Beautiful Fall (Beautiful Rivers Book 2)

by White, J. L.

  “This is only for you kids. Not my readers.” She had just four copies made.

  We spent hours that night, listening to Katherine read dramatically from her copy, and pausing to share our own stories. We cried, and laughed, and laughed so much that we cried. Katherine’s book read like a novel, and came from the mind and heart of someone who knew them even longer than I did. Having their love brought to life on the page like that was almost like having them with me again, and somehow made it possible for two truths to exist in my heart at the same time: my father may have had an affair, and he definitely loved my mother.

  I still don’t know whether my father really did have an affair, many years ago, but if he did, my parents found a way through it. And I guess that’s all I really need to know. My parents loved each other, deeply, and together they raised the three of us under the umbrella of that love. That’s something that’s true, regardless of who Mason Reeves is, and the way they raised us with the protection of their love is something I will forever be grateful for.

  The mystery of Mason Reeves had been threatening that protection, but Katherine’s book restored it. She did not merely give me a book. She gave me a kind of peace she didn’t even know I needed.

  That isn’t all she gave me.

  I feel I have more courage to go forward with this next step with Brett. Courage I didn’t know I was lacking, until she found it for me.

  Thursday rolls around and I’m on my way to Brett’s to meet Max before we head over to his mom’s. I’m riding a four-day high and feeling optimistic as hell. Sunday, of course, was what my brothers and I have dubbed Book Day. Monday, the Swan Pointe Gazette published a little feature on the Cottages that painted the “Resort’s exciting new offering” in a very favorable light. Tuesday, Sam delivered her designs for the logos and branding, and they were so out-of-this-world fucking fantastic that I sent her some flowers and a bottle of whiskey as a thank you.

  Wednesday, I convinced Whitney to officially come on board as the Cottages’ interior designer, even though she refused to let me pay her for it. She had about a million reasons for that—she didn’t want to be accused of nepotism, she isn’t a professional, not getting paid would make it less pressured, they don’t need the money anyway—so I had no choice but to agree. We took what we would’ve paid her and made a donation to her former employer, the Kendrick Refugee Outreach Center, instead.

  On top of all that, even though I haven’t decided what to do with my old house, I have started making some decisions about furniture and set a goal to redecorate and move into the master bedroom before the month’s out. It’s a little scary and a little exciting, but mostly it feels like a relief to finally be moving forward.

  Every day Brett and I have managed to spend time together, even though we’re reeeeally trying not to neglect our sleep. He’s the highlight of all of it. Hands down.

  When I get to Brett’s just before five-thirty and he opens the door, his pants are covered in what appears to be ketchup and his face is covered with a rather humorous expression of consternation. I manage not to laugh, but can’t hold back my smile. “What happened to you?”

  “It’s not funny.” He smiles too, though, and steps back to let me in. “Max was trying to get a box of crackers out of the pantry and accidentally knocked a jar of spaghetti sauce on the floor. I almost caught it but wasn’t quick enough.”

  He leads me through the living room and I look around for Max, who is nowhere in sight. We head into the kitchen and there’s spaghetti sauce splattered all over the floor in front of the open pantry and up onto the pantry door. A small trashcan has been placed nearby, with the biggest pieces of glass already inside. There’s still more pieces scattered throughout the sauce.

  “Max got the better end of it. I just sent him to the bathroom to strip down but I wanted to get the glass before I clean him up.”

  He grabs a rag from the counter next to the sink, but I take it from him. “I’ll do it. You go take care of Max.”

  “No, no. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Uh, I know how to clean up glass. I can’t exactly help Max and I’m not going to stand around doing nothing. Go on.”

  He gives me a grateful kiss. “I’ll hurry. You don’t have to worry about the sauce. If you could just get the glass up that would be wonderful.”

  After I’ve cleaned up both the glass and the sauce and am rinsing the rag in the sink, the stomping of tiny feet causes me to turn around, and here comes little Max. The 2D image I’ve had in my head is suddenly before me in 3D reality.

  I turn off the water and start to wring out the rag, but my eyes are on him as he runs to the nearest chair at the table and climbs up onto it.

  “Hi, Max. I’m Lizzy.”

  “I know. Hi.” He’s stretching for the bowl of Cuties in the center, falling short by a few inches.

  I drape the rag over the center and head over. “Would you like me to get you one?”

  He pulls his arm back, clasps his hands together, and nods. He looks at me for the first time and blinks up at me with wide, blue eyes. He’s so freaking adorable, I’m a little struck. My god, I think I’m already in love.

  I take a Cutie out of the bowl and hand it to him, wondering if I should peel it first, but I don’t get a chance to find out because after saying “Thank you,” he pops off the chair and runs back out of the kitchen and disappears.

  I have time to do no more than exhale in relief when Brett comes in, alone, smiling and wearing fresh clothes.

  “I survived!” I whisper, grinning and he laughs.

  “Sorry. I meant to introduce you more properly but the little stinker got away. Hey Max,” he hollers. “Come here, buddy.” I don’t hear Max coming and Brett gets sidetracked when he looks over toward the pantry. “Oh you didn’t have to do all that.”

  I go over, slip my arms around his waist, and squeeze. “I’m happy to help.”

  “Well, thank you,” he says, giving me a kiss.

  “Daddy kissed Lizzy! Daddy kissed Lizzy!”

  We both look toward the living room to see Max disappearing around the corner. Brett laughs and takes my hand. “Come on, Max. Come meet Lizzy.”

  Max runs back into the living room, still holding his Cutie, glancing between his dad and me.

  “Lizzy this is Max. Max, this is Lizzy.” Even though we’ve already “met,” we both meekly endure the formal introduction.

  “Hi, Max.”

  “Hi.” He glances up at me, and again I’m won over. Am I already biased or is he really this impossibly cute?

  I smile and keep it casual. “You want to shake hands, or high five?”

  He grins and hustles a couple steps closer to me with his hand in the air. I bend down so we can smack hands, but between the two of us moving, when our hands meet it’s more of an off-balanced pat than a high five.

  “Oh that was pitiful,” I say. “We have to try that again.”

  Still grinning, he gets a look of determination. Staring down my hand, he pulls his arm back so he can put his whole body into it. I keep my hand steady and let him go at it with all the force of a four-and-a-half year old. A satisfying smack resounds through the air.

  “Hey!” I say, straightening. “That’s more like it.”

  He smiles up at me, seeming to look at me a little closer, and I’m hopeful that I’m passing his initial inspection.

  “Okay,” Brett says, ruffling Max’s thick head of wavy hair. “Time to go to Grandma’s.”

  Brett tugs on my hand gently, indicating we’ll be heading back toward the garage. I expect Max to run ahead of us—I’m already seeing the energetic boy his dad’s described—but he surprises me. He eyes Brett holding my hand, then comes around and grabs my other one. And just like that, his tiny hand is inside mine.

  My heart lifts and I smile down at the little boy who’s oblivious to what he’s done for me. He gallops ahead, tugging on my hand. I don’t think there’s a single thing that could happen today to
take away from this moment of childlike acceptance.

  When we get to Marcia Carmichael’s house, everybody else has already arrived. There are several cars parked in the driveway and along the street of her two-story Colonial-style house. When we go inside, there are two girls, I’m guessing around the ages of six and eight, in the front room who appear to have been waiting for Max, because they scramble off the couch and run over to him when we walk in the door. The kids seem mutually excited to see one another, and after hugs for both Max and Brett and brief introductions to me, the trio scamper off.

  Coming in our direction is the man I recognize as Brett’s father. He looks even more like Brett in person, and I have a vision of what Brett might look like in a few more decades. Older yes, but distinguished and handsome. He approaches with a warm smile and extends his hand to me first.

  Brett places his hand on my back. “Dad, this is Lizzy. Lizzy this is my dad, Max.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, taking his hand.

  “You too. We’ve heard a lot about you from Brett here.” He’s still smiling and gives his son a wink.

  I’m simultaneously put more at ease thanks to his warm welcome, and feeling the butterflies in my stomach kick up a bit as I anticipate seeing Marcia.

  I hand over the bottle of wine I brought, a Merlot that Brett told me was his mother’s favorite. “Thank you so much for having me today.”

  “It’s our pleasure.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, inviting us further inside. “Come on in. Marcia,” he calls. “Brett and Lizzy are here.”

  And here she comes. It’s a little startling, to see the formidable woman I’ve battled so publicly with a cherry-print apron tied over her front. Her large frame, tame bob, and confident expression are all softened by the cumulative effect of being in her home and with her loved ones.

  Hell, she’s even smiling. A real smile. Not the acid ones she’s tossed in my direction in the past.

  She goes to Brett and gives him a hug, then turns to me with a smile that, truth be told, is probably as stiff and uncomfortable as my own, but at least we’re both trying.

  “It’s nice to see you Elizabeth.” It’s not Lizzy, but it’s a step up from Miz Rivers so it’ll do. It’s about as far as I’m ready to go with her right now anyway.

  “Thank you. You as well.”

  “Look what she brought for us,” her husband says handing over the bottle.

  She takes it and raises her eyebrows, but I can’t tell if it’s in pleasant surprise or disdain. It occurs to me that this might come across as trying to buy my way into her affections. This isn’t exactly an unusual custom—I’ve been on both the giving and receiving end of it several times—so other than making sure I got something I knew she would like, I didn’t really think much of it. Now I’m questioning myself, and wondering if I should have just showed up empty-handed.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” she says, nodding to me. Neither her tone nor her expression give me any clues to her true thoughts. All I can do is give a gracious smile, thank her for having me, and let it go.

  Brett takes my hand and squeezes reassuringly. “Come on, I want to introduce you to everyone.”

  The next hour goes by in somewhat of a blur. The house is packed. In addition to the sister who lives here in Swan Point, and the brother and his family who have travelled up from L.A., his other sister and her kids have flown down from Vancouver for the occasion. She has two children, but is here without her husband, who travels a lot on business and is currently in Brazil. In addition to this, Brett’s aunt and uncle and one of his cousins are here. A close family friend, Harland and his wife, are also in attendance.

  I have plenty of practice in social situations, and don’t have any trouble engaging people in conversation, but my nerves continue to flutter just under the surface. While most of his family has been kind and welcoming, it turns out the history Marcia and I have with one another isn’t going to be swept away as easily as I might have hoped. I’m making an effort, and I can tell she is too, but the best we’ve managed to accomplish so far is obligatory politeness.

  I can only hope this is something that will improve with time.

  Meanwhile, thanks to the size of the gathering, we’ve both been able to keep our interactions with one another to a minimum without it being rude or too obvious. She’s preparing quite a large meal, and several of us are in the kitchen helping. Brett and I are sitting at the bar, chopping ingredients for the salad. His aunt, Sarah, who is in her nursing uniform because she has a shift tonight and will be leaving before dinner, is sitting next to me, finishing off a plate Marcia prepared for her. She didn’t get quite everything that we’ll be having for dinner, but enough to get by.

  Sarah has engaged me in conversation several times. It was clear when I first met her that she had stars in her eyes about me (one of Brett’s sisters too, for that matter). I don’t normally care much about things like that, but I have to admit, in this situation it’s been nice to have such an eager ally. As we’ve been talking, Marcia has largely been interacting with her daughters who are also helping, but has glanced over at us several times. As usual, I can’t tell by her expression if she’s put out, or if it’s just my imagination.

  She goes to the stove, stirs the gravy that’s in the pot, and looks over at us. “Lizzy, did you know Sarah used to attend church with your parents?”

  That would have been a nice opening to a new topic of conversation if it came from almost anyone else. It could just be my imagination, but I sense a challenge in there somewhere.

  Nevertheless, I reply politely, “Oh really?” I turn to Brett’s aunt. She’s giving a look to Marcia, as if she’s not too happy with her. “You attend Grace?”

  “Yes. I have for years.”

  Grace United Church has several hundred people in its congregation, so I wonder how well she knew my parents.

  “We weren’t close,” she says in answer to my unasked question. “But I knew them well enough, and always thought they were such lovely people.”

  I smile.

  “Brent’s aunt is quite active at Grace,” Marcia interjects, and still I sense a challenge in her voice. Maybe it is my imagination. What could she possibly be challenging me about? Maybe I need to try to just relax and stop assuming there’s animosity there. “She actually oversees the Christmas Angel program.”

  “Oh really?” I turn to Sarah with genuine enthusiasm. “I think it’s so great the church does that.”

  She nods, smiling but giving a rather stern glance to Marcia.

  Okay. I’m not imagining that. What’s going on?

  “Thank you,” she says, giving me a reassuring smile.

  Ignoring Marcia and focusing on Sarah, whom I’ve enjoyed spending time with, I tell her, “I actually have good memories of that. My mom used to take my brothers and me shopping for the Christmas Angels every year.”

  Marcia knocks the handle of her spoon on the side of the pot a little harder than seems necessary, drawing my attention along with several people in the kitchen. She’s turned away toward the potatoes she’s mashing on the opposite counter though, so I don’t see the expression on her face. I don’t miss her daughter’s sharp look toward her mother, though.

  I turn to Brett just in time to see the frown he’s tossing in his mother’s direction, before he glances at me, wipes it away, and smiles. What the hell’s going on?

  “Unfortunately, I have to go,” Sarah says loudly, and I get the feeling she’s trying to change the subject somehow. I don’t know what was particularly disturbing to everyone about that subject, but I’m grateful for the diversion. I’m caught a little off guard, and feel uneasy enough that I’m having to work pretty hard to hide it.

  I return my attention to the carrots as Sarah slides off her stool and goes into the kitchen to give hugs all around. She works her way back to us, giving Brett a hug, then saying to me, “Would you walk me out?”

  I glance at Brett, who looks uncomfortable, and I fo
llow her into the living room, confused.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” she says as she grabs her purse off the couch, “that I thought so highly of your parents.” She straightens and looks at me. “They were good people.”

  “Thank you.” I’m getting a weird vibe from her. She’s offering the same genuine smile she’s had for me all along, but now she’s searching my face openly. There’s something else going on here, and I don’t know what it is.

  “Did you know,” she begins kindly, “that every year your mother would call me a couple days before Christmas to see how many angels we still had left?”

  I shake my head, wondering where she’s going with this.

  She smiles, takes my hand between hers, and squeezes. “I didn’t think so. Every year, she would find out what we still needed, and donate the funds to cover it.”

  The lump that appears in my throat is instant, and I blink back the few bittersweet tears that have come to my eyes, but I smile.

  “Her only request was that the donation be kept anonymous.”

  I nod my head, still smiling, and manage to say, “Yeah. That sounds like something she would do.” My mother once explained how important it is to occasionally give without receiving recognition in return. Though she was well-known as a community philanthropist, I’ve long suspected we’ll never truly know the extent of her contributions.

  Sarah nods. “I thought you might like to know.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “I imagine you probably miss them…” Her kindness and compassion are so genuine and unexpected that tears now start to blur my vision. “…but I hope you’re proud of them, too.”