Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (19 page)

She looked up at Preston. “It’s a 315 number.”

“Is that L.A.?”

“No. Upstate New York,” she said.

Where her family lived…
“Answer it, Elise.”

She nodded, swiping her finger across the phone. “Hello?”

At first her face was quizzical, then her eyes darted back and forth, blinking, as though in disbelief, and she gasped. And then, as he watched, as her face totally collapsed. It crumpled in agony, just as it had the first night he’d ever seen her playing Matilda, only this time, she wasn’t acting.

“What? What do you mean?”

Her eyes, which had already been watery during their intense exchange, spilled forth, rivulets of tears falling down her cheeks.

“When?” she whispered, her voice breaking into a sob.

She placed her hand against her forehead, shielding her eyes, and turned away from Preston, her shoulders shrinking inward and shaking.

“No…” she keened.
“Oh, nooo.”

Her breathing was jerky and ragged, and she made terrible, high-pitched little noises as she nodded her head slowly.

Finally she whispered, “
Ja, Datt
.”

Her arm dropped to her side, the phone slipping from her fingers and falling onto the grass.

“Elise?”

She turned around slowly, swaying slightly, her face a mask of despair.

“Pres,” she sobbed.

Worry knotted his gut as he searched her eyes. Something terrible had happened. He knew it in his bones and it made him feel sick with grief for her.

“What, sweetheart? What is it?”

“Pres,” she said again, her shoulders shuddering from the force of her sobs.

He opened his arms and she fell into them.

***

Elise’s mother had died of a stroke.

She had passed away early in the morning and was rushed to a nearby hospital only to be declared dead upon arrival. Elise’s sisters had seen to her arrangements before their father had called his youngest daughter to inform her that visitation would take place on Thursday and Friday and her funeral would be on Saturday.

With Preston’s arms around her, Elise cried her heart out, weeping over the loss of a woman who’d never understood her, who’d always been disappointed in her, who’d never accepted Elise’s chosen path. The recent fantasy-confidant version of her mother aside, Sarah Klassan been a hard-working, no-nonsense woman who had raised Elise, fed her, clothed her, and held her hand when she was ill. Their relationship had been fractured and fractious, but she’d still been Elise’s mother, and her loss—especially without forgiveness, peace, and understanding between them—hurt badly.

“Please tell me what’s happened,” said Preston, his strong arms like iron around her, holding her up, keeping her from drowning in her sorrow.

She sniffled against his shoulder, trying to catch her breath. “My-My…” She whimpered softly before continuing. “My mother d-died this m-morning.”

Once the words were said, a fresh deluge of tears spilled from her eyes, drenching Preston’s shirt. His arms tightened around her.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It was a-a s-stroke,” she managed, trying to take a deep breath and failing.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he coached her, rubbing her back gently.

“She’s d-dead, Pres. My m-mother. She’s go-o-o-ne”

“I know. I’m so, so sorry.”

She whimpered again, closing her burning eyes and finally managing to take a breath that filled her diaphragm. Taking another, she held it for a moment, breathing in the smell of Preston’s starched cotton shirt and familiar after-shave. Suddenly she realized how profoundly inappropriate it was for her to be crying all over him.

“I’m sorry.” Stepping away, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, blinking up at him. “I have to go.”

He leaned down and picked up her phone, wiping it on his pants before handing it to her, his eyes soft and concerned. “Okay.”

Her gaze drifted to the wet splotch on his shirt. “Sorry for that.”

“I don’t mind.”

She nodded, then shook her head back and forth as more tears sprang into her eyes. Her mother had been so disapproving of her career, her move to New York, Tisch, Broadway.
Stay here with me, Liebling. Don’t go.

“Elise.”

Preston’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she realized she was still standing on his lawn, weeping soundlessly, clutching her phone to her chest, atrophied in the midst of her grief. She looked up at him.
My mother is dead. My mother is gone. Help. Please, help.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home,” she said. “L-Lowville.”

He took a deep breath, releasing it on an “ahhh” sound as he nodded, his face somehow managing to be determined and uncertain at the same time. “I’m going with you.”

“What?”

“I’ll drive you.”

Her face crumpled again, and she shook her head back and forth, staring at her bare feet on the grass. “N-no. You d-don’t—”

He pulled her back into his arms and she sagged against him, so grateful for his strength and kindness and the way she didn’t feel alone for the first time in two years.

“Yes, I do. For now, you’re still my wife and—”

“Pres,” she sobbed.

He sighed deeply. “I can’t let you go alone.”

Surrendering to everything good that was her husband’s arms around her, she rested her cheek on his shoulder, taking the comfort he offered. She thanked God that she wouldn’t be alone over the next three terrible days and promised every angel in heaven, including the very newest named Sarah, that if she was given another chance with him, she would never, ever run away from him again.

Preston had walked Elise back to Chateau Nouvelle, his arm around her trembling shoulders, and left her at the front door, instructing her to pack a bag.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he said. “And we’ll go.”

“B-But…your plans.”

“I’ll cancel them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was just dinner with Jess. She’ll understand.” He’d reached for Elise’s face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Listen to me. I know you’re in shock, but I need you to walk upstairs and pack a bag. I’m going to go next door and do the same.”

“We won’t get there until after midnight.”

“That’s fine. You’ll be there with your father and sisters in the morning.”

She had started crying again, head bent, shoulders shaking, and Preston had pulled her into his arms again, clenching his jaw, wishing that he could absorb her grief, eliminate it, take it away. It didn’t matter what had happened between them. He loved her. He couldn’t bear to see her in this much pain.

Pressing his lips to her hair, he spoke softly. “Walk upstairs. Pack a bag. I’ll be waiting.”

Then he’d slowly lowered his arms and stepped away from her.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

Because I love you. It’s as simple as that.

“We’ll talk on the drive,” he said, turning around and heading down the steps to walk back to Westerly.

Thankfully, Preston always kept a couple of suits, some jeans, and a few T-shirts in his room at Westerly, and unsure of the dress code at a Mennonite funeral, he packed a little of everything. Heading back downstairs to his car, he’d called Jessica.

“Pres, I’m running late. Can we make it 6:30?”

“I have to cancel, Jess.”

“What? Come on! I’m already on the way to Westerly!”

“Sorry, it’s…” How in the world could he explain this? My wife of two years just walked back into my life, her mother died this morning, and I’m heading to upstate New York to attend the funeral with her. Umm…no.

“It’s what? More important than dinner with your only sister?”

“’Fraid so, Jess.”

Jessica’s tone changed when she asked, “Pres, what is it? What’s happened?”

Preston threw his garment bag and suitcase into the trunk of his car, and opened his door, swinging his body into the comfortable leather seat.

“How about I tell you when I get back?”

“Get
back
? Where are you
going
?”

And suddenly the words fell from his lips in a rush. “My wife of two years just walked back into my life, her mother died this morning, and I’m heading to upstate New York to attend the funeral with her.”

He heard his sister’s shocked gasp as he pulled out of Westerly’s driveway, and headed up the road half a mile to Chateau Nouvelle.

“Your—your—wi—”

“Talk to Brooks. He’ll explain.”

“Preston Downing Winslow, don’t you
dare
hang up this—”

He pressed End, silenced the ringer and placed his phone in the center console of the car as he pulled up in front of the Rousseau’s mansion. Elise sat on the bottom step, her face tear-splotched and bleak, a rolling suitcase standing at attention beside her.

What were the words again?

Be able to forgive, do not hold grudges, and live each day that you may share it together—as from this day forward you shall be each other’s home, comfort and refuge, your marriage strengthened by your love and respect for each other.

Two years ago last Saturday, he’d promised to be her comfort and refuge, and until those divorce papers were signed, he intended to honor his promise.

***

They rode in silence for a while before Preston asked Elise if she wanted to listen to some music.

“I mostly have classical, but I have a little country,” he said. “And jazz. I have some soft rock, too, or—”

“
Für Elise
,” she said softly. “Do you have that?”

“Sure.”

He nodded, fumbling with his iPhone for a moment before the familiar classical music surrounded them.

Her eyes burned with shed and unshed tears, her heart throbbed with  a strange mix of regret and gratitude, and her head ached, trying to understand everything that was happening in her life…and failing. Her mother was dead. Her estranged husband was driving her to her mother’s funeral. It was almost too much for her to comprehend, so instead of trying, she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, remembering the morning, so long ago, when she’d woken up to find Preston in the kitchen listening to
Für Elise
, and he’d asked her to move in with him. A lifetime ago. When they were happy. When he’d loved her.

“Elise,” he said softly from beside her. “I forgive you.”

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, twisting her neck to look at him.

“You asked for my forgiveness.”

She nodded, reaching up to brush a falling tear from her cheek.

“You have it.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, placing her hand on the bolster between them.

He covered it, closing his fingers around her hand, and stroking the back with his thumb. “Tell me about your mom.”

She took a deep, ragged breath through her nose, then released it slowly, willing herself to stop crying.

“She was…plain. Not totally, but close. She wore simple clothes. Jeans, mostly, or long skirts, with long-sleeved cotton shirts. Always long-sleeved for modesty.” She paused for a moment, picturing her mother, and a fresh stream of tears poured from her eyes. Unable to stop them, she just let them fall. “She smelled like soap…and hay. Sometimes like bread. Always like milk. Like fresh air at the start of the day before she started working. She liked hymns. Her favorites were
Blest Be The Tie That Binds
and
Come, Thou Font of Every Blessing
.”

Turning her face away from Preston, she looked out the window at the trees that blurred into a watercolor of green through the haze of her tears, and heard her mother’s strong alto voice in her head:
O to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be! Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee. Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love; here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.

Her mother had been unable to bind her wandering heart.
Stay here with me, Liebling. Don’t go.
Elise had left and she hadn’t looked back. She’d lived her whole life running away.

“I’m sorry,” she said out loud. “I’m so sorry I ran away from you.”

Preston’s fingers tightened around hers, and she realized that her quiet apology to her mother applied just as well to him.

“I know why you left,” he said softly. “I knew then. I knew that you were in over your head. I just…I just loved you too much to let you go.”

“Pres,” she sobbed. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t yours either,” he said. “You were scared.”

“I just wasn’t ready,” she said, turning her head back to look at him.

He nodded, squeezing her hand again before withdrawing his fingers and swiping them under his nose. “I know.”

“I thought I was. That morning when you asked me? I said yes because it was so romantic and I loved you so much, Pres. It wasn’t until after the wedding that I realized how much we hadn’t discussed or shared…I didn’t know your family and you didn’t know mine. We hadn’t talked about children or the future or Philadelphia or our career plans or what we expected from each other or what we wanted. I should have had more faith in us, but…”

“You panicked.”

“I did.” She sighed, reaching down for her water bottle. “I ran.”

“You’re good at running.”

“I was,” she said, taking a long sip.

“Was?”

“I’m not running anymore,” she said, placing the water bottle back on the floor.

He jerked his head to look at her quickly, his eyes searching and uncertain, before turning back to the road.

“Tell me more about your mother.”

Elise took a deep breath, not as ragged this time. “She baked and cooked everything by hand. She tended a garden behind our house and always wore a floppy-brimmed hat while she worked to shield her face from the sun. In the spring and summer, she dried our clothes on a line outside and when it was really hot, she took us to a swimming hole beyond the fields, in the cool woods. She worked the farm with my father. She drank tea every evening after dinner. She called me ‘Liebling’ and still used some of the Pennsylvania Dutch expressions of her parents. She attended church on Sundays and led the alto section of worship.” Elise smiled, tears welling. “She loved singing. I think she was happiest singing. Sometimes she’d share the gift of a solo with our congregation.”

“Like you,” said Preston.

“Not at all like me!”

“Like you,” he repeated evenly. “Performing.”

“It
wasn’t
a performance. It was worship.”

“It was self-expression,” he said. “It was joy in singing. It was leading a whole section of worship or singing solo because she was talented and comfortable. It wasn’t on a stage and it was for an audience of one, but surely you see the similarities.”

Elise furrowed her eyebrows, thinking about this. Was it possible that she and her mother had had more in common than she’d long thought? Sarah had sung to God and Elise acted for millions, but, yes, they both found pleasure in performing.

“What else?” asked Preston.

“She…she believed in discipline. In hard work and commitment. She didn’t make excuses. She woke up every morning at five and attacked the day. Cooking, cleaning, milking, making pies for the fellowship group, mending clothes, knitting little caps for the babies at the hospital, helping my father on the farm. She took such joy in her work.”

“Like you,” said Preston again.

“No,” said Elise, turning to him. “No, not at all like me. She worked on our farm. She worked for our food and our clothes and for ministry—”

“Discipline, no excuses, commitment…joy in her work? You don’t hear yourself in that description? You don’t see that you could just as easily be talking about yourself?”

“I…” She started crying again, sobbing with regret and for her blindness and for the possibility that she’d actually been emulating the woman she’d been so desperately trying to escape. “Pres, am I like her?”

“I never knew her,” he said. “But it sounds like it…to me.”

“But I never wanted that: the farm life, the small community, the—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “We can’t escape our past. We can’t run away from it. It’s in our blood. It’s in our bones. You made a lot of different choices, Elise, but it was unavoidable that you’d create your own version of some of hers. Your mother was happiest performing, happiest working. So are you. You just took it somewhere else.”

“Stop the car,” she said.

He jerked his head to look at her in confusion.

“We’re on the highway. I can’t just—”

“Pull over,” she demanded, because she had promised herself honesty, and she hadn’t been honest yet.

He slowed down gradually, finally rolling onto the shoulder, stopping the car and turning to look at her.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she said.

“I’ve accepted your apology.”

“Forgive me.”

“I do.”

“You understand why I left you?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is the truth you need to know: I’m
not
happiest performing and working. Not anymore.”

He searched her face, his brows furrowed, trying to understand.

“Preston, I was
happiest
with you.”

He gasped softly, the muscles of his jaw clenching as he stared back at her in the dim light of the car.

Be honest. Be honest. Be honest.

“I loved you when I married you. I loved you when I left you in New York. I loved you when I pushed you away in L.A.. I loved you every moment I spent apart from you. And I love you now. Right this minute, in this car, on the side of the highway, I love you.”

His eyes widened, shocked and distraught. His lips parted and his hands curled into fists around the steering wheel. She gulped softly, reaching deep for courage, and continued.

“I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t expect anything. But the truth is that I’m still in love with you,” she said, “and I need you to know that.”

***

Preston wanted to believe her.

With every cell in his body, he was desperate to believe her.

He’d dreamed of these words more times than he could count. They’d tortured him, giving him false hope, and imprisoning his heart in a cell of useless longing.