“Good morning. It looks as though Eisley brought the snow with her.”
Wesley entered the kitchen, gray trousers hanging loose around his legs and a white t-shirt clinging to his chest. How much he resembles his father. He yawned, raked a hand through his unruly hair, and walked over to kiss his mother on the same cheek Eisley had kissed.
“I thought you had an audition this week. When did you arrive?”
Wes rubbed his eyes and took a cup from the cupboard. “It was past midnight. After the voice-over, I had no interest in staying in town.” He scanned the kitchen. “Besides, the audition isn’t for a few days.”
Eleanor tempered her smile. Actor or not, her son’s behavior since Eisley’s entrance into his life blazed with interest, especially after their long conversation after the gala. “You decided to join us here rather than return to the country house?”
“Now, I wouldn’t have seen my parents if I’d gone to Harrogate Park.” A mischievous glint marked his true intentions, but his hapless shrug meant to send her off his trail. “Everyone still asleep?”
Eleanor took another look out the window, a lingering sip of coffee, and decided on a noncommittal, “Hmm.”
“I suppose Eisley’s knackered after all of her traveling.” He peeled a banana, sat down at the table, and stretched his legs out in front of him to expose his bare feet.
This interest in Eisley Barrett opened a door to a world he’d bolted closed two years before. Was he ready? Eleanor had spent months, if not years, praying for another opportunity for Wes. Hope trembled to life in her pulse. His year of spiritual growth prepared him to return to his profession, but acting flaunted his weaknesses in front of him on a daily basis. It couldn’t be easy. And Vivian’s pursuit didn’t help.
She waited through the silence until Wes looked up. “Wesley, I’ll not have you trifle with that girl’s emotions. If you have intentions for Ms. Barry, then you should—”
“Mum.” Wesley flattened his palms against the table. “There is nothing between me and Vivian.” His words released with a growl and his jaw twitched. “However, because of our shared pasts, she’s plagued with the same pain and memories as I am: She misses her sister.”
“Codswallop. The only thing that woman misses is a conscience. She’s devious, Wesley. I see it written all over her face, and she’s using your guilt against you.” She softened her words, splaying her fingers out to touch his. “You are not the man you once were, darling. God has forgiven you, yet you are bound by this guilt. Don’t continue to work for a debt which has already been paid. You are free to start anew.”
Wesley’s hands fisted and opened, a sign of his inward struggle—or his exhaustion with her plea. “I know, Mum. And I rang Carl about it yesterday, to schedule a meeting with him once he returns from Venice.” He met her look with a confident one of his own, sending a clear message he could manage his own affairs now.
Pride, and a precious pound of peace, eased over her previous anxiety.
“My past is a part of me.” Wes stared into his coffee cup, his brow tightened. “A fading part of me. I can’t change the choices I’ve made or the people I’ve hurt, but I’ve learned from those mistakes. Those losses.” He sighed and lifted his face. “And a fresh start has only looked better since Eisley arrived.”
She busied herself in the silence by topping off her tea and staring out the window, giving Eisley a bit more time. “I hate to admit it aloud, but your father was right from the beginning. I’m glad she came.”
“So am I.”
Eleanor studied her son for a moment and then leaned into his gaze. “Mind some advice, duck. The greatest romance is born out of friendship. She’s been deeply wounded. As have you. Take some of the patience you’ve learned through your profession and in the injuries of the past few years and practice it now, with the care of a friend. Be gentle and slow, for both of your sakes.”
His smile held no promises as he slid into the chair across from her. “You make it sound as though I’m impetuous, Mother.”
Eleanor ignored his sarcasm and took another sip of her tea, her lips tempting to unbraid into a grin as she watched him over the rim. “I do hope Eisley finds her way on the footpath this morning. The fog is quite thick, don’t you think?”
Wes had just taken a large bite of his banana and almost choked at his mother’s words. “Chee wan bu duh woo?”
“Wesley, I think you are old enough to remember one doesn’t speak when one’s mouth is full. Hmm?”
Wes grimaced through a painful swallow of the half-chewed banana. “She went through the wood?” He stood from the table and took a quick drink of his coffee. “Why didn’t you tell me she was out already?”
“I wanted to give her a head start...and clarify your intentions.” Eleanor offered a noncommittal shrug. “She doesn’t know what you’ve been through—how pain has changed you and given you a proper perspective. She sees you as an impossible dream, and impossibilities are safe for wounded hearts. She’d be terrified if she knew you harbored interest in her.”
Wes drew his jacket off the hook and slipped it over his t-shirt. He pulled on his wellies. “What happened to all that renewed faith I saw in your eyes earlier? Doubting me already?”
She ignored his teasing grin. “She’s in desperate need of a tender hand, and you are in need of the hope. Take care, Wes.”
His expression sobered. “I’ll take my time.” He hurried to the door in complete contradiction to his words.
“Obviously.”
He shrugged as if helpless, a fresh spring to his step. She’d missed it.
With a wave of cool air, Wesley disappeared into the morning and Eleanor finally finished her tea. Matchmaking did hold an element of fun, didn’t it?
Chapter Six
Eisley drifted into the fog, mesmerized, as if she’d entered the magical world of Narnia. A cool mist sprinkled across her face and heightened the otherworldly feelings already dancing across her skin. London was interesting, but this landscape…this vast, iconic countryside? Breathtaking.
Her presence interrupted the morning routines of the furry natives, who skittered through the underbrush before she caught a solid glimpse of them. A hush of breeze whirred above and cooled the droplets kissing her cheeks and eyelids. She drew in a deep breath of the air, scented with wet soil and the faint hint of something sweet. A rock wall guided her path down the slope and up ahead, a wild vine of pink winter blossoms clung to the ledge of a stone bridge.
Daphnes? A few sprigs of snowdrops pushed up in a sparse frame. Her granny said they were God’s reminders that spring was never too far away. Eisley fingered the soft petals and smiled. Hope. Eleanor’s gentle reminder tugged her thoughts in a frightening direction. Love? Yeah, she’d thought it would be enough, but even after almost three years, fear fought the same war between the little girl who wanted to believe and the woman who knew how painful rejection burned.
Hope? Regret was so much safer.
A familiar sound arrested her attention and yanked the mother-strings of her heart: A child, crying. Eisley quickened her pace toward the sound, her feet hitting the bridge with such force she slid halfway across it, barely keeping upright.
A small creek ran beneath the bridge, and standing on an island-rock in the middle of the brook was the source of the cries: A little girl. Tears trickled down her pale cheeks from a set of round, dark eyes. One hand wrapped around a rag doll and the other clung to the pocket of her little brown coat. Golden curls spilled from beneath a mousy cap. Oh, poor baby! Eisley crossed the bridge and skimmed down the steep bank.
“Hi, sweetie.” She squatted to eye level with the little girl, the gentle flow of water separating them. “How did you get all the way out there?”
The easy gurgle of the stream mingled with the girl’s sniffles. Her bottom lip wobbled, and then she wiped her nose on her sleeve. Go figure! British kids do that, too? Her rosebud mouth pinched closed. Eisley offered her friendliest smile.
/> “My name is Eisley and I’m visiting Mr. and Mrs. Harrison just on the other side of the woods. Do you know them?”
She hesitated and then the blond curls bobbed up and down with a nod.
“They’ve sent me on a special journey this morning. I’m supposed to make it to the top of that hill over there and look for a castle.” Eisley scooted a pace forward, toes at the water’s edge. “Do you like to explore in the mornings too?”
Curls bobbed, followed by a tremulous sniffle.
“Would you like some help to get back over here? I can carry you.”
The little girl looked from Eisley’s face back to the flowing water on either side of her, and shifted from one bright orange Wellie to the other. Good girl. Be cautious with the whole ‘talk to strangers’ thing.
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded her reply.
Eisley scanned the creek for the simplest place to cross, the narrowest passage. The girl stood in the middle, a little over a van’s distance away, and the only stepping stones available were meant for kiddie-sized feet.
Why hadn’t she packed her waders?
With a resigned sigh, Eisley stepped to the first rock and her foot made an unladylike slip right into the cool stream. Her body tensed as the freezing water seeped through her tennis shoes, clenching every muscle, even her voice. Geeze Louise, she didn’t even need to be in heels.
“I guess you’d better tell me your name,”—Her words pitched high from the chill running up her thighs— “so I’ll know you’re a real girl and not a pixie trying to trick me.”
The pout disappeared and the little girl jutted out her round chin. “Mary. And I am not a pixie.”
The light airiness to her voice contradicted her statement.
“Mary? Well, that’s a wonderful name and very un-pixie-like, so I guess I’ll believe you.”
“Pixies aren’t real.” Her sweet voice took a hard edge; too hard for a maybe six-year old.
Eisley tilted her head upward as if pondering Mary’s statement. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. The storybooks have a lot to say about them.”
Mary’s frown deepened. “Fairy stories aren’t real either. There is no such thing as magic.”
Tough crowd, and a bit too cynical. Even if Eisley didn’t believe in ‘once upon a time’ anymore, this six-year-old damsel in distress shouldn’t slam it. Fairy tales went with childhood like rainy days and mud pies. You couldn’t have one without the other.
Eisley rallied to defend the daydreams and dispel the much-too-hopeless look on Mary’s young face. “Oh, but I know a few true ones. Fantastic, and as near to magical as anything else I’ve ever read. There’s one about a young boy who killed a giant with a slingshot and stone, a magical moment when an entire sea split in half, and another one about a fairy-like creature who brought an amazing message to a young girl.” Eisley tried to move her hands as she walked, but kept losing her balance. “The coolest is about a real-life prince who fought a dragon named Death and crushed his head without using one sword.”
The spark of interest in Mary’s eyes brought her mom’s words back to her. God specializes in the impossible. Maybe faith, trust, and a little pixie dust wasn’t such a bad idea, even for grown-ups- especially grown-ups who knew about the wonder of God’s love. Somehow it always held a magical quality to it, vast and beyond understanding, yet close enough to wrap around her.
Eisley reached the island and put her arms out for Mary, stashing those musings for later. “There now, let’s take it nice and slow to the other side. Are you ready?”
Eisley scooped her up, wobbled on her turn, and started back across the creek. “Do you have any brothers?”
Mary nodded and held up one chubby finger.
“One? Wow, I have three and they weren’t always so nice. Is your brother nice?”
Mary frowned and shook her head. “He’s loud.”
“Yeah, that’s boys for you. Loud and mischievous.” Eisley shrugged. “Once when we went camping, they pulled me out of the tent while I was sleeping and set me on a rock in the middle of the creek. When I got up the next morning—Whoa!” Her foot slipped a little, but she caught herself. “When I got up the next morning, there I was in the middle of the creek in my pajamas. I got so mad I pushed my sleeping bag down into the water, walked through the cold creek to the tent”—she placed Mary down on the pebbled shore and tugged the little girl’s coat more tightly around her— “and put my dripping bag on top of their sleeping heads.”
Mary’s brown eyes grew wide, and then she giggled.
“They never did anything like that to me again. Lots of other things, but not that.” Eisley placed her hands on her hips and peered around them. “Do you live nearby?”
Mary turned her attention toward the right. Faded field stone and hints of a black roof filtered through the shroud of trees.
Suddenly the little girl released a gasp. “Maggie.”
Eisley looked in the direction Mary’s pointing finger and there lay the little rag doll, on the same rock from where Mary had just come. Perfect.
“No problem, sweetheart. Dame Eisley to the rescue of another damsel in distress.” Eisley wiggled her cold toes. “Besides, my shoes are already wet.”
***
Wes sprinted through the pasture and wound his way into the canopy of trees.
No sight of Eisley.
Had he ever had the opportunity to pursue a woman? His father’s wealthy status coupled with his own prominent profession blared like signage to interested women, but most of them wanted the millionaire’s son or the famous actor, not the somewhat insecure, rather bookish, introverted Wes Harrison, with a newfound faith guiding his choices.
And wooing God’s way? With patience and gentleness? The thought humbled and energized him at the same time. A challenge with the right purpose.
The memory of his dance with Eisley, the hurt in her eyes as she spoke of love, firmed his patience. Their post-gala conversation encouraged a kinship he hadn’t expected. Was it too perfect? Her sincerity? Her kindness? He glanced heavenward. Could God really bring someone like her into his life? It seemed too good to believe.
As he rounded a bend and the rock bridge came into view, he slowed his pace to mind the slippery hazard. Over the beating of his pulse, he heard a voice drifting out of the wood; a strangely familiar voice with the lilt of Appalachian undertones. He grinned and started across the bridge. If she was talking, then all must be well with the world. Her voice brought a smile with it.
Mary Duncan caught his attention first, her hands jammed into the pockets of her coat, a pout waiting at the corners of her mouth. Wes followed her stare to the middle of the creek where Eisley stood, reaching down to retrieve Mary’s doll. Her ginger hair flared on the breeze beneath her cap. A cap? Was it possible for her to be any cuter? Her words chattered on the breeze, something about talking vegetables and a bad pickle. Wes ignored it. Must be a bizarre Appalachian idea.
As she straightened, a triumphant smile lighting her face, her gaze locked with his.
“Oh.” Her eyes shot wide and her free palm slammed against her chest. “You’re here?” She opened her mouth to say something else, but her words dissolved into a puff. He watched in horrified silence as Eisley doddered and attempted to steady herself.
Pushing away from the bridge railing, he ran to the other side in time to see her lose her battle with gravity. She fell back into a splash of mud and water, arms flailing in a wild attempt to remain upright. His chest collapsed with a groan. Perhaps she wouldn’t be too narked.
He stood at the water’s edge in a moment.
“I saved the doll.” Eisley snickered and wiggled the threadbare toy in the air while the rest of her remained seated in the middle of the brook. “There were casualties, however. My pride was slain.”
A laugh of surprise jolted from him. No ploys. No pouting. Only laughter at herself. He’d never recognized how badly he needed her joy, how distorted his expectations had bec
ome.
His wellies guarded his feet from the chill of the water as he waded through the brook and peered down at her. One patch of mud stuck to the side of her cap while little dots added darker spots to her pert nose. She lifted humor-filled eyes, her face wreathed in smiles, and he lost all sense of words, time, and space. He’d held on to his heart with both fists, terrified to release it into the unpredictable hands of another, until now. Until her.
Nothing else felt so right.
“If you’ve come to rescue me, you’re too late. Wait.” She wiped her empty palm against her jacket. “I suppose I am a damsel in distress.” With a look over to Mary, she pointed at Wes. “Look, Mary. Here is a great example of a real-life fairy tale. I needed help.” Her gaze met his again, expression expectant. “And here comes a knight to rescue me.” She held out her hand to him, completely unaware of the heat vibrating in the air from her declaration. “Seems pretty magical to me.”
He pulled her to a stand, feeling very much like a hero. Magical? Without a doubt. He drew in a breath and reminded himself to keep a steady heart. Patience. “Well, your rescue of Maggie was quite impressive.”
“I bet.” She snickered and slipped her hand from his. “If I’d flapped my arms any harder I’d have shot into orbit.”
Funny, his pulse launched as soon as he took her hand. He cleared his throat and steadied her with a palm to her shoulder, while he dug into his pocket for his handkerchief. “Here, let me see to your face.”
“My face?” It took a moment for her to decipher his meaning, until she noticed his handkerchief. “A handkerchief? You mean that’s not just in the movies?” She closed her eyes and lifted her face for better access. “I thought it was only another prop to enhance the lovely refinement of England.”
He hesitated. She probably shouldn’t trust him, but her simple act spotlighted his desire to change. Could God recreate him into a new man? A true hero? Was there even a hero left? He was determined to find out and prove to his cynical heart that Eisley Barrett wasn’t like Jane or Vivian or any of the others. That he could see clearly now.
Just the Way You Are (A Pleasant Gap Romance Book 1) Page 8