Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (20 page)

But her mother had just died.

And her history with her mother was fraught and unresolved.

As much as he wanted to believe her, he couldn’t. Not right now. Not here. Not while her grief was a jagged, open wound, and her high emotions could lead her to say things she would regret tomorrow.

“Okay,” he said, managing to give her a small, reassuring smile. “Okay.”

“You heard me?”

He nodded. “I did. Thank you for telling me.”

The color in her cheeks deepened, and she dropped his eyes, looking down at her hands clenched in her lap. “Okay.”

Part of him wanted to open his arms and draw her into them. Hold her, kiss her, tell her that he loved her too, that he’d never stopped and never would, that she was the girl of his dreams come to life, and no matter what had happened after, the day he married her was still the happiest day of his life. But he’d lived in daily, unceasing pain since he’d lost her, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive it a second time.

“I think we should get going,” he said. “We can… I mean, we’ll have lots of time to talk. Over the next few days.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, looking away from him, angling her body toward the window.

He didn’t know if she was hurt or embarrassed. Maybe disappointed. Maybe a mixture of all three. And he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to add to her pain right now.

“Hey, Elise.”

As she turned to him, he saw that her eyes were guarded and uncertain.

“Remember on the steps of the library?”

She nodded, a small smile lifting the edges of her mouth for the first time in hours.

“Our timing was never good, was it?” he asked gently.

She shook her head. “It was always shit.”

He smiled back at her, letting the tenderness he felt for her soften his eyes. “I promise we’ll figure it out. Okay?”

The strain on her face eased and she nodded again. “Okay.”

She turned back to the window, and he started driving again, but there was a tension thick between them now that hadn’t accompanied them before, and with
Für Elise
long finished the car was dark and quiet as they left Pennsylvania behind and crossed into New York state.

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

The words circled in Preston’s head as he drove on through the darkening night, the red and white lights of cars ahead of him and behind him streaking the highway.

I was happiest with you…I’m still in love with you.

His heart clenched with a hope that he’d barely dared to dream of, and he felt a growing lightness in his soul for the first time in years. Was it possible that their epically bad luck with timing had been the ultimate saboteur and not their feelings for each other? Was it possible that their feelings had been pure and true, only obscured by life’s demands and expectations and pressures? God, he hoped so.

And yet…he wasn’t actually sure where they could go from here. Resume a marriage that had never started? Start a marriage that had barely been born? How? She was a Hollywood actress. He was a Philadelphia lawyer. And if memory served, neither was very good at compromise.

Don’t let go of your heart yet
, his head warned, remembering the dark days of drunken rages at Westerly as he wallowed in self-pity, suffering over her rejection and desperately missing his wife.
You can’t leap before looking this time. You must be smarter and more careful.

Preston was fairly certain that Elise was asleep, so it startled him when she said, “I made a terrible mess of things. My mother would be so disappointed in me.”

Without a thought, he lifted his hand and held it out to her, his heart fisting with gratitude when she clasped it, lacing her fingers through his and resting both on her thigh.

“The thing is,” he said, gently, “it’s never too late to make the right choices.”

“Do you mean that?” she asked, her voice breathy and tired.

“I do.”

She lifted their joined hands to her lips and pressed a long, soft kiss to the back of his hand before resettling them on her lap.

“I love you,” she whispered, leaning her head against the window and closing her eyes.

I love you too
, he thought.
But love was never our problem.

“Elise…Elise, wake up. We’re here. Elise…”

It was Preston’s voice, which meant she was dreaming, because she hadn’t seen her strong, beautiful, tender husband since she’d pulled his heart out of his chest on a chilly Los Angeles morning and ripped it in half.

“Sweetheart,” he intoned, low and close to her ear, “wake up.”

Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she turned her face toward his voice, and the bristles of his beard skimmed her cheek.

“Oh, Pres,” she sobbed softly. “I need you so much.”

“I’m here,” he said, his lips moving against her cheek. “I’m right here. Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

It took effort to open her aching eyes, but when she did, Preston was standing beside her, leaning into the passenger side of the car, and relief flooded her body, making her sag against the car seat. He was here. He wasn’t a dream.

He leaned over her body and unlatched her seatbelt, offering her his hand.

“Come on. I got us a room. You need some sleep, sweetheart.”

She looked up at him, disoriented, her eyes focusing on his face lit up by the interior light of the car. Suddenly it hit her like a punch to the throat.

“My mother.”

He nodded, taking her hands and pulling her from the seat.

Taking a shaky breath, she settled her feet on a gravel driveway and looked around. “Where are we?’

“The Blowin’ Wind Motor Lodge.”

“I don’t know it,” she said, glancing around at the unfamiliar, one-story, roadside motel.

“We’re just outside of Lowville,” he said. “Your bag’s in the room. Come on.”

Putting his arm around her waist, he helped her toward the door that creaked as he opened it. She stepped inside, taking in the wood paneling and shabby olive green carpet. There were two beds covered with navy blue flowered bedspreads, and a TV from the 1980s on a scratched bureau. An air conditioner under a window that looked out at the parking lot hummed noisily, and a  fluorescent brightness in the far corner of the room indicated the bathroom. A north country motel room. She’d know one anywhere.

Releasing her waist, Preston closed and locked the door behind her, and then hoisted her suitcase on top of the bureau.

“Do you want the left or right?”

“What?” she asked, still half asleep.

“Do you want the bed closest to the door or closest to the bathroom?”

“Bathroom, I guess,” she said, taking a few steps into the room and sitting on the edge of her bed.

Wringing her hands in her lap, she wondered what time it was. How much time did she have before she had to see her father and sisters, all of whom disapproved of her life, all of whom knew that she’d had no closure with her mother?

Suddenly Preston squatted down before her, his palms comforting on her knees, his tired green eyes looking up into hers.

“Do you want to change?”

She shook her head.

“Use the bathroom?”

Her lip quivered with sadness and she blinked back a fresh onslaught of tears as she shook her head again.

“
Elise
,” he whispered. “
Please
tell me what I can do to help you.”

There was only one thing she wanted. Only one thing she needed.

“Hold me.”

His face looked sad, but he nodded.

Standing up, he killed the overhead light by yanking on a pull cord and closed the bathroom door until it was only open a crack. Elise leaned back onto the bed, scooching up until her head found a bedspread-covered pillow. As Preston’s knee depressed the bed to her left, she rolled toward him, pressing her body against his chest as his arms came around her.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her weary forehead against his strong chest, surrounded by the comforting, beloved smell of him, and cried herself to sleep.

***

Eventually he felt her sobs and shudders subside until she settled into a deep and even sleep, curled into him, her fists unfurling under her chin and her breasts pushing against his chest with every breath she took.

I love this woman
, he thought.
I love her more than anything.

And yet,
whispered his heart,
you did nothing to hold on to her.

I did!
he thought indignantly.
I asked her to stay. I visited her.

You pressured her,
said the whisper.
You threatened her future. You made her choose. She chose safety. She chose her dream, but you forced her hand.

What else could I have done?
he demanded.

You could have joined her. You could have been patient with her. You could have understood that the woman you married loved her career, and making her choose between it and you was a losing battle.

She should have chosen me,
he thought.
She should have loved me enough to choose me.

Maybe you should have loved her enough not to make her choose.

Preston took a deep breath, nuzzling her hair and drawing her as close as possible. For so long he’d laid the blame at Elise’s feet, his anger and self-pity fueling his grudge against her. But now he tried to look at it from a different angle.

Had he forced her to choose? Had he married a woman deeply devoted to her career only to try to wedge himself between her and her dreams on the very first day of their marriage?

What if he had celebrated her opportunity in L.A. and planned to visit her every other weekend during that first movie? What if he had offered to relocate to L.A. to be closer to her? He could have taken the California bar eventually. For so long he’d thought that he was the one ready for marriage and she was the one who got spooked and ran. But in his own way, Preston hadn’t been ready either…because he hadn’t been ready to compromise or bend or respect the very drive in her that had so attracted him in the first place.

More words from his wedding ceremony circled in his head:

Preston and Elise, as the two of you come into this marriage uniting you as husband and wife, and as you this day affirm your faith and love for one another, I would ask that you always remember to cherish each other as special and unique individuals.

She
was
special and unique. She was a Mennonite farm girl who’d gotten a scholarship to a prestigious Manhattan drama school, who’d made it to Broadway on her own merit, and then to Hollywood. And instead of supporting her dreams and encouraging her to spread her wings, his first order of business as her husband had been to try to clip them.

No wonder she’d run.

No wonder she’d been spooked.

He’d become the very thing she’d most feared—someone who didn’t respect her ambition. Someone who threatened her dreams.

What kind of love is that?
he asked himself.

She whimpered in her sleep and Preston felt a hot tear slip from the corner of his eye and slide onto the pillow.

“I can do better,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her head again. “I promise, sweetheart. I can do better.”

She sighed, flattening her hands against his chest, and Preston closed his eyes, his arms tight around his wife as he drifted off to sleep.

***

Elise woke up alone on Thursday morning, still fully dressed in her pink T-shirt and black shorts, her comforter wrapped around her body as steam wafted out of the motel bathroom. She knew where she was and who she was with, and had woken up with the heaviness of grief as her companion. Today was the first of two “Visiting” days when members of their church community would be stopping by her parent’s farm in a steady stream with food, to give comfort and company, pray together and remember Sarah Klassan with her family.

It would be a long two days, ending with her mother’s funeral on Saturday morning, led by the elders of her parent’s church.

She needed to shower after Preston and get dressed. She’d brought two dark-colored maxi dresses and a black cardigan sweater. Her family’s community didn’t wear traditional Mennonite clothes, but modesty—for both men and women—was still expected.

As she sat up, the bathroom door opened and Preston appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his waist, and despite the fact that her heart was heavy, she’d have to be catatonic not to note that Preston’s pectoral and abdominal muscles hadn’t lost a shred of definition in their two years apart. If anything, he appeared even harder-bodied than before. She suppressed a whimper as almost-forgotten muscles deep inside her body clenched.

“Good morning,” she said, finally lifting her eyes to his face.

A small smile played on the edges of his lips. “How are you?”

“Sad. Tired.” She cocked her head to the side and managed a very small grin for him. “Grateful for you.”

“I don’t know what to wear,” he said.

“Jeans. And a nice shirt. Dark pants and a nice shirt on Saturday. We’re not fancy.”

“
We’re
not fancy,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

“When I first met you, you would have said, ‘
They’re
not fancy.’ You wouldn’t have included yourself.”

He was right. “That’s true. But this is a part of me whether I like it or not.”

“Of course it is,” he said.

“And so is New York.”

“Yep.”

“And Hollywood.”

He nodded at her.

“And you.”

“Yes,” he said, “I am.”

“Is it okay if I call you my husband over the next few days? They won’t understand if I show up with a man who isn’t—”

“Of course you can call me your husband.” He crossed from the bathroom doorway to the foot of her bed, sitting gingerly on the edge and holding her eyes. “That’s who I am.”

Her eyes swam with tears, and she dropped her head, hunching her shoulders as her chin rested on her chest. His words were such nourishment to her starving heart, such a balm to her aching soul.

Reaching for her hand, he wound his fingers between hers and tugged a little, pulling her to him and enfolding her in his arms. She rested her cheek on his bare shoulder and closed her eyes, inhaling his smell—soap and warm water and clean man. Her lips rested close to the pulse in his throat and she imagined leaning forward to kiss it, pressing her lips against his life force and lingering there.

“I love you,” she whispered instead. “Thank you for being here with me.”

“There’s nowhere else I want to be.”

His arms tightened for a moment before he slid them slowly down her back and pulled away. He stood up and turned away, and Elise watched him bend over his suitcase, wondering if he would ever be able to return the words…if there was still room in his heart to love her. She hoped so.

An hour later, she and Preston pulled up in front of her family home, the Klassan farm, where several pick-up trucks were parked, and people were already gathered on the front porch. Not having been home during the two years she’d been in Los Angeles, Elise had no idea what to expect. Certainly she didn’t deserve a warm or effusive greeting, which is why—when her father leapt up from his rocking chair and jumped down the porch steps to embrace her—she lost control of the hard-won composure she’d finally found while showering and dressing.

“Elise,” he said, cradling her face in his rough, weather-beaten hands. “Elise,
mein Liebling
. You’ve come home.”

As he clutched her to his chest, Elise broke down in tears yet again, letting go of Preston’s hand and embracing her father—the prodigal daughter that had finally returned. She wept for their estrangement which had been tense, but never bitter. She wept for her mother’s loss and for her father’s strong, tan arms holding her. She wept because he welcomed her and loved her, and for so long she had pushed those she loved away, uncertain of how to live the life she wanted and include the people she loved. She wept because she was finally starting to figure it out…and it was too late for her mother, and she only prayed it wasn’t too late for Preston.

“And who’s this?” asked her father, finally noting the man behind her who looked wildly out of place in his designer jeans and crisp yellow dress shirt.

“
Datt
,” she said, releasing her father and reaching for Preston’s hand. “This is Preston Winslow. My husband.”

Hans Klassan stared at Preston with hard eyes.

“You married our Elise?”

“I did, sir.”

“Officially?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In a church?”

“No, sir. It was a civic ceremony.”

“When?”

“Two years ago last Saturday, sir.”

Her father flinched, cutting his eyes to Elise, and she bit her lip to keep herself from crying more. He was hurt that she hadn’t told them, hadn’t included them, hadn’t given her mother a chance to know her husband. And her regret—already profound—increased.