Love Will Find a Way (11 page)

"Good. Thanks for calling me back."

"No problem. You wanted to ask me something about Gary?"

"Right." Dylan paused, not sure exactly how to broach the subject. Mike was an architect at Gary's firm. If Gary had gone to a bachelor party in Lake Tahoe for an associate, Mike would have been invited. But Dylan didn't want to share any suspicions with Mike. He had to be careful or rumors would be flying. "I'm going to help Rachel finish the house that Gary started to build for them," he said.

Mike let out a low whistle. "The house. I'd forgotten about that. It wasn't completed, huh?"

"No, just the framing. I wondered if Gary had left anything at the office on the project."

"I think his assistant boxed everything up and shipped it to Rachel right after the funeral."

"I'll check with Rachel, then. By the way, she mentioned that Gary had gone to Tahoe for a bachelor party. So who got married -- Jacob?"

Mike laughed. "No way. Jacob likes to play the field."

"Following in your footsteps, huh?"

"He's a smart man. What can I say?" Mike paused. "But Gary had told me he was going to Tahoe to meet an old friend."

An old friend?
Those were the same words Connie had used. Why hadn't Gary told him about an old friend? And who was this person? It would have to be someone Dylan knew.
An old girlfriend, maybe?
There had been dozens in high school and college. Where would he even start?

"Did Gary happen to mention a name? I'm just curious."

"I don't remember if he did, but I got the feeling it was a woman. Don't tell Rachel I said that," he added quickly.

"Why? Was something going on?"

"No, I'm sure not," Mike denied. "Look, I gotta run. Anything else?"

"No, thanks."

"Give me a call when you're done house building. We'll have a drink."

"Sure." Dylan ended the call with an uneasy feeling in his gut. Who the hell had Gary gone to see in Tahoe? If he could figure that out, the rest of the story would follow.

His chest tightened when he saw Rachel's minivan turn into the driveway and come up the hill. He wondered if he should tell her about the supposed "old friend" in Gary's life. But he didn't know anything specific, and until he did, he should probably keep the information to himself.

"Hi," Rachel said as she got out of the van. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a light blue t-shirt, she looked both cool and casual. She handed him a cardboard cylinder. "The plans are in here."

"Thanks. Let's take a look."

"In a second," she replied.

He saw the worry in her eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Nothing?"

"Well, probably nothing. Oh, damn Carly anyway!"

"Carly? What did she do?"

"She told me Gary had phone calls from some woman named Laura. Do you know who she was talking about?"

"Laura? I don't think so," he said slowly. "I can't think of anyone off the top of my head."

"Neither can I. But after I spoke to Carly, I looked through the phone bills and saw some numbers I didn't recognize."

Dylan tensed. "Did you call any of them?"

"Not yet. I couldn't quite bring myself to do it."

"Any cities stand out?"

"There
were a bunch
-- Las Vegas, New York, Los Angeles, Reno, maybe others. I scanned the numbers quickly."

"Reno?" He jumped on that one. Reno was only thirty minutes from Lake Tahoe. Maybe there was a connection there. "What about Tahoe?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No, but I don't have the bills for Gary's cell phone; those were paid by his firm. I'm sure the calls are all reasonable and innocent."

"Probably," he agreed.

"I didn't realize Gary knew so many people in so many different places."

"His business took him all over the country."

"Yes." She paused.
 
"I can't stop thinking about the perfume bottle in Gary's apartment."

"Rachel –"

"I know, the perfume might not mean anything. But when I put it together with phone calls from someone named Laura, a woman Gary never mentioned to me, I get a bad feeling. I didn't think Gary had secrets from me, but it appears that he did."

"You don't know that. Maybe the calls just weren't important enough to mention."

"Maybe. I can't do this, Dylan. I can't question every little thing. I'll go crazy. I am going crazy." She bit down on her bottom lip, struggling to hang on to her composure.

He dug his hands into his pockets, struggling against his instinct to offer comfort.

They both lost the battle.

Rachel burst into tears and he reached for her, drawing her against his chest. "It's okay," he murmured. "It's okay."

She cried a river of tears that streamed down her cheeks and soaked through his shirt. She hung on to him like he was the only buoy in a raging sea, and he couldn't have let her go even if he wanted to.

"God, I'm sorry," she sniffed as the sobs finally began to lessen. She pulled away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't know why I keep crying. I'm usually pretty controlled."

"You're entitled. It's been a long six months, hasn't it?"

"Yes. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday that I saw him, and other times it feels like a million years ago. But crying won't bring him back or help me get to the truth. I shouldn't be wasting my time with tears."

"It's not always a waste. If you keep everything inside, it will eat you alive."

She sent him a startled look. "What did you say?"

"It's not a waste of time."

"Not that, the other part. Gary used to say that. If you keep everything inside, it will eat you alive."

No wonder the words had come so easily to him. "You're right. He said that to me, more than a few times."

"Because you keep it all in. That's what Gary said. You swallow your problems whole and have indigestion for a week."

"He said that about me?" For the first time, he wondered what else Gary had shared about him. He'd never really considered that he might have been a part of their conversations, their lives.

She nodded. "Was he right?"

"Partly. But I don't get indigestion; I get insomnia. I haven't had a good night's sleep in ten years. As soon as I lie down, my brain goes into overdrive. Everything I pushed to the back of my mind during the day comes rushing out, demanding attention."

"Gary could fall asleep in about three seconds. It didn't matter what time of day. If he wanted a nap, he'd lie down and take a nap, just like that. He never lost sleep over anything. He didn't worry. He didn't sweat the small stuff.
 
Not like me.
 
Anyway…" She picked up the cylinder that had slipped to the ground. "We got off track. Here are the plans. You should take a look at them."

She didn't sound too excited to focus on the house, and in truth he wasn't ready yet either. "I have a better idea."

"What?"

"Show me around the farm. I don't think I've ever had the full tour."

She gave him a doubtful look. "I didn't think you ever wanted one."

"Well, I do now."

She hesitated. "All right. But I can pretty much guarantee you'll learn far more than you ever wanted to know about apples."

"I think I can handle it."

She smiled. "You say that now, but we'll see how you feel after one hundred and fifteen acres of apples."

"That many, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. Then there's the barn, the packing shed, the kitchen, the gift shop, the picnic area. Oh, and the pumpkin patch, which will be in full swing by next week."

"No pony rides?" he asked with a grin, pleased that his distraction had worked. Just thinking about her farm had brought pleasure to Rachel's eyes. And he was willing to look at every single tree on the property if that would keep the joy on her face for a while longer.

"Not yet. But I
won't say never
. The apple business isn't what it used to be. We've had to supplement our income any way we can."

He was surprised at the complexity of their operation. For some reason, he'd thought it was just trees and apples. Gary hadn't talked much about the farm. Or had he just tuned out everything that concerned Gary's life with Rachel?

"Still game?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"You can follow me this time." She turned toward her minivan. "That fancy car of yours isn't going to stay too clean with all the dirt around here. Gary was forever washing and waxing his car."

"Gary loved that car."

"Yes, he did." She shook her head. "There it is again, that little ping in my heart. I wonder when that will stop happening. Sometimes I'm afraid it won't ever stop. And then again, sometimes I'm afraid it will stop. That I'll forget something I shouldn't forget."

"You won't." He held her gaze for a long second,
then
let it go. There were other things he wanted to say. But the words wouldn't come. It was probably better that way.

Rachel had been right. Dylan now knew more about apples than he'd ever wanted to know, including the six different varieties grown at
AppleWood
Farms. He'd seen pickers harvesting one section of the orchard, a group of workers in the packing shed sorting apples, still more employees working the pumpkin patch, the fruit stand by the road and the gift shop in the barn that sold everything from apples to apple butter, apple pie, apple napkins and apple jewelry.

Rachel had explained the various tourist operations and pointed out the U-Pick section of the orchard, where visitors could pick their own apples and picnic by a trickling stream. She'd also introduced him to a large number of people she called cousins, including one named Wally, who was hoping to win the Biggest Pumpkin Award at the Annual Harvest Festival in two weeks' time.

Throughout the tour, Rachel had given him every last detail about planting, pruning, harvesting and shipping. It was clear that she loved the farm, loved the sights and the smells. There was pride in her voice as she talked about the land that had belonged to her family for over a hundred years. Dylan wondered what it would feel like to be a part of something so old, so treasured, so loved. He couldn't begin to imagine.

"So what do you think?" she asked as she led him up the side of a small hill. She flung out her hands at the vista that unfolded before them.

It was a pretty sight, lines of trees broken up by fields of flowers and rolling hills in the distance. But it wasn't the view that stirred him; it was Rachel. Her face was pink from the sun, her hair blowing loose in the breeze, her eyes alight with a pleasure he hadn't seen since she'd shown up on his job site two days earlier.

Something inside him turned over as he looked into her eyes. He wanted to make this moment last, to keep the light in her eyes and the smile on her face. He wanted it for her, he told himself. He wanted her to be happy for a while, to be free of the sadness that she wore like a second skin. But, selfishly, he also wanted this moment for himself, when it was just the two of them, when they weren't haunted by guilt or betrayal or doubts. Unfortunately, just thinking about those emotions brought them all back.

"Well," Rachel prodded, "have I left you speechless?"

"You could say that."

"Come on. I've been working my fingers to the bone for years to keep this place going. Now I want compliments, praise. Let's hear it."

He couldn't help responding to the teasing note in her voice, "You have a very impressive farm. Is that better?"

"Yes." She let out a sigh as she gazed at the valley. "I love this place. I always have." She flopped down on the ground and picked at a piece of grass.

"I can tell," he said, sitting down next to her. "Pride of ownership in every note of your voice."

"I'm not the only owner. Everyone in the family has a share, even if it's a small one. My grandfather believes that you care more about the things that belong to you."

"He's probably right about that."

"There's no 'probably' about it, not when you're talking about my grandfather," she said with a smile. "His way or the highway, that's what my dad used to say. They argued all the time. They were as different as two men could be. My father was much more impulsive and fun loving. Whereas my grandfather is intense, driven, dedicated. I think it comes from his being in the military when he was younger. He likes to give orders and he expects people to take them."

"So who do you follow?" Dylan asked. "Your father or your grandfather?"

"I'd like to say I have the best of both of them in me, but sometimes I think I have all their faults."

"Like what?"

"Procrastination -- my father. Stubbornness -- my grandfather. I'm not sure I should admit to any more."

"What happened to your mother? You told me that your parents divorced, but I don't think I know what happened to her. Is she still alive?"

"I have no idea. I haven't seen or heard from her in years. We weren't very important to her. She had other things in her life that she cared more about."

He heard the bitterness and had a feeling it ran deep. "What other things?"

"My mother was an artist, a painter. A really good one, too, my dad used to say. When I think of her, I see her standing in front of an easel in a corner of her studio, wearing a bright pink smock. She'd stand and stare at that canvas for hours on end."

"And what would you do?"

"Watch her, mostly. Once I tried to paint. I wanted to be like her, but I used her expensive oils and made a huge mess. She was furious. That's the last time I picked up a brush."

"You were a kid. Only natural to mimic your mother."

"She didn't appreciate it at all." Rachel's expression was distant, as if she were back in that place, that memory. "Anyway, my parents broke up shortly after that. I tried to apologize for what I'd done, but my mother went on with her life, and we came back here. She wrote and called a few times the first couple of years, but then it ended. Out of sight, out of mind."

"You don't think you were responsible, do you?"