by Liz Isaacson
He’d hoped to be able to make some friends here in Brush Creek, and a few of the other officers were finally coming around, especially Cory.
Someone knocked on the door, almost making Tate spill to the floor in surprise. How long he’d been lying on the couch, he wasn’t sure. And who could possibly be on the other side of the door, he didn’t know.
But Sully seemed eager for him to get the door, so he heaved himself to his feet and moved them to the door. He almost called out, “Who is it?” but he never had before, not even when he lived in a much bigger city. So he simply opened the door and braced himself.
“Tate.” His father’s tall frame filled the doorway, and everything in Tate sighed in relief.
“Dad.” He stepped into his dad’s arms and took the hearty pounding on the back with joy. “I forgot you were coming this weekend.”
“You forgot?” His dad pulled back and looked at Tate. “I don’t think you’ve ever forgotten anything.” His eyes saw everything, including the fact that Tate still wore his pajamas and hadn’t shaved since Monday.
“Yeah, well, I’m not the same person I used to be.” He turned, the instantaneous joy he’d felt only a moment ago gone.
His father followed him inside and closed the door against the heat. “Are you all right?”
Tate collapsed onto the couch and ran his hands along his face. “I’ve been better.”
“Are you sick?”
If having a broken heart counted, then yes, Tate was very, very sick. He looked up, realizing the concern in his father’s face. “I’m okay, Dad. Just…getting over something.” He’d never mentioned Wren to his father, though the excitement of falling in love and wanting to shout it from the rooftops had existed.
“Well, the house looks great,” his father said, glancing around and stepping into the kitchen. “It was never this nice when your grandfather lived here.”
“Did you come visit?” he asked.
“A few times, sure.” His dad went down the hall. “This was your mother’s room.” He paused in the first room on the right side of the hall, directly across from the bathroom. “And I see you took the master.”
“It connects to the bathroom,” Tate said. He had no idea what time it was, but his stomach seemed angry he hadn’t fed it yet. “Dad, let’s go get something to eat.”
He came back down the hall, his broad shoulders practically touching both walls in the old farmhouse. “The yard looks great. The sod took real nice.”
“That it did. You were right. Lots of water and it dug right in.” He’d consulted with his father about everything in the house, from how to replace a toilet to how to build a deck.
“Is that Italian place still in business?”
“Italy Red?” His throat nearly closed off thinking about the last time he’d been there. “Yeah.” He cleared the emotion from his voice. “Yep, it’s still open.”
“They have the best spinach and mushroom calzone in the world.” His dad grinned, full of life and happiness, despite some of the hard things the universe had thrown at him.
Tate wished he could be more like him, but he felt like he’d been dealt so many unfair things in the past several months that they were still all yoked around his shoulders. And they were so heavy.
“Let me shower, and we’ll go.” Tate edged past his dad, taking care not to look directly into his eyes so his father couldn’t see the depth of his misery. With any luck, the spaghetti and meatballs could give him just a few minutes of reprieve.
By the time they sat across from each other in the booth at Italy Red, Tate knew he only had minutes before his father would dig down to what was really going on.
Sure enough, his dad chattered about the happenings in Shiloh Ridge, the small mountain town at the base of some mountains in Colorado. His father managed the sporting goods store there, such a far cry from what he’d done his whole life that it almost seemed…normal.
For the first time since he retired from the Marines, Tate thought he might be able to be normal someday too.
“So what’s eatin’ at you?” his dad finally asked, half of his food gone. “I’ve been talking and talking and you’ve barely said two words.”
Tate looked at the only member in his family. The man who’d loved him unconditionally and raised him the best he could. “I’m dealing with a lot of…loss,” he finally said, not quite sure of the last word until he said it.
His dad nodded. “Retiring can be really hard.”
Tate did miss the Marines, though he’d never acknowledged those feelings. He’d kept in touch with a few of his buddies, but when Jeremiah had died, Tate had cut off all contact with anyone who reminded him of the Marines, who reminded him of what had happened, who reminded him that he’d killed his friend.
“Have you seen someone here about Jeremiah?” his dad asked.
Tate pressed his lips together and shook his head.
“Tate, you said you would.” His dad spoke with kindness, but an undertone of frustration. “You don’t have to deal with things on your own.”
“I know, Dad. It’s just been a rough transition.” He hadn’t sought out a new counselor here, because he’d met Wren. She’d soothed his soul, given him something to smile about each day, and provided the mental and emotional therapy he needed. Without her, though, Tate felt the same darkness he’d brought to Brush Creek with him infecting his whole soul again. No amount of prayer had helped, and Tate felt utterly abandoned. Again.
“You work too hard on things,” his dad said. “You get obsessed with them until they’re finished. No one should’ve been able to take that house in that condition and do what you’ve done in only six weeks.”
Tate conceded the point, though he didn’t think he’d worked obsessively on the house. He’d worked on it every chance he got. Was it wrong to want somewhere clean and comfortable to live?
“How are things going at the station? Getting better?” His father reached for his water—never soda for him—and drank almost half the glass. He never drank during the meal, only after, and Tate’s heart warmed for the consistency of his dad. How predictable he was. How genuine.
“A little better each day,” Tate admitted. “I think everyone finally realizes I didn’t come here to take over for the Chief, and they’re opening up to me a little.” Again, he hadn’t worried too much about his lack of friendships at work, because he’d had Wren. Everything about his new life in Brush Creek seemed to revolve around her, as if she was the bright, shining star of this place. Without her, he felt lost, alone, and distant from everyone.
“So what is it, really?” His dad leaned forward, those Army intelligence eyes looking for what normal people couldn’t see.
Tate’s heart beat way too fast. If he started talking about Wren, he had no idea how much he’d say. “I don’t know,” he said, knowing his father wouldn’t stand for that.
You know. Just think about it and say it. Tate thought the phrases from his childhood as his dad said them out loud.
He didn’t need to hide anything from his father. Tate wasn’t worried about that. No, he was concerned that he’d been lying to himself all this time, and he’d have to confront feelings he didn’t know how to deal with.
“I met a woman,” he said, looking evenly into his father’s eyes. “And we broke up earlier this week.”
His dad blinked, clearly not expecting Tate to say anything about a girlfriend. “What was her name?” he asked.
“Wren Fuller.” Tate almost whispered the words, sure every other patron in Italy Red would seize onto the information about their breakup and spread it around town. As if they didn’t already know. He was well-versed in small town mechanics now, and he’d learned through his service on the force that someone around town had always seen something. Someone always knew someone else, even if they were just passing through town.
Dahlia had taught him there were eyes and connections everywhere, and he had to know where to look and who to talk to in order
to get the information he needed.
“Wren Fuller.” His father said the name as if he was searching his memories for Wren. “She must be Quincee and Collin’s daughter.”
“That’s right,” Tate said, not even a little surprised his father had been able to come up with their names. He was exceptionally gifted at remembering names, dates, and tiny details about things. He’d trained to do it and then had executed that training for thirty years in the Army.
“Where did you meet her?”
“She owns the cottage next door.” He pushed his meatballs around his plate, wishing he cared enough to eat them.
“You like her?”
Tate couldn’t help nodding, the misery he’d kept at bay all week flooding him now. “Very much.”
“You fell in love with her?”
Tate’s gaze flew from the plate of spaghetti to his father’s eyes, panic rearing inside him now. He hadn’t allowed himself to answer that question, though he knew exactly what love felt like. He’d experienced platonic love for his dad. Romantic love with Kyla. Brotherly love for Jeremiah.
How did he really feel about Wren?
“I can see you don’t really know,” his dad said. “You should probably figure it out. If you love her, whatever happened between you can probably be fixed.”
Tate thought of her enormous, loud family, wondering if he’d ever be able to find a place to fit among them. An image of the Fuller’s house, their material possessions, and that huge backyard taunted him. He would never be able to provide Wren with much more than he currently had.
She wanted children—he did too. Could he even afford to pay to raise a family on the meager income he got from his police work? He wasn’t sure, but the few paychecks he’d gotten sure had seemed to go quickly, and it was just him right now.
“What if I love her?” Tate asked. “So what? I was in love with Kyla too, and that didn’t last.”
Sympathy filled his father’s eyes and he extended his hand across the table to pat Tate’s. “Son, there are different levels of love. I have no doubt you loved Kyla, and she loved you too, at least for a little while.”
“Are you saying she didn’t love me enough?”
His dad cocked his head to the side. “Yeah. She didn’t love you enough to stick around with things got hard. Maybe Wren does.”
Tate found it laughable that Wren would love him at all. What did he bring with him? Emotional baggage from a broken first marriage. Anger and agony over the loss of a best friend. A barking voice when he got too tired or things didn’t go his way. And a dog she didn’t like.
She likes Sully, he told himself.
“Is that why you never got remarried?” Tate asked. “You didn’t love someone enough?”
A bright sadness entered his father’s expression. “I loved your mother in a way I could never love someone else,” he said. “She’s part of the reason I never searched out another companion. The other was you. I had you, and I enjoyed taking care of you, and I didn’t want to complicate things for you.” He drained the rest of his water. “So all of that, plus we moved constantly. It was hard to meet single women and maintain a relationship for much longer than a few months.” His dad shrugged one powerful shoulder. “I was fine with it.”
“Was?”
A hint of redness crept into his dad’s face. “I’m seeing someone in Shiloh Ridge.”
Tate’s surprise shot through the roof. “What’s her name? Tell me about her.”
And as his father talked about Judy Simmons, Tate finally found a way to relax. To smile. To be more like the man he’d been since coming to Brush Creek and meeting Wren.
He wasn’t sure what that said about her, or about his father, but he was able to enjoy the rest of the weekend with his dad, the thought of Wren always hovering at the back of his mind. There, but not consuming him. It was a beautiful reprieve that fled the moment his father climbed behind the wheel of his truck and put Brush Creek in his rear-view mirror.
Tate stood on his front porch, the Monday morning sun already awake and heating things up. He allowed himself one quick glance at the white cottage next door. He did, because he knew he wouldn’t see Wren this early in the morning.
But her house embodied her, and the taste of bitter sadness made him turn away and go quickly inside, where the only reminder of Wren was the puppy dog eyes Sully wore.
“I know,” Tate told the dog. “I’m thinking of something.” He just needed more time to figure out how he felt, and then what to do about it.
Chapter 13
Wren didn’t even check to see what was on her T-shirts anymore. She put on jean shorts, or black shorts, or khaki shorts, and reached blindly into her closet for a shirt to go with. No one came into the office, and no one came over to her house, and no one would even know if she got in her car and drove for hours.
She thought about doing just that, wondering how long it would take before someone noticed she wasn’t in town anymore.
It would probably be her mother who would discover Wren’s absence first. Once she’d learned that Wren and Tate had split up, she’d called every day. Sometimes twice a day, as if Wren needed a wake up call to get up and go to work.
As zombie-like as she’d become in her routines of showering, getting dressed, eating breakfast, and driving to the office, maybe she did need that seven o’clock call to get her out of bed. She certainly didn’t feel like doing anything voluntarily. Not anymore.
The idiotic tears that had been instant whenever she thought about Tate, or what she couldn’t do with Tate that night, or why she couldn’t pop over to see him, sprang to her eyes once more. And why? Because she heard Sully bark three times.
That silly dog had wormed his way into her heart too. She took a quick peek out the window and saw Tate’s truck rumbling down Traverse Road away from their houses. So that was why Sully had barked.
Wren felt the same way. She wanted to bark and bellow and beg him to come talk to her. For them to work things out.
Instead, her phone rang and her mother’s picture appeared on the screen. Wren didn’t dare send it to voicemail. Her mom had told her if she didn’t answer, she’d send someone over to the cottage to make sure Wren was okay.
“Hey, Mom.” Wren turned away from the window.
“Sweetheart. You sound good today.”
A façade. A front. Anything to convince herself her job mattered, that someone would miss her if she got in the car and drove.
“I’m doing okay,” Wren said, pulling out a container of cream that wasn’t for her coffee.
“Fabi and Jazzy are bringing dinner to you tonight.”
“Mom, that’s not necessary.” She’d been eating fine since Tate’s departure from her life. For the past ten days, she’d eaten everything in sight. Even now, she pulled out a box of cereal and poured herself at least two servings, covering them in pure, white cream before taking the bowl to the living room couch to eat.
“Well, it’s their birthday in a few days, and they want Pieology. Since you’re the only one who really likes that place, they thought they’d bring some over and celebrate early with you.” Her mother cleared her throat. “Because we’re all assuming you won’t come to the birthday dinner next week?” She phrased it like a question, but it wasn’t really one.
“No,” Wren said, the very idea of getting together with her obnoxious family without Tate to anchor her absolutely horrifying. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just don’t think I can right now.”
“I know, dear,” her mother said in a rare showing of understanding. She’d been great after John had deserted them all too. At least Wren wasn’t to the diamond-wearing stage with Tate, as she had been with John.
“Pat says he’ll get arrested, just so you have a reason to stop by the station and see Tate.”
A strangled laugh came out of Wren’s throat. “That’s not necessary.” She could see him anytime she wanted. All she had to do was go next door and demand he explain things better. She co
uld explain more about her expectations for her life—if she knew what they were. She’d grown up in the family business. She knew how to run it. She had the degree her parents had paid for. And honestly, she enjoyed what she did about ninety percent of the time.
But did she have unrealistic expectations for a husband? That he would be able to provide the same kind of life for her that her father had—and still did?
Wren wasn’t sure. So she said her goodbyes to her mother and headed out the door to the office. Until she knew what she truly expected of Tate, she wasn’t going to go get her heart stomped on again. After all, he wore very large black boots, and her most vital organ was still weeping a little bit from the lashing it had taken ten days ago.
She left the office earlier than normal so she could get home before Tate. The police department operated like clockwork, and he finished at five-thirty come rain or shine. She didn’t like driving past his house and seeing his truck parked in the driveway, knowing she couldn’t just hop on over there and kiss him.
She’d just stepped into a pair of fluffy pajama pants when she heard knocking on the door and her sister’s voice calling, “We’re coming in!”
Wren squeezed the last bit of water from her hair and went to greet Fabi and Jazzy. “Hey, guys.” She hugged Fabi first, the more emotional of the sisters, and she hung on tight. “Happy birthday.”
“Forget about that.” Fabi moved back and held Wren at arm’s length. “We already know you didn’t get us anything. How are you?”
“I did too get you something.” She took the few steps to the dining room table, which held a lot more than the two gift bags she’d put together on Sunday while she was avoiding the church. She didn’t think Tate would skip, no matter the price of seeing her, so she’d given them both the relief and stayed away.
It had been the perfect time to drive to Vernal anyway. Hardly anyone on the road, and practically the whole department store to herself.
“This one’s for you.” She handed the purple bag—Jazzy’s favorite color—to one sister. “And this one’s for you.” She presented a much smaller bag in blue and green to Fabi.