Not on Her Own

by Cynthia Reese

  The house in the picture was obviously this house, and the picture was scribbled directly on the wall. Uncle Jake or his mom would have skinned him alive if he’d colored on walls. But someone—her grandmother, maybe—had thought enough of Penelope’s talent to cherish it and nourish it.

  “It’s really good for a four-year-old. I was still doing scribbles then.” Brandon realized too late that he was speaking to empty air. Penelope had vanished.

  He took the stairs two at a time and headed for the door that was open and the sniffle that was coming from it. Brandon found her sitting on the bed, her face screwed up in an effort not to bawl.

  “Hey, what’d I—” He dropped the overnight bag by the door and the garment bag on the bed and knelt in front of her. “Did I say something?”

  Penelope shook her head in an abrupt jerk. “I—I’m tired, I think. And Grams isn’t getting any younger. Maybe I’m banging my head against a brick wall. But she—she’s always believed in me, you know? She was the one who gave me part of the money for the house, said it was an investment. In my career. She’s always…”

  “But you’ve never mentioned her. You always said ‘the bank.’”

  “I did borrow money from the bank. But Grams loaned me money, too, so I didn’t have to borrow quite so much at such a high interest rate. Why? What difference does it make?”

  Brandon sat back on his heels, trying to suss that out for himself. It did make a difference, somehow.

  Penelope chewed on her thumbnail and stared off into the distance. “I hope Mom hasn’t told her I lost the commission. She’d be so disappointed that I’m welding farm implements for a living.”

  He slid a palm against her cheek. Dark ringlets, still damp, brushed against the back of his hand. “If she’s the kind of grandmother who framed a four-year-old’s scribbles on a wall, she wouldn’t. She’d be proud of you for finding a way to make your dream a reality.”

  Penelope pulled away from him. “Why am I telling you all this? If I fail, you win. You get to pick up the land for a song. Half the time, I suspect all your politeness and good manners are just a salve to ease your guilt. I think that’s why you’re so kind to me, when you are.”

  “That’s not true. I’m kind to you because I want to be.” That wasn’t strictly true. He hadn’t been kind very often, and when he was, it was in spite of not wanting to be.

  “I could believe that. I could. Except for the way you talk about Grandpa.”

  He laid a finger against her lips. “Shh. Don’t. I’ve already made that mistake tonight. I’m starting fresh with my promise. Let’s pretend the world ends at Oregon’s state line. Just for tonight.”

  “But we can’t, can we?” Penelope started to stand, but he pulled her back down.

  “I can try. We have our moments,” Brandon said.

  “We do. But I can’t take it, Brandon. I can’t take the guilt that comes from enjoying being around you. Simply being here with you feels like I’m a traitor to—”

  “The promise?” he interrupted.

  She made a sound in the back of her throat and closed her eyes. “Silly. This is silly.”

  He ran his hands along her arms, up to her shoulders, along the graceful arc her neck made, and into her curls. Brandon pressed his mouth to her temple, slid his lips down along her cheek. She turned her mouth into his kiss, her lips searching his out. He kissed her and drew back.

  Penelope looked up and met his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but this time she was the one who silenced him with a finger to his lips. No, there’d be no more talking, no risk of hurt feelings or wounded pride. For them, it seemed, Penelope had decided the world did end at the Oregon state line.

  Brandon kissed her finger, opened her palm and pressed a kiss there, too. He saw those hands of hers in a million different memories—building her barn, petting Theo, welding his tractor for him, holding his hand on the airplane.

  Without saying a word, he released her hand, slipped her raincoat off her shoulders and tossed it aside.

  He kissed away one last tear tracking down her face, followed it as it slid down her cheek to her jaw. She leaned into him as he pressed his lips to her throat.

  “You’re sure?” Brandon whispered.

  She nodded, the very slightest dip of her head.

  Penelope drew a fingertip along his face. “The question is,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off him, “are you?”

  Brandon swallowed the guilt. “I want this.” There, that was honest enough.

  The confession released him from any hesitation. His hands were on her again, fingers moving from buttons to snaps to zippers to skin.

  Her fingers came up to his chest and he tensed, afraid she would push him away.

  But Penelope didn’t.

  Instead she pulled him down beside her on the bed. They fell back, together, on the coverlet. Then they stared at each other for a long moment.

  Deciding, he knew, if they were crazy enough.

  And when she reached for him, he knew they were.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PENELOPE AWOKE the next morning to find Brandon still nestled against her and more rain pattering on the window. She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at his face. No frustration marred his brow, no anger tightened his jaw, no frown pulled at his mouth in the gray light.

  Could it be this simple? Or was she stupid to think one night together could bridge the chasm between them? If he cared about her—and last night he’d certainly seemed to care—he’d back off hounding Grandpa Murphy into prison, wouldn’t he?

  You care about him. Does that mean you’re ready to sacrifice Grandpa’s future so that Brandon can have his dream? You of all people know about dreams.

  The clock beyond Brandon’s dark head flashed half-past eight. If she wanted to share the Pacific with him, then she couldn’t afford to linger, not if they were going to make their flight to Redmond. Penelope slid out of bed, jerking back her feet at the coldness of the hardwood floor. She was used to warmer winters already.

  “Hey,” Brandon mumbled. “Where are you going in such an all-fire hurry? Come back here. I like to finish what I start.”

  Penelope gave him a playful jab. “If memory serves, you finished it quite nicely, thank you very much. But if we’re going to make that plane—”

  Brandon groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. “Not again. Not another plane. Can’t we stay here forever?”

  Now that’s the answer. If we could stay here, charmed, isolated…

  She pushed away the thought. Shower, breakfast, a walk down the beach, and then on to Portland.

  The one thing she hadn’t calculated was Brandon, who joined her in the shower. “As I said,” he told her through the steam, “I like to finish what I start.”

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m walking in the rain on a beach,” Brandon said as they locked the front door. “This is nuts.”

  “You were the one who wanted to see the Pacific in the fall. What’d you expect? Blue skies? Are you afraid of a little rain? Up here, we’re used to the wet stuff.” Penelope pointed to the galoshes she’d scored after searching the closets. “And we come prepared.”

  “I guess up here they come in handy, huh.”

  Luggage stowed, Penelope turned the car back toward town, and, once she hit Tillamook, made a right toward Cape Meares State Park and the ocean.

  The quiet between her and Brandon didn’t irritate her like last night’s trip had. But she was glad he wasn’t talking much. When he talked to her in the way he had this morning, warm and loving, carefully avoiding the subject of Grandpa Murphy, she found herself willing to believe this could last.

  On the deserted beach, with the wind and spray and cold rain slicing through her raincoat, Penelope held Brandon’s hand and tried not to think of what she’d face back in Georgia.

  How could she face Grandpa now that she’d done this with Brandon? And how could she tell her grandfather that she could never go through wit
h the land sale to the solid-waste company? He needed money for his defense. A federal investigation wasn’t going to disappear, as much as she wanted it to.

  The incoming tide nibbled at her boots as they headed toward the stark basalt face of Cape Meares. Her choices seemed just as stark.

  “Beautiful,” Brandon called beside her over the sound of the surf. “Beautiful!”

  “Yes, it is!” she called back. Penelope stretched out a hand toward the basalt face. “That’s my favorite part of this whole stretch of beach.”

  He grinned and shook his head. “My favorite part is right here!”

  Traitor. I am a traitor.

  WHAT SEEMED an eternity and another change of planes later, Brandon felt the plane begin its final approach to the Redmond airport and looked out past Penelope to see the unexpectedly stark landscape glow in the afternoon light. Weird how he’d assumed Oregon would be all lush green pines. This looked more like a desert than the home of the Spotted Owl.

  He touched Penelope. She stirred from where she’d been nestled against his shoulder, and he flexed his arm gratefully.

  She yawned. “Are we there yet?”

  “Yeah. I think so, anyway.”

  Penelope peered out the window. “Yeah, we’re closing in on Bend, sweet Bend. Oh, joy.”

  “You really aren’t looking forward to this, are you?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know. There are worse things,” she replied with a laugh. “Root canals. Traffic court.”

  “What have I got myself into? Are your folks nuts or what?”

  “No, they’re…not like me. Definitely not like me.”

  “Your mom seemed nice enough on the phone.”

  The plane suddenly dropped toward the runway and landed with a few stomach-hurtling bumps. Brandon tried hard to hide how disconcerting it was to him. How could Penelope sit there so calmly? How had she managed to sleep on the plane?

  Well, you did deprive her of a lot of sleep last night.

  They hadn’t talked about anything beyond this trip. Brandon was grateful Penelope had seemingly taken to heart the nothing-beyond-Oregon deal. As long as they skirted exactly how they were going to deal with Murphy once they got home, then Brandon could fool himself into not thinking about it.

  It was coming, though. And he couldn’t lie, he was anxious to hear what Marlene Langston had to tell him about her father. Maybe some of Murphy’s skeletons would come back to haunt him and show Penelope exactly who Murphy was.

  Off the plane and in the airport, they made their way past the luggage carousel. Brandon was shifting his garment bag over his shoulder and dragging Penelope’s rolling duffel behind him when he heard her say, “There they are.”

  He looked up to see a tall, slender brunette waving excitedly.

  “Darling!” Marlene Langston greeted her daughter, wrapping her in an effusive embrace.

  “Wow, Mom, what a hug! Careful or I’ll think you missed me,” Penelope told her, returning it.

  “Of course I’ve missed you!” She turned to Brandon and extended a hand. “I’m Marlene Langston, Penelope’s mother. And you must be Brandon.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for having me.”

  Marlene craned her head back toward a quiet silver-haired man waiting behind her. “Peter, did you hear that? Ma’am. He called me ma’am. And that accent. Takes me back home.”

  In person, Brandon could barely detect the slight Southern lilt in Marlene Langston’s voice. It was covered by an accent that sounded a lot like Penelope’s.

  Peter Langston stretched out a hand. “Thank you for taking care of our daughter. I’m afraid she’s no good at taking care of herself.”

  Beside him, Penelope winced. “Dad, you may not like to hear it, but I have managed to survive on my own for several years now. I’m not a complete idiot.”

  Her father didn’t seem convinced in the slightest. His argument was cut short by Marlene steering Penelope toward the exit.

  “Peter, I’m sure they’re tired—such a long trip from Tillamook—how was the house, dear? Did you get to take Brandon to the beach? Was it raining? The weather here has been terrible, and Jill’s mother insists on an outdoor wedding for two hundred people. And Jill insists on being barefoot. Oh, dear, it’s a mess….”

  Brandon tried to wrap his mind around a 200-person guest list for a wedding with a barefoot bride. The weddings he’d been dragged to involved hoop skirts and tulle straight out of Gone With The Wind. Maybe this one wouldn’t be quite so uptight as those.

  But his hopes were dashed on the way to the car, as Marlene launched into a long description of the wedding plans. It sounded as complex as any other wedding. Maybe he and Penelope should simply elope.

  The errant thought caught him flat-footed. Had he just been thinking about marrying Penelope?

  “Brandon? Did you leave something behind?” Marlene asked.

  He realized he’d stood still and let them walk on ahead. “Uh, no.”

  He didn’t have to supply a ready excuse. Marlene walked back, patted him on the arm and said, “Poor fellow is exhausted! Penelope, what have you been doing to him?”

  THE DAY OF HER brother’s wedding, Penelope woke three hundred fifty dollars poorer than when she’d arrived in Bend. She hadn’t been able to endure her mother flipping out her charge card to pay for the J. Crew emerald-green baby doll bridesmaid dress and matching shoes. So she’d smiled and dug out her own frail plastic, praying it wouldn’t smoke when the clerk zipped it through the card reader.

  Penelope took a look at it and hung it back up for later. At least the dress was something they could all agree on. Her mother hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d described the battle royal between Trent’s future wife and mother-in-law.

  In addition to dodging wrangles between Jill and her mother, Penelope found herself with a to-do list a mile long. Today, her latest and hopefully last mission was to make sure the florist had changed the baby’s breath for berries. “More fall, you know? And baby’s breath is just so common,” Jill’s mom had explained. Penelope also had to double-check that the caterer had added pumpkin-colored runners on every table.

  Penelope blew out a breath and headed downstairs to grab a bite. Maybe Brandon would want to keep her company.

  She found him in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, miraculously alone. Still, she was unsure exactly how to greet him. Would a cheery good morning be what he was after or should she kiss him? Since their arrival in Bend, they’d been plunged back into limbo.

  “And I thought you’d been spirited away by the Wedding Gods already,” Brandon joked.

  “On my way out. Last-minute check with the florists and caterer. Mom said she had something to do.” As she poured her own cup of coffee, she risked asking, “Why? Have you missed me?”

  “Oh, yeah. The minute you appear, they whisk you away. I can’t imagine how insane it would be if it were your own wedding.”

  For a moment, she let herself have a thirty-second fantasy of a quiet wedding on a beach somewhere, maybe just a couple of witnesses. She jerked back with a start when she realized it was Brandon saying I do.

  “Trust me, I’m not the two-hundred-guest type,” Penelope told him.

  “That’s a relief.”

  The coffee in her hand splattered on the counter. He couldn’t possibly mean—no, of course not. And why would she think for an instant she wanted him to mean that? Damn weddings. They completely screwed up a girl’s mind. Suddenly all those happily-ever-after fantasies came alive. Suddenly even a Mr. Right Now seemed a sure fit to be Mr. Right.

  “I was wondering…” Coffee firmly under control, Penelope leaned back against her mother’s granite countertop. “Want to go along? Keep me company?”

  Brandon grimaced. “Where was it again? Florist and caterer? Can I beg off? That sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry.”

  “And hanging around here is more exciting? Gee.” Penelope took a sip of her coffee to hide her disappointment. “T
ells me what a popular gal I am.”

  “It’s—” Brandon screwed up his face as he apparently tried to find words to soften the blow.

  She held up a hand. “Don’t. It’s a guy thing. I can tell.”

  “Well, your mom had asked me to, uh, help her with something this morning.”

  Penelope drained her cup and dropped it in the dishwasher. “Poor you. I think I definitely got the better end of the deal.”

  As she brushed by him, he pulled her down into his lap. “You want me to go, I’ll go. After all, even if it is flowers and food, it’s got a definite advantage—you.”

  “It’s okay. Really. Don’t let my mom work you to death.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and headed for her purse and the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BRANDON PEERED out the window, making sure Penelope was backing down the driveway before he sought out Marlene. This whole weekend had been an exercise in frustration for him. On the one hand, he had a devil of a time keeping his hands off Penelope; on the other, he couldn’t get Marlene to sit still long enough to give him the dirt on Murphy.

  Brandon and Penelope’s flight back to Georgia was on Sunday morning. They didn’t have much more time here. Marlene had promised last night after the rehearsal dinner, at some sushi place called Deep, that she would be ready to talk this morning. He’d been up since five, but for Marlene, weddings apparently took precedent over putting scumbags in jail where they belonged.

  Be fair. It’s her dad. This can’t be easy for her.

  In the study, Marlene sat down, got up, and then sat down again, filled with restless energy. Brandon tried to calm her by pretending to relax in a club chair across from her and offering small talk.

  But the small talk made her more nervous, not less. “All right, then,” Marlene blurted. “You want to know about my father.”

  “If you’re ready to tell me, yes, ma’am.”

  “My mother says I should let sleeping dogs lie. And I would, ordinarily.” Her eyes wide, she clenched and unclenched her fingers. “If he’d never brought Penelope into it, I would have happily let it be. But…my…my daughter.”