond hair glowed in the afternoon sunlight, like an angel's halo, Rachel thought whimsically as a handsome young man walked up to the apple stand, where she'd been selling fruit for the better part of the day, and asked for directions. She couldn't answer right away, caught up in the blue of his eyes, the dimple in his cheek, the mischief in his smile. Then she realized he was laughing, and she was staring. She blushed with embarrassment.

  "Gary Tanner," he said, extending his hand. "And you are?"

  "Rachel Wood," she stuttered. She put her hand in his, expecting a brief handshake, but he curled his fingers around hers and a shiver ran down her spine. "Where -- where did you want to go?" she asked, finally pulling her hand away from his and surreptitiously wiping her sweaty palm on the side of her shorts.

  "I'm not sure anymore," he replied with a thoughtful tip of his head. "I think I just found what I was looking for."

  Rachel's heart took a tumble. All the coldness that had gripped her in the past month in the wake of her daddy's illness was suddenly wiped away by this man's warm smile.

  "But my friend, Dylan, will probably kill me if I come back to the car without directions. This is about the hundredth time I've gotten us lost," he confided with a mischievous grin. "Dylan doesn't understand that sometimes the most interesting and prettiest sights are found on the side roads."

  Rachel felt the heat creep back up her neck and across her cheeks. She wondered when she'd outgrow the terrible habit. She wasn't a child anymore; she was nineteen years old. She needed to stop acting like a foolish girl. But this sophisticated man was so different from the boys she was used to seeing around the farm.

  "At least you're willing to ask for directions. Some men would rather die first," she said, trying to sound casual and worldly at the same time, as if she knew all kinds of men.

  "Well, we have been driving around in circles for about an hour," he admitted. "Can you tell me if I'm anywhere close to the Redwood Highway?"

  "Oh, sure, you're not far at all. Just a mile farther down this road. Make a left past the railroad tracks, go two blocks, and you'll see the highway."

  "Sounds easy enough. Thanks. Now how about..."

  He paused for so long, she thought he was about to ask for a kiss. A kiss! Her heart thudded against her chest in anticipation as they both seemed to be leaning forward.

  "Hey, what's the holdup?" a man asked, coming up
behind Gary. "Did you get directions, or are we destined to drive past the same cow for another hour?"

  A flood of disappointment swept through Rachel at the interruption. She fixed an annoyed glance on the impatient dark-haired man who was nowhere near as warm and friendly as Gary.

  "I got the directions. I'm just picking up a few apples while we're here," Gary said, giving Rachel a wink. "Which of these are the sweetest?"

  She made a sudden and impulsive decision. She reached behind her into a canvas bag and pulled out an apple that was a rainbow of pinks and reds. "Take this one. It's special."

  "Special, huh?"

  She shrugged her shoulders, feeling a bit silly. "Well, there's a legend, but it doesn't matter. It's still the best apple you'll ever eat. It's on the house," she said when he reached into his pocket.

  He turned the apple in his hand. "A legend? As in magic?"

  "Gary, we don't have time for this," Dylan said impatiently.

  "Maybe I'll have to come back, and you can tell me the story," Gary said with an appealing grin.

  "I'm counting on it," she whispered as he walked away, taking the other man with him. She hoped there really was some magic in that apple. Because she had a feeling about this man, a really good feeling.

  A little magic, Rachel thought with a sigh as she drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and headed north to the small town of Sebastopol; she could sure use a little magic now, too. Not even magic really, just answers, truth, light -- something to take the queasiness out of her stomach and the heaviness off her shoulders. She felt lonely, scared and completely overwhelmed, so different from the time her heart had been filled with hope, excitement and anticipation when she'd met Gary. All of that was gone.

  One day she was a wife, the next day she was a widow. Somewhere in between she'd lost her heart, her soul and her spirit. She had to find a way to get them back. She had a child to raise. And there wasn't just Wesley, but her sister, Carly, her grandmother Marge, her grandfather John, her aunt Dee and everyone else who depended on the orchards, on her, to keep things going. How would she manage that if she couldn't keep herself going?