TREVOR HAD NEVER ENJOYED LOOKING AT A WOMAN as much as he enjoyed looking at Penny throughout dinner. Her hair. Her eyes. Her mouth and her smile. Sure, he’d always thought her pretty, but this was more than that. Then there was the sound of her voice and the melody of her laughter. They talked of many things, and no matter what she said, it seemed brilliant or interesting. The food, as he’d predicted, was delicious, made more so because of her presence.
But the evening became sheer perfection when couples began dancing to the music of the trio. Trevor hadn’t noticed the space that had been left for a dance floor until couples made their way there.
“Let’s join them for the next song, Miss Cartwright.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.
He rose and held out his hand to her. She placed her fingertips in his open palm, and he closed his hand around hers. Slowly, he drew her up from the chair and led her to the dance floor. Once there, he drew her into his arms.
The next song began. An old Anne Murray tune, “Could I Have This Dance?” He couldn’t have chosen a better one for this moment. As they moved in time to the music, Trevor wondered if she heard the lyrics in her head the way he did. Did she feel them the way he did? Were they personal to her the way he wanted them to be? Could she hear him asking her the same question?
Earlier today, he’d told her he wouldn’t ever marry, but tonight the thought of being without her by his side, in his arms, was almost too much to bear. Little by little over the past weeks, he’d fallen in love with her. Maybe, because of Brad, he’d already been half in love with her before he came to Kings Meadow. But even if not, he loved her now. There was no escaping that truth. He didn’t want to escape it, and what surprised him most was that he wasn’t surprised by the discovery any longer. He’d run from love, from commitment, because of his father, because he never wanted to make the same kind of mistakes. But Penny was right. He didn’t have to repeat them. He was finished running.
Maybe this was what Brad had had in mind when he asked Trevor to come here. He’d like to think so, anyway. Maybe it was what God had had in mind too. Maybe all the resistance had been in Trevor’s own head and heart. Maybe he’d just been afraid of loving someone and of being loved in return.
He lightly pressed his cheek against the top of Penny’s head and breathed in the faint floral scent of her shampoo, felt the silkiness of her hair on his skin. And suddenly he wished the Tamarack Grill wasn’t the best place to be this New Year’s Eve. Because he wanted to kiss her, and he couldn’t do that with half of Kings Meadow watching them.
At least it feels like half the town.
The song ended. Reluctantly, he loosened his hold, but he couldn’t make himself take a step back from her. Several heartbeats passed, and then she was the one to put a little distance between them. But when he looked at her, she smiled. Not a wide, laughing smile. Small and almost secretive.
The desire to kiss her grew stronger.
“Hey, folks,” came a male voice through the speakers. “I’ve had a special request for Trevor Reynolds to come up here and sing us a song or two. For those of you who might not know, Trevor’s come to us from Nashville, where he’s a singer. Our own Brad Cartwright was the drummer in his band.”
The intimate moment was shattered into a thousand pieces. Trevor’s gaze snapped toward the trio. Would hearing her brother’s name bring hurt back into Penny’s eyes? Would his singing make the memory worse? He didn’t want to do that to her. Not now.
A smattering of applause began, encouraging him to go to the microphone.
“Go ahead, Trevor,” someone called from the far side of the restaurant. “Sing ‘Keeper of the Stars.’ ”
More applause, louder this time.
His gaze swung back to Penny. He’d expected thoughts of Brad to erase her smile—like they had the night they went caroling—but it was still there, although muted.
“Go ahead, Trevor,” she echoed softly. “Everyone wants to hear you sing.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Penny,” a woman said from a nearby table, “come and join us.”
She looked, nodded again, and allowed Trevor to escort her to the empty chair. He didn’t recognize the couple at the table, and she didn’t perform introductions.
He leaned down, his mouth near her ear. “I won’t be long.” When he straightened, he saw the soft smile remained. He took encouragement from it as he made his way toward the microphone, his steps unhurried and measured. It wasn’t stage fright he felt. Performing better than two hundred days per year for the last decade in all kinds of circumstances had stripped him of most of his performance nerves.
He reached the makeshift stage and took the proffered microphone in his right hand. “Thanks.” His gaze swept the restaurant.
Conversations had died by this time. There was only the occasional clink of table service against dinnerware and some muffled sounds from the kitchen. As he’d noted earlier, he was no longer an unfamiliar face among strangers. He’d been introduced to many of them since the day of his arrival. He’d been made a part of this community. When was the last time he’d felt that way? Had he ever?
“Sing ‘Keeper of the Stars,’ ” came that same male voice. Trevor was tempted to shade his eyes and discover who it was. Instead he turned toward the two men behind him. They nodded, understanding the unspoken question. They knew the song. He told them what key he wanted and then turned back to his audience.
After Trevor’s return to Nashville following Brad’s funeral and Trevor’s visit to his mom’s, he and his remaining band members had tried to fulfill their touring commitments. They’d hired another drummer and gone back on the road. But Trevor’s heart hadn’t been in the music. He hadn’t wanted to entertain anyone, hadn’t wanted to perform, hadn’t wanted to even sing in the shower. In under a week he’d known what he had to do: cancel all remaining engagements and disband while he took the time to grieve the death of his friend. He and the boys had all said it was temporary, that they would be back together again in time. But so much had changed since then—both circumstances and Trevor himself. Did he even want to go back to the old way of living?
Lifting the mic to his mouth, he repeated, “Thanks,” then gave a nod of his head.
The keyboardist was accomplished. It sounded as if someone played a violin, the way Trevor had recorded the song for his one and only album.
“It was no accident . . .” As natural as breathing, he sang, his gaze moving to Penny and remaining there, wanting her to know he believed the words of the song, hoping he wasn’t moving too fast.
Penny was mesmerized.
“Long before we ever knew . . .,” Trevor crooned in that smooth voice of his.
She was captivated. By the look in his eyes. By the words of the song that he seemed to sing straight to her. Was that possible? And even if he did mean them, what could the future hold for a small-town librarian and a traveling musician? He’d said himself, this very day, that marriage wasn’t something he wanted. Would that change in the future? Had that changed in only a few hours?
The requested song was the same one that had caused an unexpected longing for romantic love to well up inside of Penny. Perhaps that’s all she felt now. Just a wish for something she didn’t have. Just sentimentality because of a popular love song. Maybe it had nothing to do with the man who sang the words.
Or maybe it had everything to do with him.
She tried to draw in a deep breath, but there was no steadying the rapid beat of her heart. There were dozens of reasons why it would be foolish to care for him—to love him—more than she already did.
It’s okay for you to be happy.
It didn’t seem like an important thought at first. But then, despite all the distractions in the restaurant, she realized God had spoken an important truth into her spirit. In an instant she understood that she’d allowed herself to believe she didn’t deserve to live fully, to be happy, that she felt guilty for being alive and having a future. Her brother’s life had ended, and she’d expected to pay a penalty for continuing to live on. How had her thinking become so twisted?
Perhaps, she answered, because I blamed You even more than I blamed Trevor.
And with that admission came peace. In a breath, she felt the balm of God’s forgiveness wash over her heart and a feeling of freedom replace the knot of fear that had resided inside of her for such a long, long time. She felt free. Free to live. Free to love.
The song ended and applause erupted throughout the restaurant. Trevor smiled as his gaze finally left Penny and slowly moved over the audience.
“Thanks, everyone.” He turned and handed the microphone back to the vocalist. Someone called for another song, but Trevor shook his head before walking to where Penny sat. “Maybe we should go.”
She nodded, understanding. If they stayed, someone would always be watching them or asking Trevor for an autograph or for one more song. She took his hand and he drew her to her feet. They nodded at the couple—Ashley Holloway and her husband, Vic—who had welcomed Penny to their table but to whom she hadn’t spoken anything beyond, “Hi.”
The trio began playing again. Couples returned to the dance floor. Trevor and Penny went against the tide as they made their way to their table. They collected their coats, his hat, and her clutch. A short while later they stood outside the entrance.
Trevor glanced down at her feet, then up at her eyes. “Ready?”
She suddenly felt giddy, as if she’d been drinking champagne with her dinner instead of iced tea.
As before, he swept her off her feet as if she were as light as a feather. And why did this journey across the snow-covered street seem much too short, unlike when he’d carried her the opposite direction? With surprising ease, he unlocked the truck and opened the passenger door while still holding her in his arms. Then he set her on the seat, his hands lingering on her waist.
Would he kiss her? She wanted him to kiss her. Could he see it in her eyes? Please see it in my eyes.
There was a breathless moment when he drew closer to her, and she was certain she was about to get her wish. Then a car rounded a bend in the road. Headlights bathed Trevor in a yellow-white flash. Only for a few seconds before the automobile rolled past them and darkness returned. But the brightness of the lights had been enough to break the spell. He stepped back, gave her an apologetic smile—at least, that was what it seemed to her—and closed the door.
The drive home was made in silence, and Penny wished she could read his thoughts. Maybe he hadn’t been close to kissing her. Maybe she’d only imagined it. Maybe she’d imagined everything. What did she know? She’d never been in love before, and no man had ever been in love with her. Not really in love.
When they got to the ranch, Trevor walked with her along the cleared path to the porch steps.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked as they climbed the steps. “It isn’t New Year’s yet. I can make us some decaf while we wait for midnight.”
“Sure. I’ll come in.”
Penny tried the door. It was unlocked. Her dad had always left the door unlocked for her when she was on a date, even after she was older and he no longer waited up for her. A lamp had been left on in the living room, but the rest of the house was dark and quiet.
She put her small clutch on the entry table, and without a word Trevor helped her out of her coat. He placed his hat next to her purse. His coat covered hers on the coat tree. Then he followed her into the kitchen. He didn’t take a seat at the table, as expected. Instead, he stood only a few feet away from the coffeemaker, observing her every movement. She felt nervous and clumsy.
“You know,” he said, his voice low, “maybe coffee isn’t what I want.”
Two steps was all it took for him to be at her side. Two short steps. With a gentle but firm grip on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. She lost the ability to breathe as he placed an index finger under her chin and tilted her face up so that their gazes met.
“Penny . . .”
He spoke her name so softly she wasn’t sure he’d said anything at all. But by then he was kissing her, and she no longer cared what had or had not been said.