Finding Our Way Back (A Well Paired Novel)

by Rice, Marianne

  Turning in circles in the open space, he imagined all the possibilities one could do with it. So much wasted space. So sad.

  The aging linoleum bubbled under his feet as he crossed the room. On the opposite wall stood an avocado green refrigerator. There was a back door to the right and another archway to its left. This one led to a space about the size of his bathroom.

  In it, he discovered a gorgeous porcelain country-style sink. Ironically, all of the wall space was covered with upper and lower white cabinets that had seen better days, and a little bit of counter space.

  He backed out and turned again in the kitchen. Part of it had an old-fashioned charm to it, and the rest could use a serious facelift.

  The chef in him couldn’t help to think of the possibilities. A six by eight butcher block island in the middle. Copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Tin or copper on the wall opposite the windows as well.

  Slate floor? It would be cold in the winter. Too bad the fireplace wasn’t double-sided. Or was it?

  He crouched and ran his hand along the wall next to the stove. Warped. The plaster coming off in chunks. A talented mason could break through the brick underneath opening up the fireplace.

  Standing, he reminded himself this wasn’t his house. Nor was it Jenna’s, even though it had been for the past five years.

  He returned to the living room and tried to get comfortable on the couch. And then his stomach growled, reminding him he never had dinner. Neither had Jenna. Returning to the kitchen, he rummaged through the pantry until he found ingredients he could work with.

  It wouldn’t be Fresh Ketch, but it would fill their bellies.

  And hopefully bring a small sense of comfort to Jenna.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jenna had no idea how long she sat next to Jerry, stroking his arms, his legs, wishing things were different. Wishing he were her grandfather. No offense to her own. Her mother’s parents were kind people. A bit disconnected, but they visited during holidays and birthdays.

  Her father’s parents had died when Jenna was in elementary school. She missed her memories of them. None had meant as much as Jerry. Granted, she hadn’t spent every moment of her life with them either. Maybe if she did, they’d be closer.

  Maybe this was her calling, caring for the elderly. Her grandparents still lived in their small ranch-style home and were getting up there in age.

  It wasn’t what she wanted, though. To care for the elderly for the rest of her life. Taking care of Jerry had filled the void her empty womb had created.

  Needing to stretch her legs, Jenna kissed his scratchy cheek and used the bathroom before going out to the kitchen to make herself something to eat. It had to be close to midnight now, and she never had dinner.

  The lights were on in the kitchen. Funny. She didn’t remember leaving them on. A noise sounding an awful like the squeaking of the oven door opening gave her a fright.

  She found Tristan squatting in front of the ancient stove.

  “Four twenty-five isn’t really four twenty-five, is it?”

  “If you want it that hot you need to set it at five hundred.”

  “Good to know.” He stood and turned the dial. “You know there’s a way to fix this. You just have to take off the knob and re-adjust it.”

  “Don’t.” She held out her hand. “I’m so used to the temperamental beast I’ll end up burning down the house if you fix it.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t then.”

  She rubbed her hands across her tired eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your memory can’t be failing you that quickly. I drove you and Jerry—”

  “I know that. Why are you still here?”

  “You want me to leave?” He tucked the dishcloth he’d been using as a hot mitt in the belt of his cargo pants and leaned against the stove.

  “I want to know why you’re still here.” She lifted her wrist and tapped on her fitness tracker to check the time. “It’s quarter past midnight.”

  “First, if I left you’d have been stranded. Your car is still at the hospital.”

  “Oh yeah.” Her brain had been anything but fully functioning lately.

  “And second, I said I’d be here for you.”

  “I didn’t know you meant literally.”

  “No offense taken.”

  “I’m sorry. That was rude, and you’re being nice.”

  “Good. You realize that. You must realize how hungry you are as well.”

  “Not really.”

  Sighing, Tristan opened his arms. “Come here.” He pulled her into his warm embrace, and she relaxed into him.

  Sitting by Jerry’s side for the past two hours had been mentally draining. Anytime she couldn’t hear him breathe or couldn’t see his chest rise or fall, she lifted his limp wrist searching for a pulse.

  It was nice not to have to think for a second or two.

  “I made French onion soup, and I’m attempting to roast some vegetables.”

  “That sounds too simple,” she said into his warm chest. He smelled like soap and garlic and comfort. “How did you jazz it up?”

  “You don’t have a lot here to jazz up with.”

  “No offense taken.” She moved away from him before she was tempted to stay in his arms forever and lifted the lid from the pot of soup. She breathed in the magnificent smell. Sweet onions, a deep, rich broth, and a hint of something else. Fresh and herby, yet she didn’t have any fresh herbs lying around. “What’s in it?”

  “Onions, stock, this and that.”

  “I don’t have many top secret ingredients hiding in this kitchen.”

  “And an interesting kitchen it is.” Tristan picked up a bowl to ladle soup in it.

  “It’s ugly, but it’s grown on me.”

  “Not ugly. Unique.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” She watched him fill a second bowl and top them both with slices of thick toast and provolone cheese.

  He set them on a cookie sheet and slid them into the oven with the vegetables.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to make you dinner tonight?”

  “I’ll take a raincheck.”

  Jenna tried to ignore the flutter in her belly. A raincheck meant they’d do more than bump into each other again. They’d share a meal. Talk. Stare into each other’s eyes over a glass of wine.

  No. Not this long and lonely road again. Burgers. Think fast food. A slice of pizza. Nothing romantic.

  “You okay?” Tristan whispered his finger across her cheek. He barely touched her, yet she felt it all the way to her core.

  She blinked the sentiment away and took a step back. “Yeah. Tired.” Which was true. Physically, mentally, emotionally. She was drained from it all.

  From the physical work of tending to Jerry. From the mental work of keeping her spirits up and watching him wither away day by day. And from the emotional roller coaster of preparing herself to lose someone she loved while at the same time welcoming back someone she had loved and lost back into her life again.

  Only as friends. Yes, only as friends. This was all she could handle right now.

  Tristan pulled out a chair. “Why don’t you have a seat? The soup will be done in a minute.”

  Her body, heavy with emotion, fell easily to the chair. Resting her elbows on the table, she watched him move about the awkward kitchen space with ease, going back and forth from the sink room—as she referred to it—for spoons and plates, and monitoring the food in the oven.

  When he placed the hot bowl in front of her, she looked up into his kind eyes with a sad smile.

  “I appreciate this. You. Everything you’re doing for me.”

  His gaze dropped to her lips where it lingered for too long, causing a ripple effect of goose bumps down her arms and into her belly. There was a moment when she thought he was going to lean down and kiss her. Instead, he flicked his gaze back up to her eyes and lifted his lip into a grin.

  “It’s not for you.” He winked. “It’s f
or Jerry.”

  Thankful for the sudden mood change, she smiled. “Jerry? Don’t you think the French onion soup is a bit rich for him?”

  “Well,” Tristan started, claiming the seat next to her. “The soup is technically for you, but only so you have the strength to take care of Jerry.”

  “I see.” She picked up her spoon and cut into the top layer. Somehow he’d managed to get the ancient oven to brown the cheese to perfection. “This smells delicious.” And it was. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips.

  “I had to improvise a little. I didn’t have a baguette on hand, so I toasted up some slices of whole wheat I found in the cabinet. There was only provolone—”

  “Tristan.” She laid her hand on his wrist. “It’s perfect.”

  Once again, his hazel eyes met hers. He always had a way of stirring up so much in her with those eyes, as if he could read not only her mind but her heart as well. His eyes so clear, so open, so honest, she could see into his as well.

  She closed her eyes to block the path he cleared so easily to his heart. She wasn’t ready for this.

  “I only want the best for you.”

  Lowering her head, she opened her eyes and returned to her soup. Her stomach fought the intrusion, even though it was delicious. The emotions of the day were too much for her to handle.

  “The vegetables should be ready now.” Tristan got up from the table, giving her some much-needed space.

  When he sat next to her again, his tone shifted from serious to lighthearted. “Please don’t let it get out that I used basic sandwich bread. Store brand sandwich bread.” He let out an over-exaggerated shudder as he slid roasted zucchini and summer squash on two plates. “And broth from a box. Store brand again. My reputation will be ruined.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, food snob.”

  “I’m not a food snob.”

  “Are too.” She stabbed a piece of squash, appreciating the blend of herbs and spices he added to them. “Can’t believe you used my jarred spices.”

  “Fresh is always better. At least your spices aren’t store brand.”

  She’d learned from Tristan years ago how important a good herb and spice was. When she saw them at farm stands, she’d often buy a bunch of fresh basil or rosemary, but usually just used the dried stuff.

  “I told you, I can cook a mean lasagna. Dried herbs, boxed lasagna noodles, and—”

  Tristan placed his hand over his heart. “Please don’t say jarred sauce.”

  “Homemade sauce.”

  “I’m impressed.” He winked again—he’d always been a winker—and sipped his soup. “Will I get to taste it with my raincheck, or do you have a different meal in mind?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And for dessert?”

  Now he was pushing it. “Pineapple upside down cake,” she teased, knowing how much he hated pineapple.

  “Evil woman,” he muttered behind his grin as he finished his dinner.

  Or rather, their midnight snack.

  When her belly was as full as her emotions would let it fill, she picked up her bowl and stood.

  “I’ve got the dishes. I know you want to get back to Jerry.” He took them from her, his big, capable hands hovering over hers for a moment.

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything. Always.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead and carried the dishes to the sink in the other room.

  Jerry hadn’t moved while she was away. Not that he ever did when he slept. She returned to the edge of the mattress and picked up the edge of the sheet so she could find his hand.

  “What am I going to do without you? You’ve given me a purpose these past few years. You helped me heal. You’ve been my inspiration, my motivation, my mentor, and my friend.” Lowering her head to the spot on the pillow next to his, she cried into his bony shoulder.

  The cramp in her side didn’t allow her to lean awkwardly for too long. Sitting back up, she wiped her tears and adjusted his blankets.

  “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have found my love for pottery again. I wouldn’t have picked up a paintbrush again. I wouldn’t have stumbled into a bookstore and made friends.” Jenna sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I wouldn’t have found myself again.”

  She sat in silence, closing her eyes and willing herself to stay awake. It was only a matter of days. Hours most likely. The coughing had slowed, and his breathing had gotten louder, his lungs making it harder to breathe.

  Jenna must have dozed for a moment because Tristan’s hand on her shoulder jolted her upright.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” She stood and paced around the room to get the blood flowing again.

  “You didn’t seem very comfortable. Why don’t you lay down for a little bit? I can keep an eye on Jerry.”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “Jenna.” Tristan put his hands on her shoulders and turned her so she faced him. “You need to take care of yourself as well.”

  “I will when he’s...”

  “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said with affection. Dropping his arms, he tugged her into a hug, cradling her head against his chest.

  Maybe she could take a quick nap here, leaning into Tristan?

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.” She rubbed her cheek across his chest, breathing in his scent, his strength, his oxygen. Even when times were at their absolute worst, Tristan had always been a pillar of stability. He’d taken her verbal, and sometimes physical, abuse like a saint while she mourned the death of Anna.

  Anna. It had been years since she allowed herself to even think of her name. Mourning the loss of her baby, a daughter, was still somewhat removed. Mourning Anna hurt too much. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t live thinking about her baby in that tiny coffin.

  Instead, she focused on her anger and pointed it all toward Tristan. Not once had he yelled at her for being cruel to him. And she had. Tristan had lost his daughter as well and had been living with the guilt of her death for long enough. The least she could do was let him know she’d forgiven him.

  “Tristan.” She lifted her head and gazed once more into his eyes. “I’m sorry for all the things I said. I could only focus on myself. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way—” She hiccupped, her chest shaking as she fought back tears.

  “Honey.” He kissed her forehead again. “Don’t do this to yourself. I’m not angry with you. I never was. I can’t imagine going through what you did.”

  “You went through it too.” She moved her hands from his back and slid them up his chest. “I never let you mourn. Instead, you took care of me, your mother. I’m sorry it didn’t ... that we didn’t work out.”

  “Hey.” He cupped her chin, stroking it with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t do this to yourself right now. Ever. What’s done is done. The only thing we have control over is the future. And it looks like you’ve done a kick-ass job making a wonderful life for yourself.”

  Once again, he steered the conversation back from going too far down a road she wasn’t in the right frame of mind to travel.

  Lowering her head, she turned to face Jerry, resting her cheek on Tristan’s chest. “He helped me start over. If it wasn’t for Jerry, I don’t know where I’d be. Still living at my parents’ house. Depressed. Suicidal.”

  “Jenna.” He gripped her shoulders tightly, forcing her to face him again. “Were you—? Are you...?” His chest heaved as if he’d run a marathon up and down Maine’s coast. His eyebrows drew together as his pained, watery gaze pierced through her.

  His hands trembled as his fingers dug deeper into her skin.

  She shook her head furiously. “No. I never attempted.”

  “But you thought about it.” He loosened his grip and tugged her into a tight hug. “You thought about it.”

  His heart beat erratically against her as he breathed loudly over her.

&n
bsp; “Not seriously.”

  “That’s not a no.”

  “I went through a serious depression.”

  “I shouldn’t have left.”

  “I didn’t give you a choice. I made you leave.”

  “I shouldn’t have left,” he repeated.

  Once again, Tristan shouldered the blame, accepting the responsibility. He’d come to the house a dozen times a day. Her parents tried talking her into going back to the apartment to work things out with him, but she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t stand seeing him day after day knowing he was the reason why Anna was dead and why she could never have any more children.

  There wasn’t anything he could do to rectify the situation, yet he tried. God, how he tried. His determination to help Jenna only made it harder for her. She wanted—needed—to hate him, and having him around her, being so gentle, so kind, so supportive, weakened her.

  Forcing him away was the only way she could deal.

  “I gave you no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  His visits to her parents’ house lessened when she told him she didn’t love him anymore. That she hated him and could never, ever forgive him.

  He still came by a few times a week, not with gifts, for that wasn’t their thing, but with meals. Desserts. Ice cream. She let it melt, refusing to touch anything he made.

  The baby weight and then some fell off. When her parents told him she refused to eat his food, he stopped bringing it. He’d left her alone for three weeks then showed up looking like he hadn’t slept in two months.

  Eight weeks, four days, and six hours since their lives had been torn in two. Two separate lives that used to be one broken. Unfixable.

  He cried on her doorstep, begging for forgiveness. For her to come back. Her heart had already been shattered to a million pieces, and hearing him cry incinerated it to black smoke disappearing in the air.

  Whenever I look at you, I see a baby killer. I don’t want you in my life, Tristan. Just leave.

  Her final words to him were lies. All lies. She’d wanted him to hurt as much as she had. She had left him standing on her parents’ front porch, slamming the door in his face, and retreated to her childhood bedroom, not coming out for days.