Addicted to Love (14 page)

Rachael didn’t know what to say. Deep down inside she kept thinking it was all her fault. If her mother hadn’t gotten pregnant with her, her parents wouldn’t have gotten married. Her father would have gone to Harvard the way his family had wanted. Her mother could have followed her dreams of being a chef. Instead she’d been stuck. Forced into pretending she was happy because she was a mom and had no choice. Guilt gnawed on Rachael. She hated thinking she’d held her parents back from what they had truly wanted in life.

“Please.” Selina’s voice was brittle, fragile. “Just get the flowers out of the house.”

“We’ll take them with us when we leave,” Delaney said.

“Thank you,” Selina whispered.

Just then Rachael’s cell phone rang from inside her purse, lying on the floor beside the front door. She put the roses on the coffee table and noticed that her mother turned her head away so she couldn’t see them. She went for her phone.

Her father’s number flashed on the caller ID. She didn’t want to take the call in front of Selina, so she ducked into the kitchen. “Hello, Daddy.”

“Rach, are you with your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Did she get the flowers?”

“She got them.”

“Did she read the card?”

“I read it to her.”

“What’d she say?”

“She’s not impressed.”

He blew out his breath. Rachael could almost see the dejected expression in his eyes. He was probably pulling a palm down his face the way he did whenever he felt defeated. “Have I lost her for good?”

“I’ve never seen her like this, Daddy. She looks so hopeless.” Rachael wanted to ask her father what had happened between them to cause such a rift. She didn’t dare ask if he’d had an affair. She couldn’t bear to hear the answer. If her father couldn’t be true to the woman he loved, how could she ever hope to find a man that could stay faithful to her?

Forget about finding a man. Find yourself.

“I love her so much . . . ” His voice tightened and he paused.

Was her father crying?

Gut wrenching, Rachael found her own eyes tearing up and her throat constricting. Were all her happy childhood memories really a lie? She thought about the family vacations. The adventures the four of them had together. The kisses their parents had bestowed upon her and Hannah. The love they’d shown each other. It couldn’t all be a lie. Could it?

She remembered waking up early one Christmas morning to find her parents sitting in the middle of the living room floor putting together a pink bicycle. Selina would read the instructions, then pass her father the appropriate tools. They’d worked as a precision team, except for when they’d taken a break to smooch and giggle. Surely, that gentle moment had been real.

Rachael thought of other happy moments and her chest knotted with emotion. Playing Marco Polo in the pool at Corpus Christi during spring break when she was nine. She on Daddy’s shoulders, Hannah on Mom’s. Getting lost on a trip to Carlsbad Caverns, Selina saving the day by having four Mars Bars and a pocket compass stashed in her fanny pack. Watching her parents dance together at Hannah’s wedding to “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” her mother’s head resting on her father’s shoulder.

Sadness, regret, nostalgia, tenderness, and a flicker of hope mingled inside her. There was love there. Something like that couldn’t be faked. Clearly, her parents had just lost their way. They could find their way back to each other. She desperately needed to believe that.

“How are you holding up, Princess?” he asked, his tone stronger.

She sniffled. “I’m okay.”

“I should have smashed Hoolihan’s teeth in and made him marry you.”

That made her smile briefly. “I don’t want a man who doesn’t want me.”

“Who wouldn’t want you, Princess? You’re smart and gorgeous and kind —”

“And something of a flake.”

“No, you’re not. But sometimes your trusting nature and your need to be liked lead you astray. You got that from me.”

Her father had always been her hero. She’d had an idyllic childhood. Or at least she’d perceived it that way. Parents who loved each other. A younger sister she happily squabbled with over Barbies. A great hometown. She’d had everything she’d ever needed. The Henderson name opened a lot of doors. She’d been privileged and pampered, but never spoiled.

She had so many wonderful memories of her father. She remembered how he would perch on the edge of his daughters’ little girl–sized chairs, his knees bent up to his chin, and pretend to sip imaginary tea when she and Hannah invited him to their tea parties. She remembered the piggyback rides and the bedtime stories and the way he would wrap ice in a cup towel and smash it with a hammer to make ice chips for her when she was home from school sick with the flu. She thought of how he would sneak her copies of teenybopper magazines her mother didn’t want her to read. How he taught her to whistle and play chess and fish.

He was a good man. A kind man. He was Rachael’s blueprint for the way a man was supposed to be. What did her mother mean when she said their marriage had been empty of real intimacy? That picture conflicted with everything she knew about her dad.

No one knows what goes on inside a marriage except the two people who are in it.
She’d heard that somewhere and she supposed it was true, but she found it unsettling to think the romantic front her parents had presented all these years had been a façade. So what had gone on? What was she missing? How could she be so misguided? Why couldn’t she shake this need for happily-ever-after, not just in regard to herself, but to her parents as well?

Confusion clouded her mind, misery churned her stomach. She didn’t know what to think.

“Are you going to stay there with your mother?” her father asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s good. Thank you.”

“Maybe you just need to give her some time, Daddy. Stop sending flowers. Stop trying to win her back.”

“You really think that’s the best move?” He sounded unconvinced.

“Just a little breathing room. That might be all she needs. Can you give her that?”

“I’m afraid if I back off, I’ll lose her forever.”

“I’m afraid if you keep on trying to woo her with romantic gestures, you’ll lose her.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

Stay away from Vivian Cole
, she wanted to say, but she didn’t have the guts to voice the words.

“Rachael,” Tish called from the living room, her tone urgent. “You gotta get in here. You’ve gotta see this.”

“I have to go, Daddy,” she said. “But hang in there. I’ll see if I can talk to Mom.”

“I love you, Rachael.”

“I love you, too.”

She hung up the phone and stepped into the living room. What she saw made her jaw drop.

D
EANA AND
M
AISY
were watching
Entertainment Tonight
when Brody walked into the house. He passed by the television set just as Deana flipped the channel.

“Hey, look,” she said. “It’s Rachael’s ex-fiancé, Trace Hoolihan, being interviewed by Kimberly Quick.”

Brody stopped halfway to the kitchen and backed up. Hoolihan was good-looking in a pretty-boy way. All blond hair and straight teeth. Although Brody thought he smiled like a horse. Involuntarily, he fisted his hands.

“Turn it up,” he told Deana.

“So, Trace,” asked
ET
’s newest coanchor. “Rumor has it that you left the chapel in the middle of your wedding when your agent interrupted the ceremony to tell you the Chicago Bears had picked up your contract. Is that true?”

“Kim.” Trace eyed the reporter as if she were a juicy
T-bone steak. He leaned forward, placed a hand on her wrist and lowered his voice. “May I call you Kim?”

The anchorwoman giggled. “Of course.”

“Hey, hey,” Deana protested and snapped her fingers at the television screen. “None of that nonsense, girly. Giggling isn’t professional.”

“He’s putting the moves on the
ET
anchorwoman two days after he dumped Rach at the altar,” Brody growled. “Jerkwad.”

“Little pitchers.” Deana covered Maisy’s ears and glared at Brody.

“What’s a jerkwad?” Maisy asked, pushing her mother’s hands away.

“Never mind. And don’t go around saying it.”

“Kim, don’t believe everything you hear,” Trace continued. “Those reports are greatly exaggerated.”

Brody crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at the television. “What a prince.”

“I’d already decided to break off the engagement before I heard about the offer from the Bears,” Trace went on.

Brody wanted to punch him on principle.

“And why is that?” Kim, the glossy, giggly anchorwoman asked.

“I’d come to realize my fiancée was simply too needy. She had the most unrealistic notions about love and marriage and romance,” Trace said.

“For example . . . ” Kim led him to his next comments.

“She expected me to call her three or four times a day to reassure her I loved her.” Hoolihan was looking straight into the camera now. “She was always sending me these goofy little cards and gifts. And she liked for us to wear matching outfits. Can you believe that? Whenever we went out, I felt like Ken and Barbie.”

Kim clicked her tongue in sympathy and stroked Trace’s forearm. “So tell us how it feels to get picked up by the Chicago Bears after the Houston Texans cut you last season.”

“Aw, hell,” Brody muttered. He sure hoped Rachael wasn’t watching this. But Valentine being the small town it was, he knew someone was bound to call and tell her to turn on the TV.

He headed for the front door.

“Hey,” Deana said, “where you going? I’ll have dinner on the table in twenty minutes.”

“When I drove in I noticed the peaches on the Alberta needed picking. I’ll be back inside in time for dinner.”

“Tell Rachael Trace Hoolihan is a bonehead,” she called after him.

Was he that transparent? How had she known he planned on going across the street?

He plucked a bushel of ripe peaches off his tree, then carried them across the street. Brody didn’t know what motivated him to do it other than the fact that he’d seen enough suffering to last a lifetime. He understood firsthand the cruelties man could inflict on his fellow human beings. When he’d returned from Iraq, he’d vowed whenever an opportunity presented itself to help someone, he’d make the effort.

Yeah
, whispered a voice in the back of his head.
Keep telling yourself that’s the reason you’re going over there.

Of course it was the reason he was here. Why else would he be on Mrs. Potter’s front porch, ringing the bell, wondering what he was going to say when Rachael answered the door?

Except Rachael didn’t answer the door. Rather, it was her sharp-eyed lawyer. “What do you want?” Jillian greeted him.

“I brought Rachael some peaches,” he said.

“Thank you.” She held out her hands. “I’ll take them.”

“I’d like to give them to her myself if you don’t mind.”

“Look, Sheriff,” she said. “You seem like a decent enough guy and all, but Rachael really isn’t interested in talking to anyone of the masculine persuasion right this minute. Could you come back later?” She started to shut the door, but he stuck his Power Knee inside before she could get it all the way closed.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Counselor,” Brody said, giving the woman his most determined stare. “I’m not leaving until I see Rachael.”

Jillian studied him a long moment, then she squared her shoulders, tossed her head, and came to a decision. “Okay, hang on. I’ll ask her if she’ll see you. But she’s very vulnerable right now, so don’t give her any crap about community service.”

“This isn’t about that.”

“What’s it about?”

“Anyone ever call you a bulldog?” he asked.

Jillian beamed. “Why, thank you, Sheriff. I will accept that as a compliment.”

He allowed her to shut the door this time and he was left standing there with a basket of peaches in his arms, wondering why he’d felt the need to challenge Jillian. If Rachael didn’t want to see anyone, why was he insisting?

Because his gut told him this was the right thing to do and he’d made a policy of always listening to his instincts. His gut had saved the lives of his men in Iraq. He wasn’t ignoring it now.

He set the peaches beside the welcome mat. A minute later Rachael appeared. She stepped out onto the front porch, pulled the door closed behind her, and crossed her arms over her chest. She wore a simple white cotton V-neck T-shirt, thin blue cotton drawstring pants, and a pair of white crew socks. Her hair was pulled up off her neck in a breezy ponytail and her face was scrubbed free of makeup.

He’d seen her in other outfits over the past couple of days. From her spectacular wedding gown and white ballet slippers to the skimpy shorts set and mules she’d borrowed from his sister to the no-nonsense business suit and stilettos she’d worn in court today. But this outfit appealed to him most. Simple, honest, straightforward. She looked like the girl next door.

She is the girl next door, you bonehead.

Suddenly, he was hit with a memory. He and Rachael sitting on the curb on a hot summer afternoon, quarters clutched in their hands, waiting for the ice cream truck to come around the corner. He could hear the music chiming: “Pop Goes the Weasel.” They’d been in her backyard swimming pool. He’d probably been about ten and he’d only gone over to their house to get cool. She couldn’t have been more than five, sitting there in her bathing suit, blonde hair plastered to her head, grinning at him like he was the most wonderful thing on earth. She’d made him feel like a hero when she’d pressed her quarter into his palm and whispered through the gap in her front teeth, “Peese buy me a peach push-up.”

Rachael smelled like the girl next door, too. Like olive oil and honey. Soothing and sweet.

“What is it?” she asked, crossing her arms tighter. Holding herself in or blocking him out, Brody didn’t know which, but he could read the body language loud and clear —
Keep your distance, buster.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that was brutal to hear on national television.”

“You saw
Entertainment Tonight.
” Rachael hit him with her vulnerable green-eyed gaze and his heart stumbled.