by Julia London
Macy seemed to sense just how dejected Samantha was feeling that day—she’d walked up to her at the break and said, “Do you like bagels?”
Samantha had shaken her head.
“Me either,” Macy said. “I wish people would be less health conscious and bring some good old Round Rock doughnuts. Seriously—a doughnut. We lost our husbands! We don’t need bagels, we need doughnuts!”
It was the first time Samantha had heard someone joke about it. She must have looked at Macy strangely, because Macy said, “Hey, you can’t cry all the time.” She smiled. “I’m Macy Lockhart, widow.”
Samantha remembered how odd it had felt when she’d tried to smile back. “Samantha Delaney, widow.”
“What was his name?” Macy asked.
“Tyler,” Samantha had responded, almost choking on the word.
“Do you have any pictures?”
Samantha had pictures and stories—and Macy had listened to every single one of them.
It was Macy’s idea to take art classes together to get their minds off their losses. They’d begun with photography, but that hadn’t worked—they were only reminded of how many photos would be taken without Finn and Tyler. They’d gone on to ceramics, which had been a little better, except that the instructor, Pat, had two sons in Iraq and loved to talk about the phone calls and letters she got from them. She acted like they were on vacation over there, just chilling in Basra. Neither Macy nor Samantha could focus on working with clay, and they’d ended the class with a pair of misshapen wine goblets.
After ceramics, Macy had met Wyatt, and Macy and Samantha’s foray into art had taken a small detour. Macy suggested boot camp. “We need something to kick our butts and get us back into life, right?” she’d said, and had pulled a reluctant Samantha along. Macy was right about one thing—it kicked their butts. After they’d finished boot camp, Macy’s relationship with Wyatt had turned serious, and Samantha didn’t see her as often. But Macy had called her at the beginning of the year to see if she wanted to take the weaving class, and Samantha…Samantha had been so desperate for something to do and for a true friend that she’d leapt at the chance.
When they’d seen the looms, they’d both agreed—their projects would be something easy. Samantha wanted to make a wall hanging for her mother. Macy had done a lot of research on the Lockhart family name and wanted to a weave a lap rug of the Lockhart clan plaid. Both projects were basic squares with some color in them, and that seemed doable to the two of them.
Unfortunately, Samantha had done something wrong, and her perfect square of a project was beginning to resemble a triangle. It seemed to be a symbol of her life, going off in a direction she did not want.
“Hey,” Macy said as she took up her seat next to Samantha. “Wow, I love that shade of red on you, Sam.”
Self-conscious, Samantha looked down at her blouse. No one ever complimented her. “Thanks. So how goes it?”
Macy sighed. “Let’s just say I’ve had better weeks.” She put her purse down, looked at Samantha, and tried to smile. “It’s good to see you, Sam. I’ve missed you. What have you been up to?”
“The usual,” Samantha said, meaning absolutely nothing. “Work. Project Lifeline.”
“Yeah, thanks for covering for me,” Macy said. “I’m sorry I didn’t get much done. Just too much on my mind,” she said, making a fluttering motion at her head. “But at least I got the envelopes stuffed.”
“Great,” Samantha said, and began to fidget with her weaving frame.
“Wyatt said you and he had coffee,” Macy said.
Samantha concentrated on her frame. “He showed up when I was closing.” When he’d come in, Samantha had been reminded of how she and Macy would meet at the end of the day and Wyatt would come in to get Macy.
“So tell me the truth, Sam. How did he seem to you?” Macy asked.
Samantha’s hand stilled on the frame. Was she kidding? “He was upset,” Samantha said coolly, shifting her gaze to Macy. “He really needed a friend.”
Macy’s face fell and she looked down. “Yeah.” She suddenly sagged, braced her elbows on the table, and covered her face with her hands for a moment. “Honestly, Sam—I feel like I am drowning.” She lowered her hands and looked at Samantha.
Samantha could see that Macy was tortured, but instead of feeling empathy, she was annoyed.
“It is the cruelest, hardest thing to make this choice,” Macy said.
“Personally, I don’t see the problem,” Samantha said bluntly. “There is only one answer.”
Macy looked at Samantha. “Only one answer? There are two men involved, remember?”
“How could I forget? Not everyone seems to think your situation is as big a drama as you do.”
Macy gasped. “Hey! I’m talking to you because you are my best friend!”
“And I thought you were mine, Macy,” Samantha said curtly, feeling the simmering anger begin to boil. “But you seem to have forgotten that I’ve lost my husband and he’s not coming back!”
“Are you kidding?” Macy said hotly. “You’re going to make this about Tyler, just like you make everything about him?”
“Ladies, excuse me.”
The voice startled Samantha and Macy both. They looked up into the smiling face of their instructor, Eliza. “We’re going to be reviewing fibers today before you get started on your projects. We’ll be starting in about five minutes.”
“Thanks,” Macy said, and waited until Eliza had moved to the next table before turning to look at Samantha again.
She seemed almost sorry for Samantha, and that made Samantha even angrier. “Look, I’m sorry, Sam,” she said, putting her hand on Samantha’s arm. “I didn’t mean that. I would give anything if you could have Tyler back—”
“No, don’t do that,” Samantha said, jerking her arm free of Macy’s touch. “Don’t you become one of those people who tells me sorry, sorry for your loss, because you know sorry doesn’t cut it. Sorry is a stupid, empty word!”
“Yes, I know, I know, but it’s true—”
“Oh for God’s sake, would you stop?” Samantha snapped.
Macy’s eyes narrowed. “What’s going on with you?” she whispered hotly. “Why are you talking to me like this, like I’m your enemy? Do you think you’re the only one who needs a friend?”
The anger inside Samantha surged to a new and dangerous height. “What’s going on, Macy, is that I can’t sit here and listen to you whine about your dilemma. You have no dilemma! Finn came home, end of story! You ought to be on your knees thanking God that he’s alive, and welcome him home and never let him out of your sight again! That’s the only right answer!”
Macy blanched. “I do thank God he’s alive! But what about Wyatt?”
“What about Wyatt? Yes, I feel sorry for him because you are putting him through hell. But here’s the big difference between you and me—I wouldn’t have a second husband to worry about. I would have never,” she said, her voice shaking, “let go of Tyler like you let go of Finn. Haven’t you noticed? I never go out. I never date; I haven’t thrown out any of his stuff or even packed it away. I don’t because I still love Tyler and I still miss him so much that I don’t even want to get up every morning.” Tears were running down her face now, and Samantha swiped at them.
But instead of humbling Macy as she’d fully intended to do, Macy’s eyes shone with fury. “So I guess you think you’re honoring Tyler’s memory by living in your own little hell, huh? How dare you judge me like that, Sam, just because I didn’t grieve the way you did. Excuse me if I chose to live my life for me instead of Finn.”
“You never should have married Wyatt,” Samantha said in a low voice.
“Yes, Sam, you’ve made your opinion of that perfectly clear at every opportunity. But I’m not you.”
“Oh, come on, Macy. You can’t tell me you ever loved Wyatt like you loved Finn,” Samantha challenged her.
Macy gaped at her. “No, I never did. But that doesn’t
mean I didn’t love Wyatt; I still do. And I can’t deny it just to satisfy the rules you’ve created in your sad little world.” She angrily grabbed her purse. “I’m suddenly starting to wonder why I ever told you anything at all,” she said, and stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
“Macy?” Eliza called after her. “We’re about to start.”
“Sorry, Eliza,” Macy said coolly. “Suddenly I don’t feel very well.” She walked out, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Wide-eyed, Eliza looked to Samantha, but Samantha shrugged and pretended to focus on her frame. But she was seething, her heart beating so rapidly she felt short of breath.
In the parking lot, Macy turned the ignition of her Jeep. Then she sat, sickened and shocked by her harsh words with Sam, trying to catch her breath, her forehead pressed to the steering wheel. This situation was impossible, it was absolutely impossible, and there was no one in the world who could understand how difficult this was, not even, as Macy had wrongly believed, her friend Samantha.
She lifted her head and put the car into gear, pulling out onto Congress Avenue. She was headed for Cedar Springs.
She made one quick stop at a convenience store. While she was inside her cell phone rang. Macy looked at the caller ID—it was Emma.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Emma asked when Macy answered.
Macy put her things down on the counter and pulled out her wallet. “Actually, nothing,” she said.
“Great! Come over to Mom’s. She’s in Austin all day. I had a great interview this morning and now Chloe and the boys are here. And hey, Ruthie’s Bar finally reopened. I’m free, Chloe’s got a babysitter, and we want to check it out tonight. Can you go?”
“On a Monday night?” Macy asked uncertainly.
“Yes! On a Monday! What better day? And besides, the place is packed every night.”
The guy behind the counter bagged her items and took her twenty-dollar bill.
“Yes,” Macy said. “Yes. I am so there,” she said.
Emma laughed. “You sound like a woman who could use a couple of stiff ones. We’ll be out back when you get here.”
Macy hung up. She’d put the world on hold for a couple of weeks. What was one more day?
21
Emboldened by Macy’s promise that the land was still his, Finn drove out to Two Wishes.
He thought he’d get a boost from it, but it only depressed him more. For a man who had seen some very black days, that was saying a lot.
It was nothing like the way he’d left it. The old ranch house, built in the late nineteenth century out of hand-struck limestone, sat in empty disrepair. Judging by the broken windows, the graffiti painted on the living room walls, and the butts of different types of smokes lying around, kids had been hanging out there, smoking pot and drinking beer. The toilets were a disaster, as was the kitchen. Someone had ripped out and stolen all the copper tubing, a common problem on new construction sites because of the high price copper would bring. Apparently, that extended to old houses now.
The barn, which Finn and Brodie had built over a mild winter, was untouched, but it was perhaps even more devastating to see it standing empty. It was the most vivid reminder that his prize cutting horses were gone, as were his cattle, his dogs, and even the pair of ducks who’d made the old stock pond home—all gone. The place he’d built with his blood and sweat and sheer determination had been abandoned to thugs and thieves, and a huge, commercial FOR SALE sign sat at his front gate.
To add insult to injury, when Finn drove around the acreage on the old two-track roads, he discovered that someone had started to clear the mesquite and cedar on the south end of his property which backed up to a strip of land abutting Cedar Creek Road. Finn had always suspected it would become prime commercial real estate one day, but he thought it might take twenty or thirty years. Apparently, he’d been wrong about that; the growth in and around Austin since he’d left to join the army was incredible. Yet he didn’t understand the clearing of his land. If the ranch hadn’t been sold, who was clearing the mesquite and cedar?
As Finn circled back around to the entrance, he grew even more dispirited. It would take a lot of time and money to bring his ranch back to where it had been—hell, a good cutting horse cost at least ten thousand dollars; a great one, fifteen thousand and up. That didn’t include the equipment and the cattle he’d need in order to train new horses. The house needed repair, and while he could do a lot of the work himself, it would take time and money.
The thought of starting from scratch was overwhelming to Finn.
He’d ended up at Ruthie’s Bar. How, he didn’t really know, as he recalled nothing of the drive into Cedar Springs. He remembered Ruthie’s as being a hole in the wall, but now it seemed trendy. The old wooden bar, marked by time and cowboys that worked the Triple Z Ranch west of town, had been replaced with glass and chrome. The pine dance floor had been replaced with a big circular dance track with a bar in the middle.
Finn sat at another bar near the entrance nursing a few beers, his thoughts scattered between his ranch and Afghanistan. He felt like he didn’t really belong in this town anymore. He wasn’t sure where he belonged. His life had been at a standstill for three years while the rest of the world had moved ahead. He’d been left behind. The more he drank, the more he felt like he didn’t even belong in his scarred body. Finn Lockhart, as he remembered himself, thought of himself, had ceased to exist, and now he was the guy everyone kept calling a hero.
He wasn’t a hero. He was the farthest thing from a hero.
But someone calling him a hero bought him a whiskey. Maybe two. Finn was beginning to lose track. He nodded and answered as politely as he could when someone would ask after him, but he kept it short, avoiding eye contact. He didn’t want any friends right now, save the one that was in the glass before him.
He must have had a few, because he didn’t notice when Erin—or Kristen—whoever, slid onto the barstool next to him. When he became aware of her, he pushed his hair out of his eyes and smiled. He was feeling no pain.
“I was going to ride on your float,” she said.
Finn wondered if the float she was going to ride was the same thing he had in mind, but then she ruined it by saying, “You know, in the Fourth of July parade.”
Ah, the parade, the damn parade, the hero’s welcome. Finn smiled. “Is that right?” he said, and instead of thinking about that damn parade that had gone on without him, he imagined her breasts in his hands and ordered a drink for her and one for himself.
He became so preoccupied with the idea of asking Kristen if there was some place they might go and have mindless—and for him, increasingly necessary—sex, that he failed to see Macy come into the bar.
When Kristen left him to go to the ladies’ room, Finn was hanging on to the bar so he wouldn’t slide off his little pinhead of a barstool. It was then that he spotted Macy and it threw him even more off balance. He’d managed to put her and Afghanistan out of his thoughts for a while, but in his current inebriated state he felt foolish for not realizing she was there, and a moment or two of boyish uncertainty passed.
Not that it mattered. Macy hadn’t seen him, either, apparently. She’d cleaned up since he’d last seen her. Her hair was brushed and pulled back in a silky, golden tail. She had on a sleeveless blouse that fit tightly across her breasts and something dangling at her ears that gave off little sparks of fractured light.
Macy was sitting in a booth next to her sister Emma and across from her cousin Chloe, laughing at something one of them had said. That laugh swept over Finn like the Texas heat, making him testy and uncomfortable. How the hell could she sit there laughing? Was her life so carefree that she could laugh?
Finn pivoted around on his stool so that he was facing her. It was only a moment or two before Macy looked up and noticed him. He could see the surprise flicker across her face, could see her smile falter.
“Do you want another drink?” Kristen
had returned but Finn hardly spared her a glance from the corner of his eye. “Why not?” he said dispassionately. Kristen settled on the barstool. Finn put his arm around her waist and pulled her to his side.
“Hey, I think I like this,” she purred, and picked up what was left of her drink, sipping daintily. “Hey, Rory, could we have another round?” She settled against Finn.
Finn’s eyes never left his wife’s. Macy, however, averted her gaze and looked down when Kristen leaned in to whisper something Finn didn’t really hear and didn’t really care to hear. When he didn’t respond, she put her hand high on his thigh. “What are you thinking about?”
Finn nodded in Macy’s direction. “See that woman over there? The one with the honey-colored hair?”
Kristen looked around. Her smile suddenly faded.
“That’s my wife. Wait—was my wife,” he said with a derisive chuckle, and thought of yesterday, of kissing Macy on Laru’s lawn, of the way she made him feel almost whole again. “See,” he said, turning a bit toward Kristin and pulling her even closer, “she used to be Mrs. Lockhart. But she thought I was killed in combat, just like everyone else in this town. Macy didn’t let that get her down, no sir. She got married just as soon as she could and she’s still married, even though I’m not dead! Now does that make any sense to you, Christie?”
“Kristen,” she said, and tried to push away from him. “I didn’t know she was here,” she added, and pushed again, this time managing to dislodge Finn’s hold.
“Ah, don’t run off,” Finn said loudly as she picked up her purse. “You’re not bothering Macy. Hell, I’m not bothering Macy.” He laughed loudly. Several people turned to look at him.
“Look, I don’t want to get in the middle—”
“Girl, you aren’t in the middle!” he scoffed, and caught her arm. “There’s not a damn thing to be in the middle of,” he insisted, and in the process lost his balance and half-slid off his stool. He caught himself with his elbow and righted himself.