by Beth K. Vogt
“Yes.” Footsteps sounded behind her. Haley stopped talking. The only person it could be was her mother-in-law.
Joe Ames’s hand fell to his side. “Miriam. I didn’t want to upset you. I just wanted to see Sam’s wife . . . nothing more. I’ll go now.”
“Hush, Joe. I’m not upset.” Miriam stayed behind Haley. “I saw you at the memorial earlier. I didn’t get upset then, did I? Sam was your son, too—and Kit’s your granddaughter. The truth is, we’ve both been fools—and we hurt our boys because of it. We’ve lost one—” Miriam’s voice thickened with unshed tears. “But we still have Stephen . . . and a daughter-in-law and a granddaughter. Maybe we can do better in the future.”
His ex-wife’s words seemed to stun Joe Ames into silence. After a moment, he exhaled. Nodded. “I think we can, Miriam. I think we can.”
Haley reached back and clasped Miriam’s hand. If only Sam could see his parents’ halting attempt to make peace with each other.
thirty-six
Villa Stella’s hadn’t changed that much since the last time Stephen had been there with Sam and their mom. The same orange neon sign spelled out the restaurant’s name in looping cursive letters across the side of the brick building. The white and green awning still covered the outdoor patio, filled with diners sitting at the black wrought-iron tables and chairs. When he walked inside, the back wall still boasted a hand-painted mural of a Venice waterway.
“Do you have a reservation?” The hostess, her blue eyes heavily made up with glittering green eye shadow, stood guard at the hostess station.
“No. I’d like that booth over there, please.” He motioned to one in the back corner of the restaurant. Filled now with a family of five, including a rambunctious toddler in a high chair, the booth would easily accommodate six adults. “I don’t mind waiting.”
“Are you sure I can’t seat you at a table—”
“No. That booth, please. I’ll wait.”
He settled off to the side, waiting for forty-five minutes while the family finished their dinner and then the busboy cleared the table.
He ignored the menu—updated since he’d been there last—that the hostess set in front of him, speaking before the waiter could deliver his “Would you like a drink or an appetizer?” spiel.
“I know what I want.”
“Okay.” The waiter held a ballpoint pen over his paper pad.
“I’d like two Cokes, light on the ice. An order of your garlic bread. And then two orders of your spaghetti and meatballs—extra meatballs.”
“Are you expecting someone else to join you, sir?”
“You could say that.”
The memories stayed at bay until the man delivered the wire basket overflowing with long pieces of toasted bread, fragrant with butter and garlic. Stephen took the top piece, nodding across the table. He had the bread to himself tonight—but how many times had he and Sam gone through two baskets of garlic bread after a middle school wrestling tournament?
“What are you having?”
Stephen shrugged, his mouth full of toasted bread slathered in butter. “Spaghetti. Extra meatballs. You?”
“Same. And another basket of bread.”
They downed half their drinks when the waitress delivered them; she knew the routine and would return with more garlic bread and a second set of Cokes. Their mom nibbled on a house salad.
“You had a great day out there.” Sam leaned his elbows on the table, his grin wide.
“I shoulda pinned that last guy—I just ran out of time.”
“You’ll get him next time.”
“Maybe. Did you see the high school coach watching tonight? Ross said he was checking out the incoming freshmen.”
“You’ll make the team for sure.”
“We’ll make the team together.”
The waiter disrupted the memory, standing beside the table with two plates piled high with pasta drenched in marinara sauce and loaded down with meatballs.
“You want both of these in front of you?”
“No. One here—” He tapped the wooden tabletop in front of him. “—and one across from me.”
“Okay.” Setting down the plates, the waiter disappeared, returning with a white grater and a block of Parmesan cheese. “Would you like some cheese?”
“Just on mine, please.”
Sam would have laughed until Coke came out of his nose at the look on the guy’s face as he grated cheese over one plate of spaghetti.
But Stephen hadn’t come here to amuse the restaurant staff.
If he’d been smarter . . . more mature . . . more forgiving when he was eighteen, he would have had dinner with Sam at Villa Stella’s the night before he left for boot camp. They would have stuffed themselves full of garlic bread and soda and spaghetti and meatballs. Reminisced. Laughed.
And then he would have gone with his mom and his brother to the airport. Walked him to his gate. Hugged him. Said good-bye.
But there’d been no chance for farewells because he’d gotten angry when Sam announced his decision to join the army during spring break. Not a sulk-in-his-room kind of angry. No, he’d shouted at his brother, grabbing his arm when Sam had tried to walk away. And then Sam had turned around and pushed him into the wall. Before he knew what had happened, they were screaming at each other.
“This is crazy, Sam! What about college?”
“What? You’re gonna fight me? This is my decision, not yours!”
The yelling stopped. But the bitterness remained. The hurt.
And he’d chosen to stay angry. And so had Sam.
And the day Sam left for boot camp he was back in Pennsylvania. Trying not to think about his brother. And failing.
He raised his red plastic cup. “I’m sorry, Sam. Here’s to you. I bet you tore up boot camp.”
He set the cup back down and dug into the pasta until the next memory came. “You remember that time you told me you kissed Andrea Saunders up in the tree house? And then I told you that I kissed Mindie Jacobs? Well . . . I lied. I couldn’t let my brother think he’d one-upped me with a girl, ya know? I mean, I tried to kiss her, but she ran out of the tree house saying she was going to tell her mother.”
He stopped talking as the waiter came back to the table. “Do you, um, need anything, sir?”
“No. Everything’s perfect. Just as good as I remember.”
The waiter walked back to the drink area that was separated from the dining area by half of a brick wall. He tried to act as if he wasn’t watching Stephen. The guy probably thought he was certifiable. Well, he just needed to leave Stephen be so he could finish his long-overdue conversation with his brother. He wanted to talk about the time Sam filled his school locker with white packing peanuts on their thirteenth birthday. And how he retaliated by stuffing every single piece of Sam’s clothes—underwear and socks pulled from the dirty clothes hamper, too—into his brother’s locker. How Sam did their science homework and he did their math homework when they were in eighth grade—until their mother caught on. How they used to lie awake the night before their birthday so they could be the first ones to say, “Happy birthday!”
He swallowed a bite of seasoned meatball. “You always could get Mom to laugh when she was all set to yell at us. I never figured out how to do that.”
Why hadn’t he realized that Sam wasn’t against him and Dad—that he was just worried about Mom?
He sat in silence, finishing off his spaghetti before putting the last piece of garlic bread on the plate across from him. “It’s yours. I can’t eat another bite.”
Stephen wiped his hands with a napkin and then settled back in the booth. “So . . . I met Haley. And I can see why you fell in love with her. The thing is, I thought I was falling in love with her, too. She’s gorgeous, by the way. Not supermodel, knock-you-off-your-feet gorgeous . . . she’s just Haley. Uncomplicated. Her eyes say more than she realizes and her smile—when you can get her to smile—well, she looks like she’s sixteen.”
Step
hen cleared his throat. “Sorry. I lost my train of thought. What I wanted to say was I realized I’m in love with Haley—well, I thought I was. She’s a way to feel close to you again, you know? And now there’s Kit—your daughter. And I let my feelings get all mixed up. I hope you can forgive me for that.”
He hadn’t really expected an audible answer. What he wanted was peace. He had his head screwed on straight now, his emotions under control. He was Haley’s brother-in-law and Kit’s uncle—nothing more.
Stephen looked up as the waiter approached the table again. The conversation was over.
“Do you want me to box this up for you?” The waiter motioned to the untouched meal.
“No.” As he stood, Stephen pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “This ought to cover it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. My brother was always a big tipper.”
thirty-seven
Haley inhaled the faint scent of something floral and sweet lingering in the night air. A walk always helped her relax. The solo stroll through the neighborhood near Miriam’s had eased both the mental and physical tension from her body. She paused at the end of the walkway leading to her mother-in-law’s house. Someone stood just outside the front door.
The height, the shape of his shoulders, even the ease of his gait as he moved toward her . . . Haley knew it was Stephen even though the streetlight behind her didn’t cast enough of a glow to reveal his face.
“I thought I’d missed you.” His voice reached out to her—no echo of Sam lingering in his words.
“Just took a walk to unwind.” She stopped again so that a few feet separated them. He’d changed out of his suit into a short-sleeved polo shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. And yes, he smelled of his familiar citrus scent.
“Long day?”
“Yes—for everyone. Miriam. Kit.”
“You.”
“Me, too. It was a nice memorial service. And tomorrow your mom wants us to visit Sam’s gravesite. That’s important to do, although it doesn’t mean anything to Kit. Not yet.” An Oklahoma breeze tangled her hair about her face. “I met your father tonight.”
“So he said.”
How . . . distant they sounded with each other. Short sentences. Brief questions and answers. Had their relationship—their friendship—really come to this? She wanted to explain what he’d heard . . . to fight past the “How could you?” or “Why did you?” questions, but they stalled in her throat. Her gaze skimmed his shadowed face—eyes, nose, jaw, cleft chin . . . mouth. The memory of the kisses they’d shared seemed scorched at the edges, dry and brittle, ready to crumble and blow away.
“Are you staying much longer?”
Haley forced herself to look up, to not break the tenuous eye contact with Stephen. They were just catching up. “A few more days, then back to the Springs. You?”
“Dad and I leave tomorrow afternoon.”
She closed her eyes, fighting the squeeze of an invisible fist inside her chest that made it hard to breathe, to keep the conversation light. Casual. “Back to Oregon?”
“Yes. I told Jared I wouldn’t be gone too long.”
“So the business is a go?” There. She’d sounded interested, but not too much. And she could breathe again. Almost.
“Yes. Designing . . . houses will be challenging.” Stephen shifted his weight right, then left. “I wanted to apologize for not driving you to the airport—”
“I managed.” Haley’s smile felt forced. Could he even see it in the darkness? “Claire got us there just fine.”
“Then maybe I could explain about some other things.”
How exactly was he supposed to do this?
The plan had been to come by his mother’s house. Talk to Haley. Untangle the past few months. Say good-bye. And move on.
But when he’d shown up, Haley wasn’t there. Which gave his mother time to share her hope for better days ahead for Stephen and her—and his dad.
His father had said he’d met Haley and Kit—and that he’d forged the barest beginnings of peace with his ex-wife. But still, this more hope-filled version of his mother rocked Stephen’s world.
And then he’d looked in on Kit . . . and wavered from his objective. Stephen forced himself to stand back from the portable crib. Not lean over and inhale his niece’s baby-fresh aroma. Or give in to the longing to pick her up, cradle her close to his heart.
That would be his undoing.
He’d whispered a prayer for her and a promise to always watch over her—even from a distance—and a good-bye, his eyes memorizing the outline of her profile: forehead, tiny nose and chin. She’d change so fast, this version of Kit would be outdated within weeks.
And now he faced the final challenge: saying good-bye to Haley.
“When I came looking for Sam back in January, I met you . . . and I got confused.” Stephen cleared his throat even as he searched for the right words—the necessary words. “I was broken. You were grieving. I let my emotions get turned upside down. I thought I was falling in love with you, Haley.”
She watched him, the only movement caused by the wind sweeping her hair around her face.
“But I realize I was . . . It was wrong. I missed Sam. And you were his wife . . . Kit is his daughter . . . Loving you was a way to be close to him.” The words that should have been so freeing left a bitter taste in his mouth. “You still love Sam. Now’s not the time for you to be getting involved with anyone else—especially his twin brother. I mean, that’s crazy.”
Still no response from Haley. Why wasn’t she agreeing with him?
“I can understand why Sam fell in love with you . . . and I know I probably confused you, too—”
“At first.” Haley shook her head, raking her fingers through her hair, shoving it out of her eyes. “But now I’d never mistake you for Sam.”
And what was he supposed to say to that? Of course she wouldn’t mistake him for Sam—because Sam was dead. But if Sam were still alive, there’d be no question of who she’d choose. No question of choosing.
Haley’s eyes closed for a brief moment, and then she looked at him. “Thank you for all your help with the house projects. The crib. And for, um, being there when Kit was born.”
“No problem—”
She waved away his response, her fingers coming to rest on her lips as she paused to catch her breath, as if she were preparing to sprint. “Let me say this. Thank you, Stephen Rogers Ames, for everything. For being you. I—I . . . appreciate you.”
“May I call and check in on you and Peanut?”
“Sure. Kit will want to hear from her uncle.” Haley’s inhale seemed ragged. “Well, I need to get inside before Miriam worries that I got lost. You take care, okay?”
“I will. You, too.” His arms stayed by his sides, even as the thought of taking back everything he’d just said, of pulling Haley close—kissing her—flamed to life. He inhaled, forcing himself to swallow the words he wanted to say. He stuffed his fists in his pockets, moving forward and stepping off the sidewalk into the grass so that he wouldn’t touch her, his action finally propelling her into the house.
Neither of them said good-bye—not out loud.
thirty-eight
Seven thirty in the morning? Someone was knocking on her door at seven thirty on a Wednesday morning?
Haley shoved her arms through her gray sweatshirt and pulled it on over her camisole. She pushed away thoughts of grabbing her 9mm from the gun safe. Probably some guy wanting to sell her siding. Or window washing. Or driveway resurfacing. She yanked the front door open and caught Sterling Shelton III midknock, with his arm raised.
“Mr. Shelton, do you know what time it is?”
“Of course I do.” He lowered his arm, pulling at the sleeves of his coat. “I wear a watch.”
“What do you want?” Haley kept the screen door shut. She’d talk to him—but he wasn’t getting in her house.
“I want to discuss your tree.”
&nb
sp; “The tree next to my garage?”
“Of course not.” He held up a sheaf of papers, shaking them so that they rattled. “The tree I’ve sent three letters about.”
“Do you have nothing better to do than hassle homeowners?”
“I am not hassling you, Mrs. Ames. I am ensuring covenants are enforced.”
“I can see that. Mis-sized house numbers are a horrible covenant infraction.”
“I cannot exempt you from them just because you are widowed.”
Haley shoved open the screen door, causing the man to step back. “I have never asked for special treatment because my husband was killed.”
Shelton may have stepped back, but he didn’t back down. “And I cannot overlook infractions just because you have a baby.”
“Mr. Shelton, what do you want from me?”
“Remove your tree, Mrs. Ames. It’s a danger to the neighborhood. I’ve had a tree doctor examine it—”
“You brought someone on my property?”
“Of course not. I had him look at some photographs—”
She’d been awake all of thirty minutes—talking to Shelton for five—and already her blood pressure was jitterbugging through her veins. “Who took photographs of my tree?”
“I did—from the sidewalk behind your house. Nothing illegal about that.” He slapped his palm against the papers in his other hand. “I’ve had a certified tree doctor examine the photographs and verify parts of the tree are dead, while others could be diseased and dying.”
“Arborist.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.” Now was not the time to quibble over proper terms—or to recall a similar conversation with Stephen. “Could I see that report, please?”
“Absolutely.” He flipped open a brown folder and pointed to several photographs clipped to the top of an official-looking report. “I’m sure you’ll agree—”
As he handed her the documents, Haley held up her hand. “I am not agreeing to anything until I look at this so-called report.”