Love Will Find a Way

by Barbara Freethy

  "Maybe I do," she said uncertainly, because this wasn't a step she was sure she wanted to take. She'd started down this road once before but had chickened out. Maybe she really wasn't that good. And if she wasn't that good, why risk losing everything else for a dream that would never materialize? It would be easier to just get married. Then whatever she and Antonio did would be part of their new life together. Rachel wouldn't see it as a betrayal. A woman was supposed to support her husband, and if Antonio's interest was art, then Carly's would have to be, too.

  "Boy, I can see the wheels turning in your head," Travis observed. "You take the longest route of anyone I know to get from point A to point B. You want to be an artist, start by going to a showing. Don't start by marrying some guy you don't love."

  How could he know what she was thinking? Had she spoken out loud? Before she could ask him, the front door opened and closed. Rachel was home. "Fine, I'll go with you," she said quickly. "But don't tell Rachel."

  "Don't tell me what?" Rachel asked as she came into the living room.

  "Nothing," Carly replied abruptly. "I guess Dylan found you, huh?"

  "Yeah, he found me."

  Rachel didn't sound too happy, and Carly wondered why. "You look flushed."

  Rachel put both hands to her face, looking guilty. "It's warm in here. I think we need to get a ceiling fan."

  "Or maybe just send someone back to the city," Carly said pointedly.

  "What are you doing here, Travis?" Rachel asked, changing the subject. "Looking for another mouse?"

  He smiled. "We can't seem to find the little bugger. Carly thought she saw one run in here, but I couldn't find anything."

  "It was probably just my imagination," she interjected. "Thanks for coming by." She walked over to the doorway, hinting that he should leave. For a moment she thought he was going to say something else, he so enjoyed yanking her chain, but all he did was murmur a goodnight in Rachel's direction. Then he stopped in front of her and said, "Don't forget our date. Wear something pretty."

  She silently counted to ten before turning back to face Rachel's inquiring gaze.

  "You're going out with Travis?" Rachel asked.

  "Just for dinner next weekend. He wants to plan a surprise party for his mother's birthday next month, and I said I'd help him." It was amazing how easily the lies came where her art was concerned. "What's up with you?" she asked, changing the subject.

  "I told Dylan the Lady Elaine story."

  "Was he impressed?"

  Rachel shrugged, then sat down on the couch. "I don't know what he thought. But when I was telling him the story, I started thinking about more than the apple tree. I was thinking about Elaine's journey west. How brave she was. How much she was willing to sacrifice for the man she loved. She must have been an amazing woman. I'm beginning to wish we'd inherited more than the tree. I wish I could be that bold, that daring, that willing to throw away everything I know for everything I don't know."

  Carly wished she could, too. Just as she wished she could share with Rachel the most important part of herself. But she'd rather have her sister believe she was in love with an Italian playboy than that she had the same passion for painting as their mother. Where was her bravery?

  Their mother had had courage, maybe more courage than compassion. She'd chased her dream and to hell with the consequences, leaving behind a family shattered by her actions. "She stole it from us," Carly said, not realizing she'd said the words aloud until she saw the quizzical look on Rachel's face. "Mom. She stole our courage. She took it with her when she left. Because she ran away, we've been afraid to lose what we had left."

  Rachel stared at her as if she'd never seen her before.

  "You don't agree?" she asked sharply.

  "No. I mean, yes. Actually, I do agree. I've just never thought of it that way."

  "We couldn't hold on to her, so we have to hold on to other things."

  "Like the farm."

  Carly nodded, even though for her it wasn't the farm at all, it was Rachel's love. It wasn't until this very moment that she realized what it was all about. She'd lost her mother and her father, too, for that matter. She couldn't afford to lose her sister.

  "But you don't care about the orchards like I do," Rachel said slowly. "What is it you care about, Carly? What are you afraid to lose?"

  It was the best opening she'd ever had to reveal her secret; she just needed to find the right words. Unfortunately, while she was looking for them, Wesley came running into the room.

  "You're back," he said, jumping onto Rachel's lap. "Dylan and I made a cabinet today. I want to show it to you."

  "We'll go see it tomorrow, honey."

  "Okay. Grandma says it's time to eat. Where's Dylan?"

  "He had to go home."

  Wesley's face fell. "But he said he was going to stay."

  "Something came up," Rachel said. "You'll see him tomorrow, don't worry. Tell Grandma we'll be right there.

  "Okay."

  "Guess we better go eat," Rachel said, getting to her feet. "You were going to say something, though. What was it?"

  She shook her head, for the moment had passed. "Nothing."

  "Was it about Travis?"

  "No! Goodness, why would you think that?"

  "Because I don't believe for a second that Travis was here seeking a phantom mouse," Rachel said with a smile. "I think he's mad about you. He has been for a while."

  "He's mad, but not about me."

  "Oh, come on, surely you've noticed."

  "I'm not interested in him that way."

  Rachel frowned. "That's right. You want Antonio. Be careful, Carly. Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes it comes true and then you find out it's not at all what you wanted."

  * * *

  "You know what I wish?" Wesley asked Dylan when he stopped by the house on Monday after school.

  "What's that?" Dylan asked as he sat back on his heels and gazed into the little boy's face.

  "That Daddy would come back now and help us with the house instead of waiting for us to finish it." Wesley's blue eyes challenged Dylan to refute the fact that Gary was coming home.

  He wasn't sure how to respond. This was the one conversation they hadn't had, the one they'd both avoided. Now that it had arrived, he didn't know what to say. He didn't want to make things worse, but he also didn't want to lie. They'd established a trust between them, a trust he wanted to protect.

  "Do you really think your dad would just wait for us to finish the house?" he asked, the words coming out slowly. "Don't you think he'd want to help if he could?"

  Wesley wet his lips with his tongue. "He's very busy. He has a lot of work to do. He can only come home on the weekends. And sometimes not even then. He wants to be with us, but he can't."

  Wesley sounded like he was reciting a familiar refrain. Were these the words Gary had used to explain his frequent absences? And why had Gary been such an absent father? Hadn't he realized how much Wesley missed him when he was gone? Maybe Dylan was to blame, too. Maybe he shouldn't have offered Gary the convenient city apartment. He should have urged his friend to spend more time at home with his family. Well, it was too late to do anything about the past. But he could do the right thing now.

  "That's true," he said easily. "Your dad wants to be with you more than anything. But he can't, can he, Wes?"

  Wesley shook his head as the tears began to fall down his cheeks. Dylan put down his hammer and gathered the boy in his arms, feeling his small body shake with the sudden release of sobs. Rachel said Wesley hadn't cried much since the funeral. But he was crying now, weeping like his heart was breaking. It was the worst sound of pain Dylan had ever heard. He wished he could make it go away, but all he could do was hold on.

  Finally, the sobs began to break. Dylan loosened his grip so he could wipe away the traces of Wesley's tears with the sleeve of his shirt.

  "It's okay to cry," he told him. "I cried enough to fill a big bucket when I found out your dad had died."<
br />
  "Why did he have to die? Why did he have to go away and not come back? It's not fair. Everyone else has a dad but me."

  Wesley's simple questions broke Dylan's heart. They reminded him not only of Gary but also of Jesse. He could remember clinging to his mother, asking her why Jesse had to die. Why did God have to take him to heaven? Why couldn't he have more time?

  "It's not fair," Dylan agreed, giving Wesley another hug. "But I know this. Your dad loved you a lot."

  "He did?" Wesley stepped back, digging his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans.

  "Yes. Did you know he called me the night you were born? He was so excited to have a son. He told me he was the luckiest man on earth, and no one in the world could ever mean more to him than you did."

  Wesley sniffed, taking in every word like a long, cold drink that he was thirsty for.

  "I'd never heard your dad sound so happy. And over the years, he'd tell me how proud of you he was, every little thing you did -- when you first learned to talk and walk, read and ride a bicycle. He loved being with you, Wes. And the only reason he's not here with us today is because he can't be."

  "Sometimes I think he's still coming back," Wesley confessed. "Like his car will come up the driveway and he'll honk three times, the way he did when he came home after a trip. Sometimes I stay up all night listening for the horn. Don't tell Mommy. She doesn't want me to stay up at night."

  "I won't tell her."

  "She misses my dad, too."

  "I know she does."

  "Do you think she's going to like the house if Daddy isn't here?"

  Dylan looked at the house taking shape around them. He had followed Gary's plans carefully, not wanting to veer off in the wrong direction, but sometimes he wondered if this was truly the house Rachel wanted. Could she be happy here on her own? Or would it always feel empty? Would it always be just a house and not a home?

  Gary would want Rachel to be happy. Whatever he had or hadn't done with other women, Dylan knew with a deep and unyielding certainty that Gary had loved Rachel on some level and her happiness had always been important to him.

  "Mommy wanted a big bathtub in her bedroom," Wesley said. "But Daddy said he'd never get her out of it, so he drew in a shower."

  Dylan smiled, seeing a new light in Wesley's eyes. "You think your mom would rather have a bathtub?"

  He nodded. "A really big one, the kind you can swim in."

  "With jets and bubbles?"

  "That would be cool. And I could use it, too."

  "Then maybe we should put one in. What do you think?"

  Wesley's smile went from ear to ear. "I think we should."

  "Then we will."

  "I can't help you very long today. I have a soccer game at five. It was supposed to be this coming Saturday, but it got rescheduled because everyone is going to the festival."

  "That's okay."

  Wesley hesitated. "Do you think you could come to the game? Do you have time?"

  Once again Dylan had the sense that Wesley had asked this question more than a few times.

  "I'll make time," he said firmly. "How about we go out to the field a little early and warm up?"

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, really. Now, hand me those nails. We've got some work to finish before we go."

  * * *

  "What are you doing here?" Rachel asked Dylan as he parked in the spot next to hers at the soccer field.

  "Wesley and I are going to take some warm-up shots. Didn't he tell you? Hey, Wes," he said as her son got out of the minivan.

  "Hey, Dylan." Wesley squatted down to retie his shoe.

  "No, he didn't tell me," she said.

  Dylan gave her a little wink with his smile, and she had a feeling there was more going on than soccer.

  Wesley had been acting differently since he'd come home an hour ago. Something had gone on between these two males, but she didn't have a clue to what it was.

  "Toss me the ball, Wes," Dylan said.

  Wesley tossed him the soccer ball. Dylan rolled it around in his hands. "It's been a while since I've kicked one of these."

  "Are you planning on kicking one now?" Rachel asked.

  "Maybe."

  "What's going on with you two?"

  "We just had a little man-to-man chat," Dylan replied. "I'll tell you later. Let's go, Wes."

  They were off before Rachel could protest, not that she wanted to. Wesley had been struggling with his soccer skills since the season had begun a few weeks earlier. Since she'd never played soccer, she couldn't do much to help him. And Gary had never had the time. Or made the time, she thought with a sigh. But then, neither one of them had realized just how little time they would have.

  Rachel wandered over to the bleachers and sat down. One of the other moms, Ellen Connor, sat down next to her.

  "Who's that?" Ellen asked.

  "Dylan Prescott. He's working on my new house."

  "Ah, that's the sexy contractor. I should have guessed," Ellen said with a laugh. "My sister, Melissa, says all the single girls in town have their eyes on him. Is he available?"

  Rachel felt a little discomfort with the question. Was Dylan available? Well, of course he was. He was an attractive man with a successful business. And he was good with kids, that was for sure. Athletic, judging by the way he was juggling the soccer ball. Sexy? He certainly did fill out a pair of tight blue jeans. Oh, heavens! She felt the warmth rush to her face and hoped to God that Ellen was still looking at Dylan and not at her.

  "Sure, he's available," she said, deliberately infusing a breezy note into her voice.

  "He was friends with Gary, wasn't he?"

  "Since they were kids."

  "It's nice of him to help out now." Ellen shot Rachel a sideways glance. "I heard you and Dylan heated up the dance floor at Shenanigans the other night."

  "We danced. I don't think there was any smoke."

  "Too bad. I mean, I know you're still grieving, but he seems like a great guy." Ellen sighed as her son called out for a Gatorade. "Can I get you anything at the snack bar?"

  "No, thanks."

  Rachel should have known that dance would stir up gossip. She should have thought about that before she'd insisted on the silly bet. Of course, she hadn't been thinking at all, just floating along on the tide of desire that always arrived with Dylan. But she had to start thinking, start acting better or at least differently. She wasn't being fair to Dylan.

  As Ellen had reminded her, Dylan was free, single, available. He'd make a great husband, a wonderful father. Someday he'd find a woman who'd make him feel like he was first in her heart. He deserved that. She could never give him first. She could only give him second. And that wouldn't be enough for him.

  She had to step back, keep her distance, give him a chance to get on with his life. She'd already had her turn at love and marriage; it was Dylan's turn. And there were women who wanted him, probably dozens, she thought, feeling even more depressed.

  "Why the long face?" Dylan asked.

  She was startled to find him standing next to her. Wesley had joined the rest of his team on the field for the official warm-up. He already looked like a different kid, like someone who felt more comfortable in the huddle. Dylan had given him that confidence. She owed him a lot. More than she could ever repay.

  "Rachel?"

  "Thanks for helping Wesley. He looks better already."

  "He just needs to believe in himself, that's all. Move over," he added, climbing onto the bench next to her.

  "So what was the subject of your man-to-man talk?" she asked, subtly scooting a little farther down the bench so their thighs weren't touching, but Dylan closed in on her again. Aside from running into the family of four sitting next to her, she had no choice but to stay where she was.

  "We talked about Gary. Wesley brought it up, Rachel. I just listened and held on when he started crying."

  "He cried?" Her gaze immediately darted back to her son. Wesley wasn't crying now. He was laughi
ng and kicking a ball and having a great time.

  "Cried up a storm. He needed to get it out."

  "He admitted that Gary is dead?"

  "Pretty much. It's a start."

  She put a hand on Dylan's knee. "Thank you."

  He covered her hand with his own, a warm, tender touch that almost undid her previous resolve to let him go. How could she let him go when he was holding on to her?

  "I didn't do anything but listen."

  "That was enough. By the way, I found the number for Gary's doctor. He had a checkup a month before he died. The doctor told me that Gary was given a clean bill of health."

  "One less question," Dylan said.

  "Yeah, one less question. I also spoke to his father this morning. He was surprised to hear from me."

  "You've been busy."

  "It was time. Anyway, he doesn't know why Gary went to Tahoe. He also didn't seem to remember anyone named Laura. In fact, he said the only thing he and Gary had talked about was a small loan. Apparently, Gary had sent him money over the years." She paused. "He sounded very sad, a man with a lot of regrets. I told him I'd send him some pictures of Wesley. After all, he is family."

  "You're a good person."

  "I try." As the stands began to fill, Rachel tried to pull her hand away, but he wouldn't let go.

  "Dylan, people will talk."

  "Who cares?"

  "I do. And you should, too. See that blond woman talking to the coach?" Rachel said, pointing out Ellen Connor. "She asked me if you were available. Her sister is gorgeous. Her name is Melissa. She works at the coffee shop on Main Street."

  "I think I've met her."

  "Ellen says half the single women in town are after you."

  "Only half?" he asked dryly. "I must be slipping."

  "You could have anyone you want."

  He squeezed her hand. "If that were true, I'd have you."

  "But you don't want me. You don't want to be second best. You don't want to be someone's second husband -- someone's stepfather," she added. This time when she pulled her hand away, he released it. "The game is starting," she said unnecessarily as the referee blew his whistle and the boys lined up on the field.

  Dylan didn't reply, nor did he offer a counter argument. So that was that. He agreed that he didn't want to be second best. They'd finally drawn a line between them that would stick. It wasn't about Gary anymore. It was about what could never be.