Lessons Learned (25 page)

A deathly silence fell over the room, giving me the chance to wipe my eyes and catch my breath. With the sweetest of touches, Lucas brushed his thumb across my wet cheeks.

“I should go pack,” Monica whispered.

Without another word, she grabbed her cell and headed up the staircase.

The morning air was cold against my skin, and I reached blindly for him, eager to feel the warmth of his arms around me. My eyes snapped open when I realized his side of the bed was empty.

Monica hadn’t returned to the kitchen last night, but Lucas had still insisted on spending the night with me. He was so protective, and while it warmed my heart, it was also something I wasn’t accustomed to. I’d fought my own battles for so long. Granted, I might fall apart
later
, once I was tucked safely back in the sanctuary of my apartment, but I’d always tried to defend myself.

I never imagined I’d need to defend myself against Monica.

I understood her concerns. She’d watched helplessly while I plunged into a deep depression of which I was still trying to claw myself out. Yes, I’d left some minor details out of my confession to Lucas, but it wasn’t a chapter in my life I wished to revisit, and I knew the graphic details of my grief would only upset him.

There was still so much about that time I just couldn’t recall. I don’t remember Moni threatening to take me the hospital, but I do remember the Twinkie. I remember the texture. I remember the taste. I remember the smell.

My stomach lurched, and I took a steadying breath to control the bile bubbling in my throat.

I was suddenly distracted by the sounds of muffled voices coming from downstairs. Pulling the blanket around me, I climbed out of bed and quietly opened the bedroom door. The first thing I noticed was the spare bedroom. The door was open, and the bed was already made. Monica’s suitcase was resting on top of the blanket.

Their voices became a little louder as I walked quietly toward the staircase, but there was no yelling. They were both calm and speaking in hushed tones. I didn’t hear my name, but there was no doubt I was the topic of conversation.

“You hurt her.”

“Lucas, you know that wasn’t my intention.”

Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I sank down onto the top step.

“It doesn’t matter if it was your intention. You were unnecessarily cruel last night.”

“I was honest. You weren’t there. You couldn’t possibly understand . . .”

“This isn’t Memphis, Monica.”

“You’re right, it’s worse. This is a small town, and people in small towns don’t handle change well. I pray this doesn’t turn violent, but if it does, Sarah will get caught in the crossfire. Again.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Deciding I’d eavesdropped long enough, I left the blanket at the top of the stairs and slowly made my way down to the kitchen. The two of them were sitting around the table, and their heads snapped up when they heard me approach.

“Lucas, I’d like to speak with Monica alone.”

He glanced between the two of us before finally nodding. Rising from his seat, he walked toward me and leaned down, kissing me softly on the forehead.

“I’ll be outside.”

I waited until he was out on the porch before taking a seat next to her. She was watching me closely, probably trying to determine if I was hurt or just simply pissed.

It was a little of both, actually.

Monica had been my best friend for nearly a decade. We’d been inseparable throughout college and she’d stood by my side when my grandmother passed away. She’d been my life raft during the most traumatic experience of my adult life, and I would always be grateful for her friendship.

Despite all of that, it was obvious Monica and I were two very different people now.

Maybe we always had been.

“Were you always this negative?”

Monica laughed. “Good morning to you, too. Am I negative?”

“I think so.”

“I think I’m a realist. I don’t have that sensitive maternal gene most women are born with. I don’t have the ability to sugar coat. You’ve always known this about me. Nothing has changed, Sarah.”

“I’ve changed.”

Monica’s eyes swept over my face.

“You’re right,” she agreed. “You’re strong. You’re happy. You’re in love with a man who I’m pretty sure would take a bullet for you.”

I laughed softly.

“You yelled at me last night.” Her tone was quiet and proud.

“I’m not apologizing for that.”

“I don’t expect you to, but I need to apologize to you. I was out of line, but you have to know it came from a sincere place.”

“I do know that.”

“You love your students,” Monica murmured gently, “and it’s a wonderful thing. It’s amazing your students feel so comfortable with you. When I was a kid, I never would’ve gone to a teacher’s house for Halloween, and I certainly wouldn’t have shared my darkest secrets with one. Your connection to your students is something I’ve always admired about you.”

Monica sighed heavily and reached for my hand.

“I just know you so well, Sarah. If the shit hits the fan—and I really pray it doesn’t—you’re going to want to help this kid. That’s who you are. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise.”

We shared a hug before she headed upstairs to grab her suitcase. I had no idea if Monica would ever come back to Sycamore Falls. Maybe it would be better if she didn’t. I wasn’t sure our friendship could survive another visit like this one.

Suddenly, Lucas opened the door and peeked inside.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. She just went to get her suitcase.”

Lucas glanced over his shoulder. “Umm . . . you need to come outside, Sarah.”

I was instantly suspicious. “Why?”

Monica reappeared then, and Lucas offered to carry her suitcase as he ushered us outside. The morning sun was blinding, but I barely noticed it.

“Holy crap,” Monica whispered.

Billowy streams of white hung from the branches of every tree in my yard.

“Someone rolled my house!”

Rolling houses was a Halloween tradition in Sycamore Falls. In our early teens, Aubrey and I used to save our allowances all summer just to stock up on toilet paper for the fall. We only got caught once, and that was because Tommy’s truck ran out of gas right in front of the preacher’s house.

Sunday’s church service had been awkward, to say the least.

“You’re happy about this?” Monica asked in disbelief.

My eyes roamed my front yard. Nothing had avoided the toilet paper attack. My shrubs, my mailbox . . . even the porch swing was intricately woven with white.

“I’m ecstatic! Didn’t they do a great job? They even wrapped the swing!”

Even Lucas was looking at me strangely.

“It’s a Halloween tradition,” I explained. “It’s . . . acceptance.”

Monica’s eyes were wide. “It’s a freaking mess.”

I shrugged and smiled like a lunatic. Sighing, Monica asked for her camera.

“Sarah, you should go get yours, too,” she said with a grin. “
This
is a Kodak moment.”

Chapter 19

“Where
is
it?”

    Hundreds of cookbooks from a hundred different churches were tossed haphazardly around the room. On the table. Along the counters. In the floor. I think one had actually fallen into the sink.

I was dangerously close to tears.

To say Grandma Grace loved cookbooks was a colossal understatement. She especially loved church cookbooks, and every church within a fifty-mile radius was well aware of her obsession. They had always called once a year to ask if she’d like to purchase their latest edition.

She’d always said yes.

Baptist. Presbyterian. Methodist. Catholic. Episcopalian. Some I couldn’t even pronounce. They were all represented, and Grandma had been proud of the fact that her cookbook shelf was so non-denominational.

The cookbook from Saint Michael’s Catholic Church contained a recipe for cornbread stuffing she’d loved to make every Thanksgiving. I had no idea if the recipe differed from any others, but it was my grandma’s favorite, and I wanted to make it for Lucas’s parents.

Naturally, it was the one cookbook I couldn’t find.

I would be meeting my boyfriend’s parents in five days. I’d also be cooking Thanksgiving dinner and offering them my spare bedroom.

No pressure at all.

“This was your idea,” I reminded myself as I dug deeper behind the shelf, praying the book had somehow fallen behind it.

It hadn’t.

Defeated, I sat down in the middle of the cookbook chaos and buried my face in my hands.

“Sarah?”

Sighing softly, I lifted my head to find him standing in my doorway. The concern etched across his face only amplified when his eyes swept over my kitchen.

“What happened?”

“I can’t find a cookbook,” I answered timidly. Saying it aloud was a little embarrassing. It sounded ridiculous even to my own ears.

His brow furrowed in confusion as he examined the pile of books surrounding me.

“I can’t find a
specific
cookbook.”

Nodding slowly, he navigated through the maze of books and joined me on the floor. Sliding his arm around my shoulder, he pulled me close to his side as I leaned my head against his shoulder.

“You’re stressing about this dinner, aren’t you?”

I considered lying, but what was the point? One look at my kitchen proved I was close to having a nervous breakdown.

“It has to be perfect,” I whispered.

Lucas laughed softly.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. My mother is terrible in the kitchen. You could serve ham sandwiches and it would be better than anything she could ever make.”

He grabbed one of the nearby cookbooks and glanced at the cover.

“
Amish Cooking
?”

I shrugged. “Grandma loved cookbooks. It didn’t matter the religion. It was all ‘fruit for the spirit,’ she used to say.”

He chuckled quietly and tossed the cookbook back into the pile.

“So, what’s so special about this particular cookbook you can’t find?”

Sheepishly, I told him about my grandma’s cornbread stuffing recipe. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete lunatic, but this was important to me.

“Sarah, my parents won’t know the difference between homemade stuffing and
Stove Top
straight out of the box.”

“It’s tradition. I can’t serve boxed stuffing in my grandma’s kitchen.”

Lucas smiled softly and kissed my forehead.

“All right, what does this cookbook look like?”

We spent the next half-hour rummaging through the cookbooks and putting them back on the shelf. I’d completely given up hope when Lucas said my name. My head snapped up, and he triumphantly pulled the cookbook from Saint Michael’s out of the sink.

Squealing, I raced toward him and leapt into his arms. We both laughed, and he gently placed me, and the cookbook, on top of the island. Stepping between my legs, he smiled up at me as I clutched his shoulders.

“Thank you, Lucas.”

“You’re welcome, baby.” He nuzzled my neck before kissing me softly. My hands slid down his chest as a quiet moan escaped his throat.

“You should be rewarded,” I whispered against his lips.

I’d barely gotten the words out of my mouth before he lifted me off the island and rushed me up the stairs.