Where the Heart Is (13 page)

She was quiet a long moment, but he still didn't look at her. “I'll go get the tree stand.”

She climbed out of the car and it was all he could do not to back out and drive away as fast as he could. Just like he'd run off last Sunday. What the hell kind of coward was he?

He got out of the car and turned his back on the house. Methodically, he untied the tree, his heart growing colder and his chest growing tighter by the second.

What kind of coward was he? The worst kind. Because as soon as he had the tree on the ground, he opened the car door to leave.

 

 

C
HLOE RUSHED
inside to get the tree stand from the living room where she'd unboxed it last night. She hurried back out, afraid he might leave without saying good-bye. As she stepped onto the porch, her heart lurched. He'd untied the tree, set it on the driveway, and already had one foot in the car.

Adrenaline pumped through her, fueled by empathy and disappointment. She wished he would stay so she could help him. “You're not running off again, are you?”

He froze when he saw her, his hand clutching the top of his door. “The tree's not that big.  I'm sure you can handle it.”

She went to the driveway and set the stand beside the tree. “You
are
running away.”

His brilliant blue eyes didn't leave hers. At least he had the courage to look her in the face. “It's for the best.”

Frustration overtook her empathy. “We have something here, Derek. Or am I the only person who had an incredible time the other night? Not to mention today and every other time we've spent together. You make me laugh and feel things I've never felt before. How can you leaving possibly be for the best?”

He flinched—
good
—and then looked away. “I should've told you before, but I'm considering a job offer in San Francisco.”

Nothing he said could've shocked her more. “You'd leave Ribbon Ridge?” Granted, she'd only known him a little over a week, but she'd come to know him fairly well in that time, and she'd seen him interact with his family, which was very telling. She would've bet her insurance check that he would never leave them or his adopted town.

He shrugged, still looking away. “Why not? It's worked out well for everyone else.”

Was he referring to just the Archer kids or did he mean her too? “What about the Archers? Do they know about this job?”

“No.”

“I can't believe you'd leave them, especially given the way you feel about their own kids leaving.”

He looked at her again and she'd never seen his eyes so cold. “This is rich coming from you. Didn't you leave your family for what you saw as a better opportunity?”

She sensed he was rationalizing. She just didn't think he truly felt that way. He loved the Archers. He loved being part of their family. And he loved Ribbon Ridge. “That's not what you're doing. You're running away.”

“Isn't that what you did? Ran away from a controlling family and an ex fiancé?”

She sucked in a breath, cold air filling her lungs and powering her frustration. She wasn't getting anywhere with him. She'd been so sure she could make this work, that she could be patient, but if he ran . . . she already felt him slipping away. She moved closer to him and chose her words with exacting care. “Maybe I did run away. But I was running
to
something. I had hope for this life I was choosing for myself. Why would you take this job in San Francisco? You're happy here, and that's the difference. I wasn't remotely happy in Pittsburgh. I'm happier now than I've ever been.” She waited, watching for his reaction, but he was stone cold still, his eyes flat in the gray afternoon. She stepped closer, close enough to reach out and touch his face. “Please don't go.”

His expression cracked—just a little—when his brow twitched. She thought she might've won . . .

“I'll think about it.” He climbed into the car and shut the door.

As he backed out of the driveway, she wrapped her arms around her middle and watched him leave. She could be patient, as Emily had asked her to be, but not for someone who didn't want to be waited for. And she didn't want to be the one to drive him away from the place and the people he loved most—things he needed to be happy.

Feeling cold, she turned and lifted the tree into the stand. Because it was small, it was easy to get it set, and the stand was built for dummies, with a foot pedal to straighten it once she got it inside. Her heart heavy, she picked up the tree and muscled it into the living room to the corner next to the gas fireplace. She'd expected its presence to make the house suddenly feel like home, but instead it only made her feel worse.

This house had ruined everything. If she'd never rented it, she and Derek would've continued along their joyful path to who-knew-what happily ever after.

She frowned. No, she didn't think that was true. The house was definitely the catalyst for whatever Derek was struggling with, but she felt certain his issues would've come up and been a barrier no matter what. Emily had said it was past time he dealt with things, and maybe it was. Maybe Chloe had just been unlucky enough to fall in love with the right guy at the wrong time.

Could she wait? Absolutely. But for how long? And would he even want her to?

It was definitely his move. She only hoped he would make one.

 

T
HE NEXT
day, Derek sprawled on his couch in a pair of track pants and a college sweatshirt. Even football wasn't brightening his mood. When his door buzzed, he ignored it. A moment later his phone buzzed too. He picked it up from the table and saw the text was from Rob. It read: Open the damn door.

All righty then.

Derek pulled himself from the couch and padded to the door, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw. Aside from it being December 15—the absolute worst day of the year—he was pretty sure Chloe would never forgive him after the stunt he'd pulled yesterday, and he couldn't blame her. Now it sounded like Rob might be pissed too. Maybe that job in San Francisco had come at a good time.

He swung the door open. “Come in.”

Rob's brows were drawn low over his eyes in an expression of irritation that Derek had only seen directed at crappy vendors or in sticky negotiation meetings. And occasionally at one of his kids. One of his
real
kids.

Rob walked into the loft, not stopping until he reached the bar in the kitchen. Then he turned and gave Derek, who'd followed him, a completely unsympathetic look. “Looks like you royally screwed things up with Chloe.”

She'd told them? Derek couldn't blame her. “Probably.”

Rob rested his hip against the counter. “She came over for dinner last night—and don't get mad at her, she didn't say a word. However, when your girlfriend comes over and you don't, it says a lot. She is your girlfriend, isn't she?”

“Probably not.” Because of his own stupidity.

“What the hell kind of answer is that?” Now Rob
did
look pissed. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Look, I've never said anything about the other girls you were foolish enough to let go, but this one is special. She could very well be The One, and you're getting in your own damned way. Knock it off.”

“Thanks, but I don't remember asking for any advice.” Derek moved through the dining room, intent on the beer he'd left on his coffee table.

“Too bad.” It sounded like Rob was following him, but Derek didn't turn. “I've tried to be a father figure and dishing out advice, especially when it's unwanted, is a father's job. But, I realize I'm not your father. You had a father—do you even remember that?”

The question hit Derek in the back like an arrow. How could he ever forget? And today of all days, the day his father had been shot and killed in the line of duty.

Derek spun, anger pushing through his veins, but he didn't say anything. He didn't see Rob, he saw his dad. He'd been really tall—that's where Derek had gotten his height—imposing. He must've made one hell of a police officer. Derek remembered that he worked out, and the result was that he sported a badass build. But for all the tough guy looks, he laughed a lot and he had these little lines around his eyes, blue like Derek's, and around his mouth. Derek remembered that mouth reading to him—every night that he wasn't on shift—and shouting encouragement at his baseball games. His work schedule hadn't allowed him to coach, but he'd come to at least one inning of every single game. Most of all, Derek remembered camping alone with his dad. They'd gone just twice before he'd been killed, but those two weekends were emblazoned in Derek's brain like they'd happened yesterday. Just the two of them. Men against the world. Father and son.

Air was having trouble finding its way into Derek's lungs. His throat was viciously tight, his chest constricted. Because after all of that, he remembered the grief. Not just his, but his mom's. To say she'd been devastated by her husband's death would be an understatement. Derek knew, now that he knew love—and he was definitely in love with Chloe—that his mother had never gotten over it.

“Yes, I remember,” Derek finally said, his voice sounding like sandpaper.

“You've never dealt with his death,” Rob said quietly, looking at the floor. “And when your mom died, you didn't really deal with that either.”

He hadn't. She'd been sick with the cancer a long time and when she'd died, it had been a kind of relief, which only made him feel guilty. And seventeen-year-old boys were pretty shitty at feeling guilty, so he'd shoved it all away to deal with at a future time. Only he'd never let that time come.

Derek's eyes had lost their focus, and when he shook himself to come back to the present, he saw an envelope in Rob's extended hand.

“I know this is a tough day, son. And yes, I think of you as my son—it's an honor and a privilege.” He took a deep breath. “This is a letter from your mom. She wanted you to open it on December fifteenth in 2019. But Emily and I think you should open it now. We don't know what it says, but it's time for you to heal and maybe this will help.”

Or maybe it would only make him hurt more. Derek stared at the envelope while his insides churned and a light-headedness pervaded his brain.

By some miracle, he reached out, as if in slow motion, and took the letter.

Rob's hand clasped his shoulder. Derek wanted to hug him, but he couldn't. Everything felt too raw, too damned exposed. He settled for giving him a slight nod.

“Call me if you need anything.
Anything
.” He dropped his hand and pivoted to go. “You'll get through this. With Chloe if you'll let her. She's a great girl.”

Derek stared at the letter in his hand, vaguely aware that Rob had let himself out. Slowly, he took himself into the bedroom and dropped onto the edge of his bed. With trembling fingers, he split the seal and opened the letter. A small paper fell and fluttered into his lap, but his gaze was locked on the familiar handwriting of his mother. She'd been an elementary school teacher, so her letters were beautiful, perfectly formed. He hadn't seen her writing in years and the reaction it provoked was visceral. Tears pricked his eyes and his throat tightened further.

 

Dear Derek,

You are as old today as your father was the day he died. I know how much you hate this day, how hard we worked every year to do something to keep our minds off it. It was both a blessing for it to be at Christmas time, because there was usually something to occupy us, and, of course, a curse because Christmas was forever tainted with our loss.

I owe you an apology. I wasn't the best mom after he died. You probably know that by now, you're a smart boy. No, you're a smart man now. How I wish I could be there to see it. Maybe you're even a father now, too. How I wish I could see that even more. You will, without a doubt, be a wonderful father. How do I know this? Because you had the very best teacher.

You're like him in so many ways. Your kindness, your sense of humor, your athleticism, your love of reading. I hope you still write poems. Yes, I knew you wrote them, even in high school. I don't know why you hid them. They're a gift that should be shared. Which is why I'm giving you this poem that your father wrote. I don't know if you remember it from when you were little. He used to recite it to you when you were very small. It never fails to make me smile because it beautifully captures the two men I've loved most in this world.

Know that we are looking down on you with pride and love. Be happy, Derek. Be loved.

Mom

 

Silent tears had tracked down Derek's face, and one dropped onto his lap, next to the paper that had fallen there. The poem.

He picked it up, his heart twisting at the handwriting, which he hadn't seen in decades.

 

Little Man

Little hands

Little feet

Little mouth

Big cry

 

Little sigh

Little smile

Little gurgle

Big yawn

 

Little sleep

Little knowledge

Little confidence

Big love

 

Big change

Big responsibility

Big happiness

Little Man—I love you.

 

Derek lifted his face as tears flowed down his cheeks unchecked. He didn't remember the last time he'd cried. His throat was still tight, but his chest was loosening, air was coming back to him. The hole in his heart seemed to be shrinking.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but he finally set the letter and the poem on his nightstand. Then he wiped his hands over his face and ran into the stubble on his jaw. He had to look like hell.

And he definitely couldn't look like hell for what he had planned. This day had been full of pain and misery for far too long. It was time for this day to be filled with joy.