Right All Along

by Heather Heyford

  * * *

  There were days when Harley never got out of bed.

  Her parents took shifts being with her, doing whatever they could to make her comfortable.

  Mom held spoonfuls of chicken soup under her nose. “There’s babies born all the time,” she said. “You can always try again. Don’t give up.”

  Yet, even if she were to start the whole adoption process all over again, and if this time it went through, there would never be another Jack. And if she couldn’t trust him, whom could she trust?

  Dad called the club. “They said given January’s a slow month, they can furlough you till the weather warms up,” he said.

  She resigned herself to a solitary existence.

  She had no guests scheduled and no prospects for them, given the Willamette Valley’s cool, misty winters and wet springs. There was no sense rambling around in this expensive old house alone. Maybe she could swallow what shred of pride she had left and crawl to Melinda on her knees and beg her to take it off her hands. If she knew Melinda, she would offer her a pittance of her original check.

  She went to church.

  Quit church.

  Went back. That time, she returned home feeling a little better. But after a month of doing nothing, she was weak. She propped herself up against her pillows and opened her laptop, only to be faced with the smiling Jamie and Hank flanking their newly born son. She eased the lid down and crawled back under the covers.

  Harley rolled away from the wall long enough to see Dad standing at the foot of the bed, his capable hands hanging helplessly at his sides. He talked about how soon the Chinooks would be running again, and if she wanted, they could plan a trip over to Tillamook.

  She rolled back over, nodding her head on her pillow to be polite. With no routine, she had lost track of what day it was . . . what week.

  But neither Mom nor Dad had ever lost a baby and the love of their life in the same week. How could they understand how she felt?

  How could anyone?

  Chapter Forty

  The day after the recital, the girls were waiting for Jack at dinnertime.

  “Well?” asked Freddie. “Did you watch us?”

  Cait had sent it to him, but he hadn’t yet opened it. “I was waiting to watch it with you. Did you hit your F-sharp?”

  Instead of answering, they exchanged anticipatory smiles as Jack watched his screen.

  “Here it comes. Andddd . . . yes!” He high-fived Freddie. “You did it.”

  “Brunch is served,” said Mother, arriving from the kitchen holding a casserole dish in gloved hands.

  Frankie climbed into her chair across from her sister. “Do you still want to quit, now?”

  Freddie looked at Jack, and then at Cait next to her, her hands folded in her lap, then back at Jack.

  Until that moment, Jack hadn’t even noticed Cait, sitting across from him. In a matter of mere weeks, she had blended into the household so seamlessly, it seemed as though she had always been there.

  Freddie sighed. “I don’t have much choice, do I? It’s three against one. Pass the butter, please.”

  He’d been bracing himself for an epic battle over getting Freddie to keep playing, once the recital was over. He hadn’t counted on Cait’s influence. It almost seemed unfair.

  Mother made the sign of the cross, and they dutifully bowed their heads and chanted, “BlessusOLord-andtheseThygiftswhichweareabouttoreceivefromThy boun tythroughChristourLordAmen.”

  Without thinking, Frankie reached for the serving spoon lying next to the casserole dish.

  Mother tsked. “Uh uh uh.”

  Frankie’s hand sprang back as if scalded.

  “Your father goes first.”

  “Hungry?” With a sympathetic smile, Jack scooped a serving of baked French toast onto Frankie’s plate, then Freddie’s, and then his own. If some of the twins’ ideas might be uninformed and contradictory to his, he still liked them to express their opinions. He was proud they had minds of their own. Yet since Cait arrived, they were becoming less combative and more pliable in general. They didn’t argue any more when nagged to clean their rooms or do their laundry. In fact, sometimes they seemed like little robots, meekly following the rules.

  Probably they were just growing up, he thought as he ate. That was why they were less silly, more serious. That’s what it was. It had to be.

  After dinner, Jack sat in a comfortable chair skimming through a stack of trade journals. Cait had pulled her knitting project out of her bag to work on while listening to Mother talk about the wine dinner. “Cait,” she said, “why don’t you go up with Jack when he wishes the girls good night?”

  Jack froze. Between work and school and lessons, he barely saw his girls all day. When he did see them, Mother was almost always around. Bedtime was a ritual that was universal and yet so personal and unique to every family. To him, it was sacred.

  Cait waited for him to approve. What could he say? After all, she was their aunt.

  He watched Cait smooth out the girls’ blankets, brush their hair from their brows, and kiss their foreheads, the same way Emily used to.

  And then, just as they were about to turn off the light, Frankie looked up at Jack from her bed and asked, “How come we never visit Harley anymore?”

  He had told Mother and the twins—separately, of course—about the birth parents taking the baby back. The girls had expressed sympathy for Harley, but a month had passed, and they hadn’t brought it up again.

  Cait cocked her head at Jack. “Harley? The same Harley I remember?”

  “The Harley that lives up the hill,” said Freddie.

  “Even though she’s an ex-con, she’s still our friend,” said Frankie conspiratorially.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” said Jack. “Right now, it’s time for you two to get to sleep.”

  When Cait and Jack got back to the living room, Mother was gone.

  “Do you mind seeing yourself out?” he asked, stretching and feigning a yawn, “I have a little more work to do in my office, and then I’m going to hit the sack. See you tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” said Cait, sitting down on the couch, patting the cushion next to her. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  With mounting suspicion, Jack perched on the edge of a leather armchair.

  “The girls are so polite and well-mannered. Emily would be proud.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, feeling more awkward by the second.

  “I know you have things to do, so I’ll get right to the point. I like what I do, and I’m well-compensated. But I’ve been on the road for a long time. Traveling isn’t conducive to meeting someone. Especially not the kind of person I’m looking for.” She paused meaningfully.

  “What kind is that?” asked Jack, because he had to say something.

  “Someone who’s bright, and independent, yet at the same time solid and steady. Those kinds of men are few and far between. If I don’t do something about it, I’m going to wake up one day to find I’m a middle-aged woman, still alone.”

  Jack squirmed. “Why’re you telling me this?”

  “As you know, when Emily died before coming into her trust, her share of my parents’ assets went to me. Marry me, and you’ll double all that Emily would have given you.”

  For a long moment, Jack was speechless.

  “But . . . I don’t love you, Cait. For that matter, you don’t love me either.”

  “Jack. Don’t be naïve. Marrying for love is a recent phenomenon. You know that. Even today, arranged marriages are still the norm in many cultures. Smart people have always married strategically. If that means you’re not madly in love, well, it is what it is. The goal is to lift the family to a higher level, generation after generation. Marriage is a sacrifice you make for your family.”

  Jack shook his head, trying to absorb what she’d said. “What is it that you’d be sacrificing?”

  She smiled wistfully. “Like you said . . . there may not be sparks between us—at least, n
ot yet. But I wouldn’t mind having a child one day. Giving my parents a grandson, because they never had a son. How about you? Haven’t you ever thought about giving the girls a brother . . . a boy to carry on the Friestatt name?”

  Rubbing a hand down his jaw, Jack rose and went to the window, then turned to face the couch where Cait lounged easily. “I can’t say the thought of having a son hasn’t crossed my mind.” He would never love anyone the way he loved Harley. But Harley had rejected him in no uncertain terms. And unlike his other random stabs at dating, with Cait there would be no unpleasant surprises. He’d know exactly what he was getting.

  Cait smiled, cat-like. “I don’t expect you to give me an answer tonight. I only wanted to plant a seed. Give it some thought. I’ll be around another couple of months. Meanwhile, we’ll go on as we have been. Get to know each other a little better in the process.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  “Mom, I don’t know what I would have done without you this past month. My design team director has been more than generous with her extension, but now it’s coming up and I can’t push her any further. It’s time to get back to work.”

  Harley’s mom objected with every step, but Harley kept her hand planted firmly on her back as she accompanied her to the door.

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked, turning her head around even as Harley kept up her forward momentum. “Why don’t you just go up to your office and I’ll bring you some tea and come back down and leave you alone. I promise, I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

  Harley had managed to get Mom to the door. “You’re going to Spain in a week. You have things to do to get ready.” Besides, one more cup of Mom’s compost tea and Harley would sprout leaves.

  “Go.” Gently, she pushed Mom across the threshold.

  Mom turned around one last time. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll call you later,” she said through a crack in the door just big enough for her lips.

  Finally, she closed it, turned the bolt, and slumped against it for a moment.

  Then she showered, dressed, dragged herself to her office, and pushed some papers around, trying to get back into the swing of things.

  But the half-finished sketches she’d been so excited about mocked her with their insignificance. What good were greeting cards in the greater scheme of things? Come to think of it, what good was art itself?

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Coming,” she called out, sighing, wondering what Mom had forgotten.

  * * *

  Jack had lost count of the number of messages he’d left for Harley over the past month. Finally, he’d stopped calling her. Thinking about her grief couldn’t help but dredge up what it’d been like for him, losing his dad and then his wife. He remembered that sometimes, no matter how well meaning others were, the best medicine was time alone to think, to process, and eventually, to learn to accept.

  But Harley was never far from his thoughts. He was growing desperate to see her face again, hear her voice.

  Even though she’d made it clear she’d given up on him, he was determined to try to get through to her one last time.

  Now he stood on her doorstep, praying she would open up.

  Footsteps from within sent his pulse thrumming.

  “Mom. What’d you for—” Her eyes flew open. “Jack.”

  “I take it you were expecting your mom?”

  “She just left.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I have work to do.”

  “I promise, I won’t keep you long.”

  She hesitated, then stepped aside. But she made no move to go beyond the foyer.

  “Is it okay if we go in and sit down?”

  “Jack. We’ve said all there is to say. It’s not going to do any—”

  “Please?”

  She sighed. “For a minute. But then I have to get back to work.”

  In the living room, he sat down next to her. “There was a reason I came back from New Zealand, aside from the new vineyards being established.”

  “We’ve hashed this out. To find a replacement for Emily.”

  “That’s right. But I had no way of knowing I’d find you here. You were never factored into it.”

  “But when I did end up being here, that didn’t stop you from interviewing other women, did it?”

  “The date with Pru was set up before I ever set foot on American soil.”

  “What about Sylvie?”

  “Guilty as charged. But that was way back before your open house. You and I were just getting reacquainted.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What was the sense in telling you, when we weren’t a couple?”

  “You could have told me after the fact. Besides, how do I know you weren’t intending to use me the same way you planned to use them? As some glorified nanny . . . a dutiful sidekick?”

  Jack couldn’t help but laugh. “You? Dutiful? Let’s be real.”

  “The bottom line is, I couldn’t trust you before, and I still can’t.”

  “I didn’t know you’d be here!”

  “But I was. I am. If I caved now, I’d always be thinking about what you did with Emily, and waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

  They sat there for a full minute, neither willing to give ground.

  Finally, Jack smacked his hands to his thighs and rose. “Well . . .”

  She rose too and faced him squarely.

  “I guess this is it, then.”

  “I guess so.”

  Jack wanted to cry. But instead, he moved toward her door with long, slow strides, Harley following behind.

  When they reached it, he turned to study her face one last time. And then he forced himself to walk out of her life, once and for all.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The winemaking season was at a lull. Last season’s cellar rats had finally moved on. The full-timers were out in the vineyards, pruning dead wood, and the previous vintage was maturing in the barrels.

  “What’s eating you?” asked Alfred, straddling the stool next to Jack’s.

  “What are you talking about?” Carefully, Jack withdrew the long glass pipette from the bunghole in the barrel and released the ruby liquid into the glass Alfred held out with a knobby-knuckled hand.

  “Don’t give me that,” said Alfred. “Only one thing makes a man mope around like that, and that’s woman problems.” He held up his glass to the light and swirled. “Color’s bright.”

  Jack reinserted the wine thief into the bunghole, obtaining his own sample, squirting it into his glass. “It’s Emily’s sister, Cait.”

  “Your mother said something about Cait working in town for a while. I’ve seen her coming and going. Getting out of her car. Looks like a dead ringer for Emily, at least from a distance.”

  “She is a dead ringer.”

  “It that a good or a bad thing?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Alfred lowered his nose into his glass, an act that always made Jack think it was a good thing they made wineglasses bigger than they used to, else it would never have fit. “Smell that bouquet?”

  Jack sniffed, nodded, and together, they tasted it, smacking their lips.

  “Starting to develop,” said Alfred. “Your mother says Cait’s in computers or something.”

  “She’s an IT expert. Portland’s her home base, but she’s hardly ever there. She spends all her time traveling, teaching people how to use software. Right now, she has a client here in Newberry.”

  “Teacher, huh? Must be smart . . . good at getting along with people.”

  “She’s that. And more. She asked me to marry her.”

  If Alfred was surprised, he didn’t let on. He only massaged his jaw and considered. “How’s Harley doing?”

  Jack started. Was it that obvious that Harley was always on his mind? “You heard about them taking her baby back?”

  Alfred nodded. “Sad. It was all over town. Every time I look at
the Victorian, I think I ought to go up there to see how she’s doing, but what can I say to make it better? Figured I’ll give it a little more time and maybe something’ll come to me. Then again, if anyone knows what it’s like to lose someone, it’s you. How’s she doing?”

  Jack stared into his wine. “Don’t know.”

  That wasn’t what Alfred had been expecting. “Thought things were going great guns for you two.”

  “She dumped me.”

  “What’d you go and do to her?”

  “Nothing!” He blurted. Then, he hung his head. “She heard I went out on a couple of dates. She blew it all out of proportion.”

  “I always thought you and Harley made a good pair.”

  “One of the main reasons I came back to the States was to meet a woman. The right kind of woman.”

  “What kind’s that?” asked Alfred in an admonishing voice.

  Never had Alfred used that tone with him before. Jack glanced up in surprise and saw Alfred’s faded corduroys, his worn boots, his hardened hands that had toiled for years in the service of his family. There weren’t many men in a position to reproach Jack, but if there was one, it was Alfred. He had loved him like his own son.

  Yet unlike Mother, Alfred didn’t pick and choose people for what he could get out of them. Jack’s face heated.

  Alfred didn’t have to ask Jack who was behind the marriage scheme. He pictured a young Melinda as she had described herself to him: a strong-willed girl born into tough circumstances, struggling to get by, and a ferocious protectiveness came over him. He was far too loyal to Melinda to malign her, especially to her own son.

  “And then along comes Harley and throws a monkey wrench into it,” Alfred continued, his momentary disapproval already gone.

  Jack set down his drink. “Best-laid plans.”

  “Plan too much, there’s no room to experiment.” Alfred slapped Jack on the back. “I ever told you about how Bella came to be?”

  “Only about a hundred times.”

  “Never would have happened if your dad hadn’t found that row the pickers missed.”

  “Make that a hundred and one.” Jack grinned and rolled his eyes.