More Than Words Can Say (28 page)

Wondering something, Chelsea looked quizzically at Brandon. “Why didn’t you just run the boat up onto the beach a bit?” she asked. “That would seem easier to me than anchoring it.”

Before answering, Brandon poured two glasses of wine. “The answer’s simple,” he said. “Her hull’s made of highly polished mahogany. The sand would have scratched it. And don’t you dare run her up on your beach, either. Tomorrow I’ll rig up a permanent anchor for you offshore by your cottage because I know that raising and lowering the boat in the boathouse cradle is a real chore for one person.”

Chelsea took her first sip of wine. “Why can’t I just leave her tied up at my dock?” she asked.

“That’s okay during the day, provided you’re at home to keep tabs on her,” he answered. “But for overnight, she should always be anchored. If a storm comes up, she’ll tear loose from the dock and be carried away. It’s the same for my plane.”

That made sense to Chelsea, and she nodded.
I’ve learned a great deal since I’ve been here,
she thought.
And I also have a feeling that there’s much more to know about Brandon, Brooke’s past, and Lake Evergreen . . .

“Now then,” Brandon said. “Let’s get a look at what the Fabiennes supplied us with this time. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving!”

He cut up some of the cheese and sausage, sliced the bread, opened the pâté, and handed some of everything to Chelsea before starting in himself. Chelsea liked watching him eat. Although his manners were always good, he was never dainty about it or stood on ceremony, like some of the men she had known in Syracuse. Yet again, she realized, he seemed to be so much in his element here on this sandy beach, with no seeming need to impress her or anyone else.

When they had finished, the sun was already touching the western horizon. It would be dark soon, Chelsea realized, and she was becoming a bit worried about getting home safely. Lake Evergreen wasn’t huge, but it was certainly large enough to get lost on. Just then she realized why Brandon had asked her to leave all of her cottage lights lit, and she smiled.

“I just figured it out,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Why you had us leave all the lights on in our cottages,” she said.

Brandon smiled. “Oh, yeah?” he asked while taking another sip of the very good wine. “Why’s that?”

“Once we get near enough, they’ll serve as beacons and guide us the rest of the way in,” she said proudly.

Brandon nodded. “Yeah, but once you see the lights, how can you be sure that the cottages we’re heading for will be ours and not somebody else’s? If we relied only on that, we could end up way off course. Not to mention anchoring off someone else’s beach!”

Chelsea had to admit that she was stumped again. “Okay, wise guy,” she said, “so how
do
we know the cottages are ours?”

“Because there are only eighty or so cottages on the entire lake,” he said. “And in our area, there are no two so close to each other. So when we return on a reverse course and then see lights that are side by side, they must be ours. Greg Butler once told me that it all goes back to when your great-grandfather divided his lot and sold part of it to Greg.”

“Of course . . . ,” Chelsea mused. “That makes sense . . .”

Just then Brandon wiped his hands and stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute or two,” he said.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Firewood,” he answered simply, then he turned and strode into the woods, the maple trees seeming to immediately engulf him.

With Brandon gone, Chelsea suddenly became a bit apprehensive. She knew that he would return, of course, but without him by her side she suddenly felt vulnerable and alone, here on this tiny speck of land.

He seems such an important part of my life now,
she thought,
whether or not I have a right to feel that way. What would it be like, I wonder, if he were suddenly gone from it?
She looked out across the restless lake once more and then up at the darkening sky.
Losing him, I have come to realize, is something that I never want to experience . . .

About twenty minutes later Brandon reappeared, his arms loaded down with fallen, dried limbs and logs. He had also collected some desiccated leaves and twigs to use as kindling. After giving her a comforting smile, he began setting a fire. Soon there was a good-size blaze going, doing a respectable job of warding off the encroaching darkness and cold. Just then Chelsea remembered something that Margot had said.

Romantic indeed . . . ,
she thought.

No sooner had they gotten settled again than Brandon spied something down the shoreline and he stood back up. Chelsea looked up at him questioningly.

“Where are you going this time?” she asked. “We were just getting comfortable!”

Brandon gave her a wink, then he took off again. When he returned he was carrying a large piece of curved driftwood, which he set down onto the sand.

“Lean back,” he said.

As Chelsea did, she found that the arched driftwood against her back felt rather comfortable. Brandon sat beside her, then he gathered up the quilt and put it over them both. As he did, Chelsea snuggled a bit closer to him. They stayed that way for some time as the waves rushed the shore, the fire crackled, and the inky night arrived at last.

Being with Brandon in such a romantic spot, Chelsea couldn’t help but feel that the two of them had somehow passed another milestone, and for that she was immensely glad. But as the fire began to fade and the stars became all the brighter for it, her doubts crept in on her again.

How many more such milestones must there be?
she wondered.
Will the wonderful man sitting beside me ever care for me the same way I do for him? He has suffered so much loss. And because of that, am I destined to love him only from afar? Will our relationship never be more physically intimate than two people sitting side by side on the sand? Will there ever be a time when he will take me in his arms, as Greg did Brooke?

As she let go a slight sigh, Chelsea laid her head on Brandon’s shoulder.

Chapter 25

H
ow much farther?” Chelsea shouted.

The climb was tough, and she was becoming tired as she followed Brandon up the trail. He turned and grinned over one shoulder.

“Stop complaining!” he said, laughing. “This was your idea, remember?”

As a trickle of sweat ran annoyingly down her back, Chelsea shook her head. “Don’t remind me!” she shouted. “I must have been crazy to suggest this!”

“Maybe!” Brandon answered. “But we’re not turning back now!”

Three days had passed since Brandon and Chelsea had visited Spinnaker Isle. Since then it had rained incessantly. While Brandon worked at the hospital, Chelsea busied herself with visiting Jenny Beauregard at the diner for breakfast each morning, perusing her grandmother’s copy of
Leaves of Grass,
restocking her grocery shelves, and calling her mother once more. And each evening, she and Brandon shared dinner. One night, Chelsea had taken her first stab at making Brooke’s MacArthuroni and Cheese, and it had been wonderful.

Having drinks and dinner with Brandon in the evening was by now a regular occurrence, one that Chelsea greatly enjoyed. Even so, Chelsea decided that she didn’t want to read any more of Brooke’s journal until she had actually visited the summit of Red Rock Mountain. She believed that going there would make her feel more grounded and better prepare her for whatever the remaining journal entries might reveal. For she now craved a more physical sense of the things Brooke had actually done, as much as Brooke’s written words. She needed to visit the place where Brooke and Greg had experienced such an important moment, to feel the same wind, to behold the same sky, and to lie back upon that same soft meadow. She now believed in her heart that doing those things would tell her as much—and perhaps even more—than would the journal. And she would not be dissuaded, no matter how hard the climb to the top of Red Rock might be.

And so for the next three nights, Brandon and Chelsea ate together and then sat before the fire talking, while Dolly and Jeeves dozed at their feet. And each night Chelsea felt her love for him deepen even further. She knew that he cared for her, too. But to her continued dismay, he had yet to say that he loved her.

And that, more than anything else, was what Chelsea wanted. For until then, their blossoming relationship would seem frighteningly breakable to her. Was it only wishful thinking to hope for his love? Perhaps, she realized. Even so, in some ways over the past few days it had been as if they were married, with her cooking dinner while waiting for him to come home. But at the end of each night Brandon had left her and taken her lovely illusion with him.

It was a particularly empty feeling for Chelsea each evening as she watched Brandon saunter back down the moonlit beach to his cottage with Jeeves following along, the waves of Lake Evergreen licking at their feet. All three nights she sat on her porch and watched, waiting patiently for his cottage lights to go out. Maybe she was being silly, but it gave her a measure of peace. And each night she had gone to bed alone, her only company the sweet memory of the time Brandon had held her as she slept. That was the physically closest she had ever been to him, and she yearned for more. More than once she had considered making the first move, hoping that he would respond and at last take her into his arms. But instead she chose to wait and let it be his decision.

If it is to happen,
she decided,
then he has to initiate it. Because that’s the only way I’ll know whether it’s real. And if it never happens, then it wasn’t meant to be . . .

Just after midnight on the fourth day, the rain finally stopped. It was a Sunday, and Brandon was finally free to escort her to the top of Red Rock. Chelsea was wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt with its tails tied around her waist, a pair of tan shorts, hiking boots, and an old Yankees ball cap of Brandon’s. A ponytail extended from the back of the cap, jauntily swaying to and fro as she hiked along. Despite her growing tiredness, she did her best to trek onward.

A bit later, Brandon stopped and turned around. After a few more paces she caught up to him, breathing heavily. Bending over at the waist, she placed her hands on her knees, trying to recover.

“You okay?” he asked.

Breathing deeply, Chelsea nodded as she stood back up. “Yeah . . . ,” she finally said. “But this . . . really takes it out of a girl.”

Brandon grinned. “Well, it really takes it out of a
city
girl, it seems,” he answered.

Chelsea took a welcome slug of water from her canteen. “Very funny,” she said while wiping her mouth. “But how much farther is it, really?”

Brandon turned and pointed. “Look,” he said.

Chelsea gazed up the trail to see shards of bright sunlight streaking here and there into the shady woods. “So we’ve made it?” she asked hopefully.

Brandon nodded. “The meadow is just beyond.”

“Thank God,” Chelsea answered.

Brandon snorted out a short laugh. “Come on,” he said. “We’re practically there.”

Moments later they stood at the edge of the woods, just as Brooke and Greg had once done. Chelsea gripped Brandon’s hand, and this time it was she who led them onward. As they stepped onto the flat, grassy meadow, Chelsea’s mouth fell open.

“My God, Brandon,” she said with awe. “Just look at it . . .”

Like Chelsea, Brandon stood there quietly, admiring the beautiful scene. When he turned toward her, he smiled knowingly.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Chelsea asked. “You knew! I just realized that, because you said that you’d been here before . . .”

“Yes,” Brandon answered.

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Simple,” he answered. “I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

The meadow was spectacular. Greg’s coneflower seeds had indeed taken root those many years ago, and over the course of the decades the resulting flowers had totally covered the field. So dense were they that they seemed to wave as one with the strong breeze that buffeted this lofty and beautiful place. It was as if a sea of violet had been born here atop the land, its bounty destined to return with every new spring.

So it’s true,
Chelsea thought as she stood staring at it.
Greg’s seeds did thrive here, and Brooke’s hope came true after all. Their forbidden love for each other does indeed go on living here year after year, even after each of them has passed from this earth. I know in my heart that Greg’s flowers will continue to come up every spring. And yes, they will wither and die each fall. But more will always arise again, both vibrant and new.

While she stood thinking for a bit longer, a tear came to one eye.

Perhaps that’s what Brooke was trying to say in her journal,
Chelsea thought.
That although some lovers’ ardor may die, it always springs eternal for others . . .

She then looked skyward, and she smiled.

“I told you it would be worth it,” Brandon said.

Chelsea turned around and again admired the meadow. “Were the coneflowers here the first time you visited?” she asked.

Brandon nodded. “Yes,” he said. “But since then, they’ve thrived.”

“I wonder if this is the same spot where Brooke and Greg stood,” Chelsea mused.

“Perhaps,” Brandon answered. “But it doesn’t matter. We know that they were once here, just as we now are.”

Chelsea nodded. “Yes . . . ,” she answered.

“Let’s get off our feet for a bit,” Brandon suggested.

As they sat down near the cliff’s edge, they heard a birdcall come from high above. Looking up, they saw a pair of hawks gracefully riding the wind currents as they hunted for their next meals. Glad for the rest, Chelsea removed her ball cap and freed her hair from its ponytail. As the wind rose again and the flowers waved gracefully, she and Brandon sat in solitude, enjoying the many splendors of this place.

After a time, Chelsea carefully reached into one of her shirt pockets and produced a sheet of tissue paper. As she began to unwrap it, Brandon looked at her quizzically.