Love Will Find a Way (30 page)

"What about an old friend? What about Malcolm? He's alone. You're alone."

"Too much water under that bridge. It's different for you, Rachel. You're young. You have a child to raise."

"It doesn't seem fair to Gary. That I can go on, that I can be happy again. Where is the justice in that?"

"There isn't any. Life is about accepting what is and letting go of the rest. It's about being happy. If that means falling in love again, then fall in love. The marriage vows don't say forever; they say 'until death do you part.' "

"I never thought of that."

"Maybe you should."

"It sounds like you're giving me permission."

"You don't need my permission. Listen to your heart."

"I was faithful to Gary. From the minute I said I do until the last time I kissed him good-bye." Rachel felt as if she had to make that dear.

Dee stepped up and gave Rachel a hug. "I know you were."

"People are going to think that Dylan and I --"

"No one who knows you would ever think anything."

"But there was something," she heard herself confess. "A long time ago, before the wedding. It was just a kiss. Actually, it felt like a lot more than just a kiss, but we put it aside, and we went on with our lives. And I loved Gary. I tried to make him happy."

"He's gone now. It's time to make
yourself
happy. You should start worrying about your future instead of your past."

"I am worrying about my future," she said with a sigh. "Dylan doesn't belong here any more than Gary did."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"Mommy, Mommy!" Wesley's excited voice cut through their conversation, and Rachel turned around as the door banged open and Wesley literally flew into the shop. "Look what Dylan gave me. I'm a carpenter!" He pointed proudly to the smallest tool belt Rachel had ever seen.

"That's wonderful." Rachel squatted down so she could see the belt better. "You look great in it."

"What do you think, Aunt Dee?" Wesley asked, seeking more compliments.

"I think you're official now."

"I'm going to show Grandpa. If he needs a screwdriver again, he doesn't have to swear about not finding one. I'll have one right in my tool belt."

Rachel laughed as Wesley ran out of the shop to share his good news. Her laughter quickly faded when she saw Dylan standing in the doorway. Their gazes met and caught, a myriad of emotions flowing back and forth between them without a word being said. They must have looked at each other for far too long, because Dee cleared her throat and said, "I've got to go back to the office. I'll catch up with you later, Rachel. Dylan," she murmured as she passed by him.

"You made Wesley really happy," she said. "Thank you."

"It was nothing." He paused. "You've been avoiding me."

"You've been avoiding me."

He tipped his head. "Old habit, hard to break."

"I know what you mean." She drew in a breath,
then
said. "I want to talk to you about the house. I've been thinking about some things."
Things that had more to do with her future than her past.

"Like what?" Dylan asked.

"Like that room at the back. Instead of making it into an office, I wondered if it could be a sunroom with lots of glass and double doors opening onto a deck. Gary thought we only needed a deck off the kitchen for barbecuing, but I was thinking that a deck off that side of the house would offer a nice view of the trees. You know how much I like my trees."

His expression didn't waver the whole time she was talking. She nervously plunged ahead. "If you don't like it, we can leave it as is. Maybe we should build the house exactly the way Gary planned it. It's the way he wanted it."

"Gary is not going to live in it, you are."

"I know, but –"

"No buts. You should have what you want."

"Then what do you think about a sunroom and a deck?"

"I think you should have a Jacuzzi tub built into the deck with drink holders so you can sip a glass of wine and look out at your trees and your valley."

"That sounds fabulous. Thank --"

"I don't want any more words of thanks," he said, moving slowly and deliberately toward her. "If you really want to thank me, you'll have to be more creative."

He didn't put out a hand to her. He didn't even lean in her direction, but she knew what he wanted. More important, she knew what she wanted. She pressed her mouth to his and once again they went up in spontaneous combustion.

It was a delicious, warm, late-afternoon kiss that went on far too long for a simple thank-you. She didn't want to pull away. Neither, apparently, did Dylan, giving her back kiss for kiss until somewhere in her consciousness she heard voices and footsteps, and it occurred to her she had once again lost her mind.

She pulled away just in time, smoothing her hair down as Wesley and her grandfather approached the shop.

"Someday we won't be interrupted," Dylan said huskily. "Someday we'll find out what lies down that road. Neither one of us will be able to go on until we do."

"You need to go on with someone else. We need to let go of each other. So you can get on with your future, and I can get on with mine."

"What was that kiss about, then?"

"That was good-bye."

"It didn't feel like good-bye."

"It was supposed to."

"You might have to try again."

Rachel shook her head. "Not now."

"Because you're not ready to say good-bye. I'm not either." And with that, he turned and left.

* * *

Dylan was still thinking about that kiss Friday night when he walked down Main Street toward the Recreation Center, where the Annual Harvest Festival Dance was about to kick off. He'd spent most of the day telling himself he wouldn't go, but by the time the tenth person he'd run into had said he'd see him there, he gave up. He had to go because Rachel was there and he wanted to see her.

She'd told him she was setting him free. He deserved to have a wife and children who put him first, who called him Dad and not Stepdad. He should have been happy that she understood he couldn't take Gary's place. But he didn't feel happy. He felt restless, as if she'd changed the rules of the game in midstream.

Who was she to set him free? Who was she to tell him when to let go? He'd let go when he damn well pleased.

"Hey, Dylan."

He nodded to Conrad, the plumbing contractor, waved hello to some of the sheetrock guys and smiled at his innkeeper, Mrs.
Laningham
. The brunette waitress from the coffee shop asked him to save her a dance, as did the cute cashier from the market,
who
always made a point of asking him if he'd found everything he needed. It amazed him how many people he knew. He'd been in town a couple of weeks, and already he felt like an old-timer.

"Dylan, you made it." Rachel's aunt Dee came forward to greet him. "Did you bring Rachel with you?"

"No. But she called earlier and said I should come and vote for someone named Christie to be Harvest Queen, or something. I assumed she'd be here."

"Oh, she will," Dee said with a wave of her hand. "The voting table is against that wall, and Christie sure would appreciate your vote. We haven't had a Harvest Queen in our family since Rachel won the title."

"Rachel was Harvest Queen?"

"She sure was, the year she turned eighteen. She was as pretty as she could be with that apple tiara on her head."

"I'll bet she was. I can't think of a more appropriate queen. She does love her apples."

Dee grinned back at him. "That she does. I'm glad you came. She'll need you later on."

"Why?" he asked.

But Dee wasn't looking at him anymore; she was saying hello to an elderly couple and offering to show them to the voting table. He decided he might as well follow behind and cast his vote, which was, after all, the main reason he was here.

Actually, it wasn't the reason at all. The reason was Rachel. And there she was, standing by the table, filling out a ballot. She wore a short, clingy dress the color of raspberries. Her legs were bare, her feet encased in the highest pair of heels he'd ever seen her wear. For beauty, he wondered, or for courage?

She turned and saw him watching her. In that second when their eyes met, he saw nothing but pleasure, attraction,
desire
. Then she blinked, and caution appeared as an afterthought, a reminder of who they were, what they were and where they were. How he wished they were meeting for the first time; no past, no friend, between them.

"Dylan." Rachel took a step forward. "Have you voted yet?"

"I was just about to."

She handed him a ballot. "You know what to do, right?"

"I think I can handle it." He took the pencil from her hand and put an X next to the name Christie Wood. When he was through, he deposited his piece of paper in the voting box. "So where is this Christie, and whose kid is she?"

Rachel took his arm and pulled him over to the side. "She's right by the stage, the blonde in the blue dress with the spaghetti straps. She is one of my Uncle Harry's daughters."

"Not bad," he murmured.

Rachel rapped him on the shoulder. "Down, boy, she's engaged."

"Engaged? She looks about fifteen."

"She's twenty, and this is her last year of eligibility. She'll be married by next October, and only single girls can be the Harvest Queen."

"I hear tell you once wore the crown," he said with a grin. "What was your talent? Apple bobbing?"

She made a face at him. "Very funny. There is no talent competition."

"Bathing suit?" he asked hopefully.

"It's pretty much a popularity contest."

"The person with the most friends, or should I say the most family present, wins. Is that it?"

"That's it."

"And what do you do once you're queen?"

"You reign over the rest of the dance. You ride in the mayor's convertible in the parade. You get to pick the winners of the various contests tomorrow afternoon -- the biggest pumpkin, the best face painting, et cetera." She shook a finger at him. "Don't even say whatever it is you're thinking."

"Why? What am I thinking?"

"That this is all very foolish and schlocky."

"Is that a word, schlocky?"

"I have no idea. How about schmaltzy, is that a word?"

"I'm not making fun of you, Rachel, or any of your friends."

"We're not very sophisticated. But most of the people here work really hard on their farms or in their businesses during the year. This is the one weekend when we get to show off our goods, so to speak."

"So defensive," he murmured. "Why? Do I seem like I'm judging you?"

"Gary used to say it was hokey."

"As long as you enjoy it, what does it matter?"

"Are you enjoying it?" she asked. "I'm sure it's not the kind of party you're used to."

"I'm having a great time. In fact, I'm feeling so popular, I think ..." He dropped his voice down a notch and whispered in her ear, "I think I could be the Harvest King."

Rachel burst out laughing. "You?"

"Yes, me," he said with mock pain. "Why not me?"

"Because you're a city boy."

"I'm not a boy, I'm a man," he corrected her.

"Oh, I know that. Believe me, I know that."

The laughter and teasing between them suddenly stilled. The rest of the room faded away, the noise, the music, the chatter. It was just the two of them.

"It always comes back to this," she murmured. "No matter what we say, how far we step back, it always comes back to this."

Before he could reply, the microphone on the stage gave a shrill scream, and a woman called for attention.

"Let's get out of here," he told Rachel.

"I can't. They're about to announce the queen."

"I'm sure someone will tell you later who won."

"I can't," she repeated. "Not yet."

"Fine, but we're going to discuss this one-step-forward, two-steps-back thing before the night is through."

"Actually, you're going to have the chance to do some stepping sooner than that," she muttered.

"What?"

"Listen."

"As is tradition," the large woman on the stage boomed out with an enthusiastic smile, "while we're counting the votes, our previous Harvest Queens will dance with their personal kings. Ladies, don't be shy. Come on out to the dance floor, please."

"That's us," Rachel said.

"That's you," he countered.

"You just said you were a king. I happen to be in need of one." She slipped her hand into his. "It won't hurt a bit."

* * *

The pain was exquisite. Rachel felt as if her nerve endings were on fire. And the pain was made worse by the fact that she couldn't do what she really wanted to do -- couldn't run her fingers into Dylan's thick, wavy brown hair, couldn't pull his head down and kiss him, couldn't slip his coat off his shoulders and undo the buttons on his shirt.

It was true what she'd said earlier. No matter how many times she told herself she didn't want him, couldn't have him, would never cross that last line between them, they kept coming back to this place where desire battled with reason.

Reason told her to back off, to keep her distance. It was too soon. It was too late. Either way, she was vulnerable. But desire told her to move closer, to let herself go, to lose herself in him.

Dylan's hand tightened on her waist; his chin brushed the top of her head. She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't let those lips get close to hers. They weren't in Shenanigans in front of her aunt and uncle; they were in the recreation center in front of the whole damn town. The friends watching her now were the friends who had come to her wedding and to Gary's funeral. They wouldn't understand this relationship she had with Dylan.

"Relax," he murmured. "It's just a dance."

She wanted to believe him. But he was wrong. There was a lot more going on between them than just a dance.

The music finally stopped to a smattering of applause. Rachel turned her attention back to the podium. Mrs. Bailey, the Mistress of Ceremonies, motioned for a drumroll.

"The winner of this year's festival, our new Harvest Queen, is Miss Christie Wood," she said.