Chapter
seventeen

Zander ran along a dirt path that led him deeper into the dense green of the Washington forest. He drew cold early morning air into his chest. His running shoes hit the earth in a measured cadence. Sweat stung one of his eyes.

He kept going. He’d told himself he’d run to the waterfall, and he was determined to do what he’d set his mind to do.

After the meeting with Emerson yesterday, he’d stayed with Carolyn for several hours. They’d gone through every square inch of the attic. Every hall and bedroom closet in the house. Every cupboard big enough for a painting. He’d even gone underneath the house to search the crawl space around the pier and beam foundation. They hadn’t found the painting. Nor had they succeeded at unlocking Frank’s cell phone, despite several more passcode attempts.

Later, he’d spoken to Jennifer Delacruz, an agent with the FBI’s Art Crime Team. He’d explained everything he knew about Frank and the Triple Play. She’d said she’d be in touch.

Then he’d attempted to write. He’d fallen behind his progress goals on his current manuscript, and the stress of that was beginning to press on him like a boulder. He’d had plenty of time to write while in Merryweather. The only legitimate reason for his lack of productivity was lame but true: He hadn’t been able to concentrate.

Between his preoccupation with Britt and his pursuit of Frank’s secrets, Zander couldn’t seem to recover his focus. His grief over Frank’s death had turned creativity into a luxury he was suddenly too poor to afford . . . in a way that had nothing to do with his bank balance.

The hiking trail tilted upward, then curled to the left, shadowing a stream flowing in the opposite direction.

He was tired of grief. Of the helpless feeling that Frank’s case had plunged him into. Of his frustration concerning Britt.

He rounded a corner, and the waterfall appeared before him. The flow cascaded from a crevice high above, falling past gleaming black rocks before crashing into a dusky blue pool.

With a huff of relief, he stopped running and leaned over, hands braced on his knees. He stayed there for several minutes, sucking air. Then he walked back and forth beside the pool to cool his body.

He’d seen one other person, a man walking his dog, back near the base of the wilderness area. That had been forty minutes ago.

Loneliness squeezed in on him as surely as the trees and plants.

Moss crept over every surface. Vines, like sleeping snakes, decorated branches. White-gray sky watched over him as if it disapproved.

Loneliness had found him during the years when he and Daniel had fended for themselves in St. Louis. It had followed him to every faraway place he’d visited the past year and a half. Now it had chased him into the heart of the forest.

Everyone Zander knew appeared to deal with loneliness better than he did. Was his loneliness a character flaw? Or was he simply someone who had a need for connection buried deep inside him, like a time capsule beneath concrete?

He sat on a rock embedded in the hill and studied the clearing. Gradually, as the sun broke free and poured honey-colored light over the pool, he understood that he wasn’t fully alone. No humans were near. But he could sense God’s presence in this remote place.

He’d sensed God’s presence this very same way the day of the fire. His first night in his new bedroom at Frank and Carolyn’s house. After one of his early cooking sessions with Britt, when they’d sat on Bradfordwood’s terrace eating cupcakes and watching the sun set. The day he’d learned he’d been offered a college scholarship. When he’d felt led to try his hand at writing a book. Standing on a towering cliff overlooking the English Channel.

God had made a way for Zander to accomplish everything he’d accomplished so far. He’d been beside him all along. Was beside him even now. Yet somewhere along the way Zander had grown unsure of God, and so he’d stopped depending on Him.

If God wanted to condemn him, he understood.

If God was angry with him, he understood.

Here’s the thing, though. He was also angry with God.

Zander’s childhood had made him defensive, quick to protect himself by pulling away from people he suspected he couldn’t trust. He knew that wasn’t the right reaction to his unanswered prayers, but he didn’t know how to fix his response. He’d tried to cure himself of his disillusionment by attending church on Sunday, no matter where he traveled.

It hadn’t worked.

Turning his hands so that his palms faced up, Zander made himself bend his head to pray. He asked God to forgive him, but even as he did, his soul felt cold and distant. He asked God to protect Britt, Carolyn, Courtney, and Sarah. He prayed for wisdom concerning Britt.

His mind wandered.

He continued praying.

His mind wandered.

He groaned with frustration and, pressing to his feet, gave up. It seemed sacrilegious to pray such a lousy prayer when he should be experiencing genuine gratitude. In light of the crucifixion, what right did he have to complain?

None. He was lonely and selfish.

He ran back in the direction of his car without peace or resolution, his thoughts gravitating to Britt.

He had loved her for so, so long.

He was hers. There was no changing his course, no getting over her, no moving on.

He’d ruined their friendship by kissing her. Trying to recapture what they’d had before was useless. So he should tell her how he felt.

His pace cut off. He stumbled to a stop.

For years, he’d been asking God for Britt’s love. But not once had he taken action to obtain her love. The timing hadn’t been right. He’d had far too much to lose.

He didn’t have as much to lose now.

Surprised conviction coursed from the top of his head to his feet and back again. It was time to tell her.

If she didn’t want to date him, then she didn’t.

But if she did—

She wouldn’t.

But if she did . . .

She wouldn’t.

It felt foolish, stupidly reckless, to let himself hope.

He’d tell her. And then he’d deal with what came.

After six months of planning, Nora’s wedding weekend had finally arrived.

Britt completed her responsibilities at Sweet Art at two on Friday, then ran by the grocery store. She stocked her fridge and performed a final inspection to make sure her home was ready for the two female cousins who were slated to stay with her tonight and tomorrow night.

She drove from her place to Nora’s Bookish Cottage to drop off a celebratory box of chocolate she’d made special for the occasion. For half an hour, they sat on Nora’s back deck, drinking Nora’s homemade tea blend, talking, and eating chocolate.

Then Britt continued to Bradfordwood to help Mom, Dad, Valentina, and Clint with preparations. Her parents were hosting several family members, both at the main house and at the inn. Willow and Corbin were housing the rest.

She returned home in time to welcome her cousins, shower, and dress for the rehearsal.

Nora had opted to marry John at the Hartnett Chapel, the quaint white clapboard structure that reigned over Merryweather Historical Village. Since the chapel wasn’t large enough to accommodate all the guests, rows of white chairs would be arranged on the village’s central green and the ceremony would take place on the chapel’s elevated front porch.

Happily, tomorrow’s forecast promised a rainless, partly sunny, seventy-degree day. Nora wasn’t going to have to activate her back-up rain plan, which meant the wedding party didn’t need to practice in two venues. Only one.

During the rehearsal, the wedding coordinator put the couple, the four bridesmaids, the four groomsmen, the two flower girls, the ring bearer, the attendants, the ushers, and the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom through their paces.

That done, the group gathered with visiting family for a rehearsal dinner hosted by John’s parents. The evening overflowed with conversation, affection, and tiramisu.

Every time Britt turned around, she was approached by a distant relative of hers or John’s. The evening was completely and totally full. . . . Or it would have been, if Zander’s absence hadn’t shot a hole straight through the center of it.

The emotions that warred within her whenever she was with him lately exhausted her. She wanted to feel relieved over the opportunity to take a night off. Instead, she simply felt hollow.

When she fell into bed that night, she willed sleep to come. Defiantly, her brain raced. Nora—her Nora—was getting married tomorrow. And then both of her sisters would be married.

She could probably look forward to nieces and nephews soon, which rocked, because she intended to be the coolest aunt in the history of aunts.

She didn’t pine for marriage and, truthfully, it would have rubbed her the wrong way if her sisters hadn’t married before her. Even so, a trace of sorrow swirled within her because, after Nora’s wedding, she wouldn’t be able to relate to either of her sisters about this new and enormous aspect of their lives.

They’d both have husbands. They’d both be wives. Wives! Willow and Nora were building homes in Marriage Land, a place Britt had no access to.

Consciously, she relaxed her muscles, then tested some yoga breathing.

A picture of Zander materialized in her mind. He was walking toward her the day he’d returned to Merryweather from his Grand Tour. His body language communicated isolation. Yet the attention he fixed on her revealed how much he valued their relationship. A smile stole over his mouth almost as if it didn’t have permission. His eyes were world-weary. His soul, loyal.

Her heart reached out with stark longing.

She wasn’t ready for marriage. But a renegade portion of her did want a great love.

“You look beautiful,” Dad said to Nora the next day.

“You do,” Britt, Willow, and Mom all immediately agreed.

Nora loved vintage-inspired clothing, and that preference carried over to her wedding dress. She wore an off-the-shoulder white gown. The snug bodice and three-quarter-length sleeves had been overlaid with delicate lace. A satin belt encircled her waist, highlighted at the front by a pin glittering with gems. Her taffeta skirt jetted out into a wide circle. In lieu of a veil, a small tiara graced her head. She’d parted her hair on the side, then let it glide smoothly down to her shoulders.

The elegant effect harkened back, in a subtle way, to the 1950s. Today, on her wedding day, she looked like the most stunning version of herself.

The ceremony was scheduled to start in ten minutes, at five p.m., and all of Nora’s one thousand plans had come together seamlessly. The wedding party, wedding coordinators, hair and makeup people, florist, and photographer had been using the MacKenzie Timber Barn, which stood next to the Hartnett Chapel, as a staging area. When Dad had asked if he could speak with them just now, they’d gathered in one of the barn’s private back rooms, decked out in their finery.

Dad, in a tux. Mom, in a beaded sheath the hue of champagne. Willow and Britt, in their blush-colored bridesmaid dresses. Britt, who’d never been a fan of constricting garments, approved. Her chiffon skirt flowed to the floor in easy, dreamy, elegant lines.

Each bridesmaid had been free to choose a hairstyle that the stylist then accented with pale pink rosebuds. Willow had gone for an elaborate low bun. Britt had opted to let the stylist weave the roses into a loose braid.

They held one another’s hands, forming a circle.

The Bradford family.

“John’s a lucky man,” Dad said.

“And a wonderful one,” Mom added.

“Grandma would say he’s too handsome.” Britt winked at Nora.

“Which proves that John’s exactly as handsome as he should be,” Willow said.

John was far more than a pretty face. He was a Medal of Honor–winning former Navy SEAL. He’d encountered hard things, and so had Nora. The challenges only served to make this day all the sweeter.

“Ever since you were small . . .” Mom’s attention landed on Willow, Nora, then Britt. Drop earrings swung from her ears. “Your dad and I have prayed over you, asking God to bless and guide you. It’s amazing to see the ways He’s doing just that.”

“It really is amazing,” Dad said. “When you were little, and you were supposed to be sleeping because it was past your bedtime, I remember hearing you talk about your future weddings.”

“Nora wanted a dragon-themed wedding on top of a volcano,” Britt said.

“That’s very true,” Nora concurred. “And I fully intended to marry Harry Potter. Willow wanted to get married in Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland.”

“Right.” Willow’s smile dazzled. “I had my heart set on marrying Dawson from Dawson’s Creek.” She eyed Britt with amusement. “You wanted to hold your wedding on a yacht in Alaska.”

“And I planned to marry the cute guitar-playing guy from The Princess Diaries.”

They all laughed.

“Our plans didn’t exactly come to fruition,” Willow said.

“Thank goodness,” Nora said, “seeing as how my future husband, Harry Potter, is a fictional character.”

“Your real-life marriage,” Dad said to her, “is going to be terrific. We wish you and John all the best, honey. We’re really proud of you. If Robin could have been here, I know she’d have been every bit as proud as we are.” Their family always acknowledged Nora’s mom, Robin, at pivotal moments in Nora’s life.

Tenderness softened Nora’s face. “Thank you, Dad.”

“No crying,” Britt warned. “Those of us wearing makeup are absolutely not allowed to cry right now.”

“An excellent point,” Mom said. “We’ll finish up by simply saying that we love you.”

“I love you all,” Nora replied. “Thank you for . . . well, you know what. Everything. All these years.” Her voice began to wobble.

“No crying!” Britt said. “Quick, Dad. Say a prayer.”

Dad thanked God for his wife and for his girls, then earnestly prayed for God’s grace to flow through the marriage of his middle daughter, Nora.

The second of the two flower girls kept hunching over to pick up the petals that the first flower girl had dropped. Britt spotted the little girl’s antics as she made her way up the central aisle between the white folding chairs positioned on the lawn. Nora’s OCD flower girl added the ideal note of spontaneous charm to the wedding ceremony.

Britt ascended the chapel’s steps clasping a bouquet bursting with shades of pale pink, vermilion, and white. When she took her position and turned to face the guests, she pinpointed Zander without having to scan the crowd. She just . . . knew . . . he was sitting in the middle on the bride’s side. His dark gray suit looked stunning against his white shirt and pale gray tie.

Nora and John exchanged their vows in front of the chapel’s peaked blue door, which was crowned by a garland of the same flowers that comprised the bridesmaids’ bouquets.

Across from Britt, the guys’ white tuxedo jackets reflected the sunshine. Above, spring leaves murmured happily. Birds wheeled into the sky with soft song.

When John and Nora were pronounced husband and wife, they shared an excellent kiss. Then the string quartet launched into the triumphant strains of “Ode to Joy” as the audience applauded.

Britt’s attention flicked to Zander. All the normal people were watching the bride and groom. Not him.

He was looking steadily back at her.

Zander seemed to have disappeared. She’d lost sight of him fifteen minutes ago.

The dancing portion of the wedding reception had begun thirty minutes before, and Britt was currently partnered with the OCD flower girl on the dance floor. So far the band had been playing slow love songs that everyone knew and all the guests felt comfortable dancing to.

Britt held one of the girl’s hands high. Her skirt flared out as she executed a spin. “Again?” the girl asked.

“I’d be happy to spin you as many times as you’d like.”

Britt’s mom and dad swept past. She could tell that her mom had just said something witty because her dad gave a low, appreciative chuckle. Corbin whispered into Willow’s ear, and her oldest sister blushed in response. Nora rested her head against John’s chest as the two moved to the beat of the song. Nikki and Clint ambled by, Nikki’s fingertips pressing five dents into the shoulder of his suit jacket.

Despite Britt’s efforts to shore up Clint’s confidence, he still hadn’t gathered enough nerve to take Nikki out on a date. The pep talk she’d given him about asking Nikki to dance had achieved greater success, however, which made her feel as self-satisfied as a cotillion parent.

When Britt had told Nikki that Clint was gun-shy about romance because of his first love’s unfaithfulness, Nikki had grown even more determined to win the battle for Clint’s heart. Clint and Nikki had attended more Pilates classes, and Nikki had stopped by the inn a few times to deliver kombucha, his favorite drink, to him while he worked.

Britt fully expected to have them well on their way to lovebird status within the next two weeks.

She gave the flower girl another spin.

Nora’s reception venue had been designed by a protégé of Frank Lloyd Wright. This enormous space—with its three walls of windows and honey-toned wood floors—had once housed its owner’s collection of antique cars.

For dinner, Britt had been seated at a table with Zander, Grandma, Valentina, Valentina’s husband, Clint, Nikki, and Grandma’s sister. Zander had been perfectly polite to her and everyone else at the table. Conversation had bubbled easily. He had not, however, been normal. He was trying too hard. The ongoing weirdness persisted between them.

Until recently, their friendship had seemed sturdy to her, broad and reliable, like a boardwalk. Only now did she realize that their friendship may have been more like a two-inch-wide balance beam all along. Or perhaps it had been a boardwalk before. And had become a narrow beam when they’d kissed.

While eating hors d’oeuvres, she’d struggled to pay attention to anything other than Zander’s hand, maneuvering his fork. While eating salad, she’d tried not to notice the spicy scent of his cologne. While eating steak, she’d caught herself peering at his profile.

The song ended and the flower girl scampered to her mom. Britt still couldn’t spot Zander, and his absence was beginning to make her edgy. He hadn’t left yet, surely? Parties drained him. Most likely, he’d retreated outside for a breather.

Britt returned to her table to scoop up her coat, then slipped outdoors.

A stone pathway lit by magical lanterns took her past a pond dotted with lily pads in bloom. Rivers of dianthus, forget-me-nots, and poppies surged against jade lawns. Night wind gusted against her, and she thrust her arms into the sleeves of her dressy black wool coat.

Like at the ceremony earlier, she searched for Zander more by feel than by sight. The quality of the atmosphere altered slightly, and she left the path—

There. He was sitting on a bench at the far side of a small circle of grass rimmed by trees.

Thanks to the landscape lighting that provided gold-toned illumination from above and below, she could discern the details of his features as she neared. What she saw there caused her breath to jam up.

He was watching her with a look of raw honesty. It was a look that spoke of resolution and vulnerability.

And in that moment, before a word had been spoken, she comprehended that they’d fallen off their balance beam for good. And that nothing would ever be exactly as it had been again.

Wedding toast from John to Nora:

Nora, your courage humbles me. Your intelligence challenges me to be the man you deserve. Your faith makes mine stronger. Your laugh is my favorite sound. Your optimism brings light to dark places. Your dreams convince me to hope. Your love takes my breath away.

I feel incredibly fortunate to be your husband.

I love you.