The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel)

by Alison Kent

  “I’m not,” she said, but stopped because what was she sorry for? The words seemed so meaningless, so clichéd, and yet she was filled with an incredible anguish, a magnificent ache because of what Oliver had lost. “But I am. He should still be with you, whole and vibrant and full of life and—”

  “What is she doing here?”

  Merrilee’s words echoed down the hallway, sharp and stinging and as hurtful as they were hurt. Indiana got to her feet, Oliver rising with her, and held first his mother’s gaze, then his father’s as she said, “My condolences, Mrs. Gatlin, Mr. Gatlin. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

  Then, before Oliver’s mother could do more than suck in a breath broken by a mother’s pain, Indiana turned to go. She was not going to stay and make things worse. Behind her, she heard Oliver speaking to his parents; then she pushed through the door into the rehab center’s main corridor, defying the urge to run.

  Seconds later, the door whooshed open again; then Oliver was beside her, taking her by the elbow and slowing her to stop. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Of course she does.” He knew it as well as she did. “But she’s devastated, and I’m not going to judge her for anything tonight.”

  “Thank you,” he said, pulling in a deep breath that had him shuddering. Then cupping the back of her head and pulling her close. “Thank you.”

  For not judging his mother? For the sex? For being here? She wanted to know, but not so much that she was going to burden him with having to answer. Instead, she nodded against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath her cheek.

  His arms came around her then, and she wrapped him similarly in hers, and they stood in the quiet hallway together, neither saying a word, neither moving. This she could give him. This was easy, this human connection, this private, compassionate communion.

  Nothing in this moment was about what had happened hours before in the front seat of his car, yet she couldn’t help but remember the feeling of his being over her, being inside her. Being a part of who she was as if he were meant to be with her.

  As if they were meant to be together. To be one.

  After a long moment, he dug in his pocket, and as he stepped away, handed her the keys to his BMW. “You can get yourself home?”

  “Of course,” she said, her fist closing around the fob. “I mean, I’m staying at Tennessee and Kaylie’s tonight. I’ll leave your car there, or I can bring it to you, or pick you up—”

  He lifted his index finger and placed it against her lips. “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.” Then he cupped her nape and brought her to him, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering, breathing, his hold tight and possessive and absolutely needy and raw.

  She breathed him in, all the rich, exotic scents that made him who he was. “You’ll let me know about the arrangements? And if there’s anything I can do?”

  “I will, but you know my mother.”

  Still . . . “Anything.”

  “You’re here. And that’s what I need.”

  Strangely, she believed every word.

  The morning after his brother’s passing, Oliver stood in front of a blank canvas for the first time in more years than he could remember. His father was the artist in the family. His father who was rarely home, and always consumed with whatever piece he was sculpting when he was. As little hands-on parenting as Oliver and Oscar had received from their mother, they’d been given even less by the famous Orville Gatlin.

  What he had provided both of his boys with was an education in the arts, an appreciation for the arts, and more than a little bit of artistic talent. Oscar’s had been the gift of music, though their father hadn’t sung or played or composed. Oliver had painted. Oils. Until he’d stopped. Right about the time Oscar had no longer been able to run his fingers over a piano keyboard, or draw a bow across his cello’s strings.

  Convenient timing, that. And obvious. Oliver hadn’t needed a therapist to point out why he’d given up the thing in his life that he’d most enjoyed at the same time his brother’s body had ceased to function. He didn’t deserve such an easy outlet for expressing his grief, or his guilt. He should’ve paid more attention to Oscar’s life, where he went, what he did. Whom he kept company with other than Sierra Caffey.

  Oliver had never objected to Oscar dating Sierra. He’d liked Sierra. She’d been good for his brother. Oh, he’d hated her later, after the accident, blaming her when he should’ve been blaming himself, but the years his brother and Sierra had spent as a happy couple, Oliver had been totally on board.

  Their mother was the family snob, unable to see how happy her son was despite her constant meddling in his life, meddling Oliver should’ve put a stop to. It should make Oscar’s passing easier, knowing he’d been in a good place, wanting for nothing, loved by a gorgeous girl when he’d gone down that ravine.

  But it didn’t. Because Oliver hadn’t been half as attentive as he should’ve been.

  He hadn’t butted in, even after his brother had come to him concerned about the steering in his car. He’d left Oscar to do his own thing. Just once, just that once . . . Why couldn’t he have been more like their interfering mother, and less like their father, who couldn’t bring himself to be involved? If he had . . . He’d just put his brother in the ground as surely as if he’d been the one driving.

  “I’m so sorry, Oscar. I’m so, so sor—” It was all he could get out for the pain ripping at his heart, for the fists closed around his throat and choking him, for the tears burning gullies down his face.

  He cried for his brother, great gulping sobs that had him crouched down and hunched over, one hand on the floor for balance, that tore through him like glass, jagged. Broken. Shards and splinters and . . . How was he ever going to forgive himself and move on? His brother was gone. Oscar, who should’ve been playing Carnegie Hall by now, but thanks to Oliver . . .

  Ages seemed to pass before he was spent; then he stood, using his T-shirt as a towel to dry his eyes and his face. He stared at the easel and the table where he’d laid out his paints after arriving this morning.

  He’d been thinking about painting again for a while now, seeing Indiana passionate about IJK Gardens, and Luna about weaving, Angelo about woodworking, Kaylie about her café, and had arranged with Luna to rent part of the loft where she stored her loom. He still had a studio at home; it hadn’t been touched since the last time he’d used it. He could’ve had it stripped clean and outfitted and worked from there.

  Considering what he was getting done here, he should have. Or emptied his office in the River Bend Building and used that. Except he didn’t want to share this part of his life with anyone. Not his mother. Not his father. Not Indiana Keller. Not yet.

  The canvas mocked him. The paints mocked him, too. Twelve hundred square inches of stretched Belgian linen. Charvin Fine Oils in Absinthe Green and Anise and Cassel Earth. And yet all he could do was stand here and stare through bleary eyes at nothing. Ten years. His brother had hung on to a worthless life for ten years, and Oliver couldn’t even make himself pick up a brush.

  He’d try again tomorrow. Then he’d try again the day after, and the one that followed. He’d keep trying until he made it happen. Until he got it right. Or until he had to admit there was nothing left to try.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The day of Oscar Gatlin’s funeral, Indiana drove to the Second Baptist Church in Oliver’s BMW with every intention of returning the car. The service was held on Sunday afternoon, which seemed rather unusual, but the family, with Oscar in limbo for ten long years, hadn’t wanted to wait another day.

  These bits of gossip Indiana had learned from chatter at Kaylie’s, where she’d spent part of the Friday holiday pitching in with Luna and Dolly on the prep work for the Two Owls opening. She’d also learned that the Hope Springs Funeral Home was unable to accommodate the expected crowd, ergo, the church. />
  For all her unpleasantness, Merrilee Gatlin had many friends, and Orville had acquaintances throughout the world, both attested to by the abundance of plants and flowers lining the walls of the church’s vestibule and those of the auditorium. Lilies and chrysanthemums and ivies and ferns. Then there were Oliver’s business associates and social colleagues, and Oscar’s friends from school. Friends who included Luna Caffey.

  Luna sat near the front of the church, tucked up beneath Angelo’s shoulder on her left, with her father almost as close on her right, both men ready to hold her together should she break. Kaylie and Tennessee had taken the pew behind Luna’s parents, with Indiana on her brother’s other side. She hadn’t known Oscar; she was here for Oliver. Just as Kaylie and Tennessee were here for Luna, who’d known Oscar well.

  As Indiana listened to the minister, the choir, and friends of the Gatlins speak, she was unable to look away from the woman she thought might have known Oscar better than his family. The woman she was certain mourned the loss of her friend as much as his parents did their son, though, finally glancing from Luna’s tear-streaked cheeks to where Oliver sat grim faced and still, she had no doubt the loss of his brother was killing him.

  In the pews set off for the family, his mother held his arm and leaned against his side, while his father hunched forward, his hands between his knees, his head bowed. Oliver wore sunglasses with his suit and faced forward, stoic. She had no way of knowing if his eyes were closed, if he blinked away tears, if he was looking at the casket and the high school portrait of Oscar on one end, or at the people who’d come to pay their respects.

  She doubted he could see her, but she trained her gaze between Luna and her father, Harry, and willed Oliver to know she was here if he needed her, if he wanted her, for anything. Yes, he had his parents, but he looked so alone—taller than both where they sat, stronger than either, a buttress bearing a monstrous weight—that Indiana found her eyes watering, her chest tightening, and wished so very much she could go to him.

  She wanted to hold his hand, to sit beside him and bring his head to her chest, to stroke his hair from his face, to soothe him. She wanted that so very much because of how he’d reached for her in his car, and how ruined he’d appeared when he’d knelt to wake her after Oscar’s death. He’d needed her. He’d wanted her. Surely now was no different . . .

  Except it was, because she was the one needing, the one wanting, the one desperate to draw him close. Seeing him like this, knowing what he was suffering, the pain he was in . . . Please let me take away his pain. The thought tore through her, and when she caught back a sob, his head turned. She wasn’t loud; others in the church were openly weeping, but he’d heard, or sensed her above the rest.

  He shouldn’t have; her sorrow was that of an outsider. But that wasn’t true, because her sorrow was all for him. It came from a place inside so deep she thought when she stood she might crack, that pieces of who she’d been would fall away, that nothing would remain but a woman desperately, wholly in love.

  And with no idea what to do about it.

  When, coffee mug in one hand, blueberry muffin in the other, Indiana walked out onto the porch of her cottage three days after Oscar Gatlin’s funeral, one single thought came to mind: What would Merrilee Gatlin think if she saw her son’s BMW parked in Indiana’s driveway?

  There’d been no chance to talk to Oliver or return his car before the funeral—he’d been busy with his family, and at the service, behind his dark glasses, withdrawn, separate—and Indiana hadn’t attended the private burial, or paid her respects following at the Gatlins’ home. The family had made it clear they wanted to see no one but their oldest friends, their closest friends, and Indiana knew she’d been excluded.

  She’d phoned Oliver once the Friday after Oscar’s Thanksgiving Day passing, hanging up when the call went to voice mail; she’d wanted to talk to him, not his phone. She’d called the Saturday before the Sunday-afternoon funeral. The phone had been answered on the first ring by a service, but she’d waited until last night to leave a message. He hadn’t called back.

  Something told her he wasn’t at home; no matter how much he loved his mother, Indiana couldn’t see him having the patience to put up with Merrilee when his own suffering was as great as hers. He had no reason to be at the Caffey-Gatlin Academy, and if he had stopped by the arts center for anything, she couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t have walked across the street and picked up his car.

  That left her one place to go looking, and if he wasn’t at Luna’s loft . . .

  “How did you know I was here?” he asked when she arrived a half hour later. He turned for the kitchen area, leaving the smells of paint and turpentine and stale clothes and unwashed skin in his wake.

  Strangely, the combination wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It just wasn’t what she’d come to expect from the well-dressed Oliver she’d known. This one, dirty and disheveled, hadn’t said a word when she’d buzzed him from the lobby and announced herself, just allowed her access to the private elevator.

  “I didn’t,” she said, following him. “I guessed.”

  “Good guess.”

  “It wasn’t completely random. Tennessee mentioned before Thanksgiving that you’d rented the space.” She glanced toward the far end of the loft, where Luna’s loom had been during the Caffeys’ wedding reception. It now sat in the center of the large room, and a partition separated the section set up for Oliver’s use. “How are you doing? I’ve been worried.”

  And probably with good reason. She was pretty sure he hadn’t showered since the funeral. She was also pretty sure he was still wearing the same dress shirt, untucked and mostly unbuttoned, and suit pants, which hung loose on his hips, though he’d lost the jacket and tie, as well as his shoes, socks, and belt.

  Either he was sleeping in the clothes, too, or he had nothing with him to change into. Though she knew the loft’s water was working, so why hadn’t he used it? And why did he look so good when he was so incredibly undone? “When’s the last time you had anything to eat?”

  He circled the kitchen bar, littered with empty wine bottles, and shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

  Hmm. “Too busy for food?” Or a shower? Or clean clothes?

  “It happens,” he said, reaching for a full bottle in the case on the floor. Then reaching for a corkscrew and a glass.

  She wasn’t the connoisseur he was, but even she knew the flute, most likely left from Luna and Angelo’s wedding reception, was the wrong glass for the merlot he poured. “I’d be happy to pick you up something to eat. Or cook for you if there’s anything you’d like?”

  “And then?” He swigged down half the flute’s contents, then backhanded his wrist over his mouth. His gaze burned into hers, his eyes too bright for being so bleary, and unaccountably mean. “Are you going to wash my clothes? Clean up the bathroom? Climb into my bed?”

  On second thought, he seemed to be perfectly capable of screwing things up on his own. She didn’t need to be here to see it happen or, she told herself—her stomach growing tight as it rolled—stay to bear the brunt.

  “I’m more a front-seat-of-the-car kind of girl,” she said, leaving his keys on the bar before heading back the way she’d come. She would walk back to Three Wishes Road before she’d put up with this.

  She was reaching for the elevator’s call button when he caught up to her. He reached out, but stopped himself from grabbing her hand, and held up both of his in surrender. Held up the empty flute, too.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know where that came from.”

  He was grieving, and filled with guilt, and most likely harboring doubts about what they’d done in his car when he should’ve been spending those minutes, the last of Oscar’s life, inside. All of those things allowed forgiveness to come easily, though the sting of his words remained.

  She hung her head, wondered how long the welts wo
uld last, if they would itch as they healed, if they’d scar. Weighed how involved she wanted to get, when she was already up to her eyeballs and probably had been since that first morning when he’d advised her not to bother Hiram’s bees.

  Breathing deeply, she looked up, bracing herself for what she’d see. The bracing didn’t help. His misery sliced into her, the knife ragged and dull. Sorrow was etched in his expression as if he’d used a razor blade at the corners to draw crow’s-feet. His nose was cupped by deep parenthetical grooves. No doubt his mouth was as well, but his dark beard hid the bottom half of his face.

  He was a mess, physically, emotionally. The fact that he hadn’t been in touch since leaving her with his keys should’ve worried her long before now. What was wrong with her that she hadn’t looked for him sooner? Had she truly been too caught up with her search for Dakota, and the Gardens on Three Wishes Road?

  She understood wanting to be alone to mourn one’s loss, to process one’s loss, to come to terms with life going on yet never being the same. She also understood there came a point when being alone became its own kind of burden. Oliver had hit that point.

  “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll fix you something to eat; then you can show me what you’ve been working on. I know Luna leaves clothes here. I imagine Angelo does, too. He’s a little taller, but you’re a little broader. It should even out.”

  Oliver nodded at her rambling, a furious up and down that had the ends of his hair falling forward. When had it grown so long? No matter. It was more important to get something into him, even a can of chicken noodle soup, than to worry what his mother might think about the shaggy look of his hair.

  And really. His mother? Where in the world had that come from? she mused as water ran into the loft’s tub hidden only by a room screen. She rummaged around in the kitchen, coming up with a soup pot, and a container of fresh tomato basil in the fridge, along with one of chipotle sweet potato. Obviously someone had been by, and most likely it had been Luna.