She looked away, toward the house, feeling as if she were constructed of stuff as fragile as the leaves falling off the tree. One more blow and she would scatter. “Of course, an accident.”
“That’s not what I—”
“No. Stop.” She turned her head toward him, nailing him with her glare, all her frustration bubbling over. “What am I supposed to do with that, Grant? Tell me. You sleep with me, then shut down. You kiss me, then freak out. You admit you love me and then you disappear, leaving me with your mother who’s talking to me like I’m your girl. Something I’m reminded over and over again that I can never be. That spot’s already filled.”
“Charli—”
But her tirade steamrolled right over his attempt to cut in. “I get it, okay. I so freaking get it. Your wife was amazing. Your life was perfect. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for what happened to you. No one deserves that kind of tragedy. My heart hurts thinking about it. But you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep making me love you more, then yanking the rug out from under me. I’m tough, but I’m not the goddamned Terminator, Grant. I’m not—”
But his lips were on her before she could get the next word out, his hands sliding into her hair and cupping her head. She almost rocked right off the back of the swing, the shock jolting her, but he held her fast. Her eyes drifted shut, the feel of his mouth on hers like being dropped into some dream state where time slowed. Her fingers slipped from the ropes, her arms finding their way around his neck. His tongue twined with hers, his need and desire for her pouring into the kiss. She didn’t want it to end, didn’t want him to pull back, feared what would happen when he did.
But soon, the need for air trumped the wish to not break the spell. He pulled back, his hands cradling her face, caressing. “My turn to talk, freckles. Can you let me do that?”
Her heart was pounding so hard, she wondered if she’d be able to hear him over the thumping. She wet her lips. “Okay.”
“You’re right. You deserve someone who is going to love you without pretense, or caveats, or comparison. You deserve a guy who can look at you and know that he’d rather have no one else there next to him besides you. That no other girl could even come close to measuring up.”r: Roni Loren
His mother, who’d been digging through the pantry for Parmesan, peered over her shoulder. Her all-knowing eyes met his. “Sure, son. Take all the time you need. Lunch will be a while still.”
He walked behind Charli’s chair, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He’d asked her to be by his side today, but this was the one last thing he needed to do all by himself. “Thanks, freckles.”
She nodded, and he left her there in the kitchen, slipping out the side door and staring down the expanse of land behind his family’s farmhouse.
He rubbed his thumb along his wedding band, secured his hat atop his head, and set off on the path that led to the back corner of the property.
Someone was waiting for him.
THIRTY-ONE
Charli stared out the kitchen window in the direction Grant had disappeared. He’d been gone for a while, and uneasiness had crawled under her skin and set up camp there. Maybe she’d fallen asleep on the drive to Baton Rouge and was in some alternate dream world. Had Grant really said he loved her out there on that porch? She couldn’t even process that. Or the fact that somehow instead of being on the way to saying good-bye to Grant for the last time, she was sitting in his family’s home, listening to his mother call up Grant’s siblings to insist they come over.
Charli paced away from the window, walking over to the glass hutch in the corner of the room, trying to look like she was just browsing the knickknacks in the kitchen instead of running off nervous energy. She let her eyes drift over the family photos displayed on the shelves. Photos of children playing outside, family portraits, some old, some more recent. One that had to be Grant when he was a teen, basketball tucked under a gangly arm. Then her eyes hit one that definitely was Grant, his arm around a pretty blonde with a shy smile.
Without thinking, Charli picked up the framed photo, bringing it closer. Grant had laughter in his eyes and looked as if the ugliness of the world had never breathed on him. Innocent and happy—a couple with the whole world spread out before them, a lifetime to look forward to. The sight evaporated the air from Charli’s lungs. She ran her thumb along the edge of the frame, grief for the people in the photo clogging her throat.
Georgia stepped up behind Charli, peering over her shoulder. “I’m sure Grant told you about Rachel,” she said, her voice gentle.
Charli nodded, trying to swallow past the tightness in her chest. “She was beautiful.”
Georgia sighed. “She was. I remember the day we took that picture of them, remember thinking how perfect everything was. My family was together, my husband was by my side, and my children were starting to build their own lives.” She shook her head. “A year later, those murderers didn’t just take Rachel and that baby-to-be away from us; they took everything. The light in my son’s eyes, the tight bond we all had with each other, my ability to fix things for my children.”
Charli turned to her, finding Georgia wearing a sad smile.
“It’s a hard day when you realize you can’t save your own child or take away their hurt.” She took the photo from Charli and set it back on the shelf. “So, thank you.”
Charli frowned. “For what?”
She walked over to the island and poured a glass of iced tea from the pitcher she’d set there. “For bringing him back.”
Charli slid onto one of the stools flanking the island. “It was his idea to come.”
She held a glass of tea out for Charli, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s not what I meant, hon.”
Grant kneeled in the soft grass that blanketed the family cemetery. When he was a kid this area on the far side of the property used to scare him. He’d been convinced ghosts of his ancestors were hiding behind every headstone. Then when he’d buried Rachel here, this place had brought forth nightmares of a different sort. But today, with the sun shining and the bees buzzing around all the flowers, he simply felt the warm presence of family surrounding him.
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?