Chapter 28
Back in Clarkston, Sam licked his wounds. Trying to sort out his emotions was like untangling skeins of Christmas lights without breaking any bulbs.
First, lust. Lumber Jack’s axe handle had nothing on him after seeing what that epitome of manhood had done with his woman, even if it was all pantomime.
Shame. If he really cared for Red, he should have been revolted by those erotic acts, not aroused. Yet more proof of how undeserving he was of her.
Jealousy. No explanation needed.
Finally, anger at himself for ruining their good thing. It had taken losing Red to realize—they almost had it all.
The next few days passed in a haze of remorse and self-loathing. He holed up in his office, speaking only when spoken to.
He missed Red. He thought of her buoyant personality. Her lush body, once his personal playground. Her logic, often the only thing that kept him grounded.
He would never have that again. Red wasn’t the sort of woman who would be trampled on. She’d made that clear.
He couldn’t sleep. He knew he should eat, but he wasn’t hungry. He stared into his kitchen cupboards looking for something that piqued his appetite. Turned over random jars and packages, searching for expiration dates, then, one by one, put them back, even one that had expired before he moved in.
Finally, sheer loneliness forced him back to the light and warmth of Poppy’s Café. He ventured in at an odd hour between breakfast and lunch, when he knew Red would be at work.
Poppy set a mug in front of him and poured him a coffee. “Where you been, stranger? Was getting ready to send out the National Guard.”
He had almost forgotten that the women didn’t know they had been spied on.
“The usual. Work.”
Poppy rested her pot on the Formica. Lowering her voice so the few other patrons wouldn’t overhear them, she tipped her head and said, “Sorry about things with you and Red.”
She knew that he’d lied by omission about the saltbox. He couldn’t bear to meet her eyes, to see the judgment in them.
“Bad news travels fast.”
“If it makes you feel any better, she’s as torn up over it as you are.”
His eyes on the scratched tabletop, he sipped the hot liquid carefully. “Who says I’m torn up?”
“Tell me the last meal you ate.”
He thought back. “Half a canister of peanut butter-filled pretzels and a vending machine burrito?”
Poppy slid into the padded bench across from him. “Why don’t you talk to her? Red’s one of the easiest persons there is to talk to. It’s what she does.”
He looked up at Poppy’s perfectly symmetrical face, her imploring blue eyes, recalling when she was a knobby-kneed kid with pale eyelashes coming in from the playground with leaves tangled in her cottony blond hair. Only in rare moments like these did it occur to him how she must appear to someone seeing her now, for the first time.
Stunningly good looks aside, how could she, of all people, know what it was like to be him? She was born into a loving, two-parent family, a family who cherished her and ultimately handed her this established business on a platter. Not a silver platter, but still. From where he sat, Poppy had it all.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, still gripping the coffeepot that by now had become like a natural extension of her arm.
No sense in refuting her. She knew him, too. Or parts of him.
“Now, you’re marrying a smart, successful brewer.” Heath. A noble man, unlike himself.
“I’ve had my share of problems.”
Of course. Caught up in his own ego, he had forgotten about the times the sadistic Ms. Baker made Poppy stand up at the whiteboard and struggle to parse sentences till she was in tears, and their classmates were shifting in their seats. If Poppy had truly had it all, that woman wouldn’t have been allowed within a mile of a classroom.
“You’re a decent person, Poppy. I’m lucky to have you for a friend.”
She smiled kindly. “I know what you need. How about a nice roast beef sandwich?”
His frozen insides thawed a bit. “Is that what I smell back there?”
Poppy slid out of her booth. “I marinated it in rosemary, thyme, and garlic. It’s been slow cooking since last night. Should be nice and tender. If you want, I’ll give you the end piece.” She lifted a brow.
His mouth watered. “It does smell pretty good.”
* * * *
Sam stepped out of Poppy’s Café onto Main Street, his stomach pleasantly full. The three cups of coffee he’d downed helped cut through the fog. That, and a kind word from an old friend made him feel almost human again.
In the window of The Radish Rose, he spotted one of the many signs plastered around town heralding Dr. Sophia McDonald as Clarkston’s Best Therapist.
Though he’d seen it a hundred times, he stopped to stare.
The first chuckle in days escaped his throat, and he found himself smiling. How many therapists did a town the size of Clarkston have, anyway? Five, at most.
Still. Even if there were a thousand, he bet Doc would still be the best.
It dawned on him, standing there in the middle of Main Street, what he had to do if he were ever to get back in her good graces…to salvage some remnant of what she had optimistically called their “relationship.”
Talk.
It sounded so simple. But it would be one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.