But it lives in my heart.
4
Wyatt
* * *
“Why do we have to buy flowers? Grandma Renata already has flowers,” McCoy kicks the dusty gravel of the flower shop parking lot. With his little attitude and his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, he looks every bit the Buchanan that he is. “She’s got a full garden of ‘em.”
“Because it’s her birthday.” I straighten my hat. “Come on now. Get. We’ve got to be home before she starts cooking dinner so we can surprise her.”
“Yeah, but why do we have to buy her flowers? Why can’t anyone else?”
“Someday you’ll find out there are more important things in life than playing video games all day.” I lead him through the front doors. The bells jangle and clash against the glass, and I tip my hat towards the clerk. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cameron. Just here to buy some flowers for my mother. Happens to be her birthday today.”
Mrs. Cameron lights up. “Well, if I know Renata, she’ll go wild over these viola ranunculus we just got in.”
I nod. “We’ll take ‘em. Thank you.”
Tightening her apron strings, she heads for a cooler in the back and comes out with a large handful of purple flowers. She arranges them on a square of brown paper before wrapping them up and tying them with a pink ribbon, which she curls with a set of shears.
“You can grab one of those cards on the rack if you’d like. They come with the flowers,” she says before ringing me up. “It’ll be twenty-two dollars even.”
“You want to pick out the card, McCoy?” I distract him with a task because I know he’s bored as hell. Sliding my card from my wallet, I keep an eye on him to ensure he’s not getting into any trouble.
After all, he’s Cash’s son, and the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“Here,” McCoy places a small card on the counter.
“This one says I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says with an ornery twinkle in his eye. “I’m sorry it’s her birthday and all she’s getting are some lame flowers.”
I squeeze him behind the neck and shoot Mrs. Cameron an apologetic look.
“I’ll be sure to share your sentiments with your daddy as soon as we get home,” I promise my wise-ass nephew.
His baby blues widen, and his thin lips press thinner.
That’s what I thought …
“Thanks for stopping in, and be sure to tell Renata I hope she has the happiest of birthdays this year,” Mrs. Cameron says, sending us off.
McCoy and I climb into my truck and head back home to get these into some water and take care of a couple of smaller chores before dinner.
We aren’t but five minutes from Mama’s when I come to a stop at the four-way intersection at the bottom of a hill. A silver Toyota sedan across from me slows about the same time, so I wave her across.
I’m a man with nothing but time anyway.
Only the strangest thing happens next …
The instant the car passes, I lock eyes with the driver—a beautiful woman with silky dark hair and the saddest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen.
Eyes I’d know anywhere.
Funny how a second or two is all it takes for time to stand still.
And just like that, she’s gone.
“Uncle Wyatt, you going to go or what?” McCoy asks.
I loosen my white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. What was she doing on our road? And why is she back after all this time? I know full well I don’t have the right to ask those questions after everything that happened, but it’s just the same if only because I can’t tell her all the things I want her to know.
That I never meant to hurt her.
That I never stopped loving her. Not once.
That I never moved on.
That I did what I had to do.
“You okay?” McCoy asks. “You’re driving really slow …”
“Yeah.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, suck in a long breath, and rest my elbow on the window ledge. “You ever been sucker punched by God, McCoy?”
He turns to me, wrinkling his button nose. “What’s that mean?”
“If you’re lucky, kid, you’ll never find out.”
5
Blaire
* * *
I walk through the front door of my father’s home in a daze.
I saw him. I saw Wyatt.
We locked eyes.
Truth be told, he seemed just as stunned as me—though it all happened so fast, it could be my imagination. And I could’ve sworn there was a little boy in the truck with him—which would make sense since my father mentioned Renata had a couple of grandkids now.
“Blaire, is that you?” my father calls out, catching me just before I start conjuring up various scenarios of Wyatt on his wedding day and the birth of his baby. “I’m in the study.”
“Yeah, it’s me,” I say. “Just need to put some groceries away and I’ll be right down.”