“So maybe he knows his own heart and mind this time. Drew, your story doesn’t change the fact that you need to be there tonight. And for the wedding. Be there for Ty. Your hurt doesn’t give you a pass.”
Drew regarded her for a long moment, his breath hot in his lungs. She disturbed him. Challenged him. Caught the kindling of his heart on fire. “Fine. You want me there?” He leaned into her, an idea forming. One that would get him out of this and away from her. “Then you have to go as my date.”
She recoiled, just as he’d hoped. “Your date?”
“Yeah, my date.” If she’d declined, he’d be free to skip the evening. Carry on with his plan to bring Ty to his senses. With his plan to never fall in love again. “Every best man needs a date, right? No date. No best man.” When Ansley hesitated another second, he turned for the beach. “Just as I thought. All talk. No action. You call me anti-love, but I have a gut feeling you’re not very high on the stuff either.”
“Deal.” The bold sound of her voice arrested him. “You’re on. But I’m not agreeing to this scheme for you. This is for Noël and Ty.”
“Same here.” He slipped his hand into hers and for one Mississippi, two Mississippi, their hands remained locked, fueling the building fire in him.
He broke free and started inside, the melody of her song swirled around him.
“Sometimes you have to let go and trust your heart.”
Be his date … the nerve of him. Drew Callahan walked a thin line. But she’d endure his stupid condition to get him to show up. Anything for Noël’s happiness. Lord knows she’d pulled some odd favors for Ansley the past few years.
Ansley’s surveyed the room, her pulse thick in her veins. Drew was late. Surely he’d not renege. Coward …
Then he appeared, wearing tan board shorts and a blue shirt that captured the hue in his eyes.
Ansley steadied herself, reaching for the nearest chair, biting back her smile, annoyed by the flutter in her middle.
“You came.”
“I told you I would.”
“Y-you look nice,” she said, holding down her smile, glancing casually about the room, ignoring the way he made her want to lean against him.
“I had to press my shorts.”
She peeked up at him. “You ironed for your brother? Finally a check in your pro column.”
He made a face. “You’re keeping a pro-con list?”
“Maybe.”
His laugh came from a deep, free space in his chest, a sound and sensation she could not escape the rest of the night.
The rehearsal went quickly, and by the time everyone moved to the next ballroom for a catered dinner, the DJ was already playing music.
Rod Steward crooned “They Way You Look Tonight.”
“I believe Rod’s singing our song.” Drew took her by the hand, led her to the dance floor, pulled her close, and moved them to the rhythm of the music.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, keeping a stiff distance, trying not to let go. But everything about him beckoned. His fragrance, his teasing blue eyes, his tender tone. And maybe, just a little, the sculpted pump of his chest.
“You look beautiful.”
“Don’t … Drew.” Ansley glanced away. “I’m not your real date. This is for show, for Noël and Tyler.”
“I’m not pretending, Ansley.” He wrapped her tighter, slipping his hand around her hip. When she breathed in, her senses were filled with his scent—like the sun and the sea. “I thought about what you said. Then I watched them tonight. I saw the way that Ty looks at Noël—and the way she looks back. The love that was in that room was palpable.”
“They’re lucky. We should be jealous of what they have.”
“Or maybe glad we found it ourselves.” He held her close, slipping his arm about her back, leaning his lips to her ear. “Come with me.”
Drew led her to the beach, holding her hand as she slipped off her heels.
“What’s going on, Drew?” The wind caught Ansley’s nervous laugh. “Where’s my friend, the cynical romantic?”
She clung to his arm as they passed into the shadows beyond the hotel’s light, her feet sinking into the cool, damp sand.
“Maybe he’s had a change of heart.” He gripped her hand a little tighter. “What about you, Ansley? Love is good for others but not you?”
“No.” She sighed, pulling her hand free to walk along the water’s edge. “His name was Hank and, after three years, he decided he didn’t want to be married to a country music artist.”
“You were married?”
“Engaged.”
“So we’re both nursing broken hearts.” He reached for her, wrapping her in his arms. “Ever think it was providence we met in a very crowded airport restaurant? That our seats were together on the plane?”
“That your brother was marrying my best friend?”
“Or maybe God crashed the airline’s computer for us?”
“Wow …” She laughed with a shiver, the excitement of love seeping in. “That’s an intimidating notion.”
“What would you say if I found out I had some business in Nashville?”
“Drew, listen to what you’re saying. Think—” The wind caught her hair as she stepped away from him.
“Now you sound like me. Skeptical and scared. I am listening. I am thinking. Let me take you to dinner. Don’t say no, Ansley.” He brushed her hair from her eyes and raised her chin. In the thin light drifting along the beach from bungalows and hotels, she saw love in his eyes. “Live the lyrics you wrote for Ty and Noël. Let go and trust your heart. I’m trusting mine.”
When his lips touched hers, his passion was raw and real. Ansley roped her arms around his neck and let go.
Because love, no matter how new and tentative, truly conquered all fear.
When Drew pulled away, he tapped his forehead to hers. “I’m going to marry you, Ansley Moore. Mark my words.”
“I might just let you, Drew Callahan,” she said, her lips burning from the fire of his kiss. “I might just let you.”
Rachel Hauck is an award-winning, New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal best-selling author. Her book The Wedding Dress was named Inspirational Novel of the Year by RT BookReviews. She is a double RITA finalist, a Christy and a Carol winner. A graduate of Ohio State University with a degree in Journalism, Rachel is a devoted Ohio State football fan. She lives in sunny central Florida with her husband and ornery cat.
I CAME TO SCOTLAND because I had nowhere else to look.
Standing in Edinburgh Airport, exhausted and alone, I clutched the piece of paper I hoped would give me what I needed. On it was a name and address: Eleanor Brightwell, 267 Aubergine Way, Edinburgh.
I’d found Eleanor a month ago. She worked for the National Records of Scotland, but more important, she was an expert in genealogy. I wrote her my story, and a few weeks later, I got a phone call.
“Come to Scotland,” she offered, her accent so lush and unfamiliar it took me a moment to process the words. “There are plenty of records in Edinburgh, but they aren’t digitized and will be impossible to access from Texas. You can even stay with me. Make the trip.”
So I did. Out of leads, I took leave from my job for three months and booked a flight to Edinburgh. It was easy as a traveling nurse who had no place to return between assignments except a silent and empty house.
As deplaned travelers eddied around me, I shifted my travel bag to steady my shaking hands. Eleanor Brightwell was not on any limb of my family tree, but rather a bird that had alighted on a branch.
What if this was all for nothing? What if she was a bird that flew away?
A FAMILY TREE IS a glorious set of blueprints. Like a plan for a home, it illustrates every detail and turn through the doorways that make up life until the present moment: Who was born. Who fell i
n love and had children. Who lived long, and who died young. The branches stretch out like rooms, each one housing a life and its story. When you flip through the pages, you should feel a sense of completeness, of place. This is the house of my life, a good family tree says. This is where I belong.
Only I didn’t belong anywhere anymore.
Instead of a well-organized tree with branches telling every story, I had a diagram full of starts and stops, jagged and incomplete lines, some branches stretching into nothing at all.
But when I walked through Eleanor Brightwell’s door that frigid February evening, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time: home.
Her walls were painted lemony yellow, and gilt-framed photos hung in a cluster near the entryway: a sepia wedding couple, a dark-haired family poised at the base of an ancient castle, a handsome young man in graduation regalia smiling with the sun behind him.
In the corner of the room, a log popped in a fireplace next to overstuffed floral chairs and couches, a spot where people obviously gathered. Indistinct jazz played from an unknown location and mixed with the sounds of clinking dishes and two teenagers—a boy and a girl—who shouted and chased each other around the room. Despite the cold outside, this sight warmed me, and I stood transfixed at the threshold, absorbing all the color, life, and energy of this Scottish family home.
“Children!” I jumped at the firm voice next to me. So mesmerized by the scene, I hadn’t noticed the figure to my right. “Brian! Ansley! Please don’t try to kill each other just yet. We have company.” He turned to me, and I felt the open space of the room narrow.
The man was tall with a powerful build. He either worked labor or worked out, as evidenced by firm biceps under his navy tee. Thick black hair fell without direction across his forehead into his eyes, which were a hard-to-miss sapphire, as blue as the Texas sky before sunrise. Those eyes immediately reminded me of the past, and I felt a pain blossom in my chest.
“You came at a fine time. My wee brother and sister have decided to kill each other right before dinner, a usual occurrence in this zoo.” The tenor of his voice and roll of R’s sent a current down my spine. He must have been a few years older than me, maybe thirty-seven or thirty-eight, because then he chuckled, and little furrows of laugh lines appeared around those penetrating eyes.
Oh, my.
He was altogether charming, and a rush of blood colored my cheeks.
He shuffled barefoot around me to shut the front door, and I realized a little girl was wrapped around his leg. Blue eyes, but these the shade of cornflower, popped beneath a knitted pink cap. She smiled at me, dimples puckering her cheeks. She must be his daughter, I thought, and my disappointment surprised me.
“Cairn!” the teenage girl yelled from across the room, yanking me from my thoughts. “The only reason this is a zoo is because your wee brother makes it his purpose in life to drive me nuts!” She started to taunt the boy again, but a movement from the doorway interrupted her.
“Brian. Ansley. For the love of everything holy, the two of you must get yourselves under control or I will make it my purpose in life to drive you nuts.” The two teenagers deflated, and Eleanor Brightwell, a woman who had to be in her mid-fifties but seemed younger, wrapped her soft, sugar-scented arms around me.
“Bea, you made it!” Her smile was broad. With her large, blue eyes, feathery brown hair, and round cheeks, she reminded me a little of my mother. I absently rubbed my chest where the old pain flared again.
“Welcome to my home. You have met the twins, my two middle children, Brian and Ansley. The onset of hormones,” she sighed. “My favorite part of motherhood. And this is my oldest son, Cairn.” She gestured to the man now standing to my left, his hands on his hips, unfazed by the child still clutching him like a monkey. I smiled nervously, and he raised a dark eyebrow in return. “And this is my youngest daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie, say hello to our visitor.”
“Hallo!” Lizzie chirped.
“Hello,” I laughed. As I glanced from Lizzie to Cairn and then to the teenagers, Eleanor caught my questioning expression.
“We have a range of ages in this house, don’t we? When I was sixteen, I never would have imagined how far apart I’d have my children.” She shook her head as she smiled. “The twins came with the empty nest when he was away at university.” Eleanor jabbed her thumb at Cairn. “And then this one,” Eleanor swooped to tickle Lizzie, who exploded in a fit of shrill laughter, “we adopted two years ago.”
“It seems like a lot of gifts to me,” I said.
Eleanor’s features gentled. “Yes. A lot of gifts. That’s a wonderful way of putting it. Right, Lizzie?”
Lizzie grinned and released her brother’s leg, and Eleanor pulled her into a little dance, humming and maneuvering her around the room toward the kitchen. Only when her back was turned did I realize no hair peeked from beneath the bright pink cap.
“Bea, while I finish up dinner, Cairn will get you settled.”
I had almost forgotten the man next to me.
“Take your bags for you?” He held out a hand.
“Oh, yes,” I said, passing them to him.
“Bea DuBois, is it?”
“Yes. Bea is short for Beatrice, but that’s pretty old fashioned, so everyone calls me Bea.”
Everyone did call me Bea. The pain in my chest sparked again like a match, and I rubbed the space above my heart.
“You okay?” The unfamiliar concern unsettled me.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
I certainly hoped I would be.
“So you are doing research on your family tree?” asked Max Brightwell. He’d come in late from work and went straight to his wife, whom he kissed on her eyes and lips, before sitting down to dinner. He had the same dark hair as the other Brightwell children, but his eyes sparkled with a hue of chocolate brown.
“Yes. There’s only so much research I can do from the States, so I decided to make a trip here. Mrs. Brightwell—Eleanor—was incredibly kind to offer guidance and a place to stay. Thank you again.”
“It’s nothing.” She smiled at me.
“And what exactly are you researching?” asked Cairn. He sat next to me, and I’d felt his gaze, intent and interested, all evening.
“Anyone who might be related to me,” I said, not looking in his direction. It sounded so dire coming out of my mouth that I wondered if he thought I was desperate. I glanced at him, but his expression was calm and open, so I continued.
“My parents and husband died two years ago in an accident. I’ve been searching, but I don’t have any other living relatives I can find in the States. I know my paternal great-great-grandfather emigrated from Edinburgh to the US in 1903. At least, that’s what my father used to tell me. His parents died when he was young, and my mother was a foster child. They were both only children, so …” I fiddled with my napkin. “I don’t know anything other than that.”
The room had grown quiet. Max cleared his throat. “Cairn is a solicitor. He could help you with some public records, I bet.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I asked.
“Aye, I’m one of those.”
“What kind of law do you practice?”
“Estates, wills, confirmations. I think in the States they call it probate.”
“So civil matters.”
Cairn raised an eyebrow. He was quite good at that. “My father is a lawyer,” I explained. “Was. My father was a lawyer.”
Cairn let the silence linger for only a moment. “Show me your family tree, and I’ll help you figure out where to start.”
After we cleared the dishes, I gave Cairn the single sheet of paper that held my entire family history. I’d traced it so many times that the lines had started to blur. Cairn slipped on a pair of wire glasses and studied it under the dining room light while I studied him. This broad man dwarfed my five-foot-
three frame, even in boots, and despite a slightly crooked nose, he had a striking profile. He never pushed back the wave of dark hair from his forehead. Instead, he shifted his weight over the table and rested his chin in one hand. Still barefoot and in loose jeans, he was a mix of cool college boy and serious lawyer. Why wasn’t this man married?
Cairn traced the lines of my diagram with long, lean fingers but lingered at the entries for my father, mother, and husband: deceased 2015. The bulb above his head seemed to grow brighter and made me feel naked in front of him. He removed his glasses, and fear he would discover my vulnerability washed over me.
“What are you going to do if you find a relative?” he asked in a low voice.
The question surprised me. I shook my head. “I don’t know.” The words felt heavier than I expected. What was I going to do? Hope for a connection? What if that person could care less I existed? What if that person didn’t exist at all?
An old exhaustion overcame me. “I’m so tired,” I said without thinking. “I think I need to sleep.” I moved toward the stairs, but Cairn caught me. His hand wrapped entirely around my small forearm, and I flinched at the warmth that traveled up my arm.
“I have a meeting tomorrow, but I can help you after. Around four? I know where to start. Can you meet me at the General Register House?”
I couldn’t free the words trapped in my mouth, so I nodded. He released me, and a chill peppered my skin. I’d forgotten how long it had been since someone had touched me. It was the coldest I’d ever felt.
CAIRN WAS PACING THE stone steps of the old building when I arrived. Dressed in a sharp, three-piece suit cut to his frame, he alternated between checking his watch and shoving his hands into his pockets, which only accentuated the stretch of material across his very fine ass. When he saw me, he smiled. My pace, like my brain, slowed a little.
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 32