What Happens Between Friends (21 page)

“Why don’t you tell me what you know for sure?”

Inhaling deeply, she nodded. “I know he was funny. Fun. He could juggle and was great with animals, horses especially. He grew up privileged but felt stifled by the responsibilities that came with being part of a wealthy Southern family. The expectations.”
Money,
he used to tell her,
does not buy happiness.
“He left home when he was seventeen and never looked back, preferring to make his own way in the world.”

Preferring to be free.

“He met my mother one night at a club in Raleigh,” she continued. “He was working at a horse farm there, Mom was attending the University of North Carolina and had gone out with some friends. He asked her out, she said no. It took him weeks, but he finally wore her down. Two months after their first official date, they were married and had moved to St. Louis where I was born.” Sadie stared at James’s parents’ house. “He loved R & B music, made pancakes every Sunday morning and was so claustrophobic he couldn’t even ride in elevators.” She smiled. “I remember clinging to his back like a monkey when I was five or six as he carried me up the nine flights to our apartment.”

“In St. Louis?”

“No, we left there when I was a few months old. This was in Baltimore. Or was it D.C.?” She shook her head. “After that, we only took apartments that were on one of the first three floors.”

“How many times did you move before you and your mom came to Shady Grove?”

“A dozen at least, though I only clearly remember living in Baltimore, D.C., Memphis and Tallahassee. I thought we were going to stay in Tallahassee for good. My mom did, too. But Dad had a lead on a construction job outside of Baton Rouge. I remember them arguing about it when they thought I’d gone to bed.” It was the first—and last—time Sadie had ever heard her parents fight. “When I got up the next morning, Dad was gone. He’d wanted an early start so he’d left without even telling me goodbye.”

James touched her shoulder, let his hand linger there for a moment before trailing down her arm, his fingertips cool against her skin. She wanted to grab his hand, to press her mouth against his palm. She wanted, more than anything, to hold on to him in any way possible.

Except she was afraid it was already too late. She’d already lost him.

“We got the call about the car accident the next day,” she said. “Two days later we had a private, graveside service for him in the morning. That afternoon we were on our way up here. As we crossed the Florida state line I started crying.” Sobbing, really. She clearly recalled her body racked with so much grief she couldn’t take a full breath, had felt as if she was drowning in her sorrow. “Because even though we’d just put Dad’s body in the ground, even though he was never coming back, all I could think was that we were leaving and he wouldn’t know where to find us. That he’d be looking for us, searching for his family. His home.”

“You were just a kid,” James said. But he didn’t offer her the comfort of his touch again, no matter how hard she wished he would. “Death’s hard enough to understand as an adult.”

Her hair blew in her face; she let it go, let it hide her for the moment. “Eventually I stopped thinking he was looking for us. I missed him, but I also got used to him not being there anymore. Life kept moving, kept right on going, day in, day out. By the first anniversary of Dad’s death, Mom was already remarried and pregnant with Charlotte.”

“You seemed happy. I remember how excited you were that you were going to have a little brother or sister—no matter how many times I tried to warn you having younger siblings wasn’t as much fun as you thought it was going to be.”

“It was fun,” she insisted, though it’d taken some getting used to, not having her mom’s full attention. But Charlotte had been such a sweet baby, Sadie had fallen in love with her immediately. “Life was good. Mom was happy. And Will never treated me like anything less than his own daughter.”

“He’s a good man.”

“He is. One of the best. He’s not my dad—God, I don’t think you could get two men who were more different.” Except maybe James and Victor. “But he’s been a really good father to me.”

“And that made you feel guilty,” James said, knowing her well. Too well. Able to see things she’d rather keep hidden.

“It was part of it. But it wasn’t just loving Will, it was everything. We’d gone from living this gypsy existence, no ties, no commitments except to each other, to being surrounded by family and friends. Tethered to this town in ways I’d never experienced before.” She and her mother hadn’t just been welcomed into the community, they’d been absorbed by it. Irene had slipped seamlessly back into her life in Shady Grove with her parents and brother, her friends.

“It changed even more drastically when Mom and Will got together,” Sadie continued. “No more secondhand clothes and sneaking out of town in the middle of the night because we couldn’t pay rent. We had it all. And I loved it. I loved having a stepfather who could afford to buy me everything I wanted. I loved our big, fancy house and the security of knowing that if I asked for some toy or a new dress, I could have it. I was living a life my father would’ve hated, the type of life he himself had walked away from.”

James bent and picked up a small rock, tossed it onto the weed-choked bank to his right. “That was his choice. What he thought was best for him. It’s okay to want something different for yourself.”

She wondered if he was talking about her...or himself. All of Montesano Construction’s employees knew about the tension between James and Frank. It hurt that James hadn’t confided in her about his problems with his father, that he wasn’t happy with his place in the company.

It hurt even more to realize that she’d probably been the catalyst of those problems.

“Maybe, but I still felt like I’d let him down. That if he was watching over me like all the grown-ups told me, he was disappointed in what he saw. But the worst day came the summer I was thirteen and I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d thought of my dad. That I couldn’t picture his face without the help of a photograph, could no longer hear the sound of his voice, his laugh.”

A chill racked through her. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it didn’t help. “Ever since Dad died, Mom and I were completely focused on moving forward. The only problem with looking ahead all the time is you stop looking back. And that’s where my father was. In the past.”

“You said it yourself,” James said, so gently tears pricked her eyes. “Life moves on.”

She cleared her throat, blinked away the moisture. “Yes, but we should still remember. I let him go.” The memory of it still shamed her. “I let him slip from my mind, from my life. So maybe my mother is right. Maybe I am chasing his ghost or trying to live his life instead of my own. But it’s the only life I know. The only way I can hold on to him. To not lose him again.”

* * *

C
HARLOTTE
’
S
HAND
SHOOK
as she lit the last candle. She was nervous.

She rolled her eyes, used her other hand to steady the first. More like terrified—though nervous sounded a hell of a lot better.

Finally the wick caught and she blew out the match. She surveyed the room with a critical eye. Not bad. Not bad at all, if she did say so herself. The dining room was one of her favorite spots in the house—in what would be
her
house in a matter of mere weeks, she thought, more than a tad giddy. Wooden floors, huge windows to bring in tons of light and a view of the river, it was the perfect spot for family meals and holiday get-togethers, for Sunday brunches and kids’ birthday parties.

And tonight, it was ideal for a romantic indoor picnic.

She’d scoured her mother’s huge collection of home decorating magazines for ideas, then went out and spent a good portion of her week’s pay on the necessary supplies to set the scene. Red candles, dozens and dozens of them in every shape and size imaginable, were scattered around the room, their flames flickering in the twilight. Fat ones clustered together in the corners, narrow tapers and squat votive ones set on black iron holders. The new dishes and stemware she’d bought were laid out on the thick blanket she’d spread in the middle of the floor. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver ice bucket and in the background Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” played over her iPod speakers, loud enough to hear but not so loud as to impede conversation.

The air smelled of roses and the dinner she’d picked up—pasta with vodka sauce, fragrant garlic bread and a side salad. For dessert, what could be more decadent, more sensual than chocolate-dipped strawberries?

He would feed them to her, of course. Sitting close enough that their knees brushed, he’d hold one to her lips and, after she’d taken a delicate bite, he’d cover her mouth with his own. They would share their first kiss right here in the house where they would someday make love for the first time. Where they would raise their family. Grow old together. It was that thought, the rightness of it, that had her nerves settling and anticipation building.

It was going to be perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” she whispered, skirting the blanket. Her heels echoed loudly in the emptiness as she crossed the room. Wiping her damp palms down the sides of her dress, she shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, she reached for the handle. Smiled.

And opened the door.

“James,” she said, her voice husky and, she hoped, sexy. “Hi.”

His eyebrows drew together and she had to fight to keep that smile in place, to not fidget or rub her fingertip under her lip to make sure her lipstick hadn’t smudged.

“Thanks so much for coming over,” she continued, holding the door open wider, staying close enough that his hip brushed against hers as he stepped inside.

His gaze swept over her then skittered away. He swallowed visibly.

She made him nervous. Had rendered him speechless.

How simply wonderful.

It was nothing less than she’d expected, though. She’d tried on at least twenty outfits at WISC before choosing this silk blue dress with white polka dots, an open back and supershort hemline. The three-inch heels of her beige sandals made her legs seem endless, and she’d pinned her hair up, showing off the long line of her neck.

Clearing his throat, he tapped a mechanical pencil against his clipboard as she shut the door.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

If he didn’t knock it off, she was going to stab that pencil in the wall.

“Is this where you want it?” James asked in his deep voice.

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The mudroom.” He looked around the small foyer and frowned. “It’s either going to cut into your square footage here,” he said, unclipping a tape measure from his belt, “or the porch.”

“Why don’t we discuss it over a drink?” she said, linking her arm with his and tugging him toward the dining room. She pressed against his side. “You must be thirsty. And famished.”

“Actually, I grabbed a burger on the way over here.”

She stumbled, catching her balance before he could do more than reach out a hand to steady her. Her face flamed.

He wasn’t supposed to have already eaten. She’d bought supper. And now it would go to waste. Pouting only a little, she snuck a glance at his profile. His hair was mussed and dark stubble covered his cheeks, blending with his goatee.

He could have put a little effort into his appearance, she thought grumpily. Not that she minded that he’d obviously come straight from a job site—she appreciated a man with a strong work ethic, after all. But it would have been nice, considerate, if he’d changed out of his old jeans, taken the time to shower off the scent of sawdust, to shave.

The important thing was that he was here. That tonight was going to be special.

They stepped into the dining room and he stiffened and stopped like his feet had been set in cement. She let go of his arm and went over to the champagne.

“If this is a bad time,” he said quickly, looking panicked, “I can come back tomorrow. Or the next day.”

“What? Why?”

He waved vaguely at the candles, the blanket. “You must be expecting someone—”

She laughed, the sound as bubbly as the champagne she was pouring. “Don’t be silly.” Taking the clipboard from him, she tossed it to the ground before handing him a crystal flute. She laid her hand on his chest, gratified and emboldened when his heart skipped a beat. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He leaped back so quickly, champagne sloshed over the rim of his glass. “Charlotte, I—”

“To my first house,” she said, determined to get this evening on track. On
her
track. Her schedule. She tapped her flute against his, the light peal of it ringing in the air. Holding his gaze, she stepped closer. “And to new beginnings.”

He averted his gaze, didn’t touch his drink.

She sipped hers to hide a frown. Had to remind herself that he was just nervous, too. Hadn’t she been glad of it not a few minutes ago? This was a big moment for them. Huge. He must know that. Sensed it.

She took his drink, then crouched and set both glasses on the hardwood floor near the edge of the blanket. Straightening, a mix of courage, fear and anticipation tumbling inside of her, she reached for him.

Only to die a little when he bolted to the other side of the room and stared out the window. “Great view.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “You mentioned that when you were here before.”

With his back to her, he nodded, his hands in his pockets. “That’s because it’s great. Really great.”

She closed the distance between them. “James, is something wrong?”

He turned slowly, his gaze serious, his mouth a thin line. “Charlotte, I—”

Desperate to stop his words—words she instinctively knew she didn’t want to hear—she lunged at him, pressed her mouth against his. He jerked violently, hitting his head against the wall with a dull thud. She wound her arms around his neck, linked her fingers together there and plastered herself against him—breasts, hips and thighs.