The Sweetness of Honey (A Hope Springs Novel) (13 page)

Nodding, she replied, “Do you want me to come with you?” trying to remember what he’d told her—if anything—about Oscar being ill.

“I don’t want to take you away from your family,” was what he said, but Indiana heard more in his voice, saw more in the relief that filled his expression at her question. She pushed to her feet, turning to Kaylie. “I’ll come back and help you clean up.”

“You go on,” Dolly told her. “Mitch and I will help Kaylie.”

“Sure, sure,” Mitch said. “If you can get back later, make it for coffee and pie. You, too, Oliver. If you can.”

“Thanks, Mitch. Dolly.” Oliver lifted his hand in good-bye. “Kaylie, the meal was wonderful. Tennessee, thank you for inviting me to share it. And congratulations to you both.”

“Thanks, and glad to have you, man,” Tennessee said, pushing back his chair and leaning forward to shake Oliver’s hand. “Let us know how things go.”

Indiana smiled at her brother, then glanced at Luna and Kaylie, receiving concerned and knowing looks from both in return. She gave a small wave to the rest of the guests, meeting Will’s gaze and receiving a nod. Once outside, Oliver said nothing. He simply took hold of her hand, squeezing it with his as they hurried together, a couple, to his car.

It took almost no time at all to reach the Hope Springs Rehab Institute from Two Owls Café, but even less time with Oliver driving. Indiana held tight to the armrest and the edge of the console, finally closing her eyes until the car slowed, and he turned into the lot and parked.

She reached for her door handle, but glanced over before stepping out of the car, and though Oliver had turned off the engine, he’d yet to move. Taking her cues from him, she waited, but the air grew still and the delay uncomfortable, and the pressure in her chest had her feeling incredibly sad.

“Oliver?”

“I know. I know. I need to go in,” he said, his hands so tight on the wheel she knew he was nowhere near ready to release it.

She reached over without thinking and brushed his hair from his forehead. His skin was cold, and dry, and she suddenly wished she had a blanket. “It’s okay. Just take a minute. Or take as long as you need. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

He looked at her then, the strangest expression in his eyes as they glittered in the parking lot lights, as if only just then was he really seeing her. As if only just then was he realizing something even she had yet to see, and then a shudder coursed through him and the look vanished.

She moved her hand to his shoulder, wondering what had happened, what had gone through his mind, or if it was best she not know. The possibility didn’t stop her from asking, “Are you all right?”

“I just can’t . . . I know what I’m going to find. What the outcome of tonight’s going to be.” He let his head fall back on his shoulders, and he laughed, a brutal, brittle, terrified sound. “I’m going to go home from here an only child. Even if I don’t leave until tomorrow. Or a week from tonight.”

Indiana almost couldn’t breathe. Her chest was so tight, her throat so swollen, her stomach tied in such knots. And to think what Oliver must be feeling . . . “What can I do? Please, if there’s anything, please tell me.”

“Can you turn back time so that we don’t have to be here now? My mother. My father. My brother most of all?”

And yet he didn’t mention another word about himself, what he was feeling, all of the things he as the oldest son, the survivor, was going to have to face. “Are you ready?” she asked, squeezing his shoulder.

But he was trembling, and when he released the wheel, he reached for her, his hands holding her head and slamming his mouth against hers, the taste of his emotions bitter and tortured and salted with tears.

She didn’t know what to do except kiss him back, give him the connection he needed, the life in the face of death she wasn’t even sure he was looking for. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe all he needed was to feel something that wasn’t so crushingly sad.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him close; he leaned over the console, pressing her down against the cushy leather cradle of her seat. She wanted him with her, and told him so with her fingers at his nape and the base of his skull, rubbing circles, comforting him, soothing him.

He let her go, and fumbled at the base of her seat. It reclined with an electronic whir, and Oliver came with her, covering her, his upper body as heavy as his sorrow. She bore both weights willingly, inviting him in, giving him solace, giving him all that he asked for, with her lips, with her tongue, with her hands on his shoulders, in his hair, at the buttons of his shirt.

His moved to his pants, freeing his erection, then to the hem of her skirt, and she didn’t know how he fit above her, or once sheathed, inside her, as cramped as they were on her side of the car, but he was there, and she was lifting her hips to meet his thrusts that were desperate and lonely and pained.

He panted against her neck and she held him there, her eyes closed, her entire body abuzz. This made no sense, yet made perfect sense, and she would never have chosen this time or this place, yet she wouldn’t change a thing, because he needed her.

He needed her, and for reasons that had less to do with bodies than with the tidal wave of emotions drowning them. He was breaking, and looking to be healed, or at least glued back together before he completely cracked.

This wasn’t the sort of intimacy she’d known in the past, and it was glorious, exploding with emotions, fear and longing and regrets and the burrowing sense of nothing between them ever being the same again.

How could anything be the same after this? He fit her as if they were one, filled her and left room for no one to come between them. He made her ache and burn and pulled her toward a completion from which she feared she would never recover.

But it was too late to consider consequences, too soon to wonder where they went from here. All that mattered was this, this,
this . . .
She shuddered beneath him, finishing, her legs tangled with his but holding him as he surged into her and shook until he was done.

Then he rested against her, breathed against her, stroked her hair, and whispered against her, “I don’t know what that was, or where it came from.”

“Shh. It’s okay. I know. It’s okay.”

“This was not the first time I wanted with you,” he said, pulling free from her body and smoothing down her skirt before lifting his hips and tucking himself away. He found a napkin in the glove box for the condom. Then he looked down at her, the soft smile on his mouth almost reaching his eyes. “A bed would’ve been nice.”

“A bed would’ve been,” she said. “And more time.”

“Next time. More time. For certain.”

“Good,” she said, holding his gaze, a flood of tenderness rushing through her, a flood of hope, a flood of possibilities. “Because I didn’t want to think—”

It was all she got out before his mouth was on hers again, telling her not to think about anything but this: his lips and his need and his tongue and his promise. Then just as quickly he was back in his seat, adjusting his clothing before opening his door, coming around the car, and opening hers.

Once they were inside the facility, she asked, “What’s the room number? I need to”—she waved a hand toward the restroom—“clean up a bit.”

“Of course,” he said, adding, “It’s two forty-two. I’ll see you there.”

The words were automatic, his mind having switched gears to what lay ahead, and that was okay. That was expected. Her mind, on the other hand, was still reeling enough for the both of them.

What in the world had they just done?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A
s much as she longed to give Oliver whatever support she could, Indiana sat outside his brother’s room in a chair one of the nurses had carried over after seeing her pacing the width of the hallway and back. She hadn’t known Oscar Gatlin, though she’d known of him, his tragic accident, the death of Sierra Caffey in the same. One didn’t spend time in Hope Springs and get to know two of the Caffey-Gatlin Academy board members without learning about the decade-old catastrophe.

Oliver had respected her wishes to give him this private time with his family, though the weary sadness in his expression as he’d walked away had nearly broken her heart. Still, it was better this way. She would’ve hated to intrude and give Merrilee Gatlin true cause to hate her, as opposed to the reasons the older woman had manufactured. It was best she stay out here. Where she belonged.

Because even if she and Oliver were friends, or had been friends—she had
no
idea what they were now—she wasn’t family. And whatever had just happened in his car didn’t change that. But wow. It had certainly changed her.

She might feel differently tomorrow, but when she could still sense him every time she moved, her thighs aching, other parts of her sore . . . There was no way this feeling, this experience, this premonition of nothing ever being the same again wouldn’t linger.

How could it not? She’d had sex with Oliver Gatlin.

In. His. Car.

In what part of her world did that make any sense? With her history, her guilt, and the trauma of all she’d lost, why would she do something so incredibly reckless?

Because he needed you. And because you love him.

No. She didn’t. She couldn’t. How could anyone love someone they barely even knew? She’d met him a little over a month ago. That was it. They’d had breakfast. They’d had coffee. They’d shared Thanksgiving, and he’d taken her to see his father’s show.

And yet . . . He’d been on her mind constantly. Not a day had gone by that she hadn’t thought about something he’d said, or remembered a look that had flashed through his eyes, or wondered if she’d see him when she stopped by her cottage.

No. This wasn’t love. This was a bit of infatuation. Maybe a crush. Something as simple as enjoying a man’s company and his attention. As a friend.

But it wasn’t,
it wasn’t
, love.

And no matter what they’d done in his car, tonight was not the time for such musings. His brother was near death, if not already gone, and she was only here should Oliver need her. And yet telling herself that didn’t stop her from closing her eyes and remembering his desperation, his strength and his sorrow, the smell of him, the sweet intrusion of him . . .

She hadn’t realized she’d dozed until Oliver woke her, kneeling in front of her where she’d curled into a contorted fetal position in the chair. Her back aching, she straightened, pushing her hair from her face. Sobs from inside the room registered, as did Oliver’s solemn, damp eyes. “Oh, Oliver. I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

The last of her words came out choked, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to catch them back, before cupping his face in her palms. Oliver shook his head, then reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “It’s been a long time coming. Truth be told, he died ten years ago with Sierra. This last decade . . . He should never have had to endure all of this. And I don’t want you to be sorry for that.”

“I’m not,” she said, but stopped because what
was
she sorry for? The words seemed so meaningless, so clichéd, and yet she was filled with an incredible anguish, a magnificent ache because of what Oliver had lost. “But I am. He should still be with you, whole and vibrant and full of life and—”

“What is
she
doing here?”

Merrilee’s words echoed down the hallway, sharp and stinging and as hurtful as they were hurt. Indiana got to her feet, Oliver rising with her, and held first his mother’s gaze, then his father’s as she said, “My condolences, Mrs. Gatlin, Mr. Gatlin. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

Then, before Oliver’s mother could do more than suck in a breath broken by a mother’s pain, Indiana turned to go. She was not going to stay and make things worse. Behind her, she heard Oliver speaking to his parents; then she pushed through the door into the rehab center’s main corridor, defying the urge to run.

Seconds later, the door whooshed open again; then Oliver was beside her, taking her by the elbow and slowing her to stop. “She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course she does.” He knew it as well as she did. “But she’s devastated, and I’m not going to judge her for anything tonight.”

“Thank you,” he said, pulling in a deep breath that had him shuddering. Then cupping the back of her head and pulling her close. “Thank you.”

For not judging his mother? For the sex? For being here? She wanted to know, but not so much that she was going to burden him with having to answer. Instead, she nodded against his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath her cheek.

His arms came around her then, and she wrapped him similarly in hers, and they stood in the quiet hallway together, neither saying a word, neither moving. This she could give him. This was easy, this human connection, this private, compassionate communion.

Nothing in this moment was about what had happened hours before in the front seat of his car, yet she couldn’t help but remember the feeling of his being over her, being inside her. Being a part of who she was as if he were meant to be with her.

As if they were meant to be together. To be one.

After a long moment, he dug in his pocket, and as he stepped away, handed her the keys to his BMW. “You can get yourself home?”

“Of course,” she said, her fist closing around the fob. “I mean, I’m staying at Tennessee and Kaylie’s tonight. I’ll leave your car there, or I can bring it to you, or pick you up—”

He lifted his index finger and placed it against her lips. “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.” Then he cupped her nape and brought her to him, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering, breathing, his hold tight and possessive and absolutely needy and raw.

She breathed him in, all the rich, exotic scents that made him who he was. “You’ll let me know about the arrangements? And if there’s anything I can do?”

“I will, but you know my mother.”

Still . . . “Anything.”

“You’re here. And that’s what I need.”

Strangely, she believed every word.

The morning after his brother’s passing, Oliver stood in front of a blank canvas for the first time in more years than he could remember. His father was the artist in the family. His father who was rarely home, and always consumed with whatever piece he was sculpting when he was. As little hands-on parenting as Oliver and Oscar had received from their mother, they’d been given even less by the famous Orville Gatlin.

What he
had
provided both of his boys with was an education in the arts, an appreciation for the arts, and more than a little bit of artistic talent. Oscar’s had been the gift of music, though their father hadn’t sung or played or composed. Oliver had painted. Oils. Until he’d stopped. Right about the time Oscar had no longer been able to run his fingers over a piano keyboard, or draw a bow across his cello’s strings.

Convenient timing, that. And obvious. Oliver hadn’t needed a therapist to point out why he’d given up the thing in his life that he’d most enjoyed at the same time his brother’s body had ceased to function. He didn’t deserve such an easy outlet for expressing his grief, or his guilt. He should’ve paid more attention to Oscar’s life, where he went, what he did. Whom he kept company with other than Sierra Caffey.

Oliver had never objected to Oscar dating Sierra. He’d liked Sierra. She’d been good for his brother. Oh, he’d hated her later, after the accident, blaming her when he should’ve been blaming himself, but the years his brother and Sierra had spent as a happy couple, Oliver had been totally on board.

Their mother was the family snob, unable to see how happy her son was despite her constant meddling in his life, meddling Oliver should’ve put a stop to. It should make Oscar’s passing easier, knowing he’d been in a good place, wanting for nothing, loved by a gorgeous girl when he’d gone down that ravine.

But it didn’t. Because Oliver hadn’t been half as attentive as he should’ve been.

He hadn’t butted in, even after his brother had come to him concerned about the steering in his car. He’d left Oscar to do his own thing. Just once, just that once . . . Why couldn’t he have been more like their interfering mother, and less like their father, who couldn’t bring himself to be involved? If he had . . . He’d just put his brother in the ground as surely as if he’d been the one driving.

“I’m so sorry, Oscar. I’m so, so sor—” It was all he could get out for the pain ripping at his heart, for the fists closed around his throat and choking him, for the tears burning gullies down his face.

He cried for his brother, great gulping sobs that had him crouched down and hunched over, one hand on the floor for balance, that tore through him like glass, jagged. Broken. Shards and splinters and . . . How was he ever going to forgive himself and move on? His brother was gone. Oscar, who should’ve been playing Carnegie Hall by now, but thanks to Oliver . . .

Ages seemed to pass before he was spent; then he stood, using his T-shirt as a towel to dry his eyes and his face. He stared at the easel and the table where he’d laid out his paints after arriving this morning.

He’d been thinking about painting again for a while now, seeing Indiana passionate about IJK Gardens, and Luna about weaving, Angelo about woodworking, Kaylie about her café, and had arranged with Luna to rent part of the loft where she stored her loom. He still had a studio at home; it hadn’t been touched since the last time he’d used it. He could’ve had it stripped clean and outfitted and worked from there.

Considering what he was getting done here, he should have. Or emptied his office in the River Bend Building and used that. Except he didn’t want to share this part of his life with anyone. Not his mother. Not his father. Not Indiana Keller. Not yet.

The canvas mocked him. The paints mocked him, too. Twelve hundred square inches of stretched Belgian linen. Charvin Fine Oils in Absinthe Green and Anise and Cassel Earth. And yet all he could do was stand here and stare through bleary eyes at nothing. Ten years. His brother had hung on to a worthless life for ten years, and Oliver couldn’t even make himself pick up a brush.

He’d try again tomorrow. Then he’d try again the day after, and the one that followed. He’d keep trying until he made it happen. Until he got it right. Or until he had to admit there was nothing left to try.