Falling for Rain
Gina Buonaguro & Janice Kirk
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.
Falling for Rain. Copyright © 2010 by Gina Buonaguro and Janice Kirk.
All rights reserved.
For information, email [email protected]
http://sidewalkartist.blogspot.com/
Cover design by Westley Côté
http://lastdodo.com/
Praise for Falling for Rain
Coauthors Gina Buonaguro and Janice Kirk have done it again! Falling for Rain is a lively journey that evokes emotions reminiscent of their first novel, The Sidewalk Artist. It is a wonderful story and one you will be telling your friends to read too. Romance, action, beautifully written – what more could a reader want?
--Ellen George, AuthorsDen.com
“Let me just point out a few things… if you don’t like sexual tension, romance, strong women, gorgeous men, or anything Canadian, you will not love this book. However, if you do, this book is an excellent read. I had difficulty putting this one down…. a beautiful love story that will tug at your heart strings. I teared up (ok, cried) a couple of different times. I highly recommend this book. I give it 5 stars.”
--Beth’s Reviews and Promotions
About the authors
Gina Buonaguro was born in New Jersey and now resides in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. Janice Kirk was born and lives in Kingston, Ontario, Canada.
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http://sidewalkartist.blogspot.ca/
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Also by Gina Buonaguro and Janice Kirk
The Sidewalk Artist
Ciao Bella
The Wolves of St. Peter’s (forthcoming)
Praise for The Sidewalk Artist
“The Sidewalk Artist is an inventive semihistorical romance as well as a story of artistic and emotional self-discovery.”
--The Boston Globe
"Nifty plotting has the main story pause for passages from Tulia’s book and the travelogue she’s reading, keeping this entertaining novel from becoming a sentimental romance. 3½ out of 4 stars.”
--People
“The book has floated across the country on the wings of a love-dream for half a year. Now, as summer reading lists start to grow, it's a likely contender for anyone looking for a fancy, contemporary fable that's smart but not jaded, innocent but not naive.... At 209 pages, it's perfect for a long plane trip or a lazy afternoon in the shade somewhere.”
--Toledo Blade
“A charming, Hollywood-ready romance.”
--Kirkus Reviews
"Full of beautiful sensual language, The Sidewalk Artist will touch anyone with a romantic bone in their body."
--The Kingston Whig Standard
Praise for Ciao Bella
"A compelling combination of romance, adventure, and serious thought, this slim novel is sure to appeal to many audiences."
--Booklist
"A wistful story about the difficult decisions people must make in both love and war, Ciao Bella is drenched in Italian sunshine. The authors have penned a sweet, nostalgic story about how good people struggle to do the right thing, even when there are no good choices at all."
--Historical Novels Review
"Ciao Bella is a romantic story, even a weepy at times. But it is a credible literary feat as well, more in the vein of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin or The Time-Traveler’s Wife…. There is never an aversion of eyes from the gritty realities of life during that terrible period. Some of the subplots, especially one involving a girl who had apparently been raped by a German soldier, are rather tragic. In the vernacular of the day, this is not chick lit. Or not just chick lit. Lit for anyone with a heart."
--Town Crier
"I didn’t think anything could top The Sidewalk Artist… but Ciao Bella is right up there on par with it.... I highly recommend it."
--She Read a Book
"[The] magic lyrical writing of this talented team creates a wonderful atmosphere."
--Ellen George, AuthorsDen.com
For our parents
with special thanks to Erica Garrington
For after all, the best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Chapter 1
When Emily swung the car off the main highway onto the dirt road that led to her family's farm, she felt no sense of foreboding. No inclination or premonition that this trip would turn her world upside down. Instead she felt relief. Relief that finally she was taking the proverbial bull by the horns. In forty-eight hours, she would be driving the opposite direction back to her real world in Toronto.
It had been ten years since she’d been home. It looked the same. The same white clapboard farmhouse, the same red barn, even the same truck parked in the driveway. When the trees were in leaf and the grass was green, the farm looked quaint, but in November in the early evening gloom among the bare branches and patches of mud, it was merely depressing. She frowned at the sight of it, grimly pleased to find she hated it as much now as the day she'd left.
The house was in darkness, but lights were on in the barn. Rain, she decided, must be doing the evening chores. She felt a twinge of guilt for what she was about to do, but the thought of Jonathon laughing at her weakness quickly dispelled the feelings.
Jonathon was her business partner and mentor. What Jonathon wanted, Jonathon got. And he didn't let personal feelings get in the way. Emily suspected he didn't have any feelings at all, a trait she had worked hard to emulate. If you didn’t have any feelings, you couldn’t get hurt, and she figured she'd had enough hurt to last a lifetime.
She stepped from the car, careful to avoid the mud and puddles that would wreak havoc on good Italian leather, and with her guilt now firmly under control made her way to the barn.
The cows faced each other in two long rows separated by an aisle, their heads secured in metal, oval‑shaped stanchions. Rain stood in the aisle tossing hay with a pitchfork to the hungry animals as he sang along to a country song playing on a radio. Emily latched the door quietly behind her and stood for a moment in the shadows watching him work. He raised an arm and brushed back the blond wave that had fallen over his eyes. His hair was longer. Thick, blond waves that threatened to curl in the rain fell past his shoulders. But the rest she remembered: the wide strong shoulders, the slender hips encased in blue jeans, the strong well-chiselled features, the eyes as blue as the lake they had swum in as children. Still gorgeous. Maybe even more so. Not that it mattered, she told herself. She’d come for a reason, and then she’d be gone again – forever.
Still, her heart pounded as she left her observation point by the door and walked to the middle of the aisle. Rain didn't see her until it was too late, and she was struck squarely in the chest by flying hay. They both jumped back instinctively, she to try to avoid the hay, he in the shock of seeing her.
“Nice hello,” Emily said coldly, brushing the hay from her coat. Already it was going wrong. She had wanted to appear cool and business-like, but her voice was already beyond her control. She had learned over the years to hide behind a tough exterior, using anger and sarcasm to protect herself. Most of the time it worked, but she feared nothing could protect her from Rain. “Well, you shouldn't sneak up on someone like that,” he said, and Emily could see he was st
unned to see her there.
“I didn't know it was country etiquette to knock on barn doors,” she said, hearing the sarcasm in her own voice. He held out his hand to her, and she looked at it before taking it. She didn't want to shake his hand, afraid that by touching him she would lose her resolve altogether and flee before she’d finished what she came to do. She hardened herself. Better to do what she had to do and get the hell out of there. Even then, though, she couldn’t help but notice the warmth and strength of the hand that gripped hers.
A horse whinnied from one of the box stalls, and Rain turned in the direction of the sound. “It’s okay, Celeste. I’ll be there with your hay soon.”
He always dreamed of having a horse, she thought, and I’m going to take that dream away. They were standing close together, and the scent of him, redolent of hay and trees and wind and rain, washed over her, bringing with it such vivid memories of desire that her heart raced. Quickly, she removed her hand and stepped back.
“You should have called,” Rain said. “If I had known you were coming, I would have aired the house out a bit – I don't go in there very often.”
“I thought you lived here,” she said with genuine confusion. “I was going to get a hotel room in town.”
“I do. But in the old cabin. I fixed it up after...well, some time ago.” She had forgotten his voice, rich and silky and calm. The calm before the storm. She could never hear expressions like that without his face flashing before her eyes. It was this calm she had hated him for all these years. For the unquestioning acceptance of his life in this Ontario backwater – and his arrogance in assuming she should accept it too.
“Would you like to see it?” he continued. “I'm almost finished up here. I could help you take your things to the house, and then you could come over for a glass of homecoming wine.”
The word homecoming was enough to make Emily cringe – it sounded so sentimental, and there was to be nothing sentimental in this visit. In fact it was to be the opposite, a way of forever freeing herself from the past. “No, thanks,” she replied. “And I can carry my own bags.” As to the offer of wine, she couldn't even give it the consideration of a response. She didn't want to stay in the house either, but she was tired, and it was a relief not to have to drive the forty kilometres into town to find a hotel room.
“There's heat and water,” Rain continued, “but no phone. I could come over and show you where things are.”
“I used to live here, remember? I think I can still find the bathroom,” she said.
“Alright,” he replied, sounding defensive. “I was just trying to be helpful.”
She still hadn't told him why she was here. She took a deep breath and, avoiding his eyes, delivered her news. “I'm selling the farm,” she announced, her voice sounding hard and cold even to her own ears. “As soon as possible. I thought you should know so you could find another job and place to live.”
She didn't look at him nor did she wait for a response. She turned and, although she wanted to run as fast and as far as she possibly could, forced herself to walk calmly back to her car for her bags.
* * *
Rain shook his head as the barn door slammed behind her. “You'll need the keys,” he muttered as he jabbed his pitchfork into the nearest bale of hay and resumed feeding the patient, hungry cows.
What a bitch, he thought. He imagined her coming back to the barn for the keys, repentant and humble, but knowing full well she'd break down the front door before asking him for anything, let alone humbly. It was almost impossible to believe that this woman was the same person he had fallen in love with all those years ago – the joyous, vibrant young woman who was so in love with life, so in love with him, that her very walk would threaten at any moment to become a dance.
Bitterly, he thought of the sleepless nights he'd spent tossing and turning, wishing and praying she would come back to him, before finally resigning himself that nothing would ever bring her back. She had built a wall around herself so thick that not even his love could permeate it.
Oh, she'd been back, once, to attend her father's funeral. She'd come in late, stood at the back door, spoke to no one, didn't go near her father's casket. Her only reason for attending as far as Rain could see was to make sure he was going to look after her property.
Poor Henry, he thought, not for the first time. Henry had longed to see his only child again. Rain, heartbroken for the old man who had been so good to him but not without selfish reasons of his own, had phoned her office in Toronto several times in the last year of Henry's life. Emily had refused to take his calls, and Rain found himself leaving messages on her machine and with her secretary, pleading with her to come home and say goodbye to her father. She never did, and Rain never told Henry of his efforts to bring his daughter back.
In the last week of illness, when the pain was numbed by morphine, Henry's mind had slipped into a happier past, and while Rain sat by his bed, Henry recounted the small events that in the end made up the sum of his life. It was clear to Rain that it was the memories of his wife, Emily's mother, and Emily herself, that were dearest to his heart.
In between these accounts of family life, Henry gave Rain instructions for the care of the farm: the hay mower needed to be fixed before haying season, the fence in the southeast pasture needed repairs, the horse needed his shots....
On the last day, Henry shocked Rain by asking, “Do you still love her?” They both knew who her was. Rain was suddenly filled with contempt for Emily, maybe even hatred for what she had done to her father, for what she had done to them both by shutting them out of her life. But he knew he couldn't tell Henry that, and instead said yes, he loved her still. He knew as he spoke that it was true. He'd always loved her for the person she'd once been – perhaps still was – if only she'd let herself forgive and forget. Not that she didn’t have good reason to be bitter. The death of one’s mother was devastating under any circumstances. But ten years was a long time to stay so angry. God knows if he could go back in time and change the course of events that day, he would – in his mind he had done it thousands of times – but of course that didn’t change a thing. Sometimes he thought the forgiving was easy – it was the forgetting that was much harder.
Rain sighed and hung up the pitchfork. He did a final check of the barn, promising Celeste to make up for the missed grooming in the morning and lingering for a moment at the pen of an expectant cow. He stroked the cow's sleek neck and was rewarded with a doleful look and soft moo. “Soon, old girl, you'll be a mother,” he said. Then he shut off the radio, turned out the lights, and carefully latched the barn door behind him.
Emily's car gleamed under the yard light, and Rain grimly estimated its value as he walked toward the house where Emily was just discovering her dilemma.
Did he love her now? He didn't know. He knew he was excited by her sudden presence: on seeing her standing in the barn, his heart had leaped. Although she radiated a hardness that was reflected in her severe business suit and careful makeup and hair, she was still beautiful. Same dark hair and dark eyes, a little thinner than he remembered – but she still turned him on. And all the time she was telling him he was fired, he was wondering if he'd ever kiss her again.
There was something about her anger he couldn't quite take seriously – it didn't quite ring true. All that sarcasm didn’t come naturally. It made him think that the Emily he had loved was still there somewhere behind the bitterness.
“Are you looking for these?” he said from the foot of the porch steps, keys dangling from his outstretched hand, his voice controlled and polite.
“I don't know. Does one of them fit this door?” Emily said, sarcasm masking relief. She had been standing there wondering what to do, concluding that she would rather sleep in the car than face Rain again and ask for the key.
“We'll soon find out,” he said, stepping between her and the door. He was acutely aware of her closeness and the scent of her perfume on the damp night air. Again, he felt a rush of
excitement. What would she do, he wondered, if I turned around right now and kissed her? The key turned easily in the lock, and he pushed open the door. Probably slap my face.
“Thanks,” she said none too graciously as she stepped by him into the cold kitchen.
He flicked on the light but, after an initial burst of activity, it rebelled and fizzled out.
“Great,” she said, setting down her suitcases but not moving from her post by the door.
“No problem,” he said. “I'll find a new bulb.” He rummaged through a kitchen cupboard, and before long the room was bright.
“It's pretty musty. I had friends living here for the summer, but I'm afraid I haven't cleaned since they left. I imagine the bedding is musty too. If I'd known you were coming....” Rain was acutely aware he was close to babbling.
“It's fine,” Emily interrupted him. “I won't be staying long.”
“Are you sure you don't want to stay in the cabin? There's room.” He knew what her answer would be before he even asked.
“I'm sure,” she said, wishing he would just leave. Aware of his eyes on her as she surveyed the kitchen, she felt herself getting more and more rattled. Nothing was turning out the way she had imagined it would. She’d wanted to carry this off so professionally. She wanted him to be impressed with her. She wanted to show him that she was better than him and this farm. To show him that she could live without him. Instead, he was running around changing light bulbs, while she felt like a fool.
“Well, then,” he said brightly, “I'll just turn on the furnace. I wouldn't want you to freeze.” Without waiting for an answer, he brushed past her into the hall. The furnace came on with a clunk and filled the house with the smell of burning dust.
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