She was right. Trusting someone did take bravery—and I’d been a coward. I’d run from it.
And after everything, she still thought I was a good man. She was grateful to me, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t deserve her love or her gratitude or the kindness she’d shown me. Her heart was too big and soft—how could she go around with a heart like that? Someone like me was going to come along and crush it!
I wanted to protect it. I wanted to make her feel safe again. I wanted that pie.
More than anything, I wanted her back.
But how could I ask her to trust me when I didn’t even trust myself?
Torn and frustrated, I pulled out my phone and texted Mack.
Hey. You have time to meet me for a beer by any chance?
Sure. No kids this weekend. Time and place?
Hop Lot at 7?
See you there.
When I arrived Mack was already at the bar, nursing a beer and chomping on some wings.
“Hey,” I said, taking the stool next to his. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Any excuse for wings. Help yourself.”
I ordered a beer but found my stomach in too many knots to eat.
“Not hungry?” Mack asked in surprise.
“Not really.”
“You okay?” Mack knew that nothing short of life-threatening illness would curb my appetite. Even after the worst days in Afghanistan, we’d go eat an MRE and find something to laugh about. Anything to avoid stopping to think.
“No.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I can’t get Stella out of my head.”
“Ah.” Mack sipped his beer.
“I swear to fucking God, Mack, all I’ve done is try to turn this shit off and forget about her. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, it’s like I’m sick or something. Or trapped. I can’t move.”
“They don’t call it falling for nothing,” Mack quipped.
“I’m serious.” I stared at the bottle of beer in front of me, but I didn’t even feel like drinking it. “Tell me what to do to make this go away.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter what I say, Woods. You’re in love with her. Words don’t cure it.”
“What does?”
He thought for a second, his beer halfway to his mouth. “Marriage.”
I managed a grim smile. “Right.”
“Look, why don’t you give it another try? Maybe things will be different this time.”
“Only if I’m different. And I’m not. She wants all these things I can’t give her. She wants me to be someone else.”
“Are you sure about that?”
I wasn’t, but I felt like I needed to place the blame elsewhere. If I could pin my failure to be a better man on her unattainable expectations, it would be easier. “Yes. She wants a husband and family man, and that’s not me.”
“Says who?”
“Says my relationship with my father, because it was shit and I don’t know how to be a dad.”
“No one does. Next.”
“Says my ex. She flat out told me I was a shitty husband and incapable of love.”
“Christ, Woods. Do you want me to list all the names Carla has called me? All her grievances about what a horrible man I am? How callous and mean? How clueless and incapable? And you want to hear the latest?”
“What?”
“Now she says she’ll move back home without the kids. Says maybe I’ll appreciate her more if I know what it’s like to be a full-time parent on my own.”
“Fuck. Really?”
“Really.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her to go. Said I didn’t need her.”
I stared at him. “You did?”
“Yeah. Then I hung up and freaked the fuck out. I don’t want to be a full-time single dad. I probably won’t last a week.”
“Yes, you will. You’ll last as long as it takes to raise those girls. I know you.” I finally picked up my beer and took a long pull.
“What about you?”
“I don’t know. Half of me wants to try again, even if I fail, and the other half says leave her alone. Maybe she’s fine down there in Detroit. Maybe I’m the only one suffering.”
“Somehow I doubt that. I saw her face that night at Bayside. That girl is gone over you, for some reason.”
I shook my head. “Asshole.”
“We are. So if somebody like Stella thinks she can put up with us, we don’t fucking mess around.”
I took another drink and made up my mind. “Okay. I’ll try again.”
I fell asleep on the couch, missing her like I always did.
Thirty-Four
Grams
Well, this was just getting ridiculous. For God’s sake, my ninety-third birthday was coming up! How long did they think I wanted to wait to see them together?
I’d already observed Mr. Woods moping around in my yard, pretending he didn’t see me. I’d run into Daphne Sawyer again downtown and idly inquired about him. She said he was diligent and reliable as ever, but it did seem to her he’d been a bit melancholy. And I’d given Stella a call just this afternoon to see how she was feeling. I told myself I wouldn’t bring him up—but I’d bet anything she would. Then I’d know for sure if I should give it one more try.
“Hello, darling! How are you?”
“I’m okay, Grams,” she’d said, sounding tired. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine, fine. Are you girls getting excited for the wedding?”
“Yes. Maren flew in yesterday, and we had a nice dinner together last night.”
“How nice. And is Maren’s fiancé coming in?”
“He is, but not until Thursday, and he’s flying straight into Traverse City since we’ll be up at Abelard already.”
“I’ve never been to Abelard, but I hear it’s so lovely. That’s the vineyard your cousin owns, right? The one on your father’s side who married the French fellow?”
“Mia, yes. And her husband is Lucas. You’ve met them before, I think.”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you coming in Friday for the rehearsal?” she asked.
“Of course, dear. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Are you driving yourself?”
“I was planning to.” My wheels started spinning. “Unless you’d like to come pick me up? It’s probably only about forty minutes away.”
“I’d be glad to send someone to get you, Grams. But it won’t be me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you.”
I clucked my tongue. “Stella Devine, don’t you trust me?”
“No.” But she did manage a laugh. “Sorry, Grams. I love you, but you’re a sneaky little thing.”
“Fine,” I said. “Never mind about the ride. I’ll drive myself.”
“Okay. Be careful.” She was quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “Have you seen Ryan much?”
Bingo, I thought. “Not too much. Here and there. He seems awfully down.”
“Hm. Well, I should get going. Thanks for calling.”
“Of course, dear. See you soon.”
I hung up and tapped a fingertip against my lips. That settles it. I’m going to pull that bourbon pecan pie out of the freezer and stick it in the oven for twenty minutes. Then I’m just going to mosey over there and deliver it, test the waters a bit.
Sneaky little thing indeed.
And damn proud of it.
Thirty-Five
Ryan
Sunday evening, I was in the kitchen pulling up the old linoleum and trying to think of a way to ask for a second chance with Stella when I heard a knock on my door.
Frowning at the interruption, I went to answer it.
“Hello, Mr. Woods,” chirped Mrs. Gardner when I opened the storm door. “How are you, dear?”
“Fine.” I eyeballed the pie in her hands. “You?”
“Splendid. I won’t keep you because I’m sure you’re busy wi
th dinner, but I wanted to bring you this bourbon pecan pie.”
“Bourbon pecan?” My mouth watered.
“Yes. Stella and Emme baked two of them when they were here last month. Emme took one home, and the other one has just been sitting in my freezer. I forgot all about it until I was cleaning the freezer out yesterday and realized I’d never brought it to you!” She offered it up.
I didn’t deserve it, but I’d serve extra time in purgatory for pecan pie. “Thanks,” I said, taking it from her.
Stella’s hands have been on this.
“How is Stella?” I blurted.
“Wonderful, just wonderful. I spoke with her this afternoon. So busy and cheerful and having such a good time.” She sighed. “Oh, to be young and beautiful.”
The words cut deep.
She doesn’t need me to be happy.
“Well, I should get going. Bye now. Enjoy the pie.”
I managed a smile. I think. “Thanks.”
She left, and I went back into the kitchen, setting the warm, fragrant pie on the counter. I tried to go back to work, but that pie was taunting me with its golden crust and its fat pecans and its promise of gooey sweetness—made by Stella.
Stella, who was busy and cheerful and having such a good time. Stella, who was young and beautiful. Stella, who had my heart in her hands and didn’t even know it.
I needed pie.
Ditching the flooring for now, I grabbed a plastic knife and carved a slice, carefully lifting it onto a paper plate. The dishwasher had finally conked out, so I’d taken to paper and plastic. Pulling a plastic fork from the box, I dug in standing at the counter, moaning as I polished off every last morsel before slicing myself another piece.
It reminded me of the night Stella had brought the apple crumble pie over, how we’d sat and talked at the kitchen table before I’d been rude enough that she’d left. Yet two nights later, she’d sat on my lap, feeding me the last delicious bite. Laughing with me. Listening to me. Agreeing to stay the night.
Showing me how to make her come while I was inside her.
I groaned again, but this time it wasn’t the pie.
Later that night, I gave in and slept in my bed. I’d changed the sheets, but it didn’t matter. She was still here. I closed my eyes and took my cock in my hand, imagining her straddling my body in the moonlit room, her palms on my chest, her hips rocking back and forth. When I came, I heard her whispering my name, felt her contracting around me, saw stars beyond her silvery blond hair.
Lying there afterward, I felt lonely and pathetic, doomed to night after night of jerking off to her memory. This wasn’t what I wanted for the rest of my life. I no longer found peace in this solitude—just agony. I wanted a different kind of life. I wanted a life with her, even if I had to stare down all my demons to have it.
I hoped it wasn’t too late.
Asking Stella for a second chance wasn’t anything I wanted to do over the phone. I had to go to her. That was better, right? I’d drive down to Detroit and surprise her. I’d book a hotel room in the city and spend the entire weekend worshiping her body, making up for what I’d done, and showing her that she was right about me—I was a good man. And I would be good to her. I would make her happy.
All I needed was her address.
On Thursday, I called Mrs. Gardner to ask for it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mrs. Gardner. It’s Ryan next door.” Nervous, I started pacing back and forth in front of my couch.
“Oh hello, Mr. Woods. Did you enjoy the pie?”
“Yes. I have a favor to ask. Do you think you could give me Stella’s address?”
“Her address? Whatever for?”
“I’d—I’d like to visit her.”
“Oh? Why’s that? You’ll pardon my being so forward, Mr. Woods, but she is my granddaughter and I’m a mite protective.”
My face was hot. “I only want to tell her I was wrong about something. That I’ve changed my mind.”
“I see. And when were you going to visit?”
“This weekend, but please don’t tell her. I’d like it to be a surprise.”
“Oh. Oh, dear,” she fussed. “This is terrible.”
“What is?”
“Well, I was just about to call you.”
“You were?”
“Yes, you see, I’ve had some bad news.”
I froze. “What bad news?”
“A friend of mine has passed away.”
“Oh.” I felt like a jerk for being relieved, but I’d been scared for a minute something had happened to Stella. Mrs. Gardner’s friends had to be pretty old, didn’t they? “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes. She was a very dear friend. The funeral is Saturday and my car has been giving me some trouble. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make the service.”
“I’d be happy to come take a look at it.”
“That’s so kind of you, but I’ve already taken it to the shop.”
“Oh.”
“So I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind driving me on Saturday? It would mean so much to me, and I’m sure whatever it is you need to tell Stella can wait.”
No, it couldn’t! I’d waited long enough, dammit. “Saturday?” I repeated, like I hadn’t heard.
“Yes. I’m sure if you pick me up about two-thirty, we’d be there in plenty of time. The service is at four.”
Inwardly I stifled a groan. There went my dream of a weekend holed up with Stella in a hotel. Could I say no?
Nice. Turn down an old lady’s plea for help so you can go get laid. Wonder how Stella would feel about that, Mr. Good Guy.
I grimaced. “Okay. I’ll pick you up by two-thirty.”
“Oh, thank you, dear. And wear something a little nice, since my hip has been bothering me and I might need you to escort me in.”
Jesus Christ. Could this get any worse? I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay. I will.”
“You’re such a nice boy. See you Saturday.”
“Yeah.”
I ended the call and threw my phone onto the couch.
Sometimes doing the right thing sucked.
Thirty-Six
Grams
Poor Mr. Woods.
I’d almost feel sorry for him if he hadn’t been such a silly, stubborn thing for so long.
He really was a nice boy to agree to stay in town and escort me to a funeral when what he really wanted to do was go canoodle with Stella. Thank goodness he’d come to his senses.
As I made my five o’clock martini, I laughed to myself and pictured his face when he realized we were going to a wedding, not a funeral.
A bit underhanded of me, perhaps, but things like this couldn’t be left to chance. What if I gave him her address and then he chickened out? How many times had I caught Frank sitting in his car out in front of my house, trying to work up the nerve to come in and say he’d been an idiot? Every time, I’d be watching him out the window, and when I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d go out there and put the poor bugger out of his misery by inviting him in for a slice of pie.
I held up my glass. “To you, my dearest Frank.”
Suddenly the wind howled at the kitchen window.
“Oh, stop. You know they’re meant to be together. I’m only helping things along. And what better cause to fight for than love?”
After one more gust, the wind quieted to a soft murmur, and I smiled.
“I love you, too. Cheers, darling.”
Thirty-Seven
Ryan
On Saturday afternoon, I knocked on Mrs. Gardner’s door at twenty after two.
She opened it and smiled broadly. “Well, don’t you look spiffy!”
I’d purchased a black suit for Bones’s funeral and figured I might as well get another use out of it. “Thanks.”
“I’m all ready, so let’s go.”
I took her arm and helped her down the porch steps, although she was steady on her own feet. Beneath a wool coat, a
long flowing skirt showed in a light purple color. I thought it was an odd choice for a funeral, but I kept my mouth shut. She was wearing pretty bright lipstick too, but I figured she didn’t get out much, and maybe she was looking at this as a social occasion. Who was I to judge?
After helping her into the truck—a bit of a struggle—she gave me directions to an address on Old Mission Peninsula. We’d first have to go south about twenty minutes to Traverse City, and then up Highway 37, which bisected the narrow strip of land jutting into Grand Traverse Bay. I wasn’t too familiar with the area, but I’d thought Old Mission was mostly farms, wineries, and vacation homes. It surprised me that there would be a funeral home on it, but I said nothing.
That was okay because Mrs. Gardner chattered the whole ride and didn’t seem to expect me to contribute anything to the conversation. I tried to keep the look on my face at least neutral so she wouldn’t know how irritated I was to spend my Saturday doing a good deed for her instead of doing bad things to her granddaughter. I made myself think of Stella and how she would hear about today and be impressed that I was such a decent guy. Maybe she’d even reward me with another blowjob.
Oh fuck, I thought as my cock got a little excited at the thought. Not now. Go away.
Maybe I’d better keep my mind off Stella.
I still had no idea what exactly I was going to say to her. Before I drove down there I was really going to make an effort to think through everything I wanted her to know, all the reasons why she should give me another chance, all the ways I was going to try to make her happy. I knew she’d probably ask me about marriage and family, and I was going to be honest with her. It wasn’t something I thought I’d be good at, but I was willing to consider it if that’s what it took. I was willing to do anything for her.
“Here we go,” said Mrs. Gardner, gesturing toward a sign up ahead that said Abelard Vineyards.
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