True to You Read online

  Her tires rumbled over gravel as she turned off the road onto her driveway, which snaked through pine trees. She’d almost reached her house when her headlights sliced across John, leaning against her front porch post, waiting for her. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. His arms were crossed, and he’d bent one leg and planted the sole of his black work boot against the wood behind him.

  Buckets of gravy, she thought nervously and with no small amount of awe, John is handsome.

  Also, extraordinarily punctual.

  Ten minutes early, actually. He must have been in Merryweather when he’d texted her.

  She climbed from her car and walked toward him.

  He pushed away from the post and stood tall and resolute, hands in his pockets. The wind ruffled through his hair. His arresting features were lean and firm, his dark eyelashes the only incongruously soft aspect of an otherwise utterly masculine face.

  “Well, hello there,” she said, perhaps a tad too breezily. She came to a halt before him.

  “Hi.”

  “You’re early.”

  Laughter creases grooved the skin at the outside of his eyes. Those creases melted her heart to the consistency of a chocolate lava cake.

  “I’m always early,” he said.

  “Very true.” She was sorry that he’d been standing alone in the dark. She started to apologize, then caught herself. She was early, too. He’d just been earlier.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said.

  Keep me. How about forever? Does keeping me forever sound about right? “Stay as long as you’d like. I’m glad to see you, John.”

  Looking down at his feet, he shifted his weight. “I . . .”

  She waited, trying to interpret his sudden discomfort.

  He lifted his head. His gaze met hers. “I’m going blind.”

  Her body froze while her mind whirred to absorb the statement. What he’d said didn’t want to compute. John? Was going blind?

  “That’s what I . . .” His words disappeared into silence.

  John was a specimen of fitness. His gorgeous eyes, his unbearably gorgeous eyes, could not be failing him.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said. “I wanted you to know.”

  Quote from Uncommon Courage:

  “You don’t fully know yourself and what you’re capable of until you’re faced with the worst. The worst shows you who you are.”

  Text message from Duncan to Nora:

  Thank you for today. I loved every minute of it because every minute was spent with you. You’re an outstanding hostess, Miss Lawrence.

  CHAPTER

  Seventeen

  John heard Nora’s phone chime from inside her purse. She gave no evidence of having heard. Her attention stayed wholly focused on him and the confession he’d just made.

  “Oh, John.” He didn’t hear pity in the words, just empathy. Even so, this conversation was agonizing for him.

  He’d driven here because, in the end, he hadn’t heard God telling him to step aside and give Nora over to Duncan. If anything, he’d heard God prodding him to act. So he’d come, knowing she might already be in love with Duncan. He was determined to tell her the truth anyway. Then let her decide.

  “Come inside.” She took hold of his forearm as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then tugged him onto her small front porch. He wondered with dark humor whether she thought he already needed her to lead him around.

  She kept one hand on his arm while digging in her purse for her keys with her other hand. In response to her touch, need stirred within him like a tiger waking from sleep. He stared hard at the wooden exterior of her house, struggling for control.

  She’d painted her house hunter green with white trim. Green and white. He attempted to concentrate on that.

  Once they were both inside, she released him to flick on lights. He drew in a deep, uneven inhale.

  Her house was small. The dimensions were more suited to an apartment than a freestanding home. From his position, he could see all there was to see of the open-concept living areas.

  Nora moved into her kitchen and ran water into a kettle. “My sisters call this place the Bookish Cottage. For obvious reasons.”

  Bookshelves covered almost every wall from floor to ceiling. Two light green chairs, an ottoman, and a television filled her living room. The chairs were the only green things in the space. Everything else was either red, white, blue, or a girly pattern that mixed those three colors. Several pieces of furniture and some of the decorations had that distressed, antique look he’d never liked.

  Still, he liked Nora’s house. He liked it because it was her.

  “I found this place five years ago,” she told him. “I love it except that I’ve run out of bookshelf space again, so I’m going to have to declare eminent domain on yet another wall. I don’t have many walls left. Soon I’ll have books as a kitchen backsplash.”

  Light shone along strands of her hair. Her diamond circle earrings glittered. The short ruffle sleeves of her shirt kept fluttering around her slender shoulders. She looked like spring after a long, gray winter. He couldn’t think of anything . . . not one thing . . . to say.

  Her phone chimed again. She ignored it again.

  “I’m going to make us tea.” She set the kettle into a machine. “I know you think you don’t like tea, but since you’re in my house and therefore my captive, I’m making you tea. You’ll see how delicious it can be.”

  Something here was delicious, that was for sure.

  “This is my tea maker, and it’s genius because the basket rises and lowers to infuse the tea just so. Different varieties need different brew times and temperatures and with this, I’m able to program all that in.”

  He nodded. She didn’t seem to require him to say much, which he appreciated. He set a hip against her table and watched her.

  “I use loose tea leaves, of course, and I craft my own blends. I think tonight calls for something sweet and soothing.”

  Something here was sweet and soothing, that was for sure. “Okay.”

  She pulled a loaf of white bread from the cupboard. “I’m also going to make us cinnamon toast. To go with our tea. Does that sound all right?”

  “What, no scones?”

  “What do you know about scones, John Lawson?”

  “Only that some women eat them with tea.”

  She laughed. “Scones would be ideal, I concede. I love scones, but since I have no scones, I’m making us cinnamon toast. Not just any cinnamon toast but the kind my mom used to make for me when I was sick.” She set four pieces of bread on a cookie sheet and spread butter over them. “While I’m making this you can begin to tell me what’s going on with your vision.”

  He hesitated.

  “Go on.” She spun the butter knife in an encouraging motion.

  “About four months ago, I was at my parents’ house when I noticed that their Venetian blinds didn’t look straight to me. They looked wavy in the middle.”

  “But they weren’t wavy? They just appeared that way to you?”

  “Right. So I went to see an ophthalmologist. He found a pattern of small white dots on my retinas.”

  She regarded him for a long moment, then sprinkled sugar and cinnamon over the buttered bread. She lit her oven’s broiler and slid the cookie sheet in.

  Her phone chimed for the third time since he’d arrived. “Are you going to check that?” he asked. “It might be the Englishman.”

  “I can check it later.”

  “Or it might be an emergency.”

  “I can check it now.” She picked up her phone. “It’s the Englishman.” After clicking the tab on the phone’s side to silence it, she set it facedown and stooped to peek at the toast. “Continue with what you were saying.”

  “The ophthalmologist suspected that I might have something called Malattia Leventinese. A DNA test confirmed that I did.”

  She pulled the toast from the oven, then arranged the slices
on a plate. Once she’d poured tea into mugs, she placed everything on a tray. He came forward and lifted the tray for her.

  “It’s a beautiful night.” She preceded him into the living room and opened the French doors that led to a patio at the back of the house. “Let’s sit outside.”

  Two Adirondack chairs waited beneath the halo of an outdoor light. Her deck descended two more levels, following the slope of the hill toward what must be the canal. He’d seen on the GPS map that her house stood in an isolated spot not far from the canal. During daylight hours, she no doubt had a view of the water.

  It seemed that they both liked houses out of sight of any neighbor, but within sight of water.

  Sight. That word. While her house and his would always have views of water, he himself would not.

  He set the tray on the small table between the chairs.

  She instructed him to make himself comfortable, ducked inside, and reappeared with two throw blankets. She offered him one.

  “No thanks.” He leaned into one of the chairs and bent an arm back, setting his hand behind his head.

  “Don’t you get cold?” she asked.

  “Not often.” He’d endured his share of harsh conditions. He didn’t need a blanket to keep warm on a summer night.

  She unfurled the blankets with a flick and tucked them around herself as she settled in her chair.

  He was struck by how much he liked to watch her. Just that. Just to watch her made him happy and brought him peace.

  “Try the tea and toast.” She picked up her mug.

  “The toast is delicious.” And it was. Soft on the bottom with a warm, brown crust of sugar and cinnamon on top.

  “The tea’s delicious, too,” she informed him.

  “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to compliment the tea?”

  “It’s rooibos, with berries, blossoms, and a dash of vanilla, if you must know.” She slanted him a stern look from beneath her brows, and he almost burst out laughing. “Try it already.”

  The tea didn’t taste or smell like any tea he’d had before. It smelled like vanilla and flowers. It was full of flavor but also subtle. Not at all bitter. “It’s very good.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him an I-told-you-so look over the rim of her mug. Steam rose in front of her features. She took another sip.

  He wasn’t used to caring this much for a woman or to the vulnerability that brought with it.

  “I haven’t heard of Malattia Leventinese before.” She pronounced it perfectly, which showed him she’d been listening earlier.

  “I hadn’t heard of it either until my doctor told me about it. It’s a form of macular degeneration.”

  “Which is?”

  “Macular degeneration is vision loss in the center of the field of vision that’s usually age-related.”

  “But in your case, it’s not age-related.”

  “No. Malattia Leventinese can strike teenagers. People with it usually notice symptoms before the age of forty.”

  “What do the doctors say about your prognosis?”

  “My vision will get worse and worse. There are treatments that can provide some benefits but nothing that can stop it. Nothing that can reverse it.”

  Her stare didn’t waver. “Do they expect your vision to deteriorate quickly or slowly?”

  “It depends. With this condition, they’re concerned about the possibility of some sort of hemorrhage and also something to do with red blood cells. Those complications can happen, and if they happen to me my eyesight will go down fast.”

  “And if those complications don’t happen?”

  “Then my eyesight will deteriorate more slowly.”

  “Slowly across the rest of your life slowly? Or slowly over the next five years slowly?”

  “They don’t know. It just depends.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No.” She was his friend, and he trusted her. He was surprised to realize that the conversation had grown less agonizing for him. Explaining this to her was beginning to feel like lifting a mountain he’d grown tired of carrying off his shoulders.

  He polished off the first piece of toast and started on the second.

  She watched him with a soft expression as he took another drink of her tea. “Our trip to Oregon,” she said. “You told me that your employees needed your car. Was that true? Or were you not comfortable driving to Oregon and back because of your vision?”

  Nora was smart. Too smart for his comfort at times. “I drive myself around this part of Washington fine. My vision’s at 20/40 right now, so I wear glasses when I drive to bring it closer to 20/20 or 20/30. But my eyesight is still blurry in the center.”

  She nodded.

  “They’ve taught me how to turn my head and look out of the sides of my eyes at the road. But I’m not used to it yet. There was no way I was driving you all the way to Oregon like that. I wouldn’t . . .” put you at risk. Not for any reason. “I’m sorry I lied. I wasn’t ready to tell you the truth.”

  “I’m glad you were ready tonight.” She rested her shoulder into the chair’s back and turned toward him. The blankets wrapped around her lower half. “Who else knows?”

  “My family. Allie.”

  A pause. “You said that a DNA test confirmed that you had Malattia Leventinese,” she said. “Does that mean that the condition is inherited?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And naturally you’d want a medical history. So it was your diagnosis that motivated you to search for your birth mother.”

  “Yes.” He finished the toast and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “I’d been interested in locating my birth mother for a long time, but when I found out about my eyesight it pushed me to take action.” He wanted to know which parent he’d inherited it from. He wanted to know how that parent’s eyesight was at their age. How any grandparents or great-aunts or uncles with the disease were doing. Whether he had half-siblings with the condition.

  “Is Malattia Leventinese something that both parents have to be carriers of? Or just one parent?”

  “Just one. If either parent has the gene mutation that causes it, then each of their children has a 50 percent chance of inheriting the same gene mutation.”

  “What about kids who don’t inherit the gene mutation? Can they still pass it along to their kids?”

  “No.” Was she grasping what his genetic history meant for his future? “If I hadn’t noticed the change in my vision, I wouldn’t have known about the condition, and I might have gone on to marry and have kids of my own. But now I do know.” He turned his focus upward. Around and above them, dark trees towered. “Just like I had a 50 percent chance of inheriting this, any child of mine would have a 50 percent chance of inheriting it from me.”

  Silence.

  It was strange to feel a sense of loss over something that didn’t exist. Lots of people must experience that feeling. People who became paralyzed must mourn the mobility they could have had. People who were told they had a short time to live must mourn the years they wouldn’t receive. People who lost loved ones must mourn the life they’d planned to live with that person in it.

  Those situations were all far worse than his. But John’s situation was what he had in front of him to deal with. He was sorry for the vision he wouldn’t get to keep. And he was sorry, very sorry, for the children he wouldn’t get to have. “I wouldn’t risk passing this down to an innocent child.” The wind in the branches made a swishing sound.

  “Wouldn’t you?” she asked thoughtfully.

  “No.” His muscles tightened reflexively.

  “I have a confession,” she whispered.

  He gazed at her.

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m racking my brain, trying to think of something that might make you feel better.” She wrinkled her forehead. “I’m usually great at knowing what to say and when to say it. My intuition for these things is usually excellent. For instance, with one person I might sense that they needed to hear me say, ‘This d
iagnosis stinks and I just want you to know that I’m with you in your anger and sorrow.’ With another person I might say, ‘This diagnosis might be indubitable, but I know you. And believe me when I say that your life, your one-of-a-kind life, will still be full of wonder and beauty, even with this diagnosis. That’s indubitable, too.’ With another I might say, ‘Let’s get a second and third opinion, then make a list of exactly what we’re going to do to fight this.’ Which of those would you most like to hear, John? Because I mean every word of each of them.”

  A grin tugged at his lips. He liked that Nora had confessed her indecision about what to say instead of rattling off what she thought he wanted to hear. “Did you just use the word indubitable?”

  “Indubitable was the perfect word in that context. It communicated my meaning exactly.”

  “Have I ever told you that I like your vocabulary?”

  She blinked. “No. You like it?”

  “I really like it.”

  They held eye contact across the space that separated their chairs. His blood began to pump with awareness.

  “What can I say to make you feel better?” she asked.

  “What you said already made me feel better.”

  “What did I say that had that effect? Indubitable?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Indubitable, John. Indubitable. Indubitable.”

  He chuckled.

  “Indubitable.” She smiled at him.

  Her smile made him hope. It tempted him to think that there might be a future for the two of them. That everything really might turn out all right, because of her.

  Her.

  The need within him grew so physically powerful that a bolt of fear chased it. He pushed from his chair. He should go.

  She slanted her face to him questioningly. “Are you getting up to get more tea or are you abruptly departing?”