Ruth planted her hands on her hips. “I never heard Michael mention the dream, or Lorna either.” The set of her jaw dared him to contradict her.
With slow movements, Jill set the brush on the open paint can lid, picked up a splattered rag, and scrubbed at a drop of paint on her wrist. “I know it’s asking a lot, Greg, but I really hoped you, of all people, would believe me.”
The disappointment in her voice pierced him like a dart. An answering stab of anger threatened. First, she commandeered his meeting without regard to the effects of her actions on his career, and then she expected him to buy this crazy idea that she’d somehow inherited the ability to predict disasters through her dreams?
He drew in a slow breath and didn’t bother to hide his frustration. What did she want from him? Blind acceptance of this crazy idea?
He ignored Ruth’s stern glare and leaned forward, his hands on his knees, to hold Jill’s gaze with his. “Jill, you’ve been through a lot in the past year. It’s understandable that there would be some lingering …” He grappled for a word, “… effects from the accident.”
Her eyes widened. “So you think my dream is a result of post-traumatic stress from the accident?”
So she’d thought of that too. Relieved, he nodded. “It would be completely understandable, given what you went through. It’s partly my fault too. I thought our engagement would help you quit obsessing about the past and look ahead, but all I did was add more stress to your life.”
Her eyebrows inched upward. “Obsessing about the past?” Her voice held more chill than the wind that blew against the front window.
Uh-oh. Poor word choice.
In a completely uncharacteristic move, Ruth slipped out of the room without a word, leaving them alone.
Greg made an attempt to control his rising temper. “Okay, obsessing isn’t what I mean. Of course you’d be upset after losing your whole career. It’s understandable that you’d be depressed about that. All I’m saying is I was trying to help you get it out of your system and move on.”
“Get it out of my system?”
If her eyes were flamethrowers, he’d be burnt toast. Greg leaned back against the rear cushion as if slammed there by an invisible force. What’d he say?
Her mouth a hard line, she picked up the paintbrush, placed the lid on the can, and smacked it with such force that he jumped.
“If you think music is something I’ll get over, then you don’t know anything about me.”
“What?” He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that —”
She stopped in the act of rising to her knees, paintbrush and can in one hand and the finished sign in the other. Any words he might have spoken evaporated from his brain in the face of her piercing stare.
A flame of anger flickered to life and smoldered along the edges of his thoughts. He wasn’t in the wrong here. She was putting words in his mouth.
He forced a calm, reasonable tone. “Look, you’re obviously upset. Let’s talk about this another time, when we can discuss it rationally.”
The moment the word left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake.
Her spine stiffened, and breath sucked into her lungs in a hiss. “So now I’m irrational?”
There was only one thing he could do. As his father was fond of quoting, He who turns and runs away lives to fight another day. A wise man knew when to retreat.
With an iron control on his own rising temper, Greg stood. “I just remembered some work I need to get done before a meeting in the morning.” The statement didn’t really feel like a lie, because they both recognized it for the lame excuse it was. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at five thirty to go to my parents’ house.”
“Fine.”
She followed him to the door and maintained a chilly silence while he donned his coat. Stepping through the door into the frigid wind was almost a relief. The door shut behind him before he could turn for a final good-bye. He heard the deadbolt click, and tried not to imagine it slid home with more force than necessary.
Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he hurried down the porch steps. He hadn’t been free for dinner on a Tuesday night in months. Tuesdays were meatloaf nights at the café. Not his favorite, but he’d rather eat meatloaf served with a generous helping of Rowena’s friendly smile than continue the verbal sparring match with Jill. Stubborn woman.
Anger buzzing in her ears, Jill twisted the deadbolt and turned to find her grandmother watching her from the kitchen doorway.
“Greg’s not staying for supper?” Nana maintained a carefully bland expression while she wiped her hands on a tea towel.
“No, he’s not.” Her voice came out louder than she intended, and she smiled a quick apology. “He remembered some work he had to do tonight.”
“I see.”
By the sympathy in the eyes that watched her, Jill knew Nana did, indeed, see what had happened. She’d probably heard their raised voices from the other room. Correction. Jill’s raised voice. Greg had maintained a trial lawyer’s composure throughout the entire encounter, which had served to inflame Jill to the point that she lost her temper. Irrational, he’d called her.
No, he didn’t. He said we needed to have a rational discussion. And he was right. I wasn’t acting rationally.
Time for a feelings inventory. Anger and frustration, but the overriding emotion she felt was …
Her anger evaporated like a drop of water on a hot griddle. Disappointment. She’d picked a fight with Greg because she was disappointed that he didn’t believe in her dream.
She sagged against the door, her shoulders drooping. “Oh, Nana, I wanted him to believe me.”
Nana hurried down the hall and gathered Jill in a hug. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Jill breathed in the familiar scent of Estée Lauder. Tears prickled in her eyes. “I can’t blame him. It sounds crazy.” She raised her head and sniffled. “I guess I just hoped he’d support me even if he doesn’t believe me.”
“That’s a reasonable expectation.” Loyalty and sympathy in equal measures shone in Nana’s eyes. “I think tomorrow I’ll go have a talk with him.”
An image flashed into Jill’s mind of Nana marching into Greg’s office with the ferocity of a lion, complete with a mane of red hair. Teresa, fierce protector of Greg’s schedule, would be no match for Nana. The idea made Jill’s lips twitch in spite of the heaviness in her heart.
She straightened. “Please don’t. This is something I need to do myself. If I can’t convince Greg that I’m not insane, how in the world can I expect anyone else in the Cove to believe me?”
A proud smile curved Nana’s lips. “That’s my girl.” She patted Jill’s arm. “Go finish cleaning the paintbrushes. Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”
Jill headed for the living room. She really ought to call Greg and ask him to come back, but the idea of facing more of his disbelief tonight was overwhelming. She’d apologize tomorrow, on the drive to his parents’ house.
Chapter 17
Wednesday, November 30
Long stretches of awkward silence dominated the ninety-minute drive to the orchard. Jill watched through the passenger window as the sun set over kilometers of undulating ridges and fertile valleys. When Greg had arrived to pick her up, she’d apologized for snapping, but his skepticism hung between them like morning fog hovering over the harbor.
When they passed the last small village before the turnoff to Bradford Orchards, he broke a silence that had brooded for the past thirty minutes.
“I just don’t see why you have to keep pushing.” He kept his eyes fixed ahead, where twin beams from the car’s headlights carved through the darkness that had fully descended outside. “You’ve delivered your warning. You even got a front page article in the newspaper.”
Jill winced at the unmistakable frustration in his voice. Guilt stabbed at her, but she refused to accept it. It wasn’t her fault the newspaper buried the story of his tourism plan.
“On
ly a handful of people are taking my dream seriously. That article made me sound like a lunatic.”
“And planting a bunch of yard signs all over the Cove doesn’t?”
She clenched her jaws to keep from firing back a response. The last thing she wanted to do was fight with Greg again.
After a short silence, he spoke in a calm tone. “Look, I’m trying to understand your viewpoint. I know those letters from your father struck a chord. But it’s like Rowe said last night —”
Jill’s head whipped toward him. “You talked to Rowena Mitchell about me?”
“Well, uh.” Words stumbled uncertainly out of his mouth. “She asked why I looked upset. I happened to mention we’d had a disagreement. She offered a sympathetic ear, that’s all.”
Fury buzzed in her brain as the scene unfolded in her imagination. He made up an excuse to escape his crazy fiancée and ran straight into the arms of that oh-so-sympathetic flirt. “I’ll just bet she did.”
A large sign situated on the side of the road announced the entrance to Bradford Orchards. The car slowed as they approached the turnoff.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg asked as he guided the car onto the long, narrow driveway that carved the orchard into two sections.
Jill studied his face. When the car straightened, he looked away from the road, directly into her eyes. She saw no secrets there, no sign of hidden feelings for the pretty café owner. Was it possible Greg hadn’t picked up on the blatant flirting? Her sudden rush of jealousy calmed to a manageable level.
“I don’t appreciate you going to Rowena for advice about me. She’s after you, Greg. She’s going to try to make me look bad.”
“What?” The surprise on his face could not be feigned. He shook his head. “No. You’re way off base.”
“She flirts outrageously with you.”
“She flirts with everybody.” He dismissed that with a shrug. “It’s her personality. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
He faced forward as the car approached the house. Jill watched his profile while he shifted into Park and turned off the ignition. The car’s engine fell silent. He appeared entirely unaware of Rowena’s designs, which served to douse the remnants of her jealousy. That didn’t change the fact that he’d left Jill’s house last night and ran straight to Rowena to talk about it, but at least he wasn’t harboring feelings for the woman.
She wasn’t through discussing Rowena with him, not by a long shot, but now wasn’t the time. The curtains in the front room parted, and Greg’s mother peered out. A nervous tickle erupted in Jill’s stomach. The time had come to answer the question that had worried her all day. Had news of her performance at Greg’s meeting last night reached his parents?
It had.
Faye was as warm and friendly as always, and put Jill to work carrying steaming dishes from the kitchen to the dining room the minute they arrived. Jill found it easy to relax in her company, her worries slipping away as her future mother-in-law kept a pleasant chatter flowing throughout the meal. Across from Jill, Greg joined in the conversation and, at his mother’s urging, described his marriage proposal in the restaurant. Harold, whom Jill had never found to be overly chatty, sat at the head of the table and devoured the delicious roast beef in near silence. He answered his wife’s occasional questions with singleword answers.
His silence became worrisome as the meal progressed. He usually talked more than this. And why wouldn’t he make eye contact with her? With rising discomfort, Jill picked at the last half of her dinner, her insides churning into knots while Greg and his mother discussed the latest escapades of the grandchildren in California.
When the supper dishes had been cleared and they each had a thick slice of warm apple pie in front of them, Greg’s father broke his moody silence.
“So, would someone like to tell me just what in the dickens went on at that meeting Monday night?”
The food turned to cement in Jill’s stomach. From the disapproving glance he threw in her direction, she had no doubts he wasn’t asking for a simple recap of Greg’s presentation.
“Harold.” Faye’s voice, though low, held a weighty warning.
“Don’t Harold me. If she’s going to be our daughter-in-law, I refuse to tiptoe around her.” He glared across the table at his wife, but softened his gaze considerably before he turned toward Jill. “I read the article on the Internet. Were you having some sort of delusional episode or something?”
Heat flared into Jill’s face.
“Dad, Jill’s not delusional.” Greg caught her eye across the table. If his smile was tentative, at least he’d jumped to her defense.
She set her fork down and faced Harold. “The article outlined the essentials. What it didn’t mention is the fact that the dream kept returning, over and over, and every time I knew I had to warn people.” Her gaze flickered to Greg’s for an instant. “I admit my timing was atrocious, but I had to do something.”
She raised her chin defiantly. “When my father was alive, he had dreams like this, too.”
Harold stabbed at his pie and speared a gooey apple. “I don’t care what your father did. We don’t act like this in the Bradford family.”
Jill’s spine stiffened. Was he saying she wasn’t good enough to be a Bradford?
Greg opened his mouth, but before he could speak his mother stood. Her chair legs scooted across the hardwood floor with a jarring scrape.
“Jill, let’s you and I go look at the living room, shall we? I want to talk to you about the decorations for the wedding. We’ll finish our pie later.”
An overwhelming desire to escape seized Jill. She stood almost as abruptly as Faye, and followed her out of the room.
Greg tried to catch Jill’s eye as she left the dining room, but her stony stare did not turn his way. Red splotches covered the smooth skin of her neck, and her face glowed like an ember. As soon as they were out of earshot, he turned to his father.
“That was unnecessary, Dad.”
Dad looked momentarily startled. Greg was not in the habit of scolding his father. Nevertheless, he refused to look away from the stern stare aimed his way. That stare had never failed to evoke instant obedience when he was a boy.
After a couple of seconds, Dad’s forehead dipped once. “I could have approached the subject more diplomatically. Your mother warned me not to cause a ruckus. I’ll apologize to Jill. But I’m concerned about the damage this has done to your campaign.”
The idea had certainly occurred to Greg during the long hours of the past two nights. He pushed the half-eaten pie away and leaned back in his chair. “The meeting went well up until that point. I’ve had a lot of positive feedback, and gained some important supporters. I think I handled myself okay.”
“I’m sure you did, but Seaside Cove is a small town. Everybody knows you two are a couple. There’s sure to be some fallout if your fiancée is running around screaming that the sky is falling.” His gaze became piercing. “Remember what’s at stake here.”
Greg didn’t need the reminder. His future was at stake, all the plans he and Dad had talked about for most of his life. This election to the Halifax Regional Council was the first step in a political career that could potentially take him all the way to Ottawa.
He forced a calm smile. “If damage has been done, it’s done. The only thing I can do about it now is move forward.”
And try to keep Jill and Ruth from plastering yard signs all over town.
Dad leaned toward Greg and lowered his voice. “Son, are you sure she’s mentally stable?”
The same thought had occurred to Greg Monday night, but he would not admit that to his father. He forced a laugh. “Yes, Dad, I’m sure. Recovering from that accident last year has taken a toll. And she’s been under a tremendous amount of stress recently.”
Dad shot a glance in the direction of the living room. “But if her father had similar delusions” — he held up a hand to forestall Greg’s correction —”I mean dreams, then maybe you
should think twice about having children with her.”
The comment produced a genuine laugh from Greg. “That’s ridiculous. All anyone has to do is talk with her to see she’s perfectly sane. She feels strongly about this dream thing.”
His father straightened in the chair, his eyes narrowed. “You almost sound like you believe she’s had some sort of prophetic vision.”
Now it was Greg’s turn to lower his voice. “No, I don’t. I think there’s a logical explanation, like long-buried memories that are resurfacing and post-traumatic stress from her accident. But the important thing is that Jill believes it. She’s acting out of a genuine desire to save people, because she couldn’t save anyone last year.”
As he articulated the reason, it made even more sense. That’s exactly what was going on here. Jill was the most loving, softhearted person in the world, which was one of the attributes that attracted him to her four years ago. He’d been looking at this all wrong, thinking she was acting out of character. In fact, it was her loving nature that lay at the root of the whole thing.
“Hmmm.” Unconvinced, Dad’s lips pressed together into a tight line. “Well, whatever is happening, it’s got to stop before she does any more damage to your campaign. Nobody’s going to vote for a man who’s married to a raving lunatic.” He leaned forward again and held Greg’s gaze. “You’ve got to get this under control, son. Get a grip on it.”
He knew his father was right, but the memory of all those yard signs covering every square inch of Ruth’s living room made him squirm in his seat. Before long they would be all over town. He’d already tried to reason with Jill, and look what happened. What more could he do to convince her to abandon this crazy scheme?
Next Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough. When Tuesday came and went without a disaster, maybe they could put this mess behind them and get things back to normal.
“Now, if you aren’t fond of the candles, we can certainly get rid of them. In fact, we can redo the whole thing.” Faye stepped back from the fireplace and tapped her fingertips on her lips as she examined the mantle. “Pink poinsettias might add a touch of wedding color.”
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