CHAPTER
Eleven
The instant Nora spotted the sporty little silver Audi parked on John’s driveway, she comprehended her grave mistake.
An hour ago she’d informed John that she’d drop him off at his house at the end of their journey home from Blakeville. He’d assured her that one of his friends or employees could pick him up at the Library on the Green, but she’d held firm.
She’d wanted to take him all the way to his house for two reasons. One, she’d been dying for a glimpse of his house. Two, on their drive to Blakeville, the spaces of quiet between them had rippled with comforting familiarity. The spaces of quiet on today’s drive had crackled with strain, despite the fact that he’d been perfectly polite. She’d been hoping to end their trip on a high note of kindness.
Nearly a mile ago they’d exited the road onto his private drive. When she’d caught sight of a roof line through the dense cover of trees, her anticipation had heightened. Then she’d driven a little farther and spotted the Audi, and her anticipation had nose-dived like a mortally wounded fighter plane.
That car was entirely too cute to belong to a man.
“Allie’s here,” John stated.
She pulled to a stop behind the Audi. “Oh, good!” Her enthusiastic response sounded as patently false to her ears as it felt to her heart. She’d overcompensated.
“I told her around what time we’d be back, but she hadn’t mentioned she was coming over.”
“Mmm! A nice surprise, then.”
He let himself out. While he was retrieving his duffel bag from her trunk, the front door of his house—his new and modern and huge house—sailed open. Allie emerged wearing cut-off jean shorts and a white eyelet off-the-shoulder top. She had an acre of hair and two acres of slim, tan legs. Her feet were bare. She could have walked straight out of the J. Crew summer catalog.
Allie waved and smiled, making her way toward Nora’s car. She was chewing something and cupping something in her hand. Clearly, she’d been relaxing barefoot here at John’s house, snacking casually. She looked supremely comfortable, as if she belonged in these surroundings. Which, of course, she did.
Nora called herself an idiot ten different ways for insisting on bringing John here and, in so doing, forcing this wretched pain on herself. She rolled down her window and gave an answering wave.
Allie intercepted John near the back of Nora’s car. In her rearview mirror, Nora saw Allie come into view, arms open for a hug, face lifted for a kiss. With a jagged inhale, Nora averted her gaze to her lap. She just . . . oh my goodness, she just could not bear to watch them hugging and kissing.
Despite that you feel like you’re dying, you’re not actually going to, Nora. Heartbreak isn’t fatal.
“Hi, Nora,” Allie said warmly. “Nice to see you again.”
Nora lifted her face as Allie approached. “Nice to see you, too.”
“It sounds like you had a successful trip.”
“Yes! Yes, we did.”
“John told me that the two of you were able to find a name and address for his birth mother.”
Red grapes. That was what Allie had in her hand. That was what she was snacking on. Nora shouldn’t be surprised that John had kept his girlfriend, who ate grapes at his house when he wasn’t here, up to date on the specifics of their search for Sherry. Until this moment, however, the search for John’s birth mother had felt like something that belonged mostly to her and John. “That’s right.”
“What great news,” Allie said.
“It really is. Well, I better be on my way.”
John came to a stop a few yards behind Allie on the path leading to his house. His duffel bag rested over one wide shoulder. His expression was guarded. His posture rigid.
“Let me get you a drink or something before you go,” Allie said. “You’ve been driving for hours.”
Nora stared at the genuinely likeable person in front of her, feeling and thinking so many things simultaneously that her mind had gone blank. “No, no” was all she managed.
Allie popped the final grape into her mouth and wiped her palms against her shorts. “Come inside,” she insisted. “Stretch your legs, and I’ll get you a drink. It’ll only take a minute.”
There was probably a graceful and laughing way to decline, but Nora couldn’t dredge it up. She wanted Allie and John to think her fine with this scenario because a true friend of John’s would be fine with proximity to his girlfriend. “Okay,” Nora murmured, turning off her ignition. “Just for a minute.”
“Isn’t this house wonderful?” Allie asked as they entered the foyer.
“Incredibly so,” Nora answered honestly.
“I’ll give you a quick tour.”
Allie led the way, keeping up a stream of relaxed conversation. Nora could feel John’s glowering presence behind them. Hear his gait.
Her pulse had begun to boom like a church bell signaling a funeral. Bong. Bong. Bong. A feverish clamminess crept over her skin. Heartbreak isn’t fatal!
A hallway ran along the back section of John’s house. On one side, windows faced a wooded mountainside. The other side contained bedrooms, bathrooms, a media room. Everything looked gleamingly new. He’d furnished the house in a simple, faintly mid-century modern way. Extremely unfussy. Smooth gray concrete floors stretched beneath Nora’s feet. Pale cream paint covered the walls. Everywhere she looked, windows invited the outdoors in.
John set his bag on a king-sized bed in one of the rooms.
His bedroom.
Despite her avid interest in his house, Nora remained discreetly in the hallway throughout the tour. Not only did she loathe her role as the third wheel in John and Allie’s happy reunion, but this Allie-instigated peek into John’s life made her feel as if she was invading his privacy.
Once she’d followed Allie down a few steps into the portion of the house that faced the lake, she had to slow for a moment to catch her breath at the grandeur surrounding her. At this early-evening hour, auburn light flooded in through walls of glass that towered toward a ceiling two stories above.
The kitchen and dining table were tucked back on her left. To her right, a TV was recessed into bookshelves that reminded her very much of the bookshelves at her own house. Sofas and leather chairs dotted the rug between the TV and a stone fireplace.
She was no expert in the field of architecture, but this house seemed to her to be a masterpiece. Not a cold masterpiece. A masterpiece that managed to give off the impression of welcome and nature and calm.
Allie rattled off five different drink choices, then asked Nora which one she’d like.
“A bottled water, please.”
Allie headed toward the kitchen.
John went ahead, freeing a latch on the rear glass doors. At his bidding, the tall panels slid open along a track, folding in until no separation remained between the interior and exterior living spaces.
If this was Northamptonshire, John would be the earl, and this house would be the grand castle on the hill. In the TV world, she preferred Adolphus. But in the real world, she’d fallen quite unoriginally for the earl.
John and Nora walked onto the expansive deck. The lake spread below them like a royal blue sequined scarf.
He came to a stop, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. His hair was in disarray, Nora noted, probably from Allie’s fingers riffling through it. His profile appeared to have been sketched with firm, unapologetic lines. “This is my favorite part of the house,” he said.
“This outdoor space?”
“Yeah.”
“I can see why. Your house is amazing, John.”
“Thank you.” He met her eyes. He’d hardly looked at her all day. He was a powerfully handsome man, but the ache of yearning that tugged at Nora wasn’t borne of his outward beauty. It was borne of every single inward part of him she’d come to know.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” he told her. “I never would have found Sherry without your help.”
A lump formed in her throat. “You’re welcome.” She forged ahead with a voice that she hoped rang with optimism. “Look for an email from me soon. I’ll include attachments of those resources I mentioned earlier. They’ll provide ideas and suggestions about how best to craft a letter to a birth mother. Not that you have to rely on the suggestions, of course. I’ll just send them to you in case they’re helpful.”
“Okay.” He looked as if he wanted to say more.
Nora waited expectantly—
Allie arrived. She handed Nora the bottled water, then wrapped a hand around John’s elbow.
Bubbling hot jealousy turned Nora’s entire midsection to lava.
She had to get away from Allie and John, the couple. But that meant leaving John, and she’d never wanted to leave a person less.
Would she ever see John again? She hated for their friendship to end like this . . . on this big downbeat and with Allie as a witness. She didn’t have a choice, however. This was exactly how it was going to end. “I’d better get going,” she said. “I’m meeting my sisters for dinner. Valentina made borscht, a Russian stew of beef, carrots, and potatoes. And cabbage, of course.”
“Sounds delicious,” Allie said.
“Thanks for the water.”
“You’re welcome.” Allie regarded her fondly.
John stood stock-still, eyes glowing hazel fire, features withdrawn and grave.
“I’ll let myself out.” Nora turned on her heel, desperate to retain her dignity at all costs. “See you guys later.”
“Enjoy the stew!” Allie called.
“You bet. Gotta love cabbage!” She strode at a fast clip, hot tears sheening her eyes. Mortified, she willed them away. She climbed quickly into her car and steered along John’s driveway, her thoughts a whirlpool. Gotta love cabbage? Was that what she’d just said?
It hurt to care about a man who cared for someone else above you. Who’d chosen someone else over you. It hurt, hurt, hurt.
Once again, like with Harrison and Rory long ago, she found herself on the outside, looking in. The first time she hadn’t had a choice. But this time, she’d willingly opened her heart to John. So futile!
Could it be that she was subconsciously bent on injuring herself? Or maybe subconsciously bent on protecting herself, which was why she’d let herself fall for a man who already had a girlfriend? After all, one didn’t have to risk the vulnerability that came with a real relationship when the subject of your crush was already in a real relationship with someone else.
Nora weighed the two possibilities in her mind, testing them the way a person might press a bruise to measure its level of pain.
In this case, no. No. She didn’t think either an underlying desire to injure or protect herself had motivated her friendship with John. Or, at least, neither desire had motivated it much.
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: