“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
—OSCAR WILDE
Perhaps it was time he accepted his fate.
Brock folded another shirt and placed it in his suitcase. Clarice had caught Maysie’s cold but was feeling better, despite the lingering cough, and insisted he not postpone his trip. And if he were honest with himself, he couldn’t wait to get out of here. This past week, since Christmas Day really, life had been unbearable.
Lady Antebellum belted out a tune from the iPod dock across the room and he reached for the remote to turn the music down. Everything was too loud today. Too bright. He hadn’t bothered to open the curtains. The sun on snow was glaring. Even taking a shower hurt.
Brock hadn’t felt this much pain in months.
And it flat-out terrified him.
He planned to leave first thing tomorrow morning. He didn’t know yet when he was coming back or what answers he’d bring with him. He reached for a sweater and jumped at the sound of someone knocking on his bedroom door.
“Brock?” Savannah poked her head in and his pulse slowed. “Oh. You are here. Sorry. I let myself in. No one answered the doorbell.”
“Didn’t hear it.” Brock drank in the sight of her as she walked into the room. If he could commit that face to memory, freeze time and make like none of this was happening, he’d do it in an instant. He cleared his throat and avoided her questioning eyes. “Clarice and Maysie went to the store.”
“And you’re . . .” She rounded the bed, indicated the suitcase, and widened her eyes. “. . . going somewhere?”
“Business trip.”
“Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. Odd time to go on a business trip.”
“It is what it is.” Man, he could be a real jerk.
“O-kay.” He watched her try to hide her surprise. “Well, then I guess I won’t invite you for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Guess you won’t. I’m sure Clarice and Maysie are free, though.” Self-loathing curled in his stomach and he forced himself to face her and her confusion. “So. What are you doing here?”
Savannah leaned against his dresser, her coat unzipped. She wore that pink sweater he liked, her hair falling around her face in soft waves. But her eyes were sad; he’d chased away her smile the minute he opened his mouth.
She let out a breath and shoved her hands in the pockets of her coat. “I came for Hope. Everybody’s gone now.”
“Oh. Right. Did I know you were coming?” Clarice probably told him, but his memory wasn’t working the way it should. Nothing was working the way it should this week. Even walking was a chore.
Shooting pain sliced up his neck and wrapped around his head like barbed wire. Brock inhaled and took slow, measured steps toward the chair by the window. The room began to spin. He swore, slumped into the chair, and leaned over his knees.
She was at his side at once. “What is it? Brock, what’s wrong?” Panic flared in her eyes. If only he could capture it and box it up, put it well out of reach with all the other nightmares he’d tried to kidnap over the years. Savannah crouched beside him, her hands on his arm. “What can I do?”
“Nothing.” He leaned back and offered a brief smile. He rested his other hand on hers, grateful for the contact. Nights and days of living alone through the screaming pain were getting to be almost unbearable. “It’ll pass.”
“Is it a migraine?”
“I wish.” He winced again, closed his eyes, and felt her hand against his forehead. “And it’s not the flu, so don’t go there.” He pointed to the dresser where an array of orange prescription bottles sat alongside the fresh jug of water Clarice set out for him twice daily, no matter how many times he told her it wasn’t necessary. “Grab me that first bottle, would you? The one with the red label, please.” Every word was excruciating. Not only because of the pain, but because of the other kind of pain he knew was coming. But he didn’t have a choice now.
He had to let her in.
She did as he asked but took a long look at the label after she’d handed him a pill and a glass of water.
Savannah crossed the faded rug to put the bottle back where she found it. Brock steadied his breathing as he waited for the meds to kick in and watched her stand at the dresser for a long time, her back to him.
At last she turned, still huddled inside her coat, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You’re sick, aren’t you?”
Brock clenched his fists and shut his eyes for a second.
He didn’t want to do this. Not here. Not now.
Not when he couldn’t trust himself to stand.
When he couldn’t even hold her.
“Go downstairs. I’ll be down soon.”
She shook her head, took off her coat, and hung it on the door-knob. She scanned the room and grabbed a footstool, sat in front of him, and nailed him with that stubborn look he was getting rather used to. “I’m not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m fine.” He almost grinned at her annoyed expression but didn’t have the energy.
“Brock.”
“Okay.” He sighed, held her gaze, and said it. “Brain tumor.”
Her scowl deepened. “Very funny.”
Brock lifted his shoulders and let them sag. The thumping was beginning to lessen, but he’d probably have to puke in the next hour. “You asked.”
Her eyes puddled with fresh tears, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “No.” Savannah shook her head, took his hands in hers and held tight. “Brock, come on,” she whispered. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“It’s just a little one. About half the size of a golf ball right now.” He mustered a smile. “Only . . . they can’t touch it because the operation might kill me.”
She still didn’t look convinced. “If you’re making this up, Brock Chandler, you have a very warped sense of humor. And I will never forgive you.”
“Darlin’, I wish I were making it up. I can give you the number for my oncologist if you like.”
Silence surrounded them and made an admirable attempt at suffocating him. He forced his eyes to stay open until he saw the truth register in hers.
“You’re not kidding. Oh, Brock.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “How long have you known?”
“Almost a year. We’ve done everything, oral chemo, radiation. It’s not shrinking. I’m going to see a new doc in New York this week, but I don’t think he’s going to tell me anything I don’t already know.” He leaned forward and brushed her tears away with his thumbs. “The timing kind of sucks, I have to admit.”
“Does Maysie know?” She blinked, pulled his hands down, and clasped them in hers.
Brock sighed deep. He could happily sit here staring into her lovely face forever. Being with Savannah made him forget everything else. Even the one thing he dreaded most. Telling Maysie he probably wouldn’t be around to celebrate her next birthday.
Or for the rest of her life.
“Not yet. She knows I get a lot of headaches. That I don’t feel good sometimes. But I was waiting to see . . .” He let out a shaky sigh. “I was hoping for a better outcome.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Her whisper reached right through him and squeezed his heart.
Unwanted tears stung and he swallowed the rock in his throat. “I should have kept my distance from you. I knew that the first day I laid eyes on you.”
She studied her shoes, her long hair falling forward. He sat there and watched her shoulders shaking, heard her stifled sob, and wished for the thousandth time since they’d met that things could be different.
“Hey.” He slid one hand from hers and tipped her chin so he could see her. “I’m not dead yet.”
“Shut up.” Laughter hiccupped from her. “There must be something they can do. They can’t just tell you game over.”
“Oh . . .” He smiled and traced a finger down the side of her face. “Yes, they can.”
“But you were fine!” Anger flashed in her eyes, and he loved her all the more for it. “All this time, you—”
“I have good days and bad days. You just haven’t seen the bad ones.”
Savannah pushed her shoulders back and frowned. “Were you planning on telling me or did you think it’d be easier if I just stumbled across your obituary?”
“I would have told you. I was just being selfish. I wanted to enjoy being with you, without this hanging over us. But I guess that was wishful thinking on my part. Obviously it’s not something I can hide.” The searing pain returned for another round. Brock shuddered and clamped his jaw.
Fear flickered across her face. “What do you need me to do?”
“Think you can help me over to the bed?”
She nodded and somehow got him to his feet. He tried not to lean on her with his full weight, but it was difficult. Once they made it, she helped him swing his legs up, fluffed his pillows, pulled up the blankets, and sat on the edge, still teary-eyed.
Brock coughed, then tried a grin. “Thought we’d finish what we started before Christmas. You up for that?”
Her eyes flew wide; she opened her mouth, shut it, and then dissolved into laughter. “I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“No chance. And I’m sorry to say that if you’re intending to take me up on that offer, tempting as it is, I’m probably going to have to decline.”
“Just as well.” She smiled but fell silent. When she looked away, her eyes landed on the pictures on his bedside table. “Is this your wife?” Savannah reached for the framed photo, studying it with interest.
“Yeah.” Brock turned his head. “You can see Maysie just starting to show. Gabby was about five months along when I took that.”
“She was beautiful.”
“She was.” He breathed a ragged sigh and closed his eyes.
“You miss her.”
A little less every day. And that scared him.
“Gabrielle was everything to me. Yeah, I miss her. But part of me is glad she’s not around for this.”
He heard her put the picture back. “Will you tell me about her sometime?”
“Sometime.” Brock closed his eyes under another wave of pain. “Savannah?”
“Yes?”
“Talk to me.” He opened his eyes again and patted the empty spot on the other side of him. “Come here and tell me a story. Tell me something good.”
“Okay.” She rounded the bed, gingerly lay beside him, and stared at the ceiling. “Once upon a time . . .”
Laughter shook him and he flinched with the effort it took. “Good grief, lady. You can’t start a story with ‘once upon a time.’ Too cliché.”
She flipped onto her side and gave him the look. “You did. What book was it? Oh, The Midnight Call. It definitely started with ‘once upon a time’ because I remember saying to Kevin how weird it was.”
“Good memory. But what was the next line?”
“Um . . . I don’t remember.”
“‘Maxwell Carter hit the Delete button with more force than necessary. He wouldn’t resort to clichés, no matter how desperate he was to meet this deadline.’”
“Ah.” She grinned. “I suppose that’s acceptable then.” She propped her elbow and hummed a wistful tune. “I’m not very good at telling stories.”
“Everybody’s good at telling stories. They just don’t know they are.” Brock smiled at her look of chagrin. “Tell me about your life. Tell me what it was like back when your kids were young. What kind of stuff did y’all do?”
“Oh, gosh.” Her eyes sparkled in a way that made him feel lighter. “It was like a circus most days at our house. Kevin worked long hours a lot of the time. But he’d make up for it on weekends. He always came up with the most outrageous ideas. Like driving north for four hours to find an orchard he’d read about that had the best apple cider. Or going to some llama farm out in the middle of nowhere because Shelby had never seen a llama. I swear he would have brought one home for her if I’d have let him. Oh—there was one year he decided to build an igloo in the backyard.”
“An igloo?” Brock chuckled. “For real?”
“For real.” Savannah rolled her eyes and laughed. “The kids thought it was going to be amazing. They used empty milk cartons to freeze the water, drew out elaborate plans and everything. I think it would have actually worked. They had two rows done and then the next day the weather warmed and the whole thing melted.”
“Ah. That sucks.”
“We took them to a movie and the ice rink. They forgot about it pretty quickly.”
“Sounds like he was a good dad.” The kind of dad Brock had wanted to be.
“He was. Is.” She lay back down and laced her hands together. “He and Adam have gone skiing for New Year’s. Zoe and her boyfriend are meeting up with them.”
“You didn’t want to go?”
“I don’t ski. Besides, I didn’t want the kids to think . . .” She trailed off and released a reflective sigh.
“Your kids are great. I enjoyed meeting them.” Even in spite of the curious glances both of them sent his way most of the afternoon. Brock would have found it funny had he not been so ticked with their father for showing up and sending Savannah into conniptions. He had to hand it to her, though; she managed the entire fiasco with remarkable finesse.
“They are great. Although I think they’ll be glad when this whole thing is over, one way or the other. They’re both still pretty angry with Kevin. And Adam . . . he’s not himself. I think he’s really struggling with all this. I tried to talk to him, but he said he was fine and didn’t want to talk.”
They lay silent for a while, listening to the music. Brock’s headache was bad, but it didn’t compare to what was going on in his heart. “What are you going to do, Savannah?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Her sigh of frustration coaxed a smile. Brock shifted slightly so he could see her. She moved at the same time, and he caught the hesitation in her eyes. “Do you want to know what I think?”
“No.”
He grinned and somehow managed to prop himself up on one elbow. “I think you’ll know exactly what you want when you least expect it. And when you do, you’ll know you made the right decision.”
“You’ve been hanging out with Clarice too long.”
“Probably.” His smile didn’t quite make it. “But I’ll tell you something else, darlin’. Second chances don’t come around too often in this life. If you get yourself one, grab it good and don’t let go for anything.”
“Brock . . .”
“Promise me.”
“Why?” She wore a pained look that he wanted to kiss away, but he wouldn’t go there. Instead, he shook his head and lay on his back again.
“Because it would please me to no end to know you’re happy, Savannah.”
“And you think taking Kevin back will make me happy?”
“I don’t know. But I think y’all had something pretty special until he screwed it up. And maybe that can’t be fixed. But the way he looked at you Christmas Day?” Brock flung one arm across his eyes and wrestled with the truth. “I’d say you owe it to yourself to find out.”