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Six months later
Steve was sitting in the wood-and-leather booth at Piccolo’s Restaurant staring at a single sheet of floral stationary, his eyes glazed over by the words written on the paper. When he’d first found the letter, he’d felt maudlin, but now he was numb. No, to be honest, he was angry. His cell phone jangled, jolting him from his funk. His mother was on the line.
He stabbed Send. “Hey, Mom, what’s up? Everything okay?”
“It’s Lincoln.”
Steve scratched the back of his neck. Lincoln. Salt of the earth. He deserved better than what life had dished out to him in the gene-pool department.
“He misses you,” his mother said.
“And I miss him.” Steve wasn’t lying. Seeing Lincoln always brought a smile. Years ago, before Steve was old enough to know something was wrong with his brother, he’d enjoyed climbing on Lincoln’s bed and reading stories to him by flashlight. Lincoln, always Steve’s greatest fan, had loved the way Steve had acted out every role.
“You haven’t been here since last December,” his mother said.
“I know, Mom. I’ve been meaning to come, but work has been crazy.”
“Even for a night, Son. It’s only a two-hour drive.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll see what I can arrange.”
His mother sighed. “Are you all right? You sound tired.”
“It’s been a rough week.” He eyed the stationary again. His heart felt heavy. Drained.
“Want me to send you some cookies?”
“No, Mom. I’m good to go. You don’t need to spoil me.” He really did want to visit Hope Valley. His parents were good people. He missed his little brother. He’d make it happen. “Love you.”
“Love you, Son.”
Steve ended the call, sighed, and then read the letter from his fiancée for the tenth time.
Steve, we’re not going to work out. We’re on different career paths, and you will never rise to your potential. You’ve settled for less. You’ve let your love of family hold you back; you’re too scared to move to another state; too afraid to get a job in a bigger market. Too frightened to . . .
He paused, wondering what else she’d intended to write after the ellipsis. Probably nothing. Gloria wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. She had a tendency to overuse ellipses and commas and semicolons. He kept reading.
Well, I’m not scared. I have to spread my wings and fly.
It was good while it lasted, babe.
~ Gloria
Had it been good? Steve wondered. Had it really? No, not always.
“What’s that you’re reading?” Harker set two pale ales on the table and slid into the booth opposite Steve.
“Nothing.” Steve started to fold the note.
“Crap-ola. Let me see it.”
“Not a chance.”
Steve had met Harker in his sophomore year of college—Harker, born Harkington Thomason the third, what a ridiculous mouthful. They had become kindred spirits because of their love of statistics and history of sports. Harker had never had a craving for the limelight, like Steve. A sports reporter for the Portland Oregonian, he preferred the quasi-anonymity of writing for a newspaper.
“Gimme.” Harker held out his hand.
“It’s nothing. Just a Dear John letter.”
“What the—” Harker snatched it out of Steve’s hands and quickly perused it. “Oh, man! She was such a . . .” He handed the letter back. “She was never good enough for you.”
“We were engaged. We were supposed to get married next year. We—”
“Did she leave the ring?”
“Nope.”
“That sucks. She sucks. When did you get that?”
“Last night.”
“Any warning?”
“None.” In fact, not a hint. Not a frigging clue. Steve had been totally blindsided. “When I got home from work, her side of the closet was empty. This was lying on my pillow.”
“Did she at least leave a goodnight chocolate?”
Steve grimaced. “No chocolate.”
“She totally sucks.” Harker took a long pull on his beer and slammed the bottle on the table. Hands on the bottle’s neck, he leaned forward on his elbows. “So here’s the plan, bro. Time to get back in the saddle. Right now. Ready? Take a gander. There are a lot of women here who would be over the moon to be your plus one.” He brandished a hand.
“Are you nuts?” Steve whistled soft and low. “I have no interest.”
“Many of the females present are hot, my friend. Hot with a capital H.” Harker, muscular in a running-back kind of way, his head shaven within a quarter-inch of its life, had a thing for the ladies, and they for him. He hitched his chin. “How about that one at the bar? With the long blond braid.”
From behind, the woman reminded Steve of the waitress he’d met at Aroma Café. Same breadth of shoulders, same curve of her hips. For some reason, he’d been thinking about Hope a lot lately. Every time he went into Pie in the Sky, the bakery near KPRL, he inhaled the aromas and thought of her and the cute way her nose twitched. Each time he ate a slice of the shop’s pie, he’d wanted to see if the crust would compare to hers. It hadn’t. Hers had been something special.
“Earth to Steve,” Harker said.
“Yeah?” Steve refocused on his friend.
“Not into blondes?” Harker smirked. “Okay, I’m sure brunettes—thanks to she who shall remain nameless—won’t interest you at the moment, so how about the beauty to the right of the blonde? The redhead?”
“No.”
“Did you love her?”
“Who?” Steve asked.
“G-l-o-r-i-a, Gloria,” Harker crooned, using his beer bottle as a microphone.
“Yes. Of course.”
“And now?”
“No. It’s over. She’s gone. She’s—” Steve shook his head and pocketed the letter. Had he loved Gloria? Had he adored her with his whole heart the way his father loved his mother? The answer was a hard no. They’d been a couple. That was all.
Harker snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s face. “Concentrate.”
Steve sighed. “I’ve been finding it hard to concentrate all day.”
Harker aimed the tip of his bottle at Steve. “And therein lies the problem with relationships, dude, which is why I will remain unattached for eternity. I like to keep my wits about me. Having a steady woman demanding my undivided attention? Meh. Too much work.” Harker held up his bottle as a toast. “Here’s to keeping your head in the game, Stevie.”
“True that.” Steve clinked his bottle against Harker’s and took a long swig.
“Shall we order?” Harker asked.
“Huh?”
“Food?” Harker mimed stuffing his face. “Me hungry.” He thumped his chest. “Triple cheese burgers are the special tonight.”
“Burgers? No, thanks.” Steve didn’t want anything remotely like a burger. All he wanted was a piece of pie.
