He’d picked some wildflowers and placed them over his father’s plot, saying a good-bye he’d never had the chance to make. Then he’d settled himself in front of Rachel’s grave. The headstone had been simply stated—Rachel Waters, wife and mother. He brushed his fingers along the stone, feeling the engraved letters beneath his fingers, the finality of them. She wasn’t coming back. He could punish himself, lock himself into a miserable existence, pay penance until the day he had a headstone himself, and it still wouldn’t undo what had happened. He would just create another tragedy—his own slow death.
Is that what he would’ve wanted if the roles had been reversed? Would he have wanted Rachel to give up on being happy? Would he have expected her to shut herself off from real life and mourn him forever?
No. Of course not. He’d be pissed at her, actually.
Just like he couldn’t imagine his dad being angry with his mom for finding someone after he passed. He’d want her to be happy, to not be alone.
He stared down at his wedding band, the metal gleaming under the noonday sun. For years, he thought he’d been wearing it for comfort, a little piece of what he’d lost against his skin. But he realized now it’d also been a crutch, a subtle way of torturing himself daily, an excuse not to let himself really live.
He slipped it off and got to his knees, the lawn soft beneath him. He held the ring up and brought it to his lips, remembering the day she’d slipped it on his finger. The sun had been shining just like this. “I’ll always love you, Rach.”
He lowered his hand and pressed the ring into the earth, pushing it into the dirt beneath the grass until it was fully covered. “But it’s time I said good-bye.”
The breeze swirled around him, ruffling his hair and drying the final tears he’d shed for the life that used to be. He closed his eyes, the scent of wildflowers surrounding him, so much like the fragrance Rachel used to wear. And in that moment, he sensed her there, and felt her forgiveness, her hope for him. He climbed to his feet and set his hat back on his head.
As he walked away, he knew the nightmares would never stalk him again.
Someone had finally chased them away.
And now he needed to thank her.
THIRTY-TWO
Charli sat on the wood plank swing that hung from the massive oak tree in the farmhouse’s backyard, letting her feet dangle. The afternoon sun was sinking toward the horizon and voices drifted out of the house. Georgia had apparently called every family member in a thirty-mile radius to welcome Grant home.
Charli had snuck out to call her brother and let him know they weren’t going to make it to Baton Rouge tonight.
“What’s wrong?” Max asked, concern in his voice. “Car trouble or something?”
She wrapped her fingers around the rope of the swing. “Not exactly. We stopped at Grant’s family’s house to visit.”
Her brother was quiet for a moment. “Char, why would he bring you to visit his family?”
The what-are-you-up-to tone was one she was all too familiar with. Her brother had the uncanny ability to sound just like her daddy. She ignored the question. “We’ll probably get to your house sometime tomorrow.”
“Ah, hell,” he said. “You got involved with him, didn’t you?”
God, how was it possible her brother could make her feel fourteen again with a few well-placed words. “Um, let’s file that under things that are none of your business.”
“Dammit, Char.” She could picture his scowl. He’d probably started pacing, too. “Grant’s my friend, a good guy, but he’s got baggage. Like cargo-plane-sized baggage. I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Too late for that. And her brother’s fears only underlined hers. Grant had told his mom he loved Charli, but what did that change? She’d known he had feelings for her already. Didn’t mean he could act on them or that he wouldn’t always be looking at her wishing she were someone else. The L word hadn’t lightened that boulder in her stomach she’d been carrying around since she’d realized she’d fallen for him.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Max.”
“Char—”
But she clicked off the phone before she could hear what else he had to say. She tucked her cell phone in her pocket and wrapped her other hand in the swing’s rope, pumping her legs a bit to get a sway going. She closed her eyes and leaned back, trying to let her despair slough off her with each arc of the swing. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. The wind rushed past her ears and the swing creaked beneath her, the knotted rope grinding against the well-worn wood. If her feet didn’t touch the ground, maybe she could push reality out for a little while.
“Enjoying my rope work again, Ms. Beaumonde?”
Charli’s lids flew open as she swung past a black cowboy hat. Grant reached out and grabbed the rope when she passed again, slowing her. She held on tight so she wouldn’t launch off the seat.
Grant continued talking as if she’d responded to his question. “I can’t even believe these knots held up. I put this swing up for my sister when she was like ten.” He ran his hand along the rope. “She used to stand on it to swing and then leap off. Would scare the shit out of Ma.”
She smirked. “She and I probably would’ve gotten along as kids.”
“No doubt.” His smile was light, but the weight of the unspoken hung heavy between them. He stepped in front of her, grabbing both ropes, framing her. “I’m sorry I kidnapped you today. And I’m really sorry that I dropped a bomb on the porch. It just slipped out.”