by Amanda Wen
“Thomas will fetch the doc,” he’d said, voice clipped. “Come inside before you catch your death.”
Her death. That the Lord would be so merciful.
Through the window, as her uncle bent over her husband in the pouring rain, she’d seen what shock had hidden from view. The unnatural angle of Jack’s neck. The sickening twist of limbs. He was—
No. He couldn’t be. He was right here in the parlor. With her. Alone. She could talk to him. Laugh. Spin in circles, like before. He was asleep, that was all. Fixing the roof had plumb worn him out. He’d wake up soon.
But her Jack would’ve never crammed himself into such a small space. He needed to spread out. He’d built their bed bigger than most for precisely that reason.
He would’ve hated this box.
He would’ve hated the suit too. Who’d decided on that? He only wore one when he had to. Though he’d celebrated when the church building was finally complete, he’d quietly grumbled about stuffing himself into his suit once a week.
This one was new. Store-bought for the wedding that was doubtless in young Oliver’s future. Sooner than Annabelle might like, based on the way he and Kate looked at one another. And Jack was to be sitting in the front pew beside her, wearing that new suit. She would grip his hand and smile at him through eyes filled with tears and a heart overflowing with joy and sorrow and bittersweet pride for the man Oliver had become. And Jack, more handsome than ever with his silver-streaked hair, would look down at her, squeeze her hand, and give her that lopsided grin, the one that said more than a thousand words ever could that it’d all be okay. That they’d get through this, as they had everything else.
That was what the suit was for.
Not this.
And the flowers. Endless flowers pressing around her, trapping her in a nightmarish garden. Beautiful but sinister, with no way to escape. Their cloying scent made her head ache. Or maybe it was the embalming chemicals.
She didn’t want to smell those things. She wanted to smell Jack.
Black skirts swished as she rose from the chair—the velvet one he’d ordered at shocking cost from the furniture store in town, but … oh, he knew her. He knew what she liked, and no mountain would remain unscaled, no stone unturned, to give it to her.
He lay in front of the fireplace. He looked quiet. At peace.
But he didn’t look like Jack. His hair was combed too neatly. That stubborn lock that forever fell into his eyes, the one he always threatened to lop off once and for all, was slicked back with pomade.
On sudden impulse, she flicked it down onto his forehead. Almost laughed at the effect. It would annoy him so. He’d sit up and glare at her with mock severity, but those depthless gray eyes wouldn’t quite be able to conceal their mischievous glint. A smile lurking beneath his mustache, he’d tug down a lock of her hair.
“Two can play this game, love,” he’d say. And she’d muss his hair even more, and he’d pull down another strand, and they’d dissolve into the carefree laughter of the young.
And then his amusement would meld into adoration, his laughter into love, and he’d claim her lips and draw her down onto him and gently grasp her face in work-roughened hands and whisper in that barely there brogue of his …
Except he wouldn’t.
Because Jack, her husband, her love, her life …
He was gone.
This man stuffed into the casket, into the suit … this wasn’t Jack. The playful, passionate soul who’d captured her heart had flown heavenward, like a newborn butterfly. And this, left behind, was his cocoon.
And all the days they’d dreamed together, all the tomorrows and next weeks and next months and next years … she’d have to walk them alone.
Without Jack.
His name ripped from her a sob, and she doubled over, the simple wood of the casket digging into white-knuckled hands.
Tears dropped onto his shirtsleeve. Tears like the rain at five thirty-seven on Sunday.
The rain before.
The rain after.
She’d give anything for that moment not to exist. To go back to the bliss of before, to order him down off the roof. To tell him the shingles didn’t matter. The house didn’t matter.
It was only a house.
And here in the world of after, without Jack, could it ever be a home?
Sloane raised her head from the shoulder of Garrett’s tear-dampened plaid shirt and blew her nose. Jack Brennan. Gone. So young. And poor Annabelle. The first entry in the new diary splotched with her grief.
At the quiet sniffle beside her, Sloane glanced up into red-rimmed blue eyes.
His dimple deepened. “Aren’t we a couple of saps?”
Despite everything, she chuckled and wadded up the damp Kleenex. “Would you mind grabbing that box of tissues over there?” She nodded toward the old trunk she used as a coffee table.
“Sure thing.” As Garrett got up off the floor, a slip of folded paper worked its way out of his pocket and landed amid the newspapers and yearbooks.
She reached for it. “You dropped—”
The rest of her words died on her tongue as she stared down at the piece of paper.
It was a check.
A sizable check.
From Warren Williams.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“GARRETT?”
Sloane’s voice—half wounded, half accusing—rang dissonant against the velvety tones of Ella Fitzgerald from the phonograph. Tissue box in hand, he turned to find that same blend shimmering in her deep brown eyes.
And a small paper rectangle held between two fingers, fluttering like a cottonwood leaf.
The check from Williams. It must’ve fallen from his pocket.
His stomach went into free fall; his blood turned to ice.
“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
He couldn’t bear the betrayal in her eyes. Jamming his hand into his pocket, he stared at the crimson-and-blue swirls of her Oriental rug.
“Garrett.” Her plaintive plea tore at his heart.
“It just happened today. I was waiting for the right time.” With a cautious step toward her, he set the box of tissues back on the coffee table. “I was going to tell you over dessert, but you wanted to sort through the box, and then Jack died …” He gestured helplessly at the strewn-about newspapers and photographs, at the diary and the yellowed clipping that had shattered their evening and altered his plans. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
She flung the check onto the coffee table, then stood and folded her arms across her chest. “Well, your plan failed. I’m upset. Let’s talk anyway.”
“Fine.” He straightened and swallowed against the churning in his gut. “Warren Williams came out to the house today while I was packing.”
“And?”
“And he made me a generous offer if I agreed to call off the auction.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How generous?”
“Generous enough that I couldn’t say no.”
“Humor me.” She shifted her weight to one hip. “He gave you your asking price?”
He squared his shoulders. “Fifteen percent over, actually. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“That’s all it took?” She gave a derisive chuckle. “You’re easier than I thought.”
Frustration bubbled and burst. “Do you have any idea how much money that is?”
“Enough to make you do a one-eighty on those precious plans of yours. Unless you never intended to go through with the auction at all. Maybe it was just a ruse to get as much money out of Warren Williams as possible.”
“What?” Her accusation knifed him. He pulled in a breath through his nose, desperate for even a whisper of calm. “From the beginning, this has been about providing for my grandmother. About paying her back for all the money she and Grandpa poured into Mom’s cancer treatments.” He flung out his arms. “They didn’t have a plan, Sloane. My whole family, they’re all ready, fire, aim. When life happens,
they’re caught shorthanded. I’m the only one who plans for the future.”
“This isn’t about your grandma. I’m glad she’s getting the care she needs.”
“Then why is this such a problem for you?”
She stared at him as though he were certifiable. Maybe he was.
“Because I met with Kimberly. I’ve been approved for a loan.” Fire burned in her eyes. “I was going to come to the auction. I was going to bid on the house.”
Over all the weeks she’d known Garrett Anderson, Sloane would never have described him as dumb. But right now, that’s exactly how he looked. Like a goldfish staring out of its bowl. Just standing there. Blinking at her.
“You?” he finally asked.
“Why wouldn’t I? I love that house. Every square inch. Everything it represents. For you. For me. For us. I was prepared to sink my last penny into it. I want to make it what it used to be. What Jack and Annabelle always dreamed it could be.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
His expression softened. “Of course it does. If circumstances were different, believe me, I’d love nothing more than to sell that place to you.”
A wild idea seared her. “So call off the deal and sell it to me.”
“Can you afford what we need to get out of it?”
“No. Can you cut me a deal?”
“No!” His hands sunk deep into his hair. “I can’t. I have to have what I’m asking. Otherwise Grandma can’t stay at Plaza de Paz. There’s simply no other way. Believe me, if there were, I’d be going that route.”
“But what if I could get you that much? What if I could match Warren Williams’s offer?”
“Sloane.” Blue eyes held infinite sadness. He didn’t believe she could come up with the money.
And he wasn’t wrong. He was a financial planner. He could guesstimate what kind of loan she’d qualify for, and he knew it would fall woefully short of what a wealthy real estate developer could conjure up.
He was all about logic. Things that made sense in his head.
His folded arms said it all. He had utterly ruled out the power of the heart.
The lines around his mouth deepened. “Okay. How?”
“I’ll sell my car.” It was the first thing that came to mind. “It’s fairly new. Low miles. Aside from a tendency to get stuck in mud puddles, she’s fit as a fiddle.”
“All right. Car’s gone, how are you going to get to work from out in the hinterlands? Is there a bus stop nearby? Will you bike?”
“I’ll quit the museum. Find something closer.”
“Then there goes your income. Do it before you buy, you won’t get a loan of any kind. Do it after and you’ll fall behind on your house payments.”
Why, why, why did he have to be so right all the time?
“I’ll ask my parents.” She was grasping at straws. “They’ve got an account set aside for me—that’s what I’ll use as a down payment—but I’ll ask for more. Get an advance on my inheritance. Maybe I’ll convince them to go in with me, and then we can all live there together in Jack and Annabelle’s house. One big happy family!” Never mind that she only saw her parents at Christmas, that nearly every conversation was strained. Never mind that they were happily ensconced in the mountains of Idaho and had no desire to live anywhere else.
“Sloane.” Garrett grasped her shoulders. “Stop. Please. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
And she was hurting him. She could see it in the indigo sheen of his eyes.
“What’s done is done.” He let go and stepped back. “I don’t like the idea of Warren Williams buying the place any more than you do. But saying no to this … that would be irresponsible. Impractical. Completely illogical.”
Practicality. Logic. Planning.
Those called the shots with him.
His reasons for making a deal with the developer were noble, but his methods were not. The second a check was offered, he took it, even knowing he’d effectively signed the home’s death warrant. He claimed the decision was difficult. But if that were true, a check from Warren Williams wouldn’t be sitting on the coffee table.
Garrett didn’t care what happened to the house. Not really.
He just wanted to be rid of it. To pocket the money, let the chips fall where they may, and be done with this chapter of his life.
And everything that had been a part of it.
He bent to retrieve the check. “It’s over, Sloane.”
Crystal clarity cut through as he stuffed the check into his wallet. Whether he intended to be or not, he was right again.
It was over.
“I guess it is.” She pushed up her glasses, trying to calm her swirling emotions. “I’m glad you and Lauren won’t have this on your shoulders anymore. And I’m glad your grandma’s someplace she likes, where she’ll be taken care of. I’ll always remember her fondly.”
Garrett’s brow creased. “She’s not dying. Lord willing, she’s got a lot of years left.” He paused, absorbing the true meaning of her words. “Wait. Is this—are you ending this?”
“It’s for the best, don’t you think? We had fun … and you brought me to my family. My blood.” The portrait of Jack and Annabelle blurred through her tears. “I can’t even begin to tell you what that means to me.”
“Sloane …” His voice was low. Husky. Pain speared her heart at the thought of no longer hearing it over the phone. No longer drowning in those lake-blue eyes. A future without the caress of his fingertips, the comfort of his arms, the crush of his lips against hers.
He stepped closer and cupped her cheek in his hand. The featherlight touch of his thumb across her skin threatened her already shaky resolve.
“I’m crazy about you,” he whispered.
His words tugged an echo from the deepest part of her. “I’m crazy about you too. So much it scares me.”
Pain swam in his gaze. “Then why are you throwing this away over an old, run-down house?”
“Because you still think this is about an old, run-down house.”
He removed his hand from her cheek and dragged it through his hair. “Then you’ve gotta help me, because I don’t get it. What is this about?” He sounded desperate. Undone.
“It’s about you. And your carefully scheduled grid of a life. There’s no room for surprises. No flexibility. No space to see what might happen if you deviated from your precious plan for a minute or two.”
His expression darkened. She must’ve hit a nerve. “I have to have a plan or it all falls apart.”
“But you don’t have a plan for me.” The truth hung there, agonizing, between them.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”
The three simple syllables shattered her heart.
“I didn’t expect you. I came down here to get the house cleaned out and sold and to find a place for Grandma. Meeting someone—meeting you—wasn’t part of my plan. I veered off course for someone before, and it fell apart, and … I don’t know if I can risk that again. I just—I don’t know what to do about you.”
Of course he didn’t. No one did.
She was just a diversion they were forced to deal with. The unexpected wrinkle in their carefully ironed plans.
“And that’s why this is for the best.” She trailed her fingertips along his stubbled jawline. “Because you’re a plan A person. That’s who you are. And me? I’m the person nobody plans for. Someone nobody expects.”
She dropped her hand and shook her head. “I’m plan B, Garrett. I’ve always been plan B.”
Half an hour later, Sloane still leaned against the couch, wrapped in her favorite orange blanket despite the warm evening. Two Styrofoam containers lay at her feet, both empty save for a melted puddle of what had once been coconut ice cream. A spoon rested inside the one closest to her.
One spoon. Not two like she’d planned.
After her “I’m plan B” declaration, Garrett had kissed her forehead and slipped out without
a word. He’d left the leftovers in the fridge. The ice cream in the freezer. The crate and all its contents strewn about her living room.
He’d doubtless meant to leave them. Most of the things belonged to her family anyway, and what didn’t, he knew she’d find good homes for.
A nice gesture. At least, he’d probably thought it was. But it was also one more reminder of how his mission all along had been to leave Wichita behind.
Well. What he’d discarded, she’d treasure. The diary. The newspaper clipping.
The photo.
She reached for the gilt frame. Ran her fingertips along the carved edges. How confident Jack and Annabelle looked. How optimistic. How utterly unaware of the tragedy lurking on their doorstep. The sparkle in Jack’s eyes, the slight smile on Annabelle’s lips, spoke of plans for the future.
Plans shattered in a single second on a stormy Sunday afternoon.
Sloane knew all about shattered plans. Broken dreams. Their rubble surrounded her right here on the living room floor. Just as rubble would litter the old homestead as soon as Warren Williams could get his wrecking ball out there.
She’d tried and she’d failed.
She’d battled and she’d lost.
With Garrett. With the house. With everything.
“I tried, Annabelle. I’m so sorry.” A tear splashed down onto the portrait of her great-great-great-grandparents.
The family she’d found.
The family she’d failed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
September 30, 1893
THE TABLE JACK had painstakingly constructed was full once more. Full of family and delicious food, prepared in large part by Mary and Caroline. Even eight-year-old Maggie Ann, whose light brown braids swung over her shoulders as she carefully laid a platter of biscuits on the table, was becoming quite the cook. The turkey they served was the result of John Patrick and Stephen’s successful hunting trip yesterday, and Oliver’s wife, Kate, had contributed her famous apple pie. Of the children, only Thomas, in his second year of medical school, was absent.