"I keep thinking things can't get any worse, and then they get worse," Rachel murmured, running a hand through her hair. "I knew you would make this harder."
"I don't want to make it harder. I want to make it easier. This is something I can do. Will you let me do it?"
"I should say no."
He saw the expression on her face and suddenly knew for sure that she hadn't forgotten the past any more than he had. "Say yes," he whispered, feeling as reckless as he had once before.
Chapter Four
"You'd better come up to the house," Rachel said. She tried to think logically, which was almost an impossibility considering the way her pulse was jumping. "We can talk about it, think about it."
"There's nothing to think about. Gary wanted me to build your house, and Wesley wants it finished."
"And what about me? What about what I want?"
"What do you want, Rachel?" He gazed intently into her eyes. She had to look away, afraid of what he would see there. She was too vulnerable right now to deal with Dylan, too mixed up, too lonely, too scared.
"I don't know," she said with a sigh. "I'm not sure I want to finish the house. Especially since Wesley has it in his head that Gary will come home at the end of it all. I've tried to make him accept the truth. But he won't."
"He needs to let go in his own time."
"But everything I read about kids and grief says you should be up-front with them from the beginning. Don't give them false hope. Don't let them wish for the impossible. Make them face reality."
"You can't make someone forget or give up or accept, Rachel. You can't make them do that just because it makes you feel better."
"It's not about me, it's about Wesley," she said, surprised and annoyed by his tone.
"That's what my mom used to say. 'It's not about me, Dylan; it's about you. You need to forget'."
"Forget what?" Rachel asked in confusion. "What are you talking about?" She'd never heard Dylan speak of his family, and Gary had been silent on the subject as well.
"Nothing. It doesn't matter," he said abruptly.
"I thought your parents were divorced. I didn't know your father had died."
"Not my father."
"Your stepfather? One of your stepsisters?" she queried, trying to remember what little she knew of his family.
"No. It was before the stepfamily. My first family, I guess you could call it. I had a little brother named Jesse. He died when I was ten years old." Dylan walked away from her without any further explanation.
Rachel caught up to him at the front door of the house. "Hang on a second. You can't just say that and leave."
"I shouldn't have said it at all."
"I don't remember you ever mentioning that you had a little brother who died."
"I don't like to talk about it."
"What happened, Dylan? Please tell me."
He hesitated, his jaw stiff, his eyes dark with emotion. "It was a long time ago," he said slowly. "Jesse was eight, the same age as Wesley. He had cerebral palsy. He spent most of his life in a wheelchair, but his spirit was as free as a bird. When he died, everything else died, too."
"Why?"
"The family didn't work without Jesse in it. We'd focused everything we had on him. My parents split up. My mother wanted me to accept Jesse's death so she could go on. I hated her for rushing me." He paused. "Give Wesley a chance to let go of his father when the time is right for him, not when it's right for you."
Rachel was touched by his story. "Of course I will. I wish you'd told me before, Dylan." Another thought occurred to her. "Gary never said anything either. Did he know? Of course he knew," she murmured, answering her own question. "He kept your secrets, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did." Dylan met her gaze head-on, with no apology.
"And you kept his? Well …"
"Well," he echoed, then turned and went down the front steps.
She followed him, catching a glimpse of Wesley's anxious face as he sat in the front seat of her car. She couldn't imagine the horror of losing a child. What Dylan's mother must have gone through. What Dylan must have gone through. Maybe it was this loss that had darkened his soul. She'd always sensed in him an inexplicable sadness.
Dylan opened his car door and pulled out a palm-sized electronic calendar. He punched in something, then looked at her. "I can clear my schedule for the next few weeks."
"Will that be enough to finish the house?"
"Probably not, but I can hire subcontractors, some local carpenters, maybe bring up one of my crews on the weekends. It's definitely doable."
"And who will pay all those people?"
"I will."
She immediately shook her head. "I can't let you do that. You're talking about a lot of money."
"You'll pay me back."
"I'm not sure I can. Not without the insurance."
"We'll get the insurance money."
"You're a real man of action, aren't you?"
He raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like an insult."
Maybe it was. She wasn't sure she liked the idea of Dylan swooping in to rescue her, making her feel like she couldn't rescue herself. She'd been in charge for a long time. She'd been the one to solve any problem in her family for more years than she could count. She didn't need a man, or Dylan, to fix things for her. She could fix them herself.
"I'm not some helpless woman," she said.
"I never said you were. But I build things, that's what I do."
"I wanted your help in finding out the truth about Gary, not this. I never asked for this."
"So I'm offering. Come on, Rachel, what's the big deal?"
She hated the casualness in his voice, hated the way he pretended they were friends, that they hadn't spent the past ten years avoiding each other, that it wouldn't feel strange to suddenly be together.
"Mommy?" Wesley said, opening the car door. "He's going to finish our house, isn't he?"
Rachel was caught, pure and simple. She couldn't give Wesley back his father, but she could give him the house the three of them had planned. Maybe it was wrong to encourage Wesley's obsession, but he was only eight years old. Time would convince him of a reality that no amount of words could cover.
"Let me do this," Dylan said. "I need to build this house as much as Wesley needs it to be built."
She saw in his eyes a desperation similar to that of her son. Maybe that's the way it was with men and boys. They needed the action to take away the hurt. She could have used a pair of really strong, comfortable arms and a good, long cry. But she wasn't going to ask Dylan for that. "All right," she said finally. "You can build the house, but I will pay you back someday because that's something I need to do."
* * *
"Tell me what you need," Travis Barker said to Carly as she tried to enter the private house next door to the Rogelio Winery.
"I need you to get out of my way," Carly replied, holding her pie carefully in her hands. She'd tried to see Antonio the night before, but he'd gone to San Francisco. She'd waited until now to come back, hoping to catch him just in time for a late-afternoon snack. Or maybe she could convince him to go on an evening picnic with her. There was a beautiful spot by a nearby creek with a soft bed of grass. She could picture it in her mind, a tiny slice of heaven that could be hers if only she could get this idiot, Travis, out of her way. But Travis wasn't moving. His solid linebacker body was firmly planted in front of her and his nose was twitching at the sweet smell of her apple pie.
"What you got there, Carly?" Travis asked with his usual slow drawl. The Barker family had moved to Sebastopol from Texas when Travis was thirteen, but there was still a lot of the Lone Star State in his voice and his manners. She supposed some girls would find that attractive, maybe even a little sexy, but it did absolutely nothing for her, she told herself firmly.
"It's a pie," she said, trying to peer around him.
"I'm kind of hungry," he said hopefully.
"Forget about it. It's for Antonio. Is
he here?"
"I don't think he's back from the city."
"You don't think or you don't know?"
"He's not here. Clear enough for you, babe?" he asked with a grin that told her he knew he got to her and enjoyed it.
"I'm not your babe."
"You could be."
She rolled her eyes at that. Travis had taken notice of her when she'd turned fifteen and grown breasts. Before that, he'd just been the older, obnoxious big brother of her best friend, Sandra Barker. Sandra was now devoting herself to her husband of six months and her pregnancy, just another one of her friends to opt for marriage and children and life in Sebastopol. She had other plans, which included getting Travis out of her way.
She didn't know why he didn't give it up already. He'd been asking her out for years. She'd never said yes, and she was never planning to say yes. She knew what she wanted in a man and it was not this man. Not that he hadn't grown into a reasonably good-looking guy. Gone were the braces and the too thin, lanky body that had always been more clumsy than graceful. Now his freckles had faded, giving him a nice, even tan to go with his sandy-brown hair and golden-brown eyes. He'd buffed up over the years, his muscles defined, his stance powerful, his shoulders broad enough for a woman to rest her head on. But -- and it was a big but -- he had no ambition.
Travis was a simple carpenter. He loved living in the small town. His idea of a hot Friday night was bowling or a miniature-golf date. She wanted much more than that. She yearned for big-city noises, busy shopping malls, fancy restaurants, museums and art galleries. Oh, how she loved standing in an art gallery surrounded by masterpieces. She sneaked into the city every chance she got to do just that, but she couldn't tell anyone, especially not her family. They'd see it as a betrayal.
Rachel was forever speaking of duty and loyalty and keeping the orchards alive for their father, for their family, for the goddamn legacy that had been passed down from generation to generation. Rachel didn't understand that they didn't share the same dreams, and Carly hadn't found the courage to tell her.
That's why she needed to find another reason to leave, and love was the best reason. Especially love with a sophisticated world traveler like Antonio. She liked him, so why not fall in love with him? Why not have him fall in love with her? They could both do a lot worse. It could all happen the way she wanted it to, if she could get this big oaf out of her way.
"Just move, Travis," she said with determination in her voice.
"I don't think so, not until I know what's in that pie."
"It's an apple pie. You can see that."
"Yes, but what kind of apples?"
"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked in frustration. "I thought you were working on the wine-tasting room next door."
"I'm redoing some of the hardwood floors. That pie has one of those magic apples in it, doesn't it?"
She shook her head at the knowing gleam in his eye. "Don't be silly. That tree never blooms."
"And you never bake. So tell me another one."
"I'm coming in. I'll see for myself if Antonio is here."
"Fine, but take your shoes off. I just did the floors, and those heels aren't going anywhere near that finish."
She debated whether she should just forget the whole thing. What was she going to do, stalk around Antonio's private home in her bare feet with an apple pie in her hands? Somehow, she had a feeling that would make her look desperate. It was one thing to be desperate; it was another to show it. "Never mind. I'll come back later."
"I'm sure you will," Travis said, leaning against the doorjamb.
"What is your problem anyway?" she asked, wishing the words back almost as soon as they had left her mouth.
"I don't have a problem. It's none of my business if you want to chase after some guy who will never settle down with a small-town girl like you."
"I'm not always going to be a small-town girl. In fact, I intend to get out of this town as soon as possible."
"And go where?"
"I don't know yet." She hated the smug look in his eyes. "But I know that someday I will be someone."
"You already are someone. You're Carly Wood, beautiful, crazy, impulsive -- did I say crazy?"
"Did you say beautiful?" she asked, somewhat shocked to hear that word cross his lips. She might have a good body, but her face was nothing special.
"You heard me. If I say it again, your head will get even bigger. I just don't understand what you think you can do somewhere else that you can't do here."
"A million things -- go to the theater, go shopping at Neiman Marcus, have dinner in a four-star restaurant that doesn't serve chili."
"The city is an hour away. What's stopping you from going in on the weekends?"
"I have responsibilities here, not to mention very little cash."
"How about I take you to dinner tomorrow night in San Francisco? We can drive down early in the afternoon and go to the wharf. I hear they have a bunch of sea lions there."
She stared at him in amazement. "You want to take me to the city for dinner?"
"Is that a yes?"
"No. Maybe…" She hated her uncertainty. She'd set her sights on Antonio. She couldn't go to San Francisco with Travis. That would be only a short-term solution, not a long-term one. What was it Rachel always said? Stay focused? Yes, that was it. She had to stay focused. "I can't, I have other plans."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do. And why would I want to go anywhere with you? We don't even like each other."
"Sure we do." He gave her a slow, wicked smile that for some reason made her heart jump in her chest. This was Travis, clumsy, irritating, practical-joker Travis. She could not possibly be attracted to him.
"I don't think so," she said sharply. "If you see Antonio, ask him to give me a call."
"I'll do that."
She didn't believe him for a second, but at the moment it seemed more prudent to let it go and leave. Her body was having a strange reaction to a man who had seen her go through just about every awkward, embarrassing moment in her life.
"Carly," Travis said as she turned to leave.
"What?"
"Someday."
"It's not going to happen, Travis. I'm not interested in you. I'm sorry. But that's the way it is."
"That might have been the way it was, but not the way it's going to be," he said as he shut the door in her face.
"We'll see about that," she muttered. She looked down at her apple pie. After all, she still had her secret weapon. As soon as Antonio ate one of her magic apples, she wouldn't have to worry about Travis Barker anymore. Not even he could fight a legend.
* * *
"When do you want to get started?" Rachel asked Dylan as she let him in the front door of her house.
That was a good question. When did he want to start? He'd thrown an overnight bag into the car, thinking he might check into a local hotel for a night or two. But if he was going to finish her house, he'd definitely be staying longer than a night.
"Maybe you've had second thoughts," Rachel said. "It's okay if you have. I understand. The house doesn't need to be finished right now anyway. We have a roof over our heads, a very nice roof."
The large two-story house was warm and inviting. It was a family home, the living room filled with big, comfortable couches and chairs perfect for a man to kick his feet up on. But there were also colorful throw pillows, fresh flowers and dozens of family photographs adding a feminine touch to the room.
"Dylan," Rachel prodded.
He realized he hadn't answered her, but the answer was clear in his head. "I haven't had second thoughts. I'll finish the house that Gary started. It's what he would have wanted."
"Maybe," she conceded, not sounding so sure.
Before he could press her, an older woman came into the living room, accompanied by a very excited and chattering Wesley. It was Marge Wood, Rachel's grandmother. Dylan remembered meeting her a few times before.
Marge didn't look an
ything like Rachel. Her hair was a frosty gray, her eyes a bright and clear light blue. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet. Gary had once called her a pocket-sized dynamo, said she had more energy than ten people and a bigger heart he had yet to find.
"Hello," Marge said, giving Dylan a warm smile. "How are you? It's nice to see you again."
"I'm fine, and it's nice to see you, too."
"Wesley has been talking so fast, I can't make heads or tails of what he's saying," Marge continued. "Something about finishing the house?"
Dylan looked over at Rachel, who slowly nodded and said, "Yes, Dylan is going to finish the house."
"That's a lovely idea. It tears my heart apart every time I see it standing there looking so lonely. A house should be finished. Then it becomes a home."
A home that Gary would never see or live in with his wife and child. Dylan noticed the tension in Rachel's face. Maybe he'd been wrong to offer. Would it be too difficult for her to live there? But then again, they couldn't just leave it as it was, a skeletal reminder of a future that would never be. That would be painful, too.
"Dylan, would you like to stay for dinner?" Marge asked. "Please say yes. John will enjoy having another man to speak to. With Gary gone, John has been feeling a bit like a rooster in a henhouse."
"If you're sure it's no trouble," he replied.
"No trouble at all. And there's always plenty of food, especially since Rachel eats like a bird these days. Wesley, do you want to help me set the table?"
"Sure, Grandma."
Marge took Wesley's hand and led him out of the room, leaving Dylan and Rachel alone.
As the silence enveloped them like an intimate blanket, Dylan became more and more uncomfortable. He shouldn't be here, not in this house. This was Gary's house. This was Gary's life, not his life, never his life.
"Are you all right?" Rachel asked, a curious but wary look in her eyes.
"Fine," he lied. "If you'd rather I didn't stay to dinner, I can make up an excuse and leave."
"Dinner is the least of my worries. Do you want to sit down?"
"Sure, why not?" He forced himself to breathe as he sat down on the couch. He'd been here before. It wasn't like he'd never stepped foot in the house. Of course, the last time he'd been in this room was right after Gary's funeral. The breath left his chest again as he remembered the crowd of people dressed in black, their voices hushed as they whispered about what a tragedy it had been, their eyes filled with pity whenever Rachel or Wesley had come into the room.
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