Redemption 03 - Return

by Smalley, Gary; Kingsbury, Karen

  “He doesn’t believe in weddings anymore, or marriage, or lifelong commitment.” Her father leaned back. “He said going to the wedding would make him a hypocrite.”

  “Who’s feeding him this garbage?” Ryan kept his voice low, since Jessie had fallen asleep on his shoulder.

  “The clubs he’s involved with.” Kari’s mother clasped her hands. “Freethinkers Alliance, and who knows what others.”

  “Are you serious?” Kari couldn’t take it in. The brother who once criticized Ashley for not owning a Bible now no longer believed in marriage?

  “Completely.” Her father nodded sadly. “He won’t be at the wedding, Kari. He told me he didn’t want to come.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll pray for. That he changes his mind.” Ryan shifted Jessie to his other arm, and she made a soft cooing sound. “If he does, it could be a turning point.”

  “It’s worth praying about.” Kari’s father’s eyes looked damp. “Right now I’d rather think about Ashley. I wish I could be there to see her face when she walks in that fire station unannounced and asks for Landon Blake.”

  “He doesn’t know she’s coming?” Kari slid her chair closer to Ryan’s and put her arm around him and her daughter.

  “She wanted to surprise him.” Her mother grinned, and the light was back in her eyes. “I have a good feeling about this trip. Maybe they’ll both stop running and make some decisions.”

  “You think so?” Kari wasn’t sure. Ashley had guarded her heart for so long. Besides, she didn’t seem to be pining away while Landon worked his year in New York City. Between Cole, her job at Sunset Hills, and her painting, she gave no indication that she was longing for a serious relationship.

  “I only know this.” Her mother lifted her chin. “When she talks about Landon Blake, I can see straight into her heart. She’s in love with him, and I think they’re both going to realize the fact sooner than either of them had planned.”

  Kari’s father winked at them. “Your mother’s usually right about these things.”

  “Hmmm.” Kari closed her eyes for a moment, and a dreamy feeling came over her. “To think…right now the two of them are celebrating her success and maybe realizing what they have together. Even as we speak.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IT TOOK ASHLEY UNTIL Monday morning to come to her senses.

  But first she spent a miserable Sunday alone, tormenting herself with her wild imagination. That morning she found a cathedral and attended a morning service. Afterward, she browsed the shops in the Upper East Side, and every time she checked the mirror her look was the same. Distant, far off, untouchable. As if the pain she was wrestling with couldn’t be brought to the surface or it would kill her. When she finished shopping, she strolled through Central Park and finally caught a late-afternoon performance of Les Misérables, before taking the subway back to her hotel.

  The entire time she kept expecting to see Landon and Reagan. Had they fallen in love once Landon learned about the baby? Or did he have feelings for Reagan when he came to Bloomington last winter? Her heart hurt so bad she wondered if she was walking with her shoulders stooped.

  Then, sometime during the night, a realization dawned in the darkest places of her heart. No matter what her eyes had seen, Landon couldn’t be in love with Reagan Decker. He hadn’t come to New York and slept with Luke’s old girlfriend. Definitely not. Whatever reason his firefighter partner had for thinking Reagan’s baby belonged to Landon, there had to be a reasonable explanation.

  Because Ashley knew Landon Blake was in love with her.

  He’d been in love with her since they were freshmen at Bloomington High School, and he loved her still. No matter how few phone calls she received or how comfortable he’d looked walking next to Reagan and her baby.

  She had an appointment at the gallery this morning, but she couldn’t climb out of bed until she called Landon and let him know the truth. First, that she was in town; and second, that jet lag or overexcitement or insanity had kicked in and made her think the unthinkable.

  The phone was on a nightstand next to her hotel bed. She picked up the receiver, punched in Landon’s number, and waited while it rang. She was in New York for only a few days, and she’d already wasted a perfectly good Sunday worrying about Landon and Reagan.

  A click sounded over the line, and Landon’s answering machine came on. After the beep, she cleared her throat. “Landon, I’m in town and, well, something crazy happened, but everything’s okay.” She hesitated. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  Next she tried the station, but the man who answered said Landon wouldn’t be in until that afternoon. Ashley hung up and bit her lip. She had to find him, had to talk to him before his partner told him she’d been by. If that happened, he was bound to ask questions and figure out that she’d been given wrong information.

  She tried his house again as she dressed, then a third time after she eased her paintings into the leather portfolio. As she walked from her hotel to the street outside, she chided herself for ever doubting Landon. An explanation existed; she had no doubt about it. She knew Landon as well as she knew her own name, and though he’d gone back to New York to complete his year of service with the FDNY, he had never stopped loving her.

  She called Landon once more from a pay phone a few yards down the street from the gallery, but there was still no answer. A frustrated huff slipped from between her lips as she hung up the phone and strode the remaining few steps to the gallery door.

  It was a few minutes after nine when she walked in, and immediately she was met by the director.

  “Ashley.” The woman beamed. “I’m Margaret Wellington. We’ve been quite anxious to meet you.”

  Memories of Paris flashed in Ashley’s mind, and she could hear Jean-Claude Pierre, see him sneering at her work. “Your paintings are nothing but trash, chérie. American trash.”

  Ashley angled her head and smiled at the director. “Thank you.”

  The woman reached back toward the cash register and took hold of what looked like a check. “This is for you…for your expenses here in the city.”

  Ashley took the slip of paper, glanced at it, then swallowed. A thousand dollars? She fought the impulse to stare at it. “Thank you. This…it’s very generous.”

  “Wait here, please. I want to introduce you to my husband. He runs the gallery with me.”

  The woman was wiry, with conservatively styled hair and an attitude of elegance. But something about her fell just short of snobby, a sparkle in her eyes that told Ashley Margaret Wellington might be wealthy, she might run with Manhattan’s elite, but she had a passion for art that danced untamed within her.

  Just as it did inside Ashley.

  For the first time since stepping inside, Ashley looked around and savored the atmosphere. A real New York City art gallery, the kind of place she’d only dreamed of before today. An olive green candle burned near the front desk, and the air smelled of eucalyptus and something floral. Roses, maybe. The combination was subtly assuring and gave the gallery a lived-in feeling. The leather and mahogany furniture groupings, distressed wood flooring, and faux stone fireplace reminded her of someone’s cozy den rather than a showroom where more than a million dollars in artwork must trade hands each year.

  The gentle strains of Bach filtered through the gallery, and in every direction the walls were hung with breathtaking originals, artwork Ashley would’ve needed hours to fully appreciate. And here—in this posh setting beneath carefully positioned lights—her very own paintings were about to be hung.

  Gratitude overwhelmed her and for the moment overshadowed her concerns about Landon. God, you did this. She closed her eyes and breathed in the reality of it all. She was here! In New York at a gallery that actually liked her work. “God, thank you…thank you.”

  Almost as soon as she whispered the words, doubt slipped through the back door of her heart and sneered at her. Who are you kidding? They’ll take one look at your work and wonder what th
ey were thinking. It’ll be just one more rejection, one more reminder that all you can paint is trash, Ashley Baxter. You’re crazy even to be here.

  “Ashley.” A click of heels sounded at the other end of the gallery.

  Her eyes flew open, and the mockery in her head fell instantly silent. “Yes.” She licked her suddenly dry lips and took a few steps toward the sound of the woman’s voice.

  Margaret Wellington appeared from around a display of nature scenes. “Ashley, there you are.” She had a short man by the hand. He was mustached and had thinning hair, but he wore a smile that could warm a winter day. Ms. Wellington nodded to him. “This is my husband, William.”

  The man’s eyes held a peace that set Ashley at ease. “Hello, dear. Nice to meet you.” He pointed to her portfolio. “May we see what you brought?”

  “Yes.” Ashley ordered her doubts to stay quiet. She positioned her leather bag in front of her and slid the zipper open. Then, one at a time, she took out the three pieces. The one of Irvel first, then the one of the Baxter home, and last the one of Landon. She set each against the back of the nearest sofa and then stood to the side.

  The Wellingtons studied each painting as though at any minute the images might spring to life and perform tricks. Ashley directed her eyes to the tips of her shoes. They’re going to hate them. They’ll yell at me and tell me to pack them up and get out of their gallery. This is crazy. I shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have wasted my time. Then I wouldn’t have found out about Landon, and all of this wouldn’t be happening, and none of it matters anyway because in twenty-four hours I’ll be on a plane back to Indiana and—

  “You are in your twenties, is that right?”

  Ashley started and looked up. “Yes, sir.” She glanced from Mr. Wellington to his wife and back again. “Twenty-five.”

  “I have one question.” He and his wife exchanged a knowing glance. She nodded, and he brought his attention back to Ashley.

  “Yes, sir?”

  His smile shone a floodlight on Ashley’s fears. “How on earth were we lucky enough to find you first?”

  I know the plans I have for you, my daughter. Plans to give you a hope and a future.

  The verse flashed in Ashley’s mind, and she held her breath.

  “You are a budding master, Ashley Baxter. We want to price your pieces starting at three thousand dollars each.”

  Ms. Wellington was still talking, going on about the details and what percentage the gallery would keep and where they would position the pieces and how quickly could Ashley come back with more and when could they stage a public showing, but she couldn’t focus on a bit of it.

  It was as though she had lifted off the ground and floated ten feet above the gallery floor. She closed her eyes. She’d done it. The trip wasn’t a waste, and she hadn’t produced trash for these kind people. God brought her here because he had a plan for her life. A plan for her to paint and to mother Cole and to love her family. And maybe to be with Landon, too. As she realized this, she noticed something else.

  The ghosts of doubt were no longer merely silent.

  They were gone.

  Landon had a half-day shift Monday, ten to two, all of which would be spent on training drills. The city had been fairly quiet lately, a few calls a shift, but nothing fully involved, none of the warehouse fires or high-rise apartment burns that made his heart race the way he’d come to love.

  The way Jalen must’ve loved.

  He took the subway from his apartment to the station and checked in just before ten o’clock. He wasn’t on the schedule, but he needed to practice for the training. The chief had given him a manual of the drills they’d be practicing that day, but he’d barely glanced at it. Every time he tried to concentrate, all he thought about was Ashley. He’d called her three times last week, but she hadn’t been home once.

  Now he couldn’t focus, and it was his own fault. He’d made up his mind to move forward with her—if she wanted to move forward—and nothing was like it had been before. Fighting fires was a job, after all, and couldn’t compare with finding Ashley and asking her if it was time.

  Maybe not for the ring and the wedding date. But for a commitment at least, a promise that never again would either of them have to wonder if the other was waiting or moving on with life. A decision that from now on they could share their feelings without pretense.

  Landon grabbed a foam cup and poured himself some coffee. Black and strong, the way he liked it. If only she’d call back. He took a sip and swung first one leg, then the other over the picnic-table bench and sat down. The steam from the coffee felt good on his face, warm and soothing. Summer might be there, but until August the brick fire station was almost always cool—especially in the mornings.

  “You look tired, Blake.” Doug Phillips sauntered around the corner. He had a bagel in one hand and a plastic container of cream cheese in the other. He grabbed a knife from a basket on the table and plopped down across from Landon.

  “A little.”

  “Me, too.” He shook his head and tore the lid off the cream cheese. “Hate these early training shifts.” He poked the air between them with the knife. “Don’t they know we night guys need our beauty sleep?”

  Landon chuckled. “I’m pretty sure they don’t care.”

  His partner was quiet for a moment, intent on spreading a half-inch layer of cheese on his bagel. Doug was an older guy, assigned to the Lower Manhattan station as part of the personnel shuffle after September 11. He was raised in Queens and had an accent thicker than clam chowder. Five years and Doug would retire. As far as Landon knew, the man was counting the days.

  “I feel the love down here; don’t get me wrong,” Doug had told him when the two of them first started working together. “But a guy’d be crazy not to see the danger in all this.” He’d shrugged and an intensity he rarely revealed shone in his eyes. “I got a wife and two girls at home. When I work my last shift for FDNY, I’m outta here.”

  Landon took another sip of his coffee and spotted a training manual at the end of the table. He stood and pulled it closer, flipping it open to the table of contents. Better late than never.

  Across from him, Doug was attacking the bagel, downing each half in three fierce bites. He was between swallows when he dropped his hands to the table and stared at Landon. “I gotta question for you.”

  Landon looked up from the notebook. “Shoot.”

  “Who’s Ashley?”

  His heart sat straight up in his chest. Landon closed the manual. “Why?”

  “ ’Cause.” Doug shrugged. “No big deal. Just wondered.”

  “Wait a minute.” He pushed the notebook back to the center of the table and gave a chuckle that held little humor. “You sit there with your bagel and for no reason, just for something to say, you ask me who Ashley is?” Landon worked to keep his tone light. “Then you tell me no big deal? You were just wondering?”

  Doug stuffed what was left of the bagel into his mouth, chewed three times, and stared at Landon. “Yeah.” He chewed twice more and swallowed. “That’s right. No big deal.”

  Landon planted his elbows on the table and exhaled. “Look, Phillips, Ashley’s very special. You can’t just—”

  “You’re tellin’ me.” He gave a sideways shake of his head and raised a single eyebrow. “Girl’s gorgeous.”

  “You mean…” A mix of panic and confusion swirled in Landon’s gut. “You’ve seen her?”

  Doug raised his hands and let them fall to his lap. “I shouldn’ta said nothing.”

  Whatever Doug was talking about, none of it made sense. Where would he have seen Ashley? And if she was here in New York, why hadn’t she contacted him?

  Landon stood and leaned over the table, resting his weight on his straight arms and clenched fists, his face inches from his partner’s. “Look, this isn’t a joke, Phillips. I’m serious. Where’d you meet her?”

  “It’s better you don’t see her, pal.” Doug crossed his arms and leaned back, pl
acing more space between them. “Things are too new with you and that—” like a blind man, he raised his hand and groped about in the air between—“what was her name? The girl with the baby?”

  “Reagan? The blonde who stopped by the other day?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.” Doug slid down a few feet and leveled his gaze at Landon. “You need to keep your priorities, Blake. Neither o’ them girls needs you two-timing; know what I mean?”

  Landon was beginning to.

  He eased himself back to the bench and pushed down the panic welling within him. He needed to clarify the situation regarding Reagan, but not until he got some answers. “Get back to the part about Ashley. How do you know about her?”

  “Okay, look.” Doug held his hands up, palms toward Landon. “I told her I wouldn’t say nothin’, and I keep my promises, okay?”

  Landon had to grip the bench to keep from lurching across the table and shaking his partner. “Ashley lives in Indiana. If you saw her, I need to know about it. Believe me—” he glanced around the room—“if she came this far, she wants me to know.” His voice fell a notch, the fight gone. “No matter what she said.”

  Doug frowned. “I feel funny about it. I promised her.” He looked up and the two of them made eye contact. Gradually the angst turned to empathy, and Doug’s shoulders slumped forward. “Fine. But don’t tell her I told you.”

  A picture was forming in Landon’s mind, one that riddled his stomach with knots. “She was here?”

  “Yeah, the other day. Just after you and your girl went for the walk.”

  Landon felt the blood drain from his face. “My girl?”

  “The first one, the blonde…with the baby.” Doug shook his head. “Your life’s a mess, pal.”

  “Did she see me? With Reagan and the baby?” Landon’s throat was dry and he couldn’t swallow.

  “No.” Indignation punctuated the word. Doug raised his eyebrows. “I told her. I said she’d just missed you. You and the girl were out with the baby.”

  The baby! Landon’s stomach tightened. “What did you tell her about the baby, Phillips?” He was on his feet, moving one slow step after another around the table toward his partner. “Did you say something about the baby?”