Willow Springs: A Destiny Novel

by Toni Blake

  And then one night while his mother tucked him into bed, she’d told him, “Daddy is just sad right now, Logan. But don’t worry, he’ll feel better soon, and things’ll get back to normal.”

  “What’s he sad about?” Logan had asked in the shadowy light of his bedroom.

  His mother had hesitated, and then lowered her voice as she replied. “You remember that fire last month? The bad one over in Crestview?” It had been an apartment building.

  He’d nodded, having no idea where this was leading—because his dad was . . . his dad. Strong. Tough. Capable. He took care of them. He took care of lots of people.

  “Well, honey,” his mom had told him, “some people died. In the fire. And . . . it’s just rough on your father right now, that’s all.”

  The idea of death had been fairly new to Logan at that age, but he’d simply accepted it for what it was—an explanation, a reason. And he’d quit feeling so bad. He’d even gone out of his way to be nice to his dad. And soon enough, his father had bounced back and become the same fun, loving father he’d always been. And Logan had mostly forgotten about that time. Until now. This very second.

  He swallowed back the lump that rose to his throat upon realizing that his dad had gone through this, too, or at least through something similarly painful. The people in that fire hadn’t been personal friends the way the Knights were, but . . . Logan didn’t know how many had died there, either, and suddenly he had the suspicion that it might have been more than just a couple. And what if there had been children involved?

  And yet his dad had quietly battled those demons, and then he’d gone back to work doing what he did, fighting fires.

  “I wonder if you ever thought of quitting,” Logan mused to the headstone. “I wonder if you were ever scared after that. Of it happening again.”

  In a way, it was hard to think of his dad being afraid—but in this moment he was forced to realize, perhaps more than ever before, that his father had only been a man, like him. Surely he’d been afraid. Who wouldn’t after something like that? And yet his dad had gone back to work.

  And he’d never discouraged Logan from following in his footsteps, either. “You must have thought I could handle it, whatever happened,” Logan said. Then, struck with fresh emotion, he drew in a deep breath and blew it back out. “I’m sorry you were wrong about that, Dad. I did my best, though, I promise. I really did.”

  A lump rose in Logan’s throat then, but he swallowed past it. His dad would understand that he’d needed to quit. He would tell Logan to do whatever he felt was best. And sure, his dad might not think being a lousy bartender was the right path to follow, but that was only temporary—soon he’d find something else that felt fulfilling, something that would have made his dad proud of him all over again.

  “I love ya, Dad,” he said softly, looking to the grass, the earth, below him. It was hard to believe his dad was in there somewhere. Then he shifted his gaze to the vase of silk flowers at the base of the gravestone—currently filled with yellow roses, which he knew were among his mom’s favorites because they were so bright and sunny and cheerful. And he tried to let them—and the love and support his parents had always given him—make him feel a little happy inside.

  As he got up to walk away, heading back through the maze of headstones to his car, he caught sight in his peripheral vision of a large mound of dirt off to the right in the cemetery. Not far from his dad’s resting place, it was in a newly opened section with only a few markers so far, and this pile of dirt didn’t yet have one. Because—he knew from experience with his dad’s grave—they were waiting for the ground to settle thoroughly before they placed it. But two large sprays of dead flowers lay across it.

  A lump rose back to his throat when he realized he couldn’t quite keep walking, couldn’t get in his car and drive away, before he went over. Ken and Doreen were buried there.

  It was hard as hell to approach the graves, but he knew he had to. Just had to.

  As he drew near, the dead flowers accentuated his sadness. And then he dropped to his knees—not because he ever made the conscious choice to do so, but because his legs gave out beneath him.

  “I’m so sorry,” he heard himself whisper. “I’m so damn sorry.”

  And he was struck by the stark silence all around him, and the blistering heat of the day—or it suddenly seemed blistering anyway—and everything inside him began to feel . . . a little bit futile again, and he wondered how he would ever, ever get over this.

  But then a bird twittered in a tree somewhere nearby, and maybe it reminded him that life went on. Somehow, it went on.

  And the truth was, he’d felt a lot better about the fire since talking to Amy that night by the creek—it really had helped. He hadn’t had any nightmares since.

  And maybe . . . maybe coming here would help a little more. And maybe he’d find more and more things that helped. Until eventually he could quit hurting so bad over it. And maybe what he needed to do right now—corny as it sounded, even corny as it felt—was to tell Ken and Doreen the things he couldn’t the night their house caught on fire.

  “If there was anything I could have done, I would have. Anything at all. And . . . I think you both know that. I think you both know I tried my best. But it was just too much. Nobody could have saved you. Nobody. Not even my dad.” And wow—he wasn’t sure where that thought had come from, but it was true. He’d spent most of his life thinking his dad could do anything, but every man had his limits, even Ron Whitaker.

  “I wish I could have gotten there five minutes sooner. Hell—I wish the damn fire had never even started. But it did.” He stopped, swallowed. “They say things happen for a reason, and we’re supposed to just go through life believing that—but I’ve had a damn hard time with it lately.” He shook his head then, at a loss. “And I don’t know the answers, that’s for sure. But the thing is . . . I did my best. And it wasn’t good enough. And there’s just . . . nothing more I can do except . . . go on, the best I can.

  “I think you’d forgive me if you could. So . . . I think I need to start forgiving myself now, too. I think that’s what you’d both want me to do.”

  He rested there on his knees for a few more minutes, quiet, listening for more birdsongs, heartened when they came. And when he finally got up and headed back toward his car, he felt . . . well, a little more at peace inside. Far from healed, far from over it—but every little bit of peace helped.

  Part of Logan wanted to just head home, veg out on the dock with Cocoa a while, rest up for work at the Dew Drop in a few hours. But another part of him was in the mood to be around people—he couldn’t deny that had really helped his mood ever since he’d broken out of that initial dark place. So he decided to head into town. Maybe he’d stop by the police department and see if Mike was around, and if not, he’d drive by Becker Landscaping and look for Adam’s truck.

  As he parked on town square, though, he couldn’t help noticing Under the Covers across the way, looking quaint and tidy and as cheerful as usual. And it reminded him that he missed Amy. He tried not to think about her, tried not to think about all that had gone down between them these past couple of weeks, but he couldn’t stop missing her, damn it.

  And he missed her not only in the way you miss a friend, but also in the way you miss . . . a lover. So Amy became my lover, and I ended up losing my friend. Wow, you sure are batting a thousand lately, Whitaker.

  And for a second he considered forgetting about Mike, walking over, peeking inside the wide front window, seeing if she was alone. Maybe if they just talked a little they could find a way to put all this behind them and move on.

  But he wasn’t sure how to put their troubles behind him. It still hurt that she kept trying to get him to do something he didn’t want to, and something that was so painful to him right now, too. He knew she meant well, but . . . he needed support at the moment, not someone pushing him in a direction that no longer felt right.

  And yeah, that night he’d fou
nd her in the bookstore and given her the stuffed cat, he’d really started thinking that maybe he could have something with her that went far beyond friendship. Being with her in that way had felt damn good, and discovering Amy’s sexy side . . . well, seldom in his life had he ever thought anything more amazing or beautiful. And there was no denying that the two times they’d been intimate together were the two nights when . . . well, when he’d ended up the happiest—and the most at peace inside—since the fire.

  Yet as he stood on the edge of the square, just staring across at the bookstore, he let out a sigh and felt a little deflated. Because that happiness sure hadn’t lasted long. And even as much as he cared about her, even as good as it had begun to seem—how could it really be that good, that right, if she could hurt him like that and feel totally justified doing it?

  There’s always Anna.

  He almost hated the little voice inside that had just reminded him of that. Because he still didn’t know how he felt about her. Had that kiss on the ferris wheel felt wrong because they didn’t belong together, or was it only because he’d been with Amy that night? And if he turned to Anna now, would that be running away from the heavy stuff? Or just doing something easy and fun that didn’t hurt anyone?

  Aw hell. Maybe you should just forget about women for the time being.

  And with that thought in mind, he turned toward the police department, ready to look for Mike, like he’d come here to do in the first place.

  “Hey, Logan! Logan Whitaker!”

  Uh-oh. He knew that pretty voice. And he turned to see none other than Anna Romo on the sidewalk just outside the bookstore. As always, she looked gorgeous, today wearing a stylish top with white shorts that showed off her long, tan legs. And when she waved and crossed the street toward the square, he really had no choice but to walk toward her. Even if something about the moment suddenly felt very wrong.

  “Hi,” she said when he finally reached her. Her infectious smile told him any hard feelings left over from the carnival had passed. “What’s up?”

  He attempted a smile, but wasn’t sure it quite reached his eyes. “Not much. Just looking for your brother. Know if he’s working today?”

  “Mike?” Her mood soured at the mere mention of his name, and it made Logan’s heart break a little for his best friend. “No idea.”

  He couldn’t help giving her a chiding look, even though he spoke gently. “Go easy on him, Anna.”

  She just shrugged.

  And he felt compelled to go on, for Mike’s sake. “I kinda thought you two might make a fresh start now that he’s back from the honeymoon. I talked to him yesterday and he seemed happy as a clam—which isn’t like Mike,” he added with a wink. “So you might want to take advantage of that while it lasts.”

  At this, though, she gave her head a saucy tilt, and said, “Want to see how long it lasts? Then go out with me. Just you and me, someplace private. Let’s forget about Mike’s overprotective streak and just act like two normal adults who want to go out and have some fun. And if he can take that, then sure, fresh start all the way.”

  Logan felt put on the spot. Did she want to be with him, or was this just a test for Mike? Or both? And should he go or turn her down? What did he really want to do? If you took Mike completely out of the equation, did he really want to be alone, someplace private, possibly intimate, with Anna?

  The truth was—a month ago, yeah. A month ago, he’d been fascinated by her, drawn to her.

  But now . . . something held him back. Same as on the ferris wheel.

  And that was when he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and glanced over to see Amy. She held a cat-shaped watering can and had just stepped outside to water the petunias in her flower boxes. And he could feel her pain at unexpectedly seeing him with Anna as keenly as any touch. Damn it. That was why running into Anna had felt so wrong just now.

  He made eye contact with Amy for only a brief, hurtful second before she looked away, focusing on her flowers.

  But it drew Anna’s eyes to her, as well. Turning back to Logan, she lowered her voice. “You and Amy—how’s that going?”

  He swallowed past the small lump rising in his throat. “Not very well.”

  Anna bit her lip uncertainly, tilted her head, appeared sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding sincere. “But maybe her loss is my gain. So what do you say, Logan? Want to get together?”

  But he could barely even begin to weigh the idea of going out with Anna in this moment. Because even if it kept sounding like the easy answer, like a fun escape from everything else going on, deep down he just . . . didn’t want to. Just like the idea of confiding in her—it turned out his heart simply wasn’t in it.

  But his bigger problem at the moment was the way his stomach still clenched at knowing the very sight of them together had upset Amy. And even if she’d hurt him in ways, too, well . . . hurting her back crushed him. Hell, maybe he never should have made love to her in the first place. Maybe friends weren’t meant to be lovers.

  What a mess he’d made . . . of everything.

  Seventeen

  “He could not see her in a situation of such danger

  without trying to preserve her. It was his duty.”

  Jane Austen, from Emma

  “Well?” Anna asked.

  Shit. Why did he always end up feeling stuck between these two women lately? How had his life gotten so complicated?

  “I, uh . . . I’m sorry, Anna, I don’t think I can. I really like you, but I’m just . . . not in a place where I should be dating anybody right now.”

  Her soft scowl managed to hold a hint of playfulness. “I’m not asking for your letterman jacket or anything, you know. Just getting together, having some fun.” She tilted her head in the other direction. “I don’t really know what’s going on with you, but seems to me like you could probably use some fun.”

  And yeah, that was probably true, but at this point in time, fun with Anna Romo just seemed wrong on lots of levels. “You might be right—but I’ll have to pass, okay?”

  She gave a teasing eye roll that made him thankful she could be so understanding. Especially since he was beginning to feel like he’d accidentally led her on. “Your loss, Whitaker,” she said.

  “Probably so,” he told her. But Logan was learning there were many different kinds of losses, and some mattered a lot more than others.

  Anna sat on the couch at Mike and Rachel’s place, Mike at her side showing her pictures from Italy on his laptop computer. “That’s Dona Romo and her oldest daughter, Elisabetta,” he explained of their distant relatives. Then he went on to explain the twisting branches of the Romo family tree.

  And the pictures were wonderful, she couldn’t deny. And Logan was right—Mike was in a great mood since coming home. But she still felt smothered. She’d felt smothered when he’d called her at Lucky’s place, inviting her over for dinner and pictures, just the two of them tonight because Rachel was doing some pre-wedding activity with Tessa. She’d felt smothered even as she’d agreed to come. She’d felt smothered as he’d grilled two steaks on the back porch, all the while talking about family, family, family, and how he wanted to host a big Romo reunion once Lucky got back from his honeymoon. And now she felt smothered as Mike told her all about their Italian heritage.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she did. It was that it was . . . just too much. Too much too soon. Ever since she’d shown up in this town, it had been heaped upon her in a way she couldn’t have envisioned.

  She’d come here, she’d sought out her family, she’d asked for all of this. And yet . . . the only real problem lay with Mike. Yes, she could feel Lucky’s quieter and maybe slightly more awkward affection all around her, and her parents called her every other day to talk for a little while—but they just didn’t make her feel suffocated in the way Mike did.

  She found herself remembering a phone call with her friend, Julie, back in Indy, this morning. She’d been complainin
g to Julie about all of this, and then admitting that she sometimes felt like she was being a shrew, when Julie had said, “I just think you’re so courageous to be there at all. And you could be running away from it, but you’re not. I’m not sure I could be half as brave in your situation.”

  The words had heartened her, reminded her. She was courageous. Life with her mother had forced her to be. And it was nice to know someone besides her realized what a strange situation she’d put herself into here.

  “Rachel and I are already talking about going back, maybe next year, and I was thinking you could come with us,” Mike was saying now.

  And at any other moment of her life, she’d have leaped on an invitation to go to Italy. But all she could say at the moment was, “Um . . . I don’t know. Who knows what I’ll be doing by then.”

  He just cast her a perplexed look. Which she supposed she could understand. After all, who turned down a trip to Italy?

  “You know, before I went, I was thinking mainly about the sightseeing—but when I met the family still there, it was pretty freaking amazing. Just . . . to see somebody on the other side of the world that looks like you, and has your name, but leads a totally different kind of life. It’s an incredible way to reconnect with the family’s past, Anna.”

  And that was when something in Anna snapped. “I don’t want to reconnect, Mike—I’ve reconnected enough already.”

  He drew back, clearly stunned. “Huh?”

  Suddenly, she could barely breathe, and she knew she should probably measure her next words carefully—but she just didn’t want to. “I’m tired, Mike. I’m tired of learning the name of every Romo relative in a thirty-mile radius, and now even the ones in Italy. I’m tired of being the main attraction of every event in this town. I’m tired of trying my damnedest to stay happy and upbeat and be my real, normal self while you keep trying to turn me into some angel who doesn’t exist anymore.” She stopped, took a breath, her heart beating too fast. “I’m just . . . tired of all of this. And I’m still not sure it’s working out.”