Where Hope Begins by Catherine West (6)

“Love is but the discovery of ourselves in others, and the delight in the recognition.”

—ALEXANDER SMITH

I have settled into a strange contentment.

It’s a few days before Christmas, and while I can’t say I’m ecstatic about the upcoming holiday, I am oddly comfortable. Tomorrow Zoe and Adam will drive up. The day after that, my parents will be here. Peg and her family will arrive on Christmas Eve, and Paul with Janice and the girls the next day.

My grocery list is long. I invited Clarice, Brock, and Maysie to join us for Christmas Day dinner. They’ve been so good to me. I want to return the favor. In the morning, before the kids arrive, I’ll drive into town and start stocking up.

It’s a snowy Sunday afternoon and I’m wrapping presents in the living room when my cell phone rings. I think it’s in the bedroom. Sure enough, I find it hiding under a pillow.

It’s Beth. I haven’t talked to her in a few days. “Hey, stranger.”

“Savannah, how are you?”

Something in the way she asks the question makes me a little nervous. “Good, I think. Wrapping presents at the moment.” I sit on the edge of the bed and watch snow fall on the already white front lawn. “Are you okay? Everything all right at home?”

“Ye-ah. I guess. It’s a beautiful day here. Sunny, not too cold at all. No snow yet. I’m just looking out the window at your house . . .” She’s hedging. Something is definitely wrong.

“Beth? What? What’s wrong with the house?”

“Um, nothing’s wrong with the house. It’s just that, well . . . Kevin’s there.”

“What do you mean he’s there? Is she there? I swear if—”

“I mean he’s up a ladder fixing your broken shutters, and no, she’s not here. He arrived about an hour ago. Alone.”

“Oh.” I blow air through my lips. Unpleasant thoughts launch an attack. “Why is he doing that now? Those shutters have been off their hinges for over a year. Do you think he wants to put the house on the market? Oh great. That’s all I need. Maybe I’ll have to get a condo or something. Maybe he . . . Beth? What are you doing?” I hear her heels clicking on her wood floor and the squeak and slam of the screen door on her front porch.

“I’m standing here watching him. He’s beating the crap out of that nail.” She laughs. “He’s met with John a few times. Did you know that?”

“I heard.”

“Oh, he saw me. Hi, Kevin!” I can just picture her waving enthusiastically. “Whoops. He’s coming down.”

“Beth!” I do not like where this is going. Not. One. Bit. I roll my eyes and squash the urge to hang up. I want to know what he’s doing there first.

“Hey, Beth. Is that Savannah?”

“Yes, but I don’t think—”

“Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“Beth. Come on.”

There’s a bit of a struggle and I shake my head. They’re children, really.

“Savannah? Hey.” Kevin’s deep voice thrums in my ear, heads straight for my heart, and settles over it like a favorite forgotten blanket, found again after a long absence.

I stomp over that thought and strengthen my resolve. “What are you doing at the house, Kevin?”

“Fixing stuff. I had some time and I started thinking about all the things you’d been asking me to do and so I figured I—”

He’s rambling like he always does when he’s nervous. “Kevin . . . Kev. Stop. Why are you doing this now? Are you . . .” I don’t want to ask but I have to. “Are you thinking about putting the house on the market?”

“What?” He sounds as confused as I feel. “No. Of course not. I’m just . . . fixing stuff. You don’t mind, do you?”

Do I? “No, I don’t mind. As long as you stick to our agreement. I don’t want her over there.”

“What?”

“Alison. Remember? I told you before I left that I—“

“I know what you said.” He lapses into silence. “She’s not . . . uh . . . Have you talked to Zoe?”

“I talk to her every day. Why?”

“Um, okay. Well, I guess I did ask her not to . . .” He exhales and my mind is mulling over the million and one things he could possibly be thinking. “Hey, do you know where my good hammer is?” That was not one of them.

A giggle gets stuck in my throat. It isn’t funny, really, and I’m half embarrassed to tell him. “Under the bed.”

“Where?”

“In our . . . my bedroom. Under the bed. So is your baseball bat.”

“You’re not kidding.”

“No. You know I hate being alone in that house. It’s scary at night sometimes.”

“So you’re gonna attack somebody with my hammer?” Kevin lets out a long whistle, followed by low laughter that winds around me and pulls moisture from my eyes.

Oh, I miss my husband. I can see his face so clearly, it’s as though he’s standing right in front of me.

“I’d probably try the bat first.” Come to think of it, now that I know how to use a rifle . . . maybe I should get a gun. “I know how to shoot now.” I can’t help it. I’m proud of the accomplishment.

“Shoot what?”

“A gun. Brock taught me. Well, it was a rifle, I guess. But he says I’m a fast learner and a very good shot.”

Kevin makes a noise that sort of sounds like a growl. “Brock Chandler taught you how to shoot a rifle?” He doesn’t sound impressed. Or happy.

“Yes. He’s southern, remember?”

“Maybe you should get a dog.”

“I did.”

“What?”

“Well, she’s just a baby, but she’ll be big enough to come home with me soon. Brock’s dog, Willow, had puppies just after I got here. So I took one.”

“You took one. I see.” He sobers, clears his throat, and I imagine the look he gives Beth. I also imagine her face and know she’s going half-crazy standing there listening to only one side of the conversation. “You certainly seem to be spending a lot of time with Brock Chandler.”

“Do I?” My grin is without a doubt wicked but I don’t care. “Who I spend time with is none of your business anymore, Kevin.”

“Savannah.”

“You should probably give Beth her phone back. And don’t forget to set the alarm again when you leave the house.”

“I’m going to call you later.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I might be out.” I hesitate. “With Brock.” I can’t resist the jab.

“Seriously?” There is definite panic in that question, and I have absolutely no idea why it is there. But part of me takes pleasure in knowing it is. In the same moment I’m regretting my words.

“Bye, Kevin.”

“Oh. My. Gosh.” Beth is back on the phone, laughing her head off. “Sweetie, what did you say to that poor man? He’s stomping back across the road like he wants to strangle the devil himself.”

Oops. “I told him I might be going on a date with Brock Chandler.”

“What?” Beth practically screams in my ear. “Why do you not tell me these things?”

“Because I’m not.” I sigh and flop backward onto the bed. “I just . . . I don’t know, Beth, it just popped out.”

“Girl, that’s just mean.”

“I know. I feel bad.” And I have no clue why. “Well, it’s not like Kevin wants me. Why shouldn’t I go out with Brock Chandler? Not that he’s asked, but if he did . . .” If he did I’d probably run for the hills. Maybe.

“You . . . don’t know, do you?” Beth’s voice gets quiet all of a sudden and I’m a little scared.

“Know what?”

“When did you last talk to Kevin, hon? I mean, other than just now.”

“It’s been a while, a few weeks. I don’t remember. Why?”

“Ah, John just pulled up. We’re going to the mall to get last-minute Christmas gifts. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Sure.” She’s gone and I groan. Loudly. I can’t let myself think about what she meant. I have too much to do.

Okay, back to wrapping. But of course all I can do is sit there and think about Kevin and the way things were . . .

My phone rings again and startles me. It had better not be Kevin because I’m not ready to talk to him. Not yet.

“Savannah? Walter Kline.”

“Oh. Hi, Walter.” I go into the kitchen and flick on the kettle.

“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, hon, but I’m flying out to Aspen for the holidays and I’m wondering what’s going on.”

“With?” I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the mugs. My mother is shorter than me and I have no clue why she insists on arranging her cupboards like she’s six feet tall.

“We haven’t received anything from Kevin’s lawyer. I called him on Friday and he says he’s gone over the agreement, but Kevin hasn’t signed the papers. Says Kevin told him the two of you might reconcile?”

“We might what? Reconcile? Kevin said that?” I just shrieked at Walter Kline. And broke another of my mother’s favorite mugs. At least now I know what to get her for Christmas. “Walter, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So I gathered.” He chuckles, then sighs deeply. “Look, Savannah . . . sometimes a couple needs a break. Time to work things through. If Kevin hasn’t moved on this, I suggest you talk to him and find out why.”

“Yes. That’s probably a good idea.” Uh, no, it’s not. It’s the most terrifying idea anyone has ever suggested, and I want nothing to do with it.

The clock on the wall reads 4:00 p.m. Close enough to five. I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of chardonnay.

“Get back to me after the holidays. Okay, Savannah? And have a good one.”

“Thanks, Walter. You too.” My hands are trembling so badly I’ll probably break something else any minute. Like the wineglass I’m filling. To the brim.

My mind is swirling with a thousand unexpected thoughts, making me slightly dizzy. What in the world is going on?

Kevin must be having some kind of mental breakdown or midlife crisis. Well, that much is already abundantly clear. But it’s possible he’s crazier than I am. Which, right about now, would be pretty darn crazy.

I’m just about to sink onto the couch in front of the fire with my glass of wine when the doorbell rings. I’m so flustered I don’t even bother to put down the glass, just yank open the front door and stare into Brock Chandler’s dancing eyes.

His large frame fills my doorway and he looks every inch the southern gentleman in a sheepskin jacket and Atlanta Braves baseball cap. A light dusting of snow covers the black rim. He’s holding a tray laden with four small white ceramic pots each containing a red amaryllis in full bloom. His lips part in a lazy smile as his gaze rests on my glass and then on me.

“Well, I reckon it’s five o’clock somewhere.” His wink renders me speechless. Somehow I manage to move backward and allow him in.

“This looks bad, doesn’t it?” Not that I care right now. I take a long sip and give a sigh of satisfaction. “Those are beautiful.”

Brock strolls through my house and sets the cardboard tray on the kitchen table. “Clarice said they all bloomed this morning. I guess the heat’s working the way it should in there.”

“I had no idea they’d bloom so quickly. We only planted those bulbs a few weeks ago.”

“I suspect Clarice waved her magic wand over them when you weren’t looking.” He turns to face me and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His grin is wide.

“Right. But still.” I study the plants. “Weird.”

“It’s something. I have to admit, what goes on in that greenhouse is beyond the scope of even my imagination, darlin’.”

“Even yours?” I widen my eyes in mock surprise. “Now that’s saying something.”

“You haven’t been by the past few days.”

“No. Christmas kind of snuck up on me. I realized how much I had left to do.”

“Oh. Well. I missed you.”

He what? “Would you like a glass of wine? I probably shouldn’t drink alone.” I move past him in a hurry, off to find another glass, and I’m pouring him one before he’s even said yes.

“Why not.” Brock chuckles, hangs his coat and cap over a chair, and takes the glass with a grin. “I’m more of a beer guy, but when in Rome . . .”

“Precisely.” I raise my glass in salute. He follows me into the living room, and I’m strangely aware that my nerves have jacked up more than a notch.

He nods toward the vast array of colorful tubes of wrapping paper and the pile of presents sitting by the fake tree I hauled down from the attic yesterday. “Ah, the dreaded wrapping wars. No wonder you’re drinking.” He makes himself comfortable in a leather chair near the fire and kicks up the footrest. “Look at these paper cuts.” He holds up a hand. “I’m betting those elves don’t get paid near enough.”

“Slave labor. Speaking of elves, where’s Maysie?”

“On a secret mission with Aunt Clarice. And then they’re having dinner together in town. I wasn’t allowed to accompany them.” He doesn’t look at all upset about it.

“Should she really be driving at her age?”

Brock shrugs in that nonchalant way of his, his mouth curling in that grin I’ve decided should be illegal. “I put a few pillows on the front seat and rig the brake pedal. She does pretty good for a six-year-old.”

Wine fizzes up my nose as I choke on laughter.

He takes a sip from his glass, then sets it down on the coffee table and rests his hands behind his head. “I like watching you laugh.”

Okay then. I’m wondering if I can blame my flushed face on the fire and the wine. I blow out a breath and steady my gaze. This is Brock. We’re friends. What on earth am I nervous about?

We talk for a good hour, finish off the bottle of white, forage the fridge for cheese and crackers and some fruit. He’s not much for sitting around apparently, because pretty soon he’s rebuilt the fire and we’re stationed on the floor in front of it and he’s teaching me how to play poker.

“That’s a flush, darlin’. Aces high. Which means you win.” His hand brushes over mine as he retrieves the cards I’ve just laid down. A tingle of electricity starts at the spot he just touched and shoots all the way up my arm and back down the other side, and my mouth suddenly feels like the Sahara.

“Another round?” He shuffles the cards like he’s working tables in Las Vegas, his dimple flashing far too dangerously. “Maybe we should raise the stakes. What do you think?”

There is no way he’s getting an answer to that question. “I’ll just . . . get some water.” I scramble out of there and take a couple of deep breaths. This is okay. Nothing is happening. We’re just . . . breathe . . . friends.

And, yes, I am fully aware how overused and ludicrous that statement is.

In the safety of the kitchen I fumble with a bottle of Perrier and wonder why I let Brock Chandler in here in the first place.

On my way out of the kitchen, I find him standing in the dining room over my open laptop. “Uh. Please don’t read that.”

The side grin he gives says it’s too late. I put the bottle and two tumblers on the table and slide my fingers through my hair. Brock gives a low whistle and sits.

“This is your blog? You’re Jane, right?”

“Original, I know.” Jane’s Journal. It was all I could come up with at the time, but it stuck. I sigh and sit beside him. No use hiding it now. I pour fizzy water, slide a glass his way, and take a long sip.

I watch him scroll through the various posts in silence. “You write well.” Finally, he pushes the laptop away and sets serious eyes on me. “Your last post was three weeks ago.”

I nod. “When I first started blogging, it was more about Shelby. About dealing with the loss of a child. It was a good thing. Maybe even a healing thing. But now . . . all I seem to do is vent. And my anger spreads faster than the flu.” I run my hands down my face with a groan. “I don’t think this is helping anyone. Least of all me.”

Brock drums his fingers on the table, thoughtful. “Remember when we talked about prioritizing, figuring out what you want? Putting the rest aside?”

“Sure.”

“Maybe, and I could be wrong, but maybe you might want to set this aside now. It seems to have served its original purpose. Don’t you think?”

“I guess. It’s just . . .” It’s been a part of me so long, a refuge of sorts, that it’s hard to let go.

“Nothing says you have to quit writing if you don’t want to. But start fresh. This isn’t you, Savannah.”

“What makes you think you know me so well?” I try to sound annoyed. But he’s right. The angry, bitter, and sometimes spiteful woman I turned into after Kevin’s desertion doesn’t suit my current demeanor or my present-day surroundings.

“I’m not sure.” He nails me with that half grin again and it’s impossible to look away. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. But somehow I feel I do. Know you.”

I try not to exhale too loudly. He’s getting awfully close to giving Clarice a run for her money with her mind-reading abilities. Because I feel the same about him and I’m pretty sure he knows it.

“Well. You have a point.” I smile, feeling more hopeful than I have in weeks. “Maybe it is time to let it go. I think I’m ready to move on.”

“Good.” The way his eyes search my face sets my heart racing again.

Food. We need food. And I need to get out from under the heat of that stare. “Um. I have leftover pasta. We should eat.”

“Shall I open more wine?” He follows me into the kitchen.

I turn, back up against the granite counter, and shake my head. “I think I’ll stick to water.”

Brock nods and raises the glass of water he’s holding. “Probably wise.” He takes a few sips, his eyes fixed on me. A light shadow of stubble outlines his jaw and I wonder what he’d do if I ran my finger over it.

The insane thought almost chases me from the room.

I must be drunk.

Except I don’t think I am.

Which means I’m actually attracted to him. Like I didn’t know that already.

But seriously contemplating doing something about it? That thought terrifies me.

“So.” Brock puts his glass down next to mine. “Do you have any other secrets you’d like to share with me, Savannah?”

Oh boy. I hoist myself upward and sit on the counter, swinging my feet like I used to as a kid. My mother would not approve. Of any of this. “Not right now.”

“Pity.” He plants his palms on the counter on either side of me. For a long, mesmerizing moment, he just stands there and stares. “I think there must be at least ten different colors in your eyes. They’re kind of fascinating.”

“My eyes are fascinating?” I tap him on the chest, laughter building. “That’s the best line you can come up with, Mr. New York Times bestseller man?” Okay, I’m flirting now. Shamelessly.

“All right. Give me a minute.” Brock smiles and tips his head. His thick hair is mussed, a wave curling the wrong way.

My hand moves of its own accord and brushes it back into place. The moment it’s done, I inhale and close my eyes against the truth of it. Because I know I’ve just crossed the line.

“Savannah.” The way he breathes my name confirms it. I don’t dare think about what might come next. Not until he moves forward, slides his arms around me, and holds my gaze, seeking some kind of affirmation. He shakes his head, his lips mere inches from mine. “You don’t want this.”

“Yes, I do.” My husky whisper echoes around the kitchen and startles me. I let my fingers finally touch his face. “You have no idea how much.”

“You are very wrong about that, darlin’.” He angles his head slightly and presses his lips to mine in one exquisite moment that is both beautiful and unbearable. A low moan gets stuck in his throat as he pulls me close until I’m crushed against him, his hands warm on my back, then tangling through my hair while his kiss becomes more demanding.

My arms lock around his neck and he lifts me in one easy motion, still searching, seeking, and finding my answer in the way I’m responding to him. It’s only once we’re on the couch and he’s trailing hot kisses down my neck and reaching for the first button on my shirt that I realize exactly what we’re doing and where this is headed.

And just how far I have fallen in less than five minutes.

“I can’t. Brock . . . stop.” I push him off me and struggle to sit up. My breath hitches in my throat and my pulse is pounding like I’ve just run ten miles. “Oh, Lord, help me.” I bury my head in my hands and loud, aching sobs wrangle their way from my chest.

Because I know now.

It happens that fast.

Attraction. Desire. Longing.

It’s that instantaneous.

That dangerous.

And that easy to act on.

“Savannah.” Brock sits beside me and puts an arm around my shaking shoulders. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. That was way out of line.”

“Yes. No. I wanted . . . Oh, Brock. I wanted it to happen.” I did. I absolutely did.

I flash him a look and the sadness on his face sears me. I think I’m hysterical, but he doesn’t seem to care. He just sits there, lets me burrow into his wool sweater and weep. For everything I’ve lost, everything I almost gave away, and maybe everything I still want but don’t really believe I’ll get.

By the time he pulls on his coat, it’s been dark a long time.

It feels like we’ve talked for days, yet it’s only been a few hours. I’ve told him everything about Kevin. His betrayal. My utter devastation and continued confusion. I’ve confessed my guilt over Shelby’s death, shared my feelings of inadequacy—everything. Things I didn’t even realize I was still holding on to. And somehow he seems to understand.

Like that first moment we met, when he looked at me as if he already knew my deepest secrets.

I stand with him at the front door, our fingers laced together. “Why do I feel like I’ve known you forever?”

He blinks, gives a beleaguered shrug and a sad smile that threatens to do more damage to my already broken heart. “Maybe you have. You just didn’t know my name.” His warm hands cradle my face while a million regrets move through his eyes. “Another place, another time, things would be different.”

“I think so.” Tears wet my lashes and cheeks and he wipes them away with the base of his thumbs. “But right now I’m not so sure I’ll ever learn to love again.”

“Don’t say that.” He tips my chin and studies me for an achingly long moment. “You will, Savannah. I know it.”

“Are we . . . What do we do now?” I don’t even know how to say it. “Can we still see each other?”

Brock’s laughter warms me, makes me believe we’ll actually get through this moment. “Shoot, darlin’, you’re not getting rid of me that easy. Besides, I need all the friends I can get.”

“That sounds familiar.” I step back and let him go with a sigh that says more than it should. “And you still haven’t told me your story. Not all of it.”

“No, I haven’t.” Brock pulls on his cap and yanks up the zipper on his coat. “You’re not ready for it. Not yet.”

I have no idea what that means and I can’t ask him because he’s already heading down the steps and jogging into the dark night. Away from me.

A sob rises in my throat as I shut the front door and lean against it. And then my cellphone starts singing, “All You Need Is Love.”

Kevin.

I have no idea why he’s calling me again. And at this hour.

And I refuse to find out.