Love Will Find a Way (19 page)

"He will. You'll make sure of it. Even if you have to dig up some more dirty jokes."

"They were not dirty," she said her cheeks warming with color. "They were all rated PG."

He rolled on to his side, propping his own head up on one elbow. They were face-to-face now, closer than was wise, but neither one of them pulled back.

"I like how you do that."

"What?" she asked, a nervous, edgy note in her voice.

"Blush like an innocent girl."

"It's a family trait. Even Carly turns red at the least provocation. And my grandfather can still make my grandmother blush with just a smile."

"A knowing smile, I'll bet. They seem very much in love."

"They are. They've been together fifty years."

"That's amazing."

"Yes," she said quietly. "What are we doing, Dylan?"

"Talking?" He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. He saw a leap of something in her eyes. His heart wanted to call it desire. His head knew better than to call it that. But there was something between them, something unspoken, untried, something better left alone, no doubt.

"Mommy!" Wesley squealed. "Rusty got all wet."

Rachel sat up and Dylan followed. They looked at Rusty, who sat in the middle of the stream, the Frisbee in his mouth.

"I guess he needed a bath," she called. "Come on back now, Wes. We need to pack up and get home. You have school tomorrow."

"I haven't heard those words in a long time," Dylan muttered.

"We lead different lives," Rachel said as she began to put away their things. "But you already knew that."

"Yeah, I knew that." He grabbed her wrist. "The line is back, isn't it?"

"It never went away."

"I think it did -- for a few hours anyway."

"I can't be on my guard all the time."

"I don't want you to be on your guard with me."

"I can't help it. I don't know what to do about you, Dylan," she whispered. "You make me feel things I don't want to feel. You always have." She pulled her arm away and got to her feet. "Rusty, come here, boy," she called.

And as Rachel surrounded herself with a barking dog and a chattering kid, he knew that she'd just put on an armor he couldn't possibly penetrate. Nor did he know if he even wanted to get closer. She might not know what to do about him, but he had even fewer ideas on what to do about her. He'd spent the last decade trying to forget the one kiss they'd shared, trying to think of her only as his best friend's wife, and it had worked – until now.

* * *

Carly
stared at the open drawers in the filing cabinet, the pile of papers on the desk and the boxes on the floor. An uneasy feeling made her stomach turn over. Rachel was looking for something. Had she found it? But if she had, she would have said something to someone. Maybe she should tell her more of what she knew. But if she did that, she'd have to tell Rachel how she'd gotten the information. She couldn't do that. Rachel wouldn't understand.

Only Gary had understood. And Gary had understood because he was more like her than he was like Rachel, yet Rachel couldn't see that.

She didn't want to be the one to tell her that either. In fact, she regretted telling her about the phone calls from the mysterious Laura. But she'd wanted Rachel to stop shutting her out. Judging by the chaos in the study, she'd opened a door that couldn't be closed again.

Speaking of doors, the front door of the house slammed, and Carly heard Rachel tell Wesley to go upstairs and wash up. Then her footsteps came down the hallway, pausing in front of the door to the study. She turned around, feeling somewhat nervous as Rachel entered the room.

"Oh, you're here," Rachel said. "I can explain all this."

"Did you find something?"

Rachel hesitated. "Some phone numbers I didn't recognize.

She wondered if one of those numbers belonged to Laura. It still bothered her that Gary hadn't told her who Laura was. She'd thought they were close friends, confidants. But on the subject of Laura he had been silent, unusual for him, which had made his behavior even more disturbing.

Rachel sat down behind the desk. "What a mess. I have to get a better filing system."

Carly perched on the edge of the desk. She picked up a phone bill upon which Rachel had circled several numbers in red. "Did you call any of these?"

"One," Rachel admitted.

"And?" Carly prodded when Rachel didn't continue.

"The number belongs to Gary's father. He apparently lives in Las Vegas."

"What?" she asked in shock. "Gary said his father was dead. Why would he lie about it?"

"Who knows?" Rachel said wearily.

"Did you speak to his father?"

"No, but Dylan confirmed the fact he is alive."

She stood up and began to pace, feeling strangely betrayed by the information. She'd trusted Gary with her secrets, but he obviously hadn't trusted her. Of course, she didn't have nearly as much right as Rachel did to feel betrayed. She wasn't Gary's wife, only his sister-in- law, but still, the lie stung. "What the hell was he thinking?" she said out loud.

"I don't know. I didn't think Gary had secrets from me.
 
I thought we had trust. I thought we had truth."

Carly looked away from the pain in Rachel's eyes, knowing that she hadn't been completely honest either. "Maybe he believed he was protecting you," she muttered. Because wasn't that her reason?

"Protecting me from what? I need to find answers. I don't know if they're here or in Gary's apartment or one of the boxes sent home from his office. Hell, maybe the answers are in my own bedroom and I've been walking right past them."

"You do have a tendency to put blinders on. I'm not saying that to hurt you, but sometimes you don't see what's right in front of you."

"Meaning what?" Rachel demanded, irritation on her face.

"I'm not sure Gary was as happy living here as you were."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't have to. I saw the smile on his face every Monday morning. He was eager to get back to the city."

"To get away from me. Thanks. That's just what I needed to hear, Carly."

"I'm sorry. Maybe you're not as ready for the truth as you think you are."

"Maybe I'm not," Rachel said with a sigh. "So what happened with Antonio? Did you feed him an apple yet?"

"No. He went to New York. He'll be back on Tuesday."

"Ah, a reprieve, time for you to come to your senses."

"I have all my senses in fine working order," Carly retorted. "I want that man, and I'm going to get him."

"Such single-minded determination. If you could only turn it in a more productive direction."

"My plan will be very productive. You'll see. Just like you, I'll get the man I want."

Rachel frowned. "About that, Carly. I was younger than you, and possibly even more foolish, which I'll admit now. You should learn from my mistakes. Don't rush into this. Get to know Antonio. If it's meant to be, it will be."

"I don't have that kind of time. He's leaving for good in a couple of weeks."

"And you're going to leave with him? How can you do that? Won't you miss us?"

"Of course I'll miss you. I love you." She stumbled over words that she always meant to say but never quite got around to saying.

"I love you, too. I wouldn't want you to leave."

"But I can't stay just because you'll miss me," she said.

Rachel suddenly looked stricken. "God, you sound just like Mom. She said the exact same thing to me.
I can't stay just because you'll miss me
."

"I didn't know that."

"Yes, she said, 'I'll miss you, but I have to go, and you have to let me go.' As if I had a choice in the matter. She was going no matter what. And you are, too, aren't you?"

"Well, not yet," she said, unable to bear the pain on her sister's face.

Rachel's gaze bored into hers. "You really hate it here so much? Do you think that's how Gary felt? Am I some kind of a monster, holding people back from their dreams?"

"You're not a monster,
Rach
. You just love really deeply when you love. Sometimes your grasp gets too tight."

"If I don't hold on, people leave. But apparently my grip isn't tight enough, because I just can't keep the people I love in my life." She paused. "The blinders are finally off, Carly, and this time they're off for good."

"What does that mean?"

"No more lying – not even to myself. I'm going to find out the truth about my husband."

"Then what?"

"I don't know." She gave Carly a long look. "I don't want you to leave the farm, but I'm not going to try to stop you. You have to live your life, and I have to find a way to live mine."

Rachel wanted to put the blinders back on late Monday afternoon, along with a good, strong pair of earplugs, because she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Mrs. Harrington, Wesley's teacher, had to be wrong.

"The test scores are very accurate, Mrs. Tanner." Mrs. Harrington tapped her number two pencil against the score sheet in front of her.

"But no one has ever said anything before. I don't understand." Rachel gazed at the test scores that had just turned her world upside down. She'd always known Wesley was bright, but not this bright.

"Your son is very gifted. Wesley is a third grader reading at a tenth-grade level. He answered every single one of his math problems correctly, ten percent of which involved calculations not taught in our school until the sixth grade. He didn't miss one, not one."

"Maybe he just got lucky. He's a smart kid, but --"

"He's more than smart. He's truly remarkable."

"I don't know what to say."

"You'll need to think and do some research, but I'd be happy to help you in any way I can."

"What would I be researching?" Rachel asked awkwardly. Mrs. Harrington frowned. She was probably wondering where Wesley had gotten his brains, definitely not from Rachel's side of the family, judging by how many times Mrs. Harrington had had to repeat herself

"Schools, of course. This is a wonderful elementary school, but we don't have the technology, the science labs,
the
art classes, the math projects that will stimulate and challenge Wesley. There are some very good small, private schools in San Francisco. I can give you a list if you like."

"Wesley isn't going to change schools," she replied, shocked by the suggestion. "We live here."

"I understand it's a lot to digest all at once. But I hope you'll think very seriously about making a move. Your child deserves a chance to challenge his incredible mind."

"Couldn't you move him up a grade?"

"I'd have to move him up to middle school at the very least, and that would be difficult socially and emotionally."

"Middle school? He's eight years old."

"Exactly. That's why he needs a special school where he can be with children his own age who are also very bright. If he stays at his grade level in our school, he'll simply be bored and probably lose all interest in learning, and who can blame him? I have twenty-seven other children to consider. I don't have the time to give Wesley extra projects, not without it coming at the expense of the other children."

"I don't know. I can't think right now, I bet that sounds funny. I'm the mother of a genius, and I can't even think."

"It's understandable. It's a lot to take in all at once." The teacher pushed a file folder across the desk. "I've collected some information that will get you started."

She took the folder but didn't bother to open it. She doubted she could read a word with her mind spinning the way it was. She'd come to the conference thinking it was about Wesley's reluctance to admit his father was dead, not about his IQ or some tests that he'd taken. He'd always done well in school. He'd read at an early age, but she hadn't noticed anything abnormal. Had she been wearing blinders with Wesley, too?

"Mrs. Tanner?"

"What?" she started, realizing that the teacher was regarding her with some
concern.

"Are you all right? You look pale."

"I'm fine."

"There is something else. While Wesley's test scores are exceptional, in the past week I've noticed
a deterioration
in his actual schoolwork. In fact, today he deliberately misspelled several words on a spelling quiz. Words that he had spelled correctly three times before."

"Okay, now I'm totally confused."

"I believe Wesley's determination to stick to his fantasy of his father's eventual return is due in part to his extreme intelligence. For the first time in his young life, Wesley doesn't want to believe the facts in his head. So he's rejecting them. Perhaps he believes that if he's right about the spelling, his brain might be telling him the truth about his father, which is unacceptable. So he purposely makes errors."

"Wesley doesn't want to believe himself? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes. Although I'd highly recommend that you speak to a counselor who has greater training in this area than I do. Wesley is a wonderful child, a bit more complicated than most, but perhaps that's the other side of genius."

"Genius," Rachel echoed, still not believing that word could possibly relate to her son. She got to her feet, desperate to leave before Mrs. Harrington told her something else she didn't want to hear.

"I'm available if you wish to speak further about this," Mrs. Harrington added as Rachel opened the door.

"Thank you." Rachel walked out into the hall. Wesley sat at a nearby table. He didn't even look up at her, so engrossed was he in coloring something on a piece of paper.

The sight reminded her of her mother. In her mind she could see her mother with a paintbrush in her hand, completely absorbed in her work. Now it was Wesley with a crayon in his hand, completely absorbed in his work. Oh, God! But this wasn't the same situation. It wasn't even close. She pulled out a small chair at Wesley's table and sat down.

"Hi, there," she said, forcing away any hint of anxiety or panic. "What are you doing?"

"Do you like my picture, Mommy?" Wesley moved his hand so she could see his drawing. It was a house, a house very much like the one they were building. His drawing was excellent, too, the lines straight, the curves in the right places. There was a purpose to the sketch, a sense of planning and organization. It could have been drawn by a much older child, or an adult, or his father.