Home to Chicory Lane (9781426796074)

by Raney, Deborah;

  Chase happened to know—thanks to Landyn’s brother—that the studio hadn’t been occupied for well over a year, so the owner was probably in a position to deal. He checked his watch. “I need to get this car back to my father-in-law,” he told the landlord, “but I’ll be in touch.”

  He headed back to the inn, driver’s side window down on the Mariner, his elbow resting on the ledge. He allowed himself a few minutes to covet the vehicle he was driving. He’d never seen himself as an SUV guy, and this was bigger than he and Landyn needed—and manufactured in the twenty-first century, unlike either of their cars. But he sure liked the quiet ride and sitting up higher. Someday he wouldn’t mind owning a car like that.

  Under the circumstances, Grant had been generous in loaning him wheels. And in letting him and Landyn stay at the inn. But there wasn’t any extra space there for Chase to work, so it was important this deal with the loft go through.

  After discussing things with Landyn, Chase agreed that if they could sell his car in New York, she would drive hers back to Missouri as soon as the sale was final. And if Chase found a buyer in Missouri first—he’d use the proceeds from the sale to fly back to New York and then they’d caravan back to Missouri in both vehicles. If they couldn’t find a buyer at all . . . Well, he didn’t have a Plan C. And he’d be glad when he wasn’t dependent on the Whitmans for transportation.

  But regardless, he thought it would be better if they weren’t in New York right now trying to make decisions about what they were going to do with their lives—in the apartment that had caused all the trouble in the first place.

  Fortunately, the gallery had sold two more of his pen and ink drawings, though small ones, and Miles seemed optimistic that things were going as they should. Chase trusted the man, even when he didn’t see the checks coming as quickly as he’d hoped.

  He drove back to the Whitmans’ wishing he had something more concrete to tell Landyn’s father. Grant and Audrey had been helpful, but there was something about Grant’s attitude toward him that kept him on edge. He’d heard the old cliché that no father ever thought any man was good enough for his daughter, but this seemed to go beyond that. Something was bugging Landyn’s dad, and Chase was pretty sure he was at the center of it. If it was about the rift between him and Landyn, he couldn’t even defend himself to her parents without making her look bad. It hadn’t been his decision to split up.

  When he pulled in the drive at the inn, Huckleberry came running. Landyn had missed that crazy dog almost more than she missed her family, and he was starting to understand why. There was something about a dog’s unconditional, uninhibited love.

  She’d been making noises about getting a dog almost since they’d said “I do.” He’d never owned a dog. His mom had been doing good to feed him, so a dog was out of the question.

  He reached for the automatic opener clipped to the visor and waited for the garage door to go up. Huck followed the car inside, and Chase could see the dog in the rearview mirror panting impatiently, waiting for him to get out.

  If he and Landyn ever got settled somewhere, a dog was on his wish list. He had other reasons too. Maybe a puppy would hold off Landyn on wanting kids. He pushed the thought away, but it slithered back. He knew he wouldn’t be able to put her off as long as he wanted to. Even though she was excited about her career in marketing, she’d made it clear when they got married that she wanted babies as soon as they could afford it. And whenever she was with Corinne and Jesse’s girls, Chase saw that look in Landyn’s eyes. That . . . hunger.

  The thought made him shudder. Even when they’d gone through those counseling sessions before they got married, he’d never admitted to her—or anyone—how terrifying the prospect of being a father was to him. He didn’t have the first clue what it took to be a dad. The only thing he knew about fathers was that they left town the year you started T-ball, when all the other kids’ dads were teaching them how to swing a bat and field a ball. And every few years they promised to come visit and take you to the zoo, or the rodeo, or Disneyland. And then you packed your bag and sat on the front stoop from morning till dark, waiting for an invisible hero who never showed up.

  He’d been stupid enough to harbor the dream until he was fifteen. Finally his mother had laid it out for him. “He’s not coming back, Chase. Not for me, not for you. Not even for a day. And thank God for that. It’s time you knew the truth.”

  He knew now that his mom had done him a favor. But at the time he’d hated her for it. Hated his dad. Hated pretty much the entire world. And then he met Landyn. And found something to love about his life. He always told her she’d saved his life. To which her standard reply was, “No, Jesus did that.” Well, right. But he liked to think Landyn was God’s way of putting flesh and blood to it.

  But she wanted kids someday. And that scared him spitless.

  He would never do to any kid of his what his father had done to him. But what if knowing what not to do wasn’t enough? Even Landyn didn’t have a perfect relationship with her parents—and Grant and Audrey had been pretty perfect parents to her as far as he could see. He just couldn’t imagine ever having anyone look up to him the way all the Whitman kids did to Grant.

  Again, he pushed the thoughts away. He had a few years before he had to worry about that. And right now he had more important family matters to figure out. Like how to be a good husband and provider. How to figure out what God had in mind for him and Landyn.

  Leaving the garage door open, he whistled at Huck. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

  He jogged out to the front lawn, Huck at his heels. The Whitmans had gotten the dog when Landyn was in junior high and Audrey had told him the other night, when he and Huck were romping in the backyard, “That dog must associate you with Landyn. It’s like he thinks he’s a pup again whenever you’re around.” Chase took that as a supreme compliment and liked to claim some credit for Huck’s longevity.

  He heard the door between the garage and the mudroom open. Huck’s ears perked, and Chase looked up to see Grant strolling out onto the driveway. “How’d it go?”

  Chase told him about the property he’d seen and about the owner’s reluctance to rent short-term.

  Grant looked thoughtful for a minute, then motioned toward the shady front veranda. “Let’s go sit for a while. I have a proposal to run by you.”

  Chase followed, feeling—as he often did around Grant—as though he were headed for the proverbial woodshed.

  * * *

  “I’ll get right to the point.” Grant thought Chase looked nervous, and he wasn’t sure whether his proposition would cure that or make it worse.

  “Okay . . .” Chase leaned forward on the glider, hands pressed on the seat at his sides.

  “Audrey and I were talking and we wondered how you and Landyn would feel about staying with my mother while you’re here in Missouri. I’ve already talked to Mother about it and she’d love to have you for a month or two.” He chuckled. “Now, you’d have to be out of there by March when it’s her turn to host her bridge gals, but she said you could have the whole second floor to yourselves. There are two bedrooms and a bath up there, so you could set up your easels or whatever you need in the second bedroom.”

  Chase looked thoughtful. “CeeCee still lives in town—in Langhorne—right?”

  “That’s right. On the east side of town, so it’s a quick jog over to Cape.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been upstairs in her house, but . . . I’ll talk to Landyn and see what she thinks. We’re still trying to figure things out. I do appreciate the option, but I’m kind of liking the idea of renting that loft.”

  Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth . . . Grant felt his jaw clench tighter and he tried to keep the frustration from his voice. “Well, I don’t know what price my mother has in mind, but I can tell you it won’t be six hundred dollars. I’m not sure you guys have the luxury of not taking CeeCee up on her offer.”

  “I think we can handle it. I’ll talk
it over with Landyn. But don’t worry. We’ll get out of your hair here. I know it’s been an imposition and I apologize.”

  Grant waved him off. There was a twinge of . . . was it sarcasm? . . . in Chase’s voice. Grant wasn’t certain enough to call him on it. And he really was trying to keep the peace with his daughter’s husband. For her sake. “It’s not that it’s an imposition, Chase, but we had those bookings set up a while back and we need to honor—”

  “I understand. And we’ll be out of your hair here—” Chase motioned in the direction of the upstairs room he’d been occupying.

  The movement caused Chase’s shirt collar to fall open enough to reveal that awful tattoo on his collarbone. Grant was just thankful it was usually hidden under his clothes.

  “We’ll get out of your hair as soon as we possibly can,” Chase said again. “For sure, long before your guests are due.”

  The sarcasm was thicker now, Grant was pretty sure. He had half a mind to kick the kid out right now. See how sarcastic he’d feel if he was homeless. But he held his tongue. Audrey was always reminding him how far Chase had come—and what odds he’d had to overcome to get to where he was now. So today Grant would write off the sarcasm to poor parenting and let it go.

  18

  Seriously? With CeeCee?” Landyn exited the subway turnstile. “Hang on, Chase. You’re cutting out.” She hurried down the platform and trotted up the stairs into the street. A brisk wind blew her scarf into her face and she adjusted it tighter around her neck as she walked. “Can you hear me now?”

  He laughed. “You sound like a commercial. And yes, I’m serious. Would that be a bad thing? Staying at CeeCee’s?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it never crossed my mind as a possibility. You like my grandmother, right?”

  “Sure. She’s cool.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily make her easy to live with.”

  “I haven’t talked to CeeCee yet, but your dad said we’d have the whole upstairs to ourselves.”

  “That’s not a whole lot of space . . .” Still, probably twice the square footage of the Bed-Stuy studio. “Did he say how much CeeCee would charge us for rent?”

  “He said it would be under six hundred.”

  “Six hundred? That’s an odd number. I wonder where she came up with that.”

  “I’m—not sure. But if it really is that cheap, we could afford to keep the studio while we’re deciding.”

  She slowed her pace. “So you’re still thinking that’s the way we should go?”

  “I just want to keep our options open.”

  “Would you try to sublease it though? I just don’t know where we’re going to get that kind of money, babe.” And we’re going to need more money than ever a few months from now. She was getting in deeper and deeper, not telling him. It wasn’t fair to be making decisions like this when Chase didn’t have all the facts. But things were complicated enough without her throwing the baby news into the mix. Besides, she wanted to tell him in person.

  This wasn’t at all the way things were supposed to be. She’d always imagined when the day came that she had news like this to share, she would set a romantic table with candles and roses, and she’d sit on Chase’s lap and whisper in his ear, “You’re going to be a daddy!”

  Her dreams were always more like an old Doris Day movie than anything resembling reality. But it was what made her good at what she did—or at what she used to do. She wondered if her career was over before it ever got started.

  She crossed the street, cutting it close, and a fast-approaching yellow cab honked at her. She couldn’t read the cabbie’s lips, but she could guess what choice words he was spewing.

  “Wow,” Chase said, “It’s weird to hear the city in the background. I’d forgotten how quiet it is here.”

  “Too quiet?”

  “I don’t know . . . I kind of like it. It’s just—two different worlds.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfortable there. I don’t think there are a lot of job opportunities for me in Langhorne, America.”

  “No, but—Cape Girardeau might have some. Or St. Louis.”

  “Whoa! Wait a minute. Where’s this coming from? You’re not really thinking of moving back to Missouri? And definitely not St. Louis.” She did not want to raise her baby in St. Louis. But then, she’d never dreamed of raising a family in New York either.

  “What do you want me to tell your dad—about staying at CeeCee’s?”

  “I guess I’m game if you are. It doesn’t sound like we have the option of staying at my house—I mean, at the inn.”

  “No. I think your dad is about fed up with us. With me anyway.” Chase’s tone said more than his words.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No . . . What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Just that they have guests booked next week that will fill the whole inn. So there’s not a room for us there.”

  For some reason that hit her hard. And it hurt. She swallowed hard. “I guess I know where I’m not wanted.”

  “Well, you can’t really blame them, Landyn. They didn’t know we were going to create this comedy of errors and—”

  “Yeah, I guess we should have booked a room sooner if we ever wanted to see my parents.”

  “They’re just trying to make a living, same as we are.”

  It sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her.

  He said something else but his phone cut out briefly.

  “What was that, Chase?”

  “Hey, baby, Miles is on the other line. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay. See you.” She hung up. “Love you,” she whispered.

  She and Chase hadn’t spoken those words to each other in too long. She couldn’t remember when, but not since before the day he’d told her about renting the studio.

  But she did still love him. And she thought he loved her too. Why else were they jumping through hoops trying to figure out their life together? Trying to figure out where to be together. It was what they both wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  * * *

  “Miles, I don’t have that kind of money.” Chase gripped the phone, still stunned at the bombshell his agent had just dropped. So much for a relaxing weekend. He slumped against a column on the back deck of the inn, hoping the gaggle of middle-aged women he’d seen checking into the inn earlier didn’t decide to spend the pleasant November evening out here.

  “I warned you about this at the outset, remember?” Miles’s patronizing tone reminded Chase too much of Grant. “We talked about it when you signed the contract, remember?”

  “No, I don’t remember. I don’t have a clue where I’ll get that kind of money.” How could he owe that much in taxes? Surely he would have remembered if Miles had said anything. But then, in his excitement over getting a rep, he’d only skimmed the contract he’d signed with Miles’s agency. Just enough to see that his percentage was fair, which it was. This news, however, was anything but fair. He felt like God had him on puppet strings, jerking him one way, then another. Miles’s news on the heels of the good news about a place to stay at CeeCee’s was too much. “So what do I do?” he said—too loudly—into the phone.

  “If you can’t come up with the money by the next tax time, you can always file an extension.”

  “Yeah, and then I pay even more in interest, right?”

  The back door opened, and the chatty guests spilled onto the deck, swaddled in jackets and scarves, drinks in hand.

  “Hang on a sec, Miles.” Chase gave what he hoped passed for a friendly wave and walked around to the side yard.

  “You there?” Miles said.

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  “I’ve got a couple interested in that still life you just finished. No guarantee, but that would help . . .”

  “I’d have to sell four or five of those just to pay taxes!” For lack of a wall to punch, Ch
ase kicked at the grass, leaving a gouge in the manicured lawn. Great. One more reason for Grant to hate his guts. “What are Landyn and I supposed to live on in the meantime?”

  “I’m sorry, guy, but like I said, it was in the contract. You didn’t think this income would be exempt, did you? If you haven’t already, you might want to set up quarterly estimated payments so this doesn’t happen next year.”

  “Quarterly? Let me tell you how excited I am about that.”

  “Hey, welcome to real life.” There was zero sympathy in his agent’s voice.

  “I just didn’t think about it at all. I was too busy trying to make ends meet.”

  “Well, there’s time to sell plenty of paintings before those taxes are due. And I can try to expedite your next commission check if you’re short on cash right now, but I don’t really have any other tricks up my sleeve.”

  Chase could tell his rep was seconds from inventing an important phone call from an imaginary client. He swore under his breath. “It’s not your fault, Miles. I should have thought of it. I . . . I’ll figure something out.” He clicked off the call before Miles could beat him to it and tucked the phone in his pocket.

  Standing in the middle of the lawn, he felt like he’d been sucker-punched by somebody twice his size. “God, what are you doing to me here?”

  He immediately felt guilty. He was only cursing his own stupidity. God had nothing to do with it—unless God was in cause and effect. His stupidity had caused a big problem. And right now he couldn’t see any way out.

  19

  Come in, you two. Get out of the cold!”

  Cecelia Whitman opened the door to her tidy home at the east edge of Langhorne’s Main Street and received hugs from Chase and Grant. A cold wind blew in behind them, and the elderly woman stooped to gather up a few stray leaves that had followed them in.

  When they reached the kitchen, CeeCee turned and winked at Chase. “This son of mine dragged you out of bed on a Saturday morning? Dirty trick that.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s good to see you again.”