Kris draped an arm around Olivia’s shoulders. “The Hollywood ending only happens in the movies, you know. You’re making a difference with her, even if you don’t see it.”
Olivia thought of all the brave, good intentions she’d had when she’d moved to Rescue Bay. She fingered the letter tucked in the pocket of her skirt. She’d tried, tried her best; no one could fault her for that. But maybe the time had come to move on.
* * *
“Okay, Greta, spill. What are you hiding this morning?” Pauline narrowed her gaze and leaned in to study Greta across the small table. A jigsaw puzzle of the Eiffel Tower spread across the smooth oak surface. “Did you spike the nurses’ coffee with Kahlua again?”
“No, and for the record, I never did that.” Greta took a sip of tea, honest-to-goodness tea with no bourbon added, and fit a corner of the tower into place. “It was a rumored spiking.”
Pauline laughed. “Whatever you want to call it.”
Greta leaned back in her chair and grinned. Not admitting a thing. No one could blame her for something she never acknowledged as happening. “I’m just happy.”
“Did you say happy?” Esther cupped a hand around her ear. “You? You’re never happy.”
“Well, I am today. It’s a Monday, we’re not quilting, and Luke is in love.” Greta sighed. Finally, her grandson was living his life and moving forward. She couldn’t think of a better partner for the future than the beautiful, spunky Olivia. Greta leaned forward and fit in two more pieces, click, click. They fit as perfectly as Luke and Olivia. “What more could I ask for?”
“A clean bill of health?” Esther said. “A bigger check from social security? World peace?”
Greta considered something sarcastic in response, then decided she wasn’t going to spoil her mood. Even Esther couldn’t irritate her today. “I’m so happy, I almost said good morning to Harold Twohig this morning when I saw him walking to breakfast.”
“Almost?” Pauline turned a squiggly-shaped piece left, then right, and squinted at the already assembled pieces.
Greta grinned and reached over to pluck the piece from Pauline’s inept hands, then press it into the right spot on the tower’s spire. “It made me happier not to say it.”
Pauline laughed. Always neighborly Esther tsk-tsked. Around them, the morning room filled with people, some sitting at the card tables for a game of rummy or a crossword. Greta sipped her tea and wondered how long it would be before she had great-grandchildren to spoil.
The door to the morning room opened and Miss Sadie trotted in first, wearing her little red THERAPY DIVA vest and eliciting delighted gasps from the residents. Olivia followed behind the dog, wearing a soft white short-sleeved shirt, a poufy pale-blue skirt, and red kitten heels. Her hair was back in a ponytail and, on the outside, she seemed like her usual chipper self.
Greta nudged Pauline. “Here she comes. Doesn’t she look so . . .” Her voice trailed off as Olivia drew closer.
“Depressed?” Pauline supplied. “That’s odd. I’ve never seen Olivia look like that. She’s usually so sunny and sweet.”
“Me either,” Esther said. “Maybe she got some bad news today or her car wouldn’t start or the power company raised her electric bill—”
“Hush, Esther. I’m going to go find out what happened.” Greta got to her feet and crossed to Olivia. Miss Sadie came running up and nudged at Greta’s hand. She petted the little dog for a second, her gaze never leaving Olivia’s. The light didn’t shine in Olivia’s eyes, and even though she smiled, the gesture lacked its usual punch. “Why, hello, Olivia. How are you today?”
“Fine.” A monotone syllable. “Sorry. No time to talk today. I need to get to the rest of my therapy appointments, Greta.”
“It’s only quarter till. You have a few minutes to visit, right?”
“I really should . . .” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. Sadness emanated from her like perfume, and Greta wanted to just reach out and hug the poor girl.
What had gone wrong between the weekend and this morning?
“You seem off today,” Greta said.
“A tough day at work, that’s all.”
“And personally, too?” When Olivia looked away, Greta knew Luke was behind that pain in Olivia’s eyes. “Has my grandson forgotten his manners again?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen him lately.” Olivia raised her chin. “Maybe you can ask him yourself.”
By God, she had not raised Luke to be this stupid. How could he break this poor girl’s heart? Because that was what she saw in Olivia’s face.
Heartbreak.
“I’m glad I saw you today, Greta. I wanted to thank you, for everything.” Olivia took Greta’s hand in hers. “And for being one of my first and last friends in Rescue Bay.”
“What do you mean, last?”
“I just gave my notice to the center director. I’m going back to Massachusetts. I can’t save the house, I can’t get through to my patients. I can’t . . . make anything work here.”
“Oh, honey, don’t do that. Rescue Bay needs you.” And so did Luke, but clearly, her grandson was too big of a stubborn idiot to realize that. If he was here, she might have throttled him.
Greta waved toward the love seat that sat in a cozy nook near the French doors leading to the courtyard. Bright sunlight streamed through the doors and washed over the white cushions, which made the love seat a favorite reading place for many residents. Greta saw Colleen Morris shuffling toward the spot, a romance novel in one hand, and waved her off. “Come on, let’s sit down for a little bit and talk,” Greta said to Olivia. “You’ll feel better if you do.”
“Oh, I don’t know if—”
“You have time. It’s only quarter till, remember?”
“Okay. But just for a minute.” Miss Sadie lay down at Olivia’s feet, patient and quiet, her brown eyes on her mistress, her tail swishing softly against the tile floor.
Greta leaned over and whispered in Olivia’s ear. That Esther had the hearing of a nuclear submarine, and the last thing she needed today was an Esther lecture. “Do you need a little something to get your day off on the right foot, dear? Because I’m more than happy to share my Maker’s Mark with you.”
Olivia laughed. “No, no. But thank you. It’s a . . . sweet offer.”
“Good.” Greta patted Olivia’s knee. “I’m glad you said that, because I think what you need, more than a sip of my bourbon, is to talk.”
“Greta—”
“And talking is the kind of medicine that can’t be found in a bottle,” Greta went on, overriding Olivia’s objection. Her daddy had always said that. He’d sit little Greta down at the kitchen table, a platter of cookies between them, and get her talking about the book she was reading in English or the boy she liked in math. He’d ease in with the easy subjects, and eventually the tough stuff would filter through. How Greta wished her daddy were here now, with his cookies and his odd bit of wisdom. He’d always had the right word at the right time. “I know my grandson has yet to realize that talking is good for the soul, but I’m hoping you’re a lot less stubborn than that mule I helped raise.”
“Maybe less stubborn, but I’m definitely more of an idiot.” She shook her head. “I had this silly dream, and I thought if I came down here, I could make it come true.”
“Nothing wrong with that. Dreams are what fuels us, dear.”
“Yeah, well, mine just led me in the wrong direction, which is why I’m going back home.”
Olivia’s home was right here in Rescue Bay, with Greta, Pauline, Esther, and Luke. And yes, maybe even Harold Twohig.
“Maybe it was the wrong direction. Maybe it’s not. I think right now, you’re reacting with emotion instead of thinking this through.” Greta patted Olivia’s knee. “Now tell me what went so wrong. I promise, it will make you feel better.”
“Okay.” Then, like a waterfall held back too long by a big rock, the story spilled from Olivia. The abandonment in the hospital at bi
rth, the loving adoptive mother and father in Boston, the lawyer on her doorstep, the house beyond repair, the sister who held her at arm’s length. “I could probably work through all those things and stay here. And I was. But then this morning, the electricity at the house went out. I think I cut a line or blew something. I don’t know. To me, it was a sign. I come in to work, and I think today’s the day I’ll get through to Millie, but no, it only got worse. There’s another sign. And after Luke . . . well, let’s just say I didn’t need a billboard to give me that sign. I started to ask myself what I was doing here. I’m looking for answers from a mother who’s never had any for me, and trying to build a life in a house that just wants to die.”
Greta sat up straight. Looked Olivia dead in the eye. “You stop that right now, missy. You are not allowed to have a pity party. If you want answers, you go get them.”
“Greta, Bridget is dead. I can’t get answers from her anymore.”
“Then go talk to her.” Her face softened and she clasped Olivia’s hand again. “After my husband, Edward, died, God rest his soul, I would go and talk to him at the cemetery. He never answered, of course, which was pretty much par for the course with him. Lord knows while we were married, I did enough talking for the both of us, but just being there and having it out with him made me feel better. I would stand in front of that headstone and yell at him for leaving me behind. Or tell him he was a selfish jerk for not showing me how to run the generator before he died. But most of all, I would tell him”—Greta lowered her voice, so no one would overhear her admit this out loud—“that I loved the old bastard and I missed him more every day.”
Olivia smiled. “Why, Greta, I do think you’re a romantic.”
“Hush, now. You let something like that get around this place and I lose all sorts of credibility.”
Olivia pressed a finger to her lips, but her green eyes danced with merriment. “Mum’s the word.”
“Good. Now I want you to think twice about leaving here, because there are people in this place and in this town who need you.” Greta squeezed Olivia’s fingers. “People like me.”
Olivia nodded, swiping at the tears in her eyes. “Okay, I will. Thank you, Greta.”
“It’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for my own grandchild, and I want you to know that to me, you are part of my family, dear.”
Olivia pressed a tender kiss to Greta’s cheek. “I appreciate it, and I appreciate you.” She got to her feet, and Miss Sadie scrambled to join her. “Now I really have to go or I’m going to be late.”
Oh, it softened Greta’s heart to see Olivia happy again, she thought as Olivia headed down the hall, Miss Sadie trotting by her side. Maybe there was still a way to get this all to work out. Not just so Greta would have a happy ending for the Common Sense Carla column, but so she could give Olivia and Luke the happy ending they so deserved.
Because truth be told, Greta Winslow really was a romantic at heart.
Then she spied a familiar bane of her existence wearing a too-thin, too-tight tank top outside the window, waving at her. Exception—a romantic at heart when it came to everyone—
Except for Harold Twohig, the shirtless wonder.
Twenty-one
Luke’s dark mood had driven off Mike, who threw up his hands, read Luke the riot act about running a one-man pity party, then headed next door to take out some frustration on some two-by-fours. Luke could hear the hammering all the way from inside his house and figured Mike would be gone for a while. The two had been friends long enough that he didn’t worry the blowup would damage that bond. Mike had been right and justified in calling Luke out for being an idiot. The problem was transforming from idiot back into human.
The idiot side of him had driven Olivia away—permanently. He couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t have been more brutal and cruel if he’d delivered his message with a sledgehammer.
He missed her. Damn, how he missed her. She’d become a part of his life, and without her, it was as if someone had ripped out a vital organ.
They had. His heart.
He glanced at the answering machine. It blinked red, over and over, reminding him of the message waiting for him. Emma, Joe’s sister, had received the letter Luke sent her and wanted to talk.
Luke had ignored the message. Hadn’t returned the call. What the hell was he supposed to say to her?
His doorbell rang, making him jump. He wanted to ignore it, but he’d done a lot of ignoring of things lately and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere but alone again. He headed down the hall and pulled open the door. It took a moment for the incongruous sight standing on his porch to make sense. “Dad? What are you doing here?”
Edward Winslow hadn’t changed a bit in the six months since Luke had last seen him. He had on the typical lawyer attire he wore every day—dark-blue power suit, crimson tie, crisp white shirt, and polished dress shoes. Not a hair out of place, not a speck of lint on his Brooks Brothers. “I came by to see my son.”
Not to see you or to visit with you, but the impersonal to see my son. “Is it time already for your once-a-year lecture? I’m not in the mood for that.” Luke started to shut the door, but his father stopped him.
“That’s not why I’m here.” Edward’s face pinched. “Can I come in?”
Luke hesitated, then opened the door wider. “Fine.”
Edward stepped into the bungalow, and if he had issues with Luke’s décor, he didn’t show it. He just strode down the hall toward the kitchen, as if he were striding up to the judge’s bench to deliver an objection. Luke followed, already regretting opening the door.
Edward detoured for the table, while Luke took up a station against the counter. He reached for the coffee and realized he could see the pot this time. When had things stopped being all shadows and shapes and begun to shift into clear images? Had he been too caught up in his one-man pity party to notice the changes in his vision? His sight wasn’t perfect, not by any stretch, but a whole lot better.
Luke filled the carafe, dumped some grounds into the basket, then pressed the power button. He put his back to the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. And waited. He knew Edward well, and could see the windup to the lecture in the way his father tensed and knitted his brows in mock concern.
“I stopped by to make sure you were taking care of yourself,” his father said. “Your grandmother said you have been having . . . difficulties since the accident.”
“The accident that killed my best friend and left me partially blind? Yeah, Dad, it’s been tough over the last couple of months. But nothing for you to worry about.”
“I realize you may be angry at me for not visiting or coming by to take care of you when you got home. I had the National Bar Association conference in—”
“Frankly, Dad, I don’t give a shit where you were. Thanks for the Get Well Soon card and the gift card for the supermarket. It really helped ease the pain.” Luke didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“I . . .” Edward put up his hands. “You’re right. I should have been here. I didn’t know what to do. And your grandmother seemed to have it all under control. Like she always does.”
“Dad, she’s eighty-three years old. When are you going to stop dumping the parental role in her lap? It’s about fucking time you started being a dad, don’t you agree?” He snorted, then reined in years of anger. “Not that I need one now anyway.”
For the first time that Luke could remember, Edward was speechless. He sat at the kitchen table, his mouth pursed like he’d eaten a lemon. “Is the coffee done?”
Of course. Change the subject, ignore the tough stuff. Why had Luke hoped for anything else? He glanced back at the pot. “Almost.”
“Good.”
Silence hung over the kitchen, a brick wall between two stubborn bulls. Luke willed the timer to beep the end of the brewing cycle so he could dispense with this whole charade of a friendly, paternal visit.
Then his mind went to Olivia. To their moonlit walk, and w
hat she’d said when he’d told her he was afraid he’d fall on his face if he tried walking with her.
Yeah, you probably will. But then you’ll get back up and try again because you have to. Besides, you can’t stay on the damned porch all night.
She hadn’t just been talking about the porch or the walk, and he knew it. She was telling him it was okay to take those steps forward in the dark, to try, and maybe fail, because it was time to get off the porch he’d built out of grief and regret.
Damn, that could almost be poetry. But it was true, and another way that Olivia had touched his life when he hadn’t been looking.
She could read him, pretty damned well. From the minute she’d met him, Olivia had always seemed to say just what he needed to hear. Whether he listened was another story.
What better place to take those first steps, Luke decided, than here, with his father? Someone had to take the lead or they’d be stuck in this impasse forever.
Hell, he couldn’t remember a time when they hadn’t had this mountain between them. When Luke had been little, his father would come home at the end of the day, say hello to Greta, then head down the hall to his son’s room. Luke would lie in his bed, the covers up to his nose, aware that his father was standing in the light of the hall. He would wait for his father to enter the room, but Edward never did. So Luke would pretend to be asleep and eventually Edward would walk away.
Now, as an adult, Luke realized he’d been lying there, desperate for his father to notice he was only pretending to sleep, while Edward was standing there, probably desperate for his son to notice he was home, and to run into his arms. Luke had been waiting for his distant father to thaw, and Edward had been at a loss as to how to connect with his daredevil son, so like the wife he had lost.
The impasse between them had started on those nights when they’d both so lonely, each needing the other to help them get through this new life devoid of the woman they had both loved, and yet both of them terrified to take those first steps toward the other.
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