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“I would have come, Meggie. If I’d known, I would have been here.”
A fresh wave of grief surged up from that deep, dark place, burning her throat anew. For Ainsley, she told herself. Not because of the sound of her name in her husband’s voice. No one else had ever called her Meggie.
No one else had ever made her name sound like a caress.
And for that, she hated him.
“No one was here,” she said, still stung by how wrong it had been. “No one from your family. None of her friends.” Not even Charlotte’s father. Only Meg and Julia and Lori, a handful of locals. “She deserved better than that.”
Russell’s jaw tightened. “I’m glad she had you,” he said. “That’s why she stayed, you know.”
After he left.
“I wasn’t family.”
Russell frowned. “Meggie…you know that’s not true.”
She looked away, toward the honeybees buzzing around her ankles. Meg had always wanted a sister. She had two cousins in town, but it wasn’t the same. Julia and Faith had lived in a big two-story house in a nice subdivision and took exotic vacations…with both their parents.
Meg had never even known her father.
Then Ainsley had come to town shortly after Meg and Russell married, a troubled teenager with a rebellious streak as long as a hot summer day, and a heart as tender as a dewdrop. After Russell left—
Meg looked back up, felt something inside her shift. His smile was soft and warm, gentle. Sad. The lines of his face had relaxed, even the perpetual five o’clock shadow looked softer. But it was his eyes that got her, the crinkling at the corners, the warmth of the green, the glow of discovery and vulnerability.
Meg’s hold on Charlotte tightened. She glanced down to find the baby awake, her big eyes trained curiously on the uncle she’d never met.
“Well, hello there, poppet,” he murmured in the dialect of his childhood, and Charlotte’s little mouth lifted into a delighted smile.
Meg wanted to wake up.
But knew that this was no dream.
“There’s my girl,” she said, shifting Charlotte so that she rode Meg’s hip. “What a good little nap you had.”
Russell kept staring, as if the baby might vanish if he so much as took his eyes off her. “She’s—”
“Wonderful,” Meg finished for him. A bittersweet gift she’d never expected. “She’s got so much of Ainsley in her.” And Russell. His eyes. His smile.
His infectious laugh.
At first being around Charlotte had hurt. But there’d been no one else to step in. Ainsley had never tried to track down her daughter’s father, saying only that he couldn’t be with them.
“Then she must not be sleeping much,” Russell said, and before she could stop herself, Meg laughed.
She didn’t want to laugh.
“Fits and starts,” she said. Insomnia had been Ainsley’s middle name. Rumor had it she’d had her days and nights mixed up from the time she was born. “But we’re working on it.”
“Ainsley always said—” Russell broke off, lifting a hand to feather a finger along the underside of Charlotte’s foot.
She giggled.
“Always said what?” Meg asked.
“That she wanted to be a mum.”
Meg closed her eyes. That was true. Piercings, tattoos, wild streak and all, even at nineteen, Ainsley had been a great mother. It just takes love, she’d said. Just…love.
“And so did you.”
The quiet words did cruel, cruel things to Meg’s heart. She opened her eyes and stepped back. Away. Couldn’t imagine anything she wanted less than to be standing in a field of bluebonnets making polite small talk with the husband she had not seen in two years.
“Your mother’s been calling.” And now Russell stood before her, a stranger in a painfully familiar body. The eyes…the mouth. The thick copper hair. As always, his shirt was open at the throat, revealing a hint of the dark springy hair she’d once loved to finger. Just to the right, she knew there would be a scar. “Is that why you’re here?”
The change was immediate. His flirty little Charlotte-inspired smile congealed into something harder—and much less readable. His gaze turned serious, and on a visceral level, Meg started to scream.
No.
She’d always known this day could come. Ainsley had left a will, but wills could be challenged. Technically, she was the outsider. If the Montgomery family was to challenge her for custody, she had a horrible feeling she knew what the outcome would be.
“Actually, it is,” Russell said, and as if a switch had been flicked, the lilt left his voice. “My parents wanted me to come and—”
Meg shifted to get a better grip on a suddenly squirmy baby.
“—settle Ainsley’s affairs.”
The breeze kept whispering. The bees kept buzzing. A few cars sped along the narrow highway. But Meg held herself very still. “Settle her affairs?” Her voice was barely more than a rasp.
Russell’s eyes met hers. Once, in what seemed like another lifetime, she’d known his every look, touch. Words had been a formality they’d rarely needed.
She’d never imagined how quickly silence could turn to poison.
Or how badly it could punish.
After he’d left, at first the days had been so much better. But the nights…
The nights had been another story.
And now they were reduced to awkward formalities. There was a searching in his gaze, the photojournalist hard at work, studying, analyzing. Seeking. And in response, she tucked all those nasty, tattered remnants away, unwilling to give him a story to work with. Two years was a long time. A lot had happened. Not all of it would please a judge.
The last thing she needed was award-winning journalist Russell Montgomery on a fact-finding mission.
His eyes narrowed, as if he was squinting against a bright glare. “Her house,” he said as Charlotte started to thwack her hand against Meg’s chest. “Her belongings.”
Caution prevented relief from stirring. “Everything’s still there. I…” Had been to the house the day Ainsley died only long enough to gather a few essentials for the baby. The next day, Lori’s husband, Trey, had brought over the crib and glider, the rest of Charlotte’s toys and clothes.
Meg had been unable to go back since.
“Between the paper and the Wildflower Festival I haven’t had a chance to sort through everything yet.” In truth, there wasn’t much. Ainsley had worked as a waitress. Funds had been tight. She’d been so excited when one of her customers had offered her the use of his mother’s vacant house. “Julia and Lori offered to help me, but it just doesn’t seem to happen.”
Probably because a very strong part of her wasn’t ready for that kind of closure.
“I understand,” Russell said, and from the thickness of his voice, she knew that he did. No matter what had gone down between the two of them, he’d always had a soft spot for his sister. “I don’t want to be here, either.”
Somehow she didn’t wince. She kept her expression blank, her voice neutral. “Come by the paper tomorrow,” she said as Charlotte tugged at the collar of her shirt. She nuzzled in, her mouth open and seeking.
Russell’s eyes followed, the green quickly taking on a dark glitter she’d worked hard to forget.
The quickening was immediate—and the final straw. Meg shifted the hungry baby from her chest and lowered her to stand on top of her own feet, Char’s chubby little legs wobbling like gelatin.
“I’ve got the keys there,” Meg said as if nothing had just happened. The baby clutching her fingers for dear life, she glanced back at Russell.
He looked as though he’d seen a ghost.
“A day or two tops,” she said, “and then you can be on your way.”
A harsh sound broke from his throat…the same sound he always made when he didn’t know what to say. “Is she walking?”
“Not yet,” Meg said, easing her right foot forward. “At least, not by herself.” Then, to the baby, “Such a big, strong girl!”
Charlotte giggled as if she understood. She leaned forward, urging Meg to keep moving.
Meg obliged.
“Ray’s back.”
Meg looked up. “What?”
Russell gestured behind her, where her mother’s friend stood alongside the swarm of bluebonnets where he’d first tried to take Charlotte’s picture.
“Oh, good,” she said, turning to start back. “Maybe this time we can actually get some pictures.” She wasn’t sure what made her twist toward Russell. He hadn’t moved a muscle, stood there as still as one of the old post oaks surrounding the field, watching.
And then she got it. The baby. His sister’s child. Charlotte was the spitting image of Ainsley, who was the spitting image of Russell. Seeing her was like seeing a ghost. Sometimes Meg still couldn’t believe her sister-in-law was gone.
“Here,” she said before thinking. She lifted her arms, bringing the giggling baby up toward her uncle. “You want to hold her?”
CHAPTER THREE
Two and a half years before
PINK BALLOONS BOBBED against the passenger window, straining to get free. Twelve of them, including a Mylar in the shape of little booties. The tulips lay on the front seat, beside the grape juice.
She was going to be upset. Russell knew that. She wasn’t even answering his calls. He’d tried to get away, but the meeting ran long, and as usual, he lost track of time.
Frowning, he was turning onto the narrow road that led to their house when he remembered to check his messages. He hadn’t checked before, hadn’t wanted to hear the news that way. He’d wanted to see her face, her smile. He’d wanted to be there.
Now, almost home, he wondered if she was somewhere else.
Five messages waited. The first three were hang-ups. The fourth was a former colleague. Finally, with the fifth, he heard her voice, and his heart started to slam.
“Honey…” Meg was a confident woman, vivacious, full of energy and life. But now… “I…I…” She never stuttered. She never stammered. “I…”
The sickness hit fast, spreading like a toxin in his gut.
“We need to talk,” she said, sounding so very, very far away. So small. “Come home…please.”
He was barely aware of his foot ramming down on the gas pedal, racing the last of the way home. He swerved into the driveway and threw open the door, strode toward the house. The balloons were in his hand. The tulips were not.
“Meg?” he called as he opened the door.
The shadows of early afternoon greeted him. There were no lights turned on. No music. “Meggie?”
The stillness deepened with every step he took. The kitchen, the family room, the bedroom—the nursery. All empty.
“Meggie!”
He didn’t know why he started to run. Everything was spinning…inside. Outside. Throwing open the back door, he squinted against the sun—and saw her.
And then everything stopped.
She was just sitting there. Down by the creek, with her back against one of the old weeping willows. Her knees were drawn to her chest. Her arms were wrapped around them. Her gaze was trained forward, toward the slow trickle of water in the creek.
On the breeze, he heard the choked sound of crying.
He staggered, started to run again. He thought he called out to her, but his throat was raw and she didn’t turn. She sat there, frozen.
And God help him, he knew.
His steps slowed as the sprawl of green grass down to the creek stretched. Numbly, his hand, clenching the tangle of pink ribbons, went slack, and the bobbing mass of balloons lifted toward the blue of the sky.
And floated away.
Present Day
THE RAW, NAKED EMOTION on Russell’s face congealed into something unreadable. “No. I—I can’t hold her…right now.” He ripped his gaze from the baby, backed away.
From his own niece.
“Ray’s waiting,” he said. “I—I’ll be by in the morning.”
And with that he turned and headed back to the sporty blue rental waiting in the gravel parking lot.
Meg wanted to be surprised. Angry. She was neither. Backing away, walking away, that’s what Russell Montgomery did.
The hurt and disappointment were for Charlotte. She was just a baby, an innocent in all this. She deserved better. But as Meg carried her niece through a patch of poppies, toward Ray, the pressure in her chest released, and once again, she could breathe.
Russell had talked of Ainsley’s affairs, of her house and her belongings…but not of her baby. He didn’t even want to hold her.
And if he didn’t hold her, he couldn’t take her.
TIME DIDN’T STAND STILL. Russell knew that. It’s just the way it was, a simple fact he’d always appreciated. In the two years since he’d last driven the shady streets of Pecan Creek, a child had been born, a bright light extinguished, a marriage ended.
But as he steered his rental car beneath a banner advertising the annual Wildflower Festival, it was like driving straight back into a past he knew no longer existed.
The cobblestone streets and old-time storefronts of the historic district welcomed him, just as they welcomed everybody. Park benches sat beneath awnings. Nostalgic statues stood by the street corners. Even the old gazebo still waited there in the Side Street Park, if possible a brighter white than the last time he’d seen it.
The storefronts were the same, even if some of the names had changed. The old antiques shop was now a tearoom. The independent bookseller now boasted CDs and DVDs, as well. On the outskirts of town he’d noticed the big antebellum house turned bed-and-breakfast had a grand-reopening sign hung out front. Once, the renowned Magnolia Manor had attracted visitors from all across the country.
Russell wondered how long it had been closed.
Easing along the busy street that cut the town in half, he strained against the shadows of late afternoon for the familiar green awning across from the Gazette. He’d eaten at five-star restaurants in more major cities than he could count, but all it took was the thought of Uncle Ralph’s, and his mouth started to water. If the local favorite was gone—
It wasn’t. The hole-in-the-wall sat where it always had, tucked between Ed’s Barber Shop and Dr. Harrison’s office. There was almost always a crowd milling around out front, waiting for one of the ten tables inside.
At least, that’s how many tables had been there before.
Russell had talked to Uncle Ralph about expanding or relocating, but the sole proprietor had always resisted, saying he couldn’t cook for more than ten tables at a time, so why seat more than ten at a time?
Easing into a parallel spot across the street, Russell couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Once and only once, he’d suggested that Uncle Ralph hire someone to help…
Once. Only once.
Now he made his way across the street, glancing at his phone to check the time, when he noticed no one lingering out front. A few minutes past seven. He would have expected a crowd.
At the door, he wasn’t sure why he hesitated. He’d eaten at the restaurant more times than he could count. He and Meg had come here frequently, sometimes several times per week. After work they’d walk over, sometimes just the two of them, often with Lori and Julia. The guys would arrive shortly thereafter. It had been their ritual.
Stepping back inside…
He almost turned and walked away, toward the new place down the street, Mamacitas. Instead he yanked open the door and strode into the restaurant lit by dozens of strings of festive chili pepper yard lights.
He saw them immediately, all of them, Julia and Lance and Lori and Trey. It was hard not to. His gaze went straight to their booth, the big curved one in the back right corner where they all used to sit and see who could throw back the most tequila shots. Once Meg had—
He turned to leave.
The sharp intake of breath was the only warning he got. “Rusty Montgomery!” Before he could turn—or run for the door—Ralph’s wife was across the room. “As I live and breathe,” she cried as she took him by the arm and beamed up at him. “Lord o’mercy it is you!”
And then it was all he could do not to choke on the heavy scent of gardenia—and grease. Ruby wrapped him up tight in her beefy arms, hugging him as if she’d never thought to see him again.
“I never thought this day would come,” she said when she finally released him. “You done broke my heart when you left like that, without even coming to tell me bye.”
By now everyone in the whole restaurant was watching—including the foursome at the back booth. Russell wanted the floor to just open up and swallow him, but since that wasn’t going to happen, he opted for Plan B.
“Ruby Rodriguez,” he said, rolling his Rs. “Still as pretty as the day is long.”
Her smile widened, but the glint in her eyes told him she knew what he was trying to do. “Go on with you now,” she said, gesturing toward the familiar booth. “Your friends are waiting.”
The words were casual enough, but they hit him like a rock to the gut. A big one. The foursome didn’t move, just watched, leaving the ball square in Russell’s court.
Until Lance stood. “Rusty,” his former poker buddy said, crossing to him with a hand outstretched. There was a quiet understanding in his voice—and a steely warning in his eyes. “Didn’t know you were back in town, man.”
Trey was there a step later, and as Russell extended his hand, the man he’d once run with almost every morning before the sun rose wrapped him in a quick hug. The gesture caught him by surprise…but nowhere near as much as the realization that his friend had lost a lot of weight.
Trey released him abruptly, as if just realizing what he’d done. “When did you get back?”
“This morning,” Russell said. “Need to clean out—”
“No, you don’t.” That was Julia. He’d wondered how long it would take the barracuda to march over. “There’s nothing you need to do here,” she said, angling her chin in that fierce way of hers.
Her husband looked as if he, too, wanted the floor to swallow him. “Julia—”
“No,” Meg’s cousin said before Lance could get out another word. She lifted her hand in a sharp gesture. “He doesn’t get to do this.” She kept her eyes trained on her prey, namely Russell. “You can’t just show up here like…you still belong.”
He blinked. Julia had always been a bull-by-the-horns kind of gal, but her vehemence seemed a little over-the-top. “Ainsley was my sister—”
“And Meg was your wife.” She practically spat the word at him. “That didn’t seem to make any difference, did it? You still walked away. You don’t get to—”
“Jules.” Lori materialized by her friend’s side with an icy glare as she laid a hand to Julia’s forearm. “Don’t.”
Something dark and uncomfortable slipped through Russell. He’d known coming back would not be easy, but the palpable tension among the foursome drove home just how long he’d been gone—and how much he didn’t know. Trey was rail thin. Lori looked sad, drawn. Lance looked fed up. And Julia…Julia looked like she wanted to bust some balls.
Namely, his.
“I don’t get to do what?” he asked.
Lori looked down. Julia’s mouth pursed into a thin line. But it was Trey who spoke. “Come on, that was a long time ago,” he said to his wife and her friend. “It wasn’t a picnic for anyone. When a marriage ends…” He lifted a hand to rub at his chest, but left the rest of his sentence unspoken.
But Russell knew. When a marriage ended, it was like a death. But the kicker was, you both still lived. You lived, while every other aspect of your life—where you lived, what you did, who you did it with, your freaking identity—went away.
Once those in Meg’s inner circle had considered Russell a friend, and he them. They’d worked together, laughed together, cried together. Now at best he was a stranger. At worst…an enemy.
Not surprisingly, it was Lori who broke the awkward silence. “Have you seen her?”
A photojournalist, Russell was a man who dealt in images. Some he captured with film. Others imprinted themselves on him, lingering long, long after time had moved on. When he closed his eyes, it was a veritable slide show of his life.
Since returning to Pecan Creek, that slide show was of Meg.
“This afternoon,” he said, feeling his chest tighten all over again. In a perfect world, he could have slipped in and out of town without seeing her. Christ, he could have avoided coming back altogether.
But it wasn’t a perfect world, and he could not do what had to be done without involving her.
“At the flower field,” he murmured as an afterthought. “She had the baby….”
Julia and Lori exchanged a quick glance. Two minutes later they’d retrieved their purses and were gone, leaving the men standing in an awkward vortex of country music and silence.
STARS TWINKLED throughout the shadowy nursery, blue shimmers of light courtesy of the funky projector in the center of the room. Beatles music turned lullabies drifted from the CD player on the dresser. It was the perfect atmosphere for sleeping, but Charlotte, despite being bathed, lotioned and fed, had absolutely no interest in sleeping.
Still Meg rocked, cradling the chubby baby in her arms as she watched the numbers on the clock slip deeper into the evening.
“What a good day you had,” she cooed, even though Charlotte was focused on the pile of blocks she’d been playing with earlier.
Meg wasn’t about to allow her back down on the floor. This was attempt number three at sleep. There would not be a fourth.
“Posing so pretty for Uncle Ray,” she went on in the same monotone. The second time had been the charm. Rejuvenated from her power nap, Charlotte had sat happily in the big patch of bluebonnets, cheerfully destroying one flower at a time.
Ray said the pictures would be great.
Meg had to take his word for it, because in truth, she had no idea. She’d tried to watch. She’d tried to pay attention. But the image of Russell limping toward her had stayed with her long after he himself had vanished.
Even now, hours later, the reality of it all kept winding through her, tighter with each minute that passed. This is what it had been like before, back when they’d come home from work each day and pretended they had a marriage. When they’d shared a silent dinner before each retreating to their own space. When they’d lain in bed with their backs to each other, faking sleep.
And so much more.
With the memory, all those old sensations knotted inside her once again, bringing with them a renewed frustration. She and Charlotte were just settling into a routine. The paper was in trouble. Circulation was down, advertising almost cut in half. With more and more folks consuming their news from online sources, interest in dailies and weeklies was at an all-time low. If she didn’t come up with a turnaround soon, the paper would go under.
She did not have time for Russell Montgomery to stroll back into town.
On a deep inhalation, she glanced down and found Charlotte’s eyes heavy, slowly blinking. Exhaling, she stopped rocking and waited.
The baby’s eyes drifted closed.
Still Meg sat in the rocking chair, looking down at Charlotte’s sweet little face. Sometimes getting her to sleep was a bear, but those first few moments of slumber were worth the effort. The innocence of it all screamed through Meg, filling her with a soft determination that would have sent her to her knees had she not been sitting.
Charlotte. Poor sweet Charlotte. Ainsley had loved her so very, very much.
Meg closed her eyes against the memory, but images awaited in the darkness, as well. Ainsley on the hospital bed, weak, fading. Reaching for her baby one last time.
Inside, something started to shake. Fighting it, Meg reached for all those slip-sliding pieces and locked them away, stood and eased the baby into her crib. In the hall, she crossed to her office, but found herself heading for the kitchen instead. She just needed…
At the oven, she went up on her toes and opened the cabinet, saw the lone bottle. She’d put the five-year-old cabernet there the night after Charlotte was born. Maybe tonight was the night to allow herself just one glass….