True to You Page 17

  The cause of her current distress wasn’t as nefarious as that. The cause was far simpler.

  She’d looked up from her crouched position on the floor of a fake office more than a month ago, and she’d laid eyes on John Lawson. That was it. She’d looked up and laid eyes on him. And in that split second, less than the slice of time between heartbeats, she’d become enamored with him. Her dazzled, loopy, devoted feelings had been the culprit all along. They had caused her to make the mistake of caring for him. And then caring more. And then more.

  She’d cooked up such an acute case of heart-slaying tenderness for John that it had now become harmful to her. She should be glad that they’d found Sherry and that their association had come to an end!

  But she wasn’t.

  When Nora entered Bradfordwood, both Britt and Willow looked up from where they stood at the island in the kitchen.

  “Hey.” Willow, who wore calf-length exercise leggings and a turquoise work-out top, smiled in greeting.

  “Well?” Britt paused the motion of the knife she’d been using to slice a baguette.

  “My last words to John Lawson were ‘gotta love cabbage.’” Nora leaned over and rested her forehead on the lip of the marble-covered island.

  “What?!”

  “Gotta. Love. Cabbage,” Nora reiterated miserably.

  Her sisters laughed. Ill-bred sisters.

  “Why in the world did you say that?” Britt asked.

  Nora straightened. “John’s girlfriend was there to greet him when I dropped him off at his house. She looked so pretty, and they seemed so chummy, and I was rattled and desperate to leave. So I babbled about borscht, blurted out, ‘gotta love cabbage,’ and practically ran.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,” Willow said consolingly.

  Britt snorted. “Did you invite him and his girlfriend to Grandma’s party?”

  “I considered it, but no. I didn’t.” As much as she wanted another chance to see him, she couldn’t trust that her motives for asking him to the party would be honorable. Nor could she stomach the torture of watching him and Allie together. Nor did she think, if she’d asked him to the party today, that he would have said yes.

  Willow poured sparkling water into a goblet filled with ice cubes and slid it toward Nora. “So that’s it, then? The end of the line with the Navy SEAL?”

  “The end of the line.”

  “I know what will cheer you up,” Willow said.

  “I’m terrified of whatever you’re about to say,” Nora replied.

  “Phase 4.”

  “My hair?”

  “Yes.” Willow’s jade-green eyes sparkled. “I’ll make an appointment for you with Javier.” Willow had discovered Javier, a hair salon owner in Bremerton, during her latter high school years. Every time she came home, she visited Javier for a trim. Her great faith in him was no small thing; Willow’s hair had been styled by some of the most talented hair aficionados on the planet.

  Nora gritted her teeth.

  “You’re going to have to trust me,” Willow said. “You’ll come out of the salon with everything you love about your hair intact. We’re just going to gild the lily.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do know. It’s going to be fabulous. Once we’ve tackled the hair, we’ll address Phase 5, the search for the perfect dress for Grandma’s party.”

  “You’re both loco,” Britt announced. Britt, who had on a headband, old jeans, and a sweat shirt. Britt, who didn’t care how she looked. Britt, who’d already secured the undying love of an excellent man without even trying. Britt, who was oblivious to Zander because her head and heart were sunk deep into chocolate.

  “We want men to fall in love with our underlying qualities.” Willow picked up a wooden spoon and held it like a professor would a pointer. “Our character, our heart, our personality. The things that make us uniquely us—”

  “I’d be fine if a man fell in love with me because of my Death by Chocolate truffle,” Britt said.

  “And I’d be fine if a man fell in love with me for my Northamptonshire DVD collection,” Nora said.

  “We want them to fall in love with us for our underlying qualities,” Willow reiterated, unperturbed. “But . . .”

  “But?” Britt asked.

  “Never underestimate the power of looking your best or the power of making the man in question think that you’re hard to get,” Willow said. “Those two things seem to help motivate men to fall in love with underlying qualities.” She winked at Nora, then moved to the stove to whip off the pot’s lid. “Let’s eat.”

  “Gotta love cabbage!” Britt crowed.

  Valentina had been cooking borscht for them since they were girls, which made the rich, spicy, meaty stew extraordinarily comforting. They sat at the kitchen table and blessed the food. Even though they were eating an informal sisterly dinner, Willow had set the table gorgeously with place mats, linen napkins, and the good silverware. Golden peonies burst from a squat crystal vase.

  “Who can we fix Nora up with for Grandma’s party?” Willow asked Britt.

  “Willow!” Nora squawked. “Earlier today you shot Britt down when she floated the idea of fixing you up for the party.”

  “Yes, but I’m not the one mourning a Navy SEAL. I like the idea of a date for you. Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to flirt with at Grandma’s party?”

  “No. So, Willow, how are things going at the Inn at Bradfordwood?” Nora asked, making a sad attempt to change the subject.

  “They’re going well. Everything I do with reservations and billing is still taking me twice as long as it should because I can’t get the hang of the computer programs. But I haven’t burned any of the breakfasts. The guests have all been very friendly. Clint and Valentina are great. They know what they’re doing way more than I do.”

  “How many hours a day are you putting in?” Nora asked.

  “Maybe four? The guests do self check-out, but I need to be there when they tell me they’ll be arriving. I make them cookies and Mom’s raspberry lemonade and give them the welcome tour and their keys—”

  Britt snapped her fingers. “Sorry to interrupt,” she told Willow. “But I just thought of who Nora can flirt with at Grandma’s party. Evan. He’ll be there.”

  Evan? Of the ferrets? Set your cap for Evan, Nora, her logical self nudged. He’s at your level. “He will?”

  “Yep,” Britt said. “He’s great about helping us ship out Sweet Art’s orders. Plus, Grandma likes him.”

  “Is Evan the one who smells like mustard?” Willow paused her bite of soup in mid-air.

  “One and the same,” Nora replied grimly.

  “Evan can be the mustard.” Britt grinned. “And Nora can be his soft, salty pretzel. A perfect pair.”

  Late that night, Nora’s vision caught on an envelope. The slim, opened-ended kind. She’d been digging through her purse for her cell phone when she’d spotted it.

  Scrunching her nose, she lifted it free. The illumination from her kitchen’s recessed can lights revealed the name of a bank printed across the envelope. She turned it over. Someone had written in blue pen on the back.

  I noticed that you hadn’t deposited my checks.

  John? John.

  It was certainly true that she hadn’t deposited his checks. She’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  He must have . . . slipped this into her purse at some point today? But how? She’d had her purse with her—

  How, Nora? He’s a former member of SEAL Team Six.

  She counted the stack of cash out onto the counter. Every dollar she’d billed was accounted for.

  She stared at the money for long moments while a confusing welter of sorrow and chagrin gathered in her chest.

  John was fair-minded. He’d told her more than once that he wanted her to receive payment for the time she’d devoted to his search. She should view this money in that light, as evidence of his respect and courtesy and generosity.


  People were always elated to receive envelopes full of money, right?

  Not her. Not this time, because it felt like this was John’s way of putting her in her place. He was reminding her that she was, first and foremost, a contract employee. And now he’d paid his employee in full.

  This was good-bye.

  Dully, she walked to her kitchen window. She stared out at the darkness blanketing the land beyond.

  Her sisters weren’t here now to make her feel better. The make-believe people in her bookshelves and DVD collections didn’t have the ability to wrap her in their arms, to listen, to understand.

  She was alone, truly alone.

  For many years, she’d been charging past even the thought of loneliness. Her default responses to loneliness had been to fill her time with things she cared about and to stuff her head with sermons about singleness not equaling incompleteness and women not needing men and the great benefits of independence.

  However, the day of her Seattle shopping trip, she’d dug past those default responses and gotten real with herself about her own discontent. Her dissatisfaction with her singleness was a subtle, creeping, evil, hard-to-pin-down thing. She’d been trying to work on it, but it wasn’t cooperating. Nor could it be cured with a pat of Neosporin and a Band-Aid. Fixing her discontent was going to be less of a quick fight and more of a long, drawn-out battle, she could tell.

  Today had been a seriously lousy day on the battlefield.

  She was twenty-nine years old, and she’d fallen for a man who’d ended their friendship with an envelope full of money. So, yeah. The fact that loneliness had come for her tonight was probably to be expected. Her instinctive response was to sweep it under the rug. But she refused to this time.

  Loneliness was real. It existed within her.

  The tears she hadn’t let fall earlier, when she’d left John’s house, filled her eyes. They eased over her lashes in slow tracks. She rubbed them away with the heels of her hands.

  She cried out of sheer loneliness. Because her work with John was over. Because she was out of Ben & Jerry’s. Because she’d miss John. Because she’d lost a friend.

  Email from Duncan to his personal assistant:

  Duncan: See the attached invitation to a birthday party in Washington, USA. I’ll be in Los Angeles with the press junket for Over Sunlight’s Bridge just before the birthday party, yes?

  Personal assistant: Yes. I have you booked in at the yoga and detox retreat in Napa Valley for five days. Followed by the press junket, which winds down two days before the birthday party. As it stands, you’ll be en route between LAX and Heathrow during the party.

  Duncan: How long does it take to fly from Los Angeles to Seattle?

  Personal Assistant: About two hours and forty-five minutes. Would you like me to change your return itinerary?

  Duncan: Maybe. I think I’d like to fly to Seattle in time for the party. Stay for a few days. Then return home.

  Personal Assistant: I’ve been working for you for some time, but this is the first birthday party for an eighty-year-old woman I can remember you attending.

  Duncan: A female friend of mine will be attending the party. (A female friend somewhat younger than the birthday girl.) We’ve never met in person and I have half a mind to surprise her.

  Phone conversation between Allie and her best friend, Lizzie:

  Lizzie: How’s John? Is everything okay with you two?

  Allie: John’s not himself. He’s quieter than usual, and he’s troubled about something.

  Lizzie: Well, he’s had a rough few months, with his health and the birth mother thing.

  Allie: I know. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I’m actually hoping he’s struggling for those reasons and not because of his unconventionally cute genealogist.

  Lizzie: Now that they found his birth mother, the two of them are done working together, right?

  Allie: Right.

  Lizzie: Excellent. Disaster averted. Every man I know wants to date you, Allie. John would have to be crazy not to appreciate you.

  Allie: I’m going to be the perfect girlfriend as I help John through whatever it is he’s going through. Non-clingy and confident with just the right amount of fun thrown in. Oh, and I purchased a new bikini because we’re going out on his boat tomorrow. A new bikini never hurts.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  John missed Nora.

  He and Allie sat in the stands at Safeco Field, watching the Mariners play. They’d eaten Seattle Dogs. The air was crisp and bright. The home team was winning. Allie was wearing a Mariners ball cap and a tight, V-necked Mariners T-shirt. She was such an obvious knockout that the college guys in the row in front of them kept twisting around to glance at her.

  The fun he was supposed to be having only made John’s depression that much more obvious to him.

  Back in Blakeville, he’d decided to say good-bye to Nora and focus his attention on Allie. Ever since then, he’d been trying. Thing was, his attention wasn’t listening. He hadn’t seen Nora for five days, and still, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but her and how incredibly crappy he felt without her.

  For the first couple of days, he’d told himself it was just that his guilty conscience was plaguing him. He’d prayed over and over for forgiveness. He’d done the right thing when he’d cut off his friendship with Nora. Admittedly, too late. But he’d done it. And he hadn’t contacted her since. So while there was definitely some guilt there, it had finally occurred to him that he couldn’t get Nora out of his head for a whole separate reason. . . .

  Because he missed her.

  He’d missed people before, when he’d been a Navy SEAL. During those years, he’d spent months at a time far from home and family. Far from girlfriends. He’d missed his family and girlfriends in a mild kind of way. The loss had been there, but always low-level and at the back of his mind. He’d been able to deal with it.

  Missing Nora, though, was like a cold, heavy ache square in the center of his torso that made him feel hopeless and pointless. He woke up to the ache. Couldn’t get rid of it all day. Went to bed with it. Slept horribly. Then got up and did the whole thing over again. In between, he remembered the tiniest things about her.

  The bracelet she wore. The odd way she held a pen. How she sometimes bit her lip in concentration.

  He resettled the bill of his cap. His dad and grandfather had brought him to his first Mariners game when he was six. They’d sat in the cheap seats with hot dogs and tall cups of icy soda. John had loved every minute of it. He could still remember the sound of the battery-operated radio his grandfather had brought along. He could picture his dad’s smile when John had decided to wear a ball glove to the game just in case a home run came their way.

  The day after he’d returned from Blakeville with Sherry’s address, he’d called his parents and told them about his search for Sherry. He’d explained how they’d found her contact information. And he’d let them know that he planned to send Sherry a letter.

  His dad had said little, but what he’d said had been encouraging. His mom had been full of thoughtful, supportive questions.

  John had been aware, during the whole conversation, how hard it must have been for them to hear their son tell them he’d been looking for his other mother and father.

  Allie offered the open bag of peanuts to him.

  He shook his head and squinted, trying to bring the baseball diamond into focus. It was no use. The center of his field of vision was fuzzy because of the deterioration that had already taken place. It would never improve. It would only get worse. In time, there’d be no point in coming to watch his favorite team play his favorite game because he wouldn’t be able to see the field at all. Nor would he be able to view the games on TV or even read about them in the sports section.

  A sense of panic expanded inside his body so fast he had to breathe steadily to fight it back.

  When Nora had been around, he’d been better able to deal with his condition. But
now his condition felt more unbearable than it had before he’d met her.

  What was he going to do?

  He had two choices. He could tough it out and walk through this valley he’d been in since Blakeville.

  Or he could break up with Allie and contact Nora. It scared him, how much he wanted to break up with Allie, because it sounded like something a crazy man would do. Maybe he was cracking up.

  Allie was awesome. She’d been one of the best parts of his life since his diagnosis. She’d joked with him when he hadn’t felt like smiling. She’d listened when he’d needed it and baked her famous cheese enchiladas for him when he’d needed those. She’d promised him that whether or not he could see didn’t matter to her and that he could depend on her.

  And she’d done all that while looking beautiful and putting no romantic pressure on him. He had a huge flaw. He was going blind and yet Allie was sticking with him. She had no flaws . . . and he was thinking about breaking up with her?

  Nora had never even hinted that she wanted to date him. After he told her about his diagnosis, she was even less likely to be interested. So if he broke up with Allie, then he’d be giving up a woman he’d been dating for six months to take a chance on a woman he’d worked with for one month.

  It was idiotic even to think about breaking up with Allie for Nora.

  He needed to tough it out and walk through this valley. He needed to have faith that he’d come out the other side. Soon, God help him.

  One of the college guys sent a stupid, star-struck look in Allie’s direction.

  The cold, heavy ache remained stubbornly in the center of John’s torso.

  A bustling Saturday afternoon tourist crowd filled Merryweather Historical Village’s green. They’d been drawn by the charming buildings and the great shops, yes. They’d also come for the historical interpreters, a fact that filled Nora with a pleasant dose of smugness. Adding historical interpreters to her village on Saturday and Sunday afternoons had been her brainchild.

  Colonial Williamsburg had impeccably trained, thoroughly knowledgeable actors. She had Nikki, a brainy bombshell; Amy, a frazzled mom; and Blake, a male Goth teenager.