Читать книгу One Perfect Year - Melinda Curtis - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTHE WHOLE TOWN came out to support Harmony Valley Vineyard’s first grape harvest. At least, that’s what it felt like to Shelby as she stood on the winery’s patio Friday night waiting for their volunteer harvesters to arrive. And it felt wonderful. She’d come home. Home to friendly greetings and shared histories, to warm welcomes and “how’ve you beens,” to people who looked you in the eyes when they asked how your day was going and then listened to your answer.
The sun was receding and Shelby turned on the tall propane heaters one by one. During night harvest, the crew would need a warm place to take breaks.
“Shelby, I heard you were back in town. You’ll be registering to vote, of course.” Mayor Larry claimed one of her hands with both of his and gave it a vigorous shake. The unlikely politician—a former hippy who still sported a waist-length ponytail, albeit gray—had been in office for decades. He also ran a profitable online T-shirt business. The mayor reached into a cloth bag on his shoulder and shook out a purple and yellow tie-dyed T-shirt. “How about a shirt? It has the Harmony Valley Vineyard’s logo silk-screened on it.” A black running horse on a weather vane.
“Don’t make it sound as though she has to buy one, Larry. It’s free.” Christine Jennings, Shelby’s boss and head winemaker, plucked the shirt from the mayor’s fingers and gave it to Shelby. “We bought enough for all our workers and volunteers. And you made a tidy profit, Larry.” Christine softened her words with a kiss to Larry’s cheek.
Before Shelby could do more than thank them both for the shirt, another Harmony Valley resident appeared before her.
“I was wondering when I’d get to see you.” Agnes Villanova had been a friend of Shelby’s grandmother. Her big heart came in a petite package. She was barely five feet tall, and one of the town’s most active citizens. She wore a red stocking cap and a bright green sweatshirt. At first glance, she looked like a beardless garden gnome.
Shelby leaned over to receive her hug. “I’ve been meaning to come by.”
“You young people are always so busy.” Agnes moved closer to Christine and slid her arm around her granddaughter’s waist. “First you move home and we think we’ll see you more often, and then you work just as hard as you did before you moved here and so we still never see you.”
“The grapes wait for no one,” Christine said.
“Nor the wine,” Shelby added, exchanging a smile with her boss.
“There’s Ryan. Yoo-hoo!” Agnes waved to the young assistant winemaker. “You ladies go easy on him tonight.”
“Grown man. Paid employee.” Christine’s words were clipped as if this argument was oft repeated. “Don’t baby him.”
“Ah, but he’s so sweet.” Agnes’s expression turned sly. “Until I have great-grandchildren, who can I dote on?”
Christine rolled her eyes.
Just then, Shelby noticed someone shuffling in her direction. It was Hiro Takata, or Old Man Takata as everyone in her generation called him, the town’s retired undertaker. The nip in the air suddenly permeated her bones.
“My dear.” He came close enough to reach for her hand. “It’s good to see you back and doing well.”
The same soothing voice. The same gentle, compassionate handhold. She hadn’t seen the old man since Nick’s funeral.
Old Man Takata used his grip to reel himself to her side. He grunted as he strained to straighten hunched shoulders and lift the kindly aging face of his Japanese ancestors to her. “Where’s your grandfather? Did War skip out on the excitement?” Cigar smoke laced his words.
“He’s at home, hip deep in research.” Shelby couldn’t get Grandpa to promise to stay out of his stacks while she was gone.
The older man smiled. “Are you by any chance a bowler?”
Slade, one of the winery owners, appeared before them. He was knock-your-socks-off handsome, a former Wall Street whiz, and Christine’s fiancé. “She won’t be bowling for your team, Hiro. If she bowls for anyone, it’s the winery.” Slade gave Shelby a brief once-over, like a coach checking out a new recruit. “The winery bowls in a league in Cloverdale. Do you bowl, Shelby?”
Bowling? Athletics? Disaster. “Does pumpkin bowling for the Harvest Queen crown one year count?”
The older man laughed. “It’s coming back to me. A wonky release that nearly took out the spectators.”
“Only Gage,” Shelby muttered.
“Slade, you may have her. Now, find me a seat under one of those heaters.” Old Man Takata released her. “Oh, and, Shelby.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Let me know if you need company visiting Nick’s grave.”
Her breath caught. How had he known she hadn’t been able to go alone?
Needing a moment, Shelby faded away from the crowd, retreating to the banks of the Harmony Valley River on the edge of the vineyard.
She drew her green army jacket around herself as the water drifted past with slow swirls that caught the last rays of sunset. Had coming here been a mistake?
The first time Shelby’d moved to Harmony Valley was more than eight years ago. She’d learned quickly she could rely on two things—the steady flow of the river, and Gage Jamero. He had the smile of a heartbreaker and the smarts of a Rhodes Scholar. But most endearingly, he was kind and tongue-tied.
He’d introduced her to his best friend, Nick Hawkley. Nick was handsome and had a way of putting people at ease. She’d felt as if she’d known him forever. Nick had asked her out and that was that. She’d gained a love and a best friend in less than a week. It only took one day to lose both.
She hadn’t visited this part of the river since she’d been in high school. Memories came rushing back. The emotion from events she hadn’t thought of in years welled inside her.
The trouble with being a relatively new widow were all the “firsts.” The first night she’d slept in their bed after Nick died. The first time she’d passed by the church where they’d been married. The first holidays without him at her side.
Firsts were gut-clenching, cold moments. They clogged her throat, flooded her eyes and cut off her breath. It took time to process them. To acknowledge the innocence, to accept things would never be the same again, and to release the melancholy.
Yeah...the melancholy.
She’d once floated around this picturesque river bend on a raft with Nick and Gage. They’d been talking about college options—although they all knew they’d end up at the same university. They were that close. Then Gage had announced he wasn’t coming back to Harmony Valley after graduation.
Because of the scars of her parents’ nomadic, career-driven lifestyle, Shelby had been doggedly against Gage moving elsewhere. She’d lived in six cities by the time she was sixteen while her parents climbed corporate ladders in the advertising world. Always the new girl, always on the outside.
“You have no idea what it’s like to be someplace else. Nobody knows you like they do here. Harmony Valley cares about their neighbors.” She’d pounded the raft’s sides. “We’re all coming back here. Nick’s going to be mayor. I’m going to teach science. And you, Gage?” She’d shot him her most imperial look. “You’ll take over Grandpa’s practice.”
“Come on, Shelby. At eighteen nobody knows what they really want to do or where they’ll end up,” Gage had scoffed. “You think you love...some...something, but it’s just a phase. I loved chicken nuggets when I was four. Now I love sushi. I don’t know what I’m going to love ten years from now, but I do know I’m not coming back here. I want to go someplace where people don’t know my life’s history, including all the stuff I want to forget.”
Nick had been unusually silent.
She hadn’t understood Gage’s sentiment when they were kids. But after Nick’s death, Shelby knew exactly how Gage had felt. She hadn’t wanted to return, either, not because she didn’t love Harmony Valley, but because she couldn’t handle the town’s grief for Nick along with her own.
So instead, she’d taken a job at a winery at the foot of the Sierras, where no one knew her. She worked hard and kept to herself. Ice cream was her best friend. Nick’s pillow her midnight confidante. She was lonely, but loneliness was a guarantee that her heart would never be torn apart again.
Then a few months ago, her car had broken down on a stretch of less-traveled highway north of Sacramento. It was dark and deserted. She’d had no one to call for help. Her parents were working at an ad agency overseas. She hadn’t talked to them in several weeks. In a blink, she’d realized her life was an empty shell. Those things she’d craved growing up? Close friends, being part of a community, the feeling of permanence? She had none.
The next day, she’d heard about the Harmony Valley Vineyards job posting from her grandfather. She’d decided a compromise needed to be made.
A barking black dog ran by her, drawing her attention back to the present. Behind the dog was a panting, ginger-headed young boy.
“Hi, Shelby! I get to stay up late tonight picking grapes.” Truman, a nephew of Flynn, one of the winery’s owners, high-fived her before he disappeared into a row of grapevines behind her.
A few seconds later, Slade’s daughters, dark haired, identical twins, burst out of another row.
“Did you see Truman?” one asked as she gasped for breath and fanned her face.
Her twin, similarly red-cheeked and breathless, scanned the area.
“You can’t catch me,” Truman taunted from deep within a row. His laughter danced over rustling grape leaves.
Giggling, the girls raced after him, leaving Shelby with a lightened heart. It was good to see children back in town, good to see the kind of friendships she’d had the year she’d lived here.
In the distance, cars rumbled over the winery’s gravel driveway. Her Harmony Valley past was returning. Without Nick’s optimism and humor. Without Gage’s wit and blinding smile.
“Shelby, they’re here,” Christine called from the farmhouse porch several hundred feet away.
Shelby walked through rows of bushy grapevines dotted with the occasional browning leaf. The white two-story farmhouse had been renovated into an elegant tasting room on the first floor with open office space above. To the right, the winery’s main building had been constructed over the original barn’s footprint, and housed wine processing equipment along with some expensive wine barrels. It was a very small operation set in the middle of a beautiful vineyard. If done right, the wine would be exquisite. After Christine worked her winemaking magic, it was Shelby’s job to make sure the wine aged to perfection.
The sky softened to twilight gray as cars shut off and headlights dimmed. The nip of evening breathed over the vineyard. Soon the temperature would drop and the only light would come from portable metal booms as they harvested the Chardonnay grapes that would make up the first vintage of Harmony Valley Vineyards wine.
Christine gestured for Shelby to join her on the porch, next to Ryan, and Slade, who was being teased for not wearing a tie—an inside joke, for sure. All three owners—Slade, Flynn and Will—were hometown boys, a few years ahead of Shelby in school and relative strangers until recently. They’d made their fortunes by designing and selling a popular farming app.
On the other side of Slade, Flynn had his arms linked around his nephew, Truman. He nodded to Shelby. “Are you ready for this?”
“I should be asking you that. I’ve done this before.” Shelby bent to pet Truman’s dog. The black fur on her head was velvety soft and immediately settled the last of Shelby’s pensiveness.
Will stood at the opposite end of the porch. His arm was draped over his fiancée’s shoulders. Emma touched his cheek with paint-stained fingers. Come spring, the up-and-coming artist was going to paint a mural on one side of the barn that housed the winery.
“Here they come. Our volunteers.” By the pride in Christine’s voice, one might have thought she was talking about her own children, the ones Agnes was waiting to dote on.
The winery had been unable to entice a professional harvesting team to work on such a small job in this isolated, northeastern border town of Sonoma County. A bit of networking had resulted in former residents being recruited to help. Twenty acres of Chardonnay grapes. Less than an eighth square mile to cover. Together they could be done by dawn. In another few weeks, if the weather remained mild, the final acres with Cabernet Sauvignon grapes would be ready to harvest, and the request for volunteers would go out again.
“This is going to be perfect.” Christine rubbed her hands together. “We’ll divide them into teams and show them how to cut grape clusters. And if someone can’t cut—”
“Or cuts off their finger...” Ryan crossed his gangly arms over his chest as he inspected their volunteer crew.
Shelby silently agreed with Ryan. There were so many ways this could derail. Inexperience led to accidents. Cockiness led to catastrophe. Thank goodness, the aging population was only here to greet their younger relatives and provide emotional support. She couldn’t imagine Old Man Takata shuffling down a row cutting grape clusters all night in the cold.
Christine gave Ryan the stink eye. “If they aren’t skilled at cutting, they can transport grapes to the de-stemmer and then the crusher. Everyone works. Everyone should feel needed. That’s the most important take away from this experience tonight. They’re getting paid with a T-shirt, a bottle from our first vintage, a thank-you on the web site and our graciousness.”
“Compensation enough to come back for the Cab harvest,” Ryan deadpanned, stroking the long, sparse whiskers on his face. His dark hair curled in disobedient waves that nearly brushed his shoulders. It was a mark of pride that male winemakers didn’t shave or cut their hair from the beginning of harvest season until the last grape was picked and crushed. Female winemakers were more civilized.
“It’ll be enough.” Christine narrowed her eyes at her young assistant. “Say you believe me.”
“Of course. Optimism is my middle name.” Ryan waited until Christine turned away to whisper to Shelby. “Twenty bucks says we lose half of them by break time.”
“Was it just a few months ago that I hired a sweet, shy assistant?” Christine shook a finger at Ryan. “Whatever happened to him?”
“He blossomed under your tutelage.” Ryan grinned.
“More likely in my grandmother’s kitchen eating her homemade strudel. She’s spoiled you.” Christine turned away again, and rubbed her hands together as she took in the group on the porch. “Let’s welcome our workers.” She led them down the steps and into the growing crowd.
The young volunteers embraced their elders, called out greetings to their other hometown friends, hugged each other and shook hands, looking as if they were coming to a family reunion instead of a race to pick grapes before they over-ripened.
Shelby mingled with friends from her past—Emily Johnson, Carl Quedoba, Tanya Romero, Umberto Escabar. She met the recently hired town sheriff for the first time, as well as a woman who was thinking about opening a bed-and-breakfast in her grandmother’s ancient Victorian.
A lone vehicle turned down the driveway, its headlights high between the palms. A truck. A white truck. A white truck with a dented rear fender.
It can’t be. Shelby held her breath.
The driver parked and got out, flashing a dazzling smile beneath a faded red Harmony Valley Hedgehogs ball cap.
A brisk wind rustled the grapevines, chilling her.
It was Dead Gage.
* * *
AWARENESS OF SHELBY kicked through Gage’s system like an electrical current wearing combat boots.
If Gage had been a lab rat hooked up to sensors, every time he saw Shelby scientists would record an intense release of dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine. He wasn’t a lab experiment, but the trifecta of his body’s chemicals heightened his perception at the sight of her. They focused his attention on the things he found physically attractive about Shelby—her slender curves, her warm smile, her big blue eyes—and the things he admired about Shelby—her intelligence, her gentle humor, her nurturing tendencies— It was all imprinted in his memory.
Luckily, no one kept track of his internal responses except Gage. And to this day, since he’d been careful, no one knew how Shelby affected him.
He was a doctor, a scientist. He could catalog his physiological response to her, rationalize his feelings and control his behavior. And if that control was threatened, a joke to break the tension was always the answer.
And so, upon seeing Shelby, he didn’t smile like an idiot when he admired her in body-hugging jeans. He didn’t let his gaze linger more than a second on her sweet face. And he didn’t reenact his fantasy of staring into Shelby’s sky-blue eyes as he reeled her slowly into his arms, brushed aside her short, soft blond curls, and kissed her.
Not when their small town friends flanked her.
Not when, presumably, her new boss stood nearby.
Not when he hadn’t talked to her since Nick’s funeral.
Gage took off his old high school baseball cap and wiped his brow. The hat was useless anyway, as it did little to hide his seminervous expression from Shelby.
Two years ago, he’d overslept and missed meeting Nick for a day of kayaking on the swollen Merced River rapids. That was the day his life changed forever.
If Gage had woken up on time, he might have talked Nick out of getting on the raging water that day. He might still spend Saturday mornings snowboarding black diamond slopes in winter. He might still spend Saturday mornings in summer free-climbing cliffs in Yosemite. And Nick might still be alive.
Born a month apart, and raised a block from each other, Nick and Gage had been more like brothers than friends. Gage would do almost anything for Nick, even ignore the feelings he had for Shelby.
Take the day he’d met Shelby. She’d stumbled into his high school science class during his senior year. He’d felt as if he’d been sucker punched. Unbelievably, he, who’d always relied on proof and facts, had fallen in love at first sight. How else could he describe how discombobulated he felt just seeing Shelby? But while he’d overanalyzed those strange, new feelings, Nick, who’d never hesitated in his too-short life, acted right after Gage introduced them.
Once Gage discovered his feelings for Shelby were substantial and real, it was too late. He’d fallen for his lab partner, and she’d fallen for his best friend. And his feelings hadn’t waned. Not at their high school and college graduations. Not at the engagement party. Not at the wedding. Not at the funeral.
He’d never acted on his impulses. And tonight would be no different.
“Gage?” Shelby’s voice. So unsure.
He closed the distance between them slowly. The slower he approached the longer he had to take note of her features. That no-nonsense, short blond hair beneath a yellow knit cap. That slender figure bundled against the late October chill. That tentative look in her eyes.
He was the reason for that look, while she was the reason his pulse kicked up a notch.
He stopped and brought out the heavy artillery—his smile. “Did somebody call for a grape picker?”
Without missing a beat, she put her hands on her hips. “You didn’t answer any of my messages.”
He shook his head. The crowd of volunteers watched silently, as if this was enthralling cinema.
“You didn’t reply to any of my texts or emails either.”
His smile dimmed.
“You un-friended me on Facebook.”
The crowd gasped. A few chuckled.
“I shut down my Facebook page,” he told her, and the crowd. There, at least that was a defendable excuse.
“And your phone?”
Don’t do this to me, Shel.
He’d never admitted to anyone that he was supposed to have been with Nick the day he died. The secret ate away at him. It probably always would.
“Gage?” Her vulnerability was strong enough to slip past his guard.
“I couldn’t.” The words were wrenched out of him.
She made a sound that was half disapproving huff, half sob and ran toward him, practically tripping over her own two feet. He couldn’t say later if he’d met her halfway, couldn’t remember much beyond her arms coming around him, pressing against the hoofprint contusion near his spine. But the hug...the hug was worth every pang in his bruised and sore back. She held Gage as if he was a precious gift she never wanted to lose.
For a moment, Gage drew Shelby close, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her hair, imagining what life would be like if she were his: no-overanalyzing. No careful responses. No distance.
Like there was a chance of that happening.
The power of his emotions made him realize coming home was a good thing. He’d needed to see Shelby again, if only to say goodbye to her once and for all.
“This makes up for nothing,” she whispered, before pushing Gage away to introduce him to those he didn’t know.
Her boss divided the volunteers into different groups—bin runners, crush pad operators, but mostly grape harvesters. Gage ended up with Shelby’s group of harvesters, along with several of their friends.
They were outfitted with plastic tubs, work gloves, and curved, serrated knives. Shelby led them between two rows of grapevines, halting beneath a boom with lights that illuminated three rows across, positioning them six feet apart on either side. “We’ll go through each corridor tonight. You’ll locate a cluster of grapes, and cut the stem as close to the cluster as you can.”
Gage’s breath caught as Shelby held up a very sharp-looking knife. Back in high school, after she’d sliced open her finger while dissecting a pig—twice—Mrs. Bernhardt had forbidden Shelby to wield sharp instruments in her biology class.
“Plant your feet. Grab hold of the vine. And...” Shelby smoothly slid her knife beneath a leaf, made a cut, freed a grape cluster bigger than her hand and set it in the bin next to her. Then she demonstrated her technique again, slower this time, surprising Gage with how capable and confident her movements were. “Hold the cluster in one hand, make a diagonal cut with your knife and then show the grapes some love as you put them gently in the bin.”
“Nicely done,” he said.
She ignored him and cut another grape cluster free. “Remove any leaves or excess stems. When your tub is full, empty your load into the large wheeled bin and move ahead to another section. And if the knife makes you uncomfortable—” she made eye contact with everyone but Gage “—let me know. We’ll find something else for you to do. Nobody’s getting hurt on my watch.”
He realized in the past two years he’d missed out on something: Shelby had changed.
She wasn’t the cute, naively optimistic, bumbling young woman he’d fallen in love with and his best friend had married.
She was something more.
Something that made it hard for him to remember he should only have come to say goodbye.
* * *
EACH WINERY’S HARVEST was different. The weather, the slope of the property, the crew.
Some crews spoke very little English. Some sang rowdy songs.
This crew was like being at a high school reunion without the alcohol or cocktail dresses. They fell into an easy camaraderie—joking, reminiscing, telling stories about college, jobs, spouses and kids. Everyone, that is, except Shelby and Gage.
“Three kids already?” With a waggle of eyebrows, curvy Tanya ribbed Emily. “You’ve been busy, girl.”
“I love my kids.” Emily had that look about her that many young moms seemed to have—equal parts joy and weariness. “But every mom needs a break. That’s why my husband is home with them tonight.”
They all laughed.
Carl hadn’t changed a bit. “I couldn’t wait to get out of here after graduation. Santa Rosa has everything I need—sexy cars, sexy women and the food...” He’d always been focused on the trappings of success and quite the talker. Only now, his brown hairline was receding. “I sell solar panels for swimming pools. I drive a company truck, and as a perk they put solar panels on my roof for free. If anyone needs to heat up their pool, let me know.”
Broad shouldered Umberto’s grin was just as wide as always. “California’s been hard up for water. How’s the pool biz working out for you?”
“It’s been tough,” Carl admitted begrudgingly. Then he gave Umberto a friendly slug to the arm. “But I’ve always been a survivor. Remember that baseball game against Cloverdale senior year? I was not going to let their superstar score and beat us.”
And Carl hadn’t. He’d decked the runner trying to steal home, hitting him so hard the boy got a concussion.
Shelby glanced at Gage. He and Nick had played in that game. Afterward, they hadn’t been proud of the win. Gage said nothing.
Seeing Gage triggered so many memories. Bright ones—laughing with their heads bent over a science book, racing Nick and Gage on bikes to school, dancing with Gage on her wedding day. And darker memories—her calling to ask Gage if he’d heard from Nick, him showing up at their apartment in the middle of the night to drive her to identify Nick’s broken body, him fading into the crowd of mourners at the funeral.
A part of her ached anew trying to imagine the reason he’d disappeared. He was hurting as much as I was.
A part of her rose up in indignant anguish. He left me when I needed him most.
Wounded pride stiffened her backbone. She refused to need anyone anymore. Needing, attachment, loving. It all led to heartache.
For two years, she’d coped with the loss of his friendship by creating the metaphor of Dead Gage. If she was dead to him and not worthy of a phone call, he’d be dead to her. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo. Right back at you.
Then why did you claim him for your crew?
Because... Because they’d been close once. Because there was a look in his eyes now that echoed hers on difficult days. And because his happy-go-lucky smile when he’d arrived was the one he used to hide his true emotions.
Before she could ask Gage how he was doing, Tanya started up again. “Do you remember that time Mrs. Horvath took us on a field trip to the coast?”
As the night wore on, fog blanketed the vineyard. Cold seeped through her work gloves, the same as it had seeped through her heart at the sight of Gage.
“Do you ever hear from Maria?” Tanya cut a thick cluster free.
“I heard she’s living in Vegas.” Emily straightened, pressing her thumbs into the small of her back. “I’m using muscles I haven’t used in years.”
Umberto dumped a tray of grapes into the big bin on wheels. “My grandmother said she went to prison.”
“My grandfather said she’s dead.” Carl’s chortle echoed through the vineyard.
The group fell silent and cast covert glances toward Shelby and Gage, whose gazes collided. The cowlick over his forehead stuck up the way it did when he got frustrated and wouldn’t leave it alone.
Dead Gage. When Gage hadn’t answered Shelby’s calls or texts after the funeral, she’d had a meltdown. Not a week earlier, her husband hadn’t answered her calls or texts, and he’d turned up dead.
“I heard Vegas,” Shelby said thickly.
“Me, too.” Gage bent to the vines.
“I bet Maria dances in one of those topless shows.” Carl filled the silence gleefully. “I need to track her down. I’d love to score some front row seats and maybe land a date with a dancer or two.”
“Two? That’s the attitude that led to Tracy Jackson dumping you.” Umberto chuckled. “Now her brother’s a millionaire and is one of the owners of this place. I heard one of them bought his sister a condo and a new car. You could’ve been on easy street.”
“Tracy Jackson. I haven’t thought of her in forever.” Carl showed not a hint of remorse for breaking Tracy’s heart in high school. “Does anyone have her number?”
Shelby smiled at his perseverence, although if she had Tracy’s number there was no way she’d pass it on to Carl.
* * *
“LET’S BREAK,” CHRISTINE called out shortly after midnight.
Agnes, Umberto’s grandmother—who owned the Mexican restaurant in town—and Mayor Larry had arrived with hot tamales, sandwiches, chocolate cake and fresh coffee. They set everything out on the wrought iron patio tables beneath portable heaters. Agnes fawned over Ryan, serving him a sandwich and bringing him a large piece of cake.
Bypassing the food, Shelby headed toward the river. She didn’t have to ask Gage to follow. She knew he would.
At the riverbank, she sat on a log, and turned to face him. The moon did a poor job of illuminating his features, which were hard planes and shadows. His dark hair blended into the night.
“How’ve you been?” Gage surprised her by breaking the silence between them. He’d always been a reticent conversationalist, more likely satisfied by simply being part of the group than participating.
“Fine.” It was what his parents had said when she’d asked about him. Fine? Shelby had wanted to put her arms around Gage to see for herself. She’d had to settle for fine. And so would he.
A frog sang a baritoned lament across the river.
“I miss him,” Gage said.
“Don’t.” Her shoulders deflated as if pressed down, threatening to bend her over. She kept herself upright by pushing her palms onto her knees. “You weren’t around when I needed to talk about Nick, when I needed to share the things that made him special with someone who knew him as well as I did. Where were you?” Her voice made her sound hurt and disappointed. She hated it. She was a professional. She couldn’t break down tonight. “I can’t talk to you as if I just saw you yesterday.”
But she wanted to. That once young, innocent part of her she’d assumed was long dead and buried—that stumbling, lonely misfit—wanted to.
She covered her lips with her fingers, but that didn’t stop the lonely misfit from talking. “Gage, marriage to Nick...your friendship...they meant everything to me and for one precious year, I had both. I felt I had what everyone else took for granted.” Dropping her hand, Shelby drew a shaky breath. “Let’s face it. I’m not the same person anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
Shelby let Gage’s words drift by with the river.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t tell you how often I started to get in touch. But what would I say?” He clasped her hand.
It was a very un-Gage-like moment. He wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of person.
She’d taken her gloves off. The warmth of his skin heated her palm. But his touch sent more than physical warmth. It offered more than belated comfort. The feel of his hand around hers—an intimacy she hadn’t experienced since Nick—sent a prickle of awareness along her spine.
Awareness? Of Dead Gage?
“There’s nothing more to say.” She snatched her hand back from his and hopped to her feet. Breaking their connection, reassembling the I-don’t-care expression on her face, she almost tripped over a tree root as she backed away. “Friendships are like seasons. There’s a cycle. A beginning, an end. Ours ran its course.” Friendships cooled. People moved on, except for those who stayed here in Harmony Valley. “Time to get back. We’ve got a long night ahead.”
She turned away, one hand cold. The other, the one Gage had held, still tingled.
Awareness of Gage? It was a fluke. A product of her loneliness.
When they got back to the others, she almost believed it.
