When You Knew (The Cabots Book 3)

by Jamie Beck

  He stopped and looked over his shoulder. The joy from hearing that declaration became muted by guilt. He’d encouraged her feelings for him even though he knew what it would cost her. A terrible thing to do to a person, especially to one with so little faith in love. Shame cascaded over him, killing any temptation he might’ve otherwise had to drop his duffel and run back for another kiss. “Goodbye, Gentry.”

  He watched her nod and swallow whatever words were stuck in her throat. She stepped backward and closed the door between them. His body ached, but he forced his legs to carry him to the car.

  His mother didn’t say anything until they’d merged onto I-5 North. “It’s not easy, is it?”

  He stared at the pavement ahead, a luxury not found in most byways of Haiti. He thought of all the times he’d left Farrah with a quick kiss and a care package neatly tucked in his bag. It had never gutted him. Then again, he’d assumed that she’d be there waiting for him when he returned. And by the time Farrah had grown tired of him and his choices, he’d grown used to life without her. He doubted he’d be able to say the same about Gentry.

  “No.” He had nothing more to share. If his mother had questions about Quackers, she kept them to herself.

  “If it helps, I doubt Gentry and her son are going anywhere. Her family is here. She’s busy being a mother. You can keep in touch. If it is meant to be, it will be, Ian.”

  But Ian knew better. Nothing in life happened in a vacuum. The choices people made affected outcomes. He’d made a choice, and he would live with the fallout, no matter how painful.

  Chapter Twenty

  Catalyst

  According to Merriam-Webster: a substance that enables a chemical reaction to proceed at a usually faster rate or under different conditions (as at a lower temperature) than otherwise possible

  According to me: Miss Linda

  The first week Colt had spent at day care with Miss Linda, the woman had been patient, blaming his fussiness on the transition. The second week, Miss Linda became determined—for surely someone with her extensive experience could solve the problem better than Colt’s young mother. By the end of the fourth week, Miss Linda admitted defeat.

  At four months old, Colt had yet to outgrow colic. Even the Cucumber, Dr. Evans, had expressed some surprise with its persistence, although she’d had a few other young patients like him in the course of her practice.

  “Ms. Cabot, I’m sorry, but I can’t have Colt here until he outgrows this phase. There are only two of us managing eight young children. Colt requires too much attention. It’s not fair to the others. Plus, his constant crying affects the other kids. Perhaps in another two months or so, we can try again.” Miss Linda stood, hands clasped in front of her body, resolute in her decision.

  Gentry held Colt while glancing around the light-filled walkout basement–turned–day care, with its butter-yellow walls, multiple easels, carpeted play area, and miniature library. As on the day when she’d first visited, several toddlers now played together with colorful cardboard blocks. The homey environment and intimate group of children had seemed like the perfect solution for Colt. Miss Linda, a middle-aged woman with cherubic cheeks and a friendly smile, had appeared to be an ideal caregiver. Apparently not so, on either count.

  Gentry was accustomed to being spurned, but witnessing her son’s first rejection flayed her calloused heart. “No, we won’t try again. If you can’t handle Colt before he’s even able to crawl or walk or get himself into real trouble, how can I trust you to care for him later?”

  “It’s not a matter of my abilities, Ms. Cabot.”

  “I disagree.” Gentry flashed back to memories of Ian patiently tending to Colt, even when her son had cried for hours. “I’ve seen a competent caretaker not only manage Colt but help him thrive. If you and your assistant aren’t intuitive, ingenious, or interested enough to engage him, that is definitely not Colt’s fault. Own up to your own shortcomings, for Pete’s sake.”

  “There’s no need for insults.”

  “Isn’t there? You just told me my child is too nerve-racking.”

  Gentry almost hoped for a nasty retort so she could unleash more of her fury. Unfortunately, Miss Linda’s solemn exhale signaled her retreat from battle. “I assume, then, that I can give Colt’s spot to another child on my waiting list?”

  “By all means.” Gentry glared at the woman before spinning on her heel and storming out of the home. As she buckled Colt into the car seat, she mentally composed a scathing blog post about Miss Linda and her so-called day care. On her drive home, however, she realized that going public with her complaints could ultimately make Colt an object of debate. She wouldn’t satisfy her own need for vengeance at his expense.

  If Ian hadn’t left, they wouldn’t be in this trouble. Of course, Ian didn’t aspire to be a lifelong nanny, and Gentry still wanted Colt to be with other kids when she wasn’t with him. Now she had to find alternative arrangements.

  Perhaps—and she was loath to admit it—Miss Linda had a bit of a point. Would other day care workers also tire of Colt’s wailing? Might they shake him or do some other awful thing? How the hell would she figure this all out by Monday morning?

  Her phone rang while she was stopped at a red light. “Hello.”

  “You left work early,” her mother said without any pleasantries.

  “Colt’s day care called.” Wouldn’t Gentry’s mother have loved to witness another “I told you so” moment? It would surely be added to the long list she liked to cast up as often as possible.

  Her mother’s tone shifted to concern. “Is he sick again? I told you day care is a petri dish, Gentry.”

  Yes, you told me, all right.

  “He’s fine.” No way would she confess that Colt had been kicked out of day care. Once she found a new solution, she’d present it as a better one. “Anyway, what do you need? I thought I’d tied up all my loose ends for the week.”

  “We got a call from the producer in charge of filming those launch-week videos. Rich . . . Rick? Apparently, there’s a problem coordinating filming with some of the bloggers you’d contacted, so you need to jump on that ASAP. Also, Becky isn’t sure the Snapchat “limited time” contests are having the impact you’d projected, so you need to take another look at those as well.”

  Colt cried from the back seat. Gentry stifled the scream building in her chest to keep from crying right along with him. “I’ll call Rich when I get home. I’ll take a closer look at the Snapchat data, too.”

  “Promise you won’t let it sit. In fact, I’d love for you to update me tomorrow.”

  For the love of God. “At the company picnic?”

  “Yes.”

  Gentry glanced in the rearview mirror before switching lanes to hang a left. “You know a picnic is supposed to be about fun, not work.”

  “For the employees, maybe. For the owners, it’s always about work, Gentry.”

  Was it? Was work a person’s most important purpose in life? Her parents thought so. So did her brother. Ian too. Yet, for Gentry, putting “work first” was like wearing a dress that was two sizes too small—no room to breathe. That triggered a memory of a conversation with Ian one night when she’d come home grumpy.

  “There must be something wrong with me. I hear people talk about an endorphin high from exercise, but I’ve never felt it. I see Hunter and the rest of my family get that same high from work, but I don’t feel it. Maybe I don’t produce endorphins. Or maybe I’m lazy?”

  “You’re not lazy.” Ian glanced around, pointing at the photographs of Colt. “Did the hours you spent taking, cropping, and framing these feel like work?”

  She pulled a face. “Of course not. I love taking pictures.”

  “That’s the difference.” He peeled a banana. “When you do what you love for a living, it never feels like work. Maybe you ought to find a way to turn this into your work.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.
”

  “Try me.”

  “CTC is who Cabots are and how we connect. If I leave . . .” She couldn’t finish because, even to her, it sounded like an excuse.

  “I understand better than you realize.” And then, as if he’d surprised himself, he grimaced, took a last bite of banana, and walked out to the deck.

  Poor Ian. He was so deep in denial, he might be worse off than she was. She hoped not, though. She wanted him to be happy.

  She pulled into her driveway, grateful for the excuse to end the call. “I’ll update you tomorrow. Now if it’s okay with you, I have to feed my son, prepare for Smith’s arrival tomorrow, and take care of these items.”

  “I’m glad Smith is coming to the picnic.” Her mother’s voice turned syrupy.

  “No kidding?” Gentry rolled her eyes. Her mother’s agenda had gone into overdrive ever since Gentry had taken Colt to California to meet Smith’s family two weeks ago. Smith’s father and sister must’ve mentioned the fact that Colt looked exactly like Smith at least two hundred times. They’d been gracious and pleasant to her, too. Her visit confirmed that Smith had grown up in a loving family and should know how to create one for his son.

  Meanwhile, Smith continued to check in on a regular basis. He hadn’t been back to town since his first visit, though. Until this past week, Gentry hadn’t extended an invitation. Anytime she thought of Smith at her home, it reminded her of how his first visit had hastened Ian’s departure. That memory might as well have been an ice pick to the chest.

  “You are managing this new situation very well. Colt’s very lucky,” her mother purred.

  How quickly she’d forgotten that, two months ago, she’d berated Gentry for searching for Smith. But Gentry refrained from getting snitty. She was getting too old for that kind of thing. “We do what’s best for our son.”

  “I think it’s also good for you.”

  Colt cried again. “Listen, much as I love a good mother-daughter chitchat, I need to go. See you tomorrow.” She hung up and let her head drop back against the seat, drawing a deep breath.

  Fortunately, Smith had never once pressed Gentry into anything romantic. He remained patient and open. Friendly. She didn’t know if she could ever love him, but she did love the way he’d fallen for their son. And she didn’t want to go to the CTC picnic alone, so she’d invited Smith for a visit. Bringing him would help cement them as sort of a family, and her as a responsible mother.

  She opened her door and freed her son from his car seat restraints. Once inside, she shed her boring work attire and slipped into comfy pajamas, despite it being only five o’clock. It took five seconds to stop herself from reminiscing about coming home to Ian’s friendly smile and a well-made meal. To having an adult—a friend—to talk to each night.

  Like anytime she thought of him, which was often, she alternated between wanting to cry and wanting to hit something. Right now, she wanted to talk to him about Miss Linda, yet she was also pissed because he wasn’t there to listen.

  They’d decided a clean break would be best, so they’d had no contact. Instead, she wasted hours each week composing e-mails that sat in her “Draft” folder. She’d broken down once and asked Sara if she’d heard anything about him from Gloria, but she hadn’t. Gentry’s only consolation was that no news must be good news. If anything happened to Ian, surely Gloria would say something.

  Enough. She couldn’t afford to add worrying about Ian to her miles-long to-do list. She glanced around the living room, noting the unfolded blanket, last night’s empty popcorn bowl, and a bunch of new photos of Colt splayed across the sofa. Sighing, she set Colt on his belly and put a few toys at the edge of his reach before she began to straighten up.

  At ten o’clock, she closed her laptop and stretched, pleased with herself, thanks to a comment left on her blog. Some days her followers came through with a well-timed compliment or thank-you for something she’d written. Those notes wrapped her entire being in a luxuriously soft, warm robe.

  Only one task remained for the night. One she’d been dreading. She climbed the stairs and went to the linen closet to retrieve a set of clean sheets; then she went into Ian’s room. The guest room, she corrected.

  She set the sheets on the nightstand and then threw her body, facedown, onto the mattress, grabbing a pillow and inhaling. Very little of his scent—of him—remained. Maybe nothing but her memory and imagination at this point. Still, she’d kept these sheets untouched for four weeks.

  But she’d invited Smith to spend the weekend at her condo instead of the B&B. A small step toward a stronger friendship and, possibly, someday, something more. Smith had been good to her. He deserved clean sheets, even if it meant erasing the last trace of Ian from this room.

  Her nose tingled as tears formed. If only falling out of love would happen as swiftly as the dive in.

  Ian sprayed himself with deet before leaving the shower, a habit he’d formed through years of working in mosquito-riddled communities. It might be overkill near the beaches of Jacmel, but vaccinations couldn’t prevent every disease, and he’d never been one to take unnecessary risks. Except for the hottest of days, whenever Ian had to travel into rural areas, he wore lightweight pants and shirts with sleeves, too.

  Even now, though, he itched with the nagging feeling he’d had every day since he’d returned . . . as if he didn’t belong here anymore. The pride in his mission didn’t quite fill the hole in his heart, no matter how much work he took on or how many patients he helped.

  Archer should be arriving soon for another meeting with administrators at Sainte Michel Hospital. Although the Crawford Volunteer Ambulance Corps wouldn’t be operated by the hospital, they were working to foster cooperation and coordination between the entities.

  Ian’s shadow followed him through the narrow streets of Jacmel, which were lined with colorfully painted old buildings whose architecture—embellished with porticos and balconies—one would find in New Orleans. In certain gaps between buildings and byways, one could glimpse the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. If he had time, Ian might’ve strolled along the promenade du bord de mer—a kilometer-long walkway decorated with elaborate, colorful mosaic tiles—to catch a breeze and pretend, for an instant, that this was a vacation instead of a mission. Sometimes he’d stand there and imagine Gentry and Colt playing in the surf, similar to that day they’d spent at Lake Sandy. An impossible dream, of course.

  Today he didn’t have time for dreams, detours, or playing osselets with kids on the street. He had to get to the garage facility they’d been renovating. Archer had suggested they model their private operation on the Centre Ambulancier National in Port-au-Prince. CAN, the brainchild of the Haitian minister of public health and population, had come about through major involvement of the Brazilian government (which had donated thirty-five ambulances), the Canadian Red Cross, and a multitude of other partners. It was growing but still wasn’t available everywhere.

  C-VAC would be small and privately operated, like the Ship of Hope marine ambulance program, thanks to a number of donors. Of immediate necessity, however, was Marcus Fairfax, who kept dangling the donation of five Land Rovers along with funds to convert them to basic life-support ambulances—or BLSs. In this part of Haiti, where most roads were unpaved, rocky, and pitted, and where certain residents were barely accessible by vehicle, Land Rovers would work much better than the old vans Ian and Archer could find.

  The sticking point? Fairfax wanted his name on the NGO. Ian couldn’t let that happen, even though Archer had pressured him to bend.

  Fairfax’s son, Jeremy, was coming to Jacmel with Archer this morning. Apparently, the twenty-three-year-old EMT could also service automobiles—a bonus. The only drawback was that Jeremy didn’t have much field experience in places like Haiti. Ian’s goal for their initial meeting was simple: convince Jeremy to secure the Rovers without forcing a name change.

  Before Archer arrived, Ian needed to assess where things stood with supplies to outfit the vehic
les. He also needed to finalize the training materials for the first wave of students.

  He ambled into the garage area of the aging brick-and-plaster building near the outskirts of town, close to the hospital and a fuel station. Although damage to the area from Hurricane Matthew had been somewhat repaired, work always remained to be done. “Morning, Stanley.”

  Stanley Delbeau looked up from the tables where he’d been cataloging supplies. A Haitian, born and raised in this part of the peninsula, Stanley was a muscular man in his thirties, with a shaved head and goatee. He favored colorful shirts, like the lavender one he wore today, and had a toothy grin that put people at ease.

  “Ian.” He immediately returned his attention to the five piles of packaged supplies he’d been stacking.

  Ian assumed he was sorting one pile per BLS. Those piles marked another not-so-subtle bit of pressure on Ian to cave to Fairfax’s demand. Around here, BLSs were a tenfold improvement over the norm. Ambulance sirens were a rarity in Haiti, but that was slowly changing. Once C-VAC got up and running, the quality of health care in this community would improve.

  “Where are we today?” Ian quickly scanned some of the packages.

  “We have most standard types of bandages, immobilization devices, infection-control supplies, and defibrillators needed to start. But we’re missing some ventilation and airway equipment. No portable oxygen apparatus. Could use more tubing, too, and bag-valve masks.” He used his hands to mimic the hand-valve motion needed to operate the bags.

  Ian flipped through some of the burn sheets, cold packs, stethoscopes, and cervical collars, then looked along the wall behind Stanley. “Backboards?”

  “We got the long ones but need short boards, too.”

  “You’re keeping a list, right?”

  Stanley held up the clipboard, tapping it. “Yes.”

  “Archer will be here soon. He’s got someone helping him reach out to Global Links and other potential donors. When we get together with the administrators at Sainte Michel, I’ll see if they know of other sources for those tanks.” He noticed another two boxes at Stanley’s feet. “Need help unpacking those?”