by Becky Wade
When Mom leaves us at the house to run errands, I’m always the one in charge. Just like I’m in charge of my sister now. “We might want to search for water and food.”
“Where?” Sebastian demands. “Look around.”
I see exposed pipes and hallways stuffed with concrete and piles of what used to be the ceiling. “I think we should look,” I say. “Just in case we’re down here for a while.”
Sebastian snorts. “There’s no water and there’s no food. If we’re down here for a while, we’ll all die.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning Genevieve stopped at the apex of Sugar Maple Farm’s highest walking path. Breathing hard, she unscrewed the top of her stainless-steel water bottle and took a drink. The October breeze cooled her perspiration as she contemplated both the sweeping view of the valley below and the state of her feelings toward Sam.
For the first time in her life, she’d initiated a first kiss with a man. And what a kiss! It had been urgent and brain-spinning, and she viewed the fact that she’d had to come up for air as a very good thing.
But what she’d intended as a tiny intermission before more kissing had given Sam just enough time to think twice.
It was difficult to regret the fact that she’d kissed him when the kiss itself had been the very best kiss she’d ever experienced. She kept going back over it and over it in her memory, hugging the nuances of it to her like priceless keepsakes.
But each time, thoughts of what he’d said afterward intruded. “I’m not meant for relationships.”
Any woman with a kindergarten diploma could see that he was made for relationships. But Sam himself couldn’t. Until he could see what she could see, he couldn’t move forward.
She soaked in the beauty of the scene before her—the slope of tree-covered land glinting orange and rust and yellow, the quaint buildings, the tranquil pond. Every day she cherished this farm more.
Her phone rang. Anabelle, the publicist at her publishing house.
Genevieve answered the call, and they exchanged greetings.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” Anabelle said. “But we received another strange letter about your parents, and I thought you’d want to know.”
A sense of foreboding coiled around her like a snake. “Thank you. Yes, I do want to know. What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Your parents have ignored what they’ve done too long. That’s not going to work any longer. Either they face it, or I’ll call a reporter.’ It looks exactly like the first letter, Genevieve. Same envelope, paper, return address.”
“Please let me know if another one arrives.”
“Will do. I’ll take a picture of the letter and email that to you. I’ll also mail you the hard copy.”
“That would be great.”
“Are you doing well?”
Genevieve knew what Anabelle was really asking, “Are you still doing well post your dependence on prescription drugs?” “I am, yes.”
“So glad to hear it.”
“You’ve been a true friend to me. I’m grateful.”
“Sure! I’m here if you ever need to talk.”
They chatted for another few minutes before disconnecting.
Genevieve then dialed Natasha. “Another mysterious letter arrived.”
“What?”
Genevieve relayed the letter’s contents. “I’ll receive a photo of the letter by email soon. I’m having lunch with Mom and Dad today, so I think I’ll show it to them.”
“I’m fine with that. It’ll give them another chance to come clean and explain what the letter writer’s referring to.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I say, hold your tongue. Until we know more, we don’t want to show our hand.”
“We need to press the gas on this investigation, Natasha. I really don’t want the letter writer to call a reporter.”
“I don’t, either.” Natasha made a frustrated noise that sounded like air blown through her lips.
“On another note, Sam told me that you delivered steaks to him last night.”
“I did.”
“In hopes that he’d cook for me, then fall wildly in love over medium-rare filet mignon?”
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged . . .’”
“‘That a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ You do realize, right, that you’ve ruined my life?”
“How so?”
“Your steak dinner plan backfired. It only worked on me.”
“Explain.”
Genevieve told her about the wave of pent-up feelings that had propelled her into Sam’s arms. And his reaction.
“But you’re a nine out of ten!” Natasha contended.
“And he’s a ten.”
“No he isn’t.”
“I think he is,” Genevieve said glumly.
“If he’s a ten, then you’re not going to let his misgivings scare you off, are you?”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“Not if you really like him! You told him back before you moved in that you wouldn’t fall for him, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then the solution’s simple. You have to make him fall for you.”
“Why, yes,” Genevieve said. “Very simple.”
“There’s no condition against him falling for you, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then take it from your sister, the lawyer, who knows all about contractual loopholes.”
Natasha anointed her with a pep talk for a few more minutes before they hung up.
Lifting her chin, Genevieve drew crisp mountain air into her chest and resumed her walk. Her bad ankle protested, but she powered forward anyway.
Just once, she wanted to be the one that a guy set his heart on. She didn’t have that elusive thing, the thing that brought men to their knees, the thing that Natasha and her mom and so many friends possessed.
Thad had dealt a blow to her romantic self-confidence that she still hadn’t fully recovered from. She firmly believed that God’s approval was the only approval she needed. Yet Sam’s rejection stirred up a multitude of hurts that tempted her to feel less than.
Last night and this morning, she’d repeatedly refused that feeling.
She wasn’t less than.
Sam had liked the kiss, of that she was certain.
Her instincts told her that he cared about her and desired her, even. It’s just that he had issues of his own that prevented him from giving in to something as human and wonderful as a kiss.
It might not be noble of her, but she was actually glad that she’d cracked some of his discipline, if even for a moment. She was gladder still that she’d kept her cool when he’d told her he couldn’t date her.
She’d been disappointed in that moment. However, she’d seen that he was even more upset. Sam seemed set on punishing himself as some sort of weird tribute to Kayden. The fact that he’d dated no once since Kayden’s death proved it.
Genevieve was no great beauty. She didn’t possess the power to make a man forget his first love.
She was a Southern girl from a small town. She had self-respect and wrote Bible studies, used colorful pens and liked coffee. And once, she’d been Thad’s second choice.
Because of that, she could not bear to become Sam’s second choice, too. It would be best, for her mental health and her sobriety, if she resisted the impulse to throw herself at Sam the next time the impulse arose.
Sweetie, whoever is writing these letters is playing a very cruel joke on you,” Mom said to her at lunch, in response to the photo of the new letter. “I don’t know what else to tell you. It’s very perplexing and . . . and disturbing.”
“It’s disturbing, all right. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?” Genevieve asked her parents. “Anything at all?”
“No, nothing,” Dad said.
“Because you can trust me with . . . whatever.”
“We know that. If I had so
mething to tell you, I would. Listen,” Mom said earnestly, covering Genevieve’s hand with hers. Her nails were painted a milky white. “You can’t let this upset you.”
Genevieve looked into her mother’s face and detected underlying strain.
Someone here was upset. But it wasn’t Genevieve.
Because they were known far and wide as the Miracle Five, every single time the four of them—she, Natasha, Sebastian, and Ben—gathered, the incompleteness of their group wailed like a siren. Genevieve supposed it always would.
Luke had broken off from their group a long time ago. The rest of them respected the bond they shared, and so made time to meet several times a year. Old friends who’d known you since you were in middle school were comforting. Old friends who’d survived the same trauma that you had were essential.
Alone in her sister’s kitchen for the moment, Genevieve chopped an onion in preparation for the dinner they were about to share with Sebastian and Ben on this Saturday night. The pot of chili Natasha had made bubbled sluggishly on the stove.
Natasha was the unofficial administrator of the Miracle Five (minus one), which meant she kept up with everyone’s news, sent birthday cards, and coordinated their get-togethers. Because their hometown provided their only overlapping location of connection, they always met in Misty River. Natasha and Ben lived here. Sebastian was based at a massive hospital in Atlanta but had a house in Misty River that he frequently commuted to via his private plane. Genevieve traveled here regularly to visit her family.
A knock sounded, and Genevieve checked her watch. Seven fifteen. Right on time. Since Natasha was still upstairs, helping Wyatt bathe the kids, she made her way to the front door.
When Genevieve had first arrived tonight, she and Natasha had shoved all the kid paraphernalia into the big chest of drawers and the ottoman with a lid. Thanks to their efforts, Natasha’s living room, dining room, and kitchen now looked less like a day care and more like a Pottery Barn.
Genevieve swung open Natasha’s front door, revealing Sebastian Grant and Ben Coleman. The two men stood side by side on the threshold bearing the dishes Natasha had asked them to bring.
They exchanged hugs filled with familiarity and fondness, then she ushered them inside.
Sebastian had clothed his imposing six-foot-two frame in suit pants and a white dress shirt opened at the neck. His stylishly cut thick black hair complemented his perceptive eyes and angular face.
Ben was the leaner of the two and shorter by three inches. His features were handsome and symmetrical, but not harsh. His long-lashed eyes and quick smile spoke of kindness. He wore his hair shaved close and sported a long-sleeved Atlanta Braves T-shirt.
Both men trailed her to the kitchen. “Natasha will be down shortly,” she told them. “I’m responsible for the chili toppings since my sister only trusted me to chop onion and open bags of Fritos and sliced cheese.”
“What about jalapeño?” Sebastian asked. “Chili is not the same without jalapeño.”
Genevieve plucked a jalapeño from the grocery sack she’d brought with her. “I might have been given the humble assignment of chili toppings, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not good at my job.”
A crooked smile spread across his mouth. “Bravo.”
She knew Sebastian well enough to know that he liked his food spicy.
Ben set a small chocolate cake on the counter, baked, no doubt, by his mother, who liked to spoil the four of them. Sebastian opened a box of cornbread from Tart Bakery in town. Sebastian could always be counted on to bring something wonderful to their gatherings, because he never did anything halfway or poorly.
“How’s your family?” Genevieve asked Ben, scooping the onion she’d cut into a serving bowl.
Sebastian snacked on Fritos while Ben brought her up to speed on the large, loud Coleman clan.
Ben was the third of four kids and one of what seemed like a thousand first cousins. His siblings were all married and adding babies to their families the way people added stocks to their portfolios.
“Hey.” Natasha sailed into the room and gave out hugs, then used a wooden spoon to stir the chili. “What’s happened with your career since we saw you last?” she asked Sebastian.
Inevitably, some new and awe-inspiring thing had occurred.
“I was promoted.”
“What?” Natasha asked.
“Again?” Genevieve asked.
“Are my promotions boring you?” he asked dryly.
“I wouldn’t say they’re boring me,” Genevieve answered. “I’d say they’re frustrating me.”
“My great success is frustrating you?”
“It really is,” Genevieve replied with a smile. She and Natasha could afford to tease Sebastian because they’d spent years proving to him how proud they were of him and how much they supported his accomplishments.
“Your great success is frustrating me, too,” Natasha concurred. “My highest aspiration for each day is that my kids nap well.”
Ben laughed.
“You’re the one who asked me about my career,” Sebastian pointed out to Natasha.
“That’s because I’m trying to be a loyal friend,” Natasha said. “Which is sometimes hard where you’re concerned, Sebastian.”
“Very hard,” Genevieve echoed.
“In response to your latest promotion, I mostly want to pelt you with onion.” Natasha flicked a square of onion at Sebastian.
He caught it adroitly and for a split second, Genevieve saw a shadow of the boy he’d once been in his face. Almost immediately, he threw it back at Natasha, who squealed and dodged. The bit of onion plunked harmlessly against the backsplash.
They filled their bowls with chili and took seats around Natasha’s dining room table. Her sister had taken a page out of Mom’s book and crafted a fall centerpiece complete with pumpkins, vines, and votive candles.
“Tell them about that surgical procedure you did on that three-month-old baby,” encouraged Ben, ever Sebastian’s biggest fan.
Sebastian used words like cardiopulmonary and aortic repair. It sounded wildly impressive because it was. That said, Genevieve had no earthly idea what he was talking about. She could tell that Natasha had no idea, either.
Their close-knit foursome divided evenly into two more closely knit groups of two. She and Natasha, sisters, sat on one side of the table. Sebastian and Ben, brothers in all but name, on the other side.
When they’d returned home from their disastrous trip to El Salvador, the Colemans had pulled Sebastian into the solar system of their family. Sebastian had resisted, but Ben’s outspoken, sassy, sweet, strict mother had overruled Sebastian’s objections. So had Ben’s sentimental rock of a father and noisy siblings. So had food. The Colemans loved to eat, and much of their family’s life revolved around talking about their next meal, making the meal, eating the meal, and cleaning up the meal.
The Colemans, an African-American family living in mostly Caucasian Misty River, were in the minority. So was a foster kid surrounded by kids who had permanent parents. With the Colemans, Sebastian had found the first family he’d known since the age of eight, when his mom had died.
Before El Salvador, Sebastian’s attitude toward school had been apathetic. He’d done the least amount possible to get by.
After El Salvador, Mrs. Coleman whipped him into shape. He’d tackled high school with unswerving ferocity, graduating in just two years.
Huh? the rest of them had often said to one another as they’d watched him climb toward what had seemed like impossible goals. He’s doing what?
He’d gone on to graduate from college in two years and medical school in three. Huh?
He’d become a pediatric heart surgeon at age thirty, a feat most doctors couldn’t hope to accomplish before thirty-five. Huh?
His focus was legendary. His ambition, boundless.
Whenever people tried to call Sebastian a child prodigy, he corrected them. He didn’t think God had gifted him with an extraordinary
amount of skill or knowledge when young. He’d had a good brain, an excellent brain. But then, a huge number of young people with excellent brains didn’t become pediatric heart surgeons at the age of thirty. Sebastian believed he’d achieved what he had not because of any particular inborn gift but because of simple, old-fashioned hard work.
Privately, Genevieve did consider him to be a prodigy. A prodigy of determination.
If Sebastian was a windstorm, Ben was a ray of light. Optimistic, patient, calm. He was the one who’d set up the cot, sheets, blanket, and pillow every time Sebastian had spent the night in his room. He was the one who’d informed his parents that Sebastian needed to come with him to church on Sundays, church camp in the summer, and on family vacations.
During Sebastian’s two years of high school, Ben had been his closest ally. Ben was a strong athlete who’d played college baseball. Even so, Ben had convinced Sebastian that his choice to focus solely on academics was the right one. He’d brought Sebastian’s homework to him whenever Sebastian had been sick and made sure that Sebastian had a ride to and from school and study groups.
Genevieve dipped her spoon into her chili and scooped up a perfect bite that offered just the right amount of cheese, Fritos, onion, and jalapeño. The chili contained lots of deep, rich-flavored beef, but not a single bean, just the way Genevieve liked it. Since dinner two nights ago at Sam’s, she’d been trying to eat slower and spend time tasting her food. This dish probably wouldn’t be healthy enough for Sam. She’d have to ask him if he ever made Paleo chili—
For Pete’s sake! Why was it so difficult to get him out of her mind and focus on something—anything—else? Forty-eight hours had passed since their kiss, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
“What’s been going on with you guys?” Ben asked.
This was her chance to tell them about her Oxy problem. But guilt kept the words stuck in her throat. “Nothing much. I’m living in the cottage out at Sugar Maple Farm, which I’m enjoying. I’m spending most of my time working on my next Bible study.”
“Sam Turner runs that farm, right?” Ben asked.
“Right.”
“And owns Sugar Maple Kitchen?”