Heath's Hope (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 5) (8 page)

“I meant it then. It took a little while for the cobwebs to clear, but I regretted what I did long before you became successful.”

“That’s not true. If you had been sorry, you’d have come back to me.” He hesitated, reluctant to let his next thought tumble out of his mouth. But what the hell difference did it make now? “And I would have taken you back.”

She shook her head and her mouth crumpled. “Heath, I
did
come back to you. When I finally got my head straight, I drove to Ashville. It was only six weeks after we broke up.
Six weeks!
And the girl in the coffee shop told me you’d just gotten married.”

The universe spun and flew apart a hundred times. He wanted to deny that it could be true, call her a liar, but that would only be denial. Hope didn’t even know how to lie. She had come back for him. She had been sorry. She had still wanted him, even before he finished the angel panels.

“You may never believe this,” she went on, “but my mind was made up. I had a new plan. I was going to forgo grad school, get a job, and help you any way I could, no matter what it took. But I went into the coffee shop that day, and the barista told me you’d married Aimee.”

He did believe her. That was the hell of it. Finding the right words was hard even under the best of circumstances. He’d lived so long with blaming her and only her that he cast about for a way to perpetuate that.

“And you just drove away?” He could see her doing it, and it made him sick.

She spread her arms wide. “What would you have had me do? Go buy one of Aimee’s china plates, knock on the door, and offer my good wishes?”

She had a point. But there were things she needed to know, too. “Aimee didn’t have any china plates.” There hadn’t been time. “She died, you know.”

Hope’s shoulders slumped a bit. “I do know. And I’m sorry. Aimee was a sweet girl. But all that is a separate issue. You act like this was all my fault. You are the one who got married when I was still crying myself to sleep because I missed you so much.”

Heath had never been good at relationships, had never succeeded on any level until Hope. And even after all that had happened, he’d never thought of what they’d had as a failure. Heartbreak, yes, but not a failure. For the first time, he considered how it must have looked to Hope when he got married so soon. True, he didn’t know she’d come looking for him, but he should have considered that she might have heard. He would have assumed she would think he did it on the rebound or for spite. Neither thing was true, but it was close enough.

“I’m sure Aimee supported what you wanted to do. I can see why that made you love her so much that you wanted to marry her quickly,” Hope said in the smallest, most heartbroken voice he’d ever heard.

“It isn’t a separate issue. And I never loved her at all. Not like that. There was no time. Aimee was dying when I married her. I never even slept with her. She was too sick.”

Hope stood statue still. When she was able to move again, she put her hands on her head and dropped to the bench beside him.

“My God, Heath. I don’t even know what to say.”

In for a penny. “See, Aimee had a crush on me. That’s all. She was a kid. But her leukemia was very aggressive, and she was never going to live long enough to know it was just a crush. Foster asked me to do it. Aimee wanted to stand up in church, wear a wedding dress, and marry me. That’s all she wanted. I’d lost you. I knew I’d never love anyone else. So I figured, why not?”

The streets were beginning to fill with high-spirited people on their way to The Café Down On The Corner. The Broncos must have won.

Finally, Hope spoke again. “And you had to go through all that? It had to be—”

“Awful?” A breeze blew his hair in his eyes, and he pushed it back. “Yeah. Not as bad as being without you, but bad. I was making angels and counting out pain pills. Later, Foster said I really stepped up. But I don’t know.”

“I can’t do this!” Hope choked out the words around tears. Great. Now he’d made her cry. He never knew how to deal with tears—but it turned out not to be a problem.

She jumped up, took off her high heel shoes, and ran, ran for all she was worth, without looking back.

And he let her go—just like he’d let her go before, because he was bad at seeing what was coming, worthless when it came to finding the words to stop it.

“That wasn’t good.”

Heath looked up to see Jimpson standing over him.

Damn it all to hell! “Were you spying on me?” Heath demanded.

“Some might call it spying.” Jimpson sat down beside him on the bench. “Some might call it headed to The Café Down On The Corner after the ballgame and laying low to keep from interrupting.”

Heath didn’t say anything.

“The Broncos won,” Jimpson said.

“That’s good.” That was the socially correct thing to say.

“Do you want to know by how much?”

“No.” He’d spent every bit of energy he could in the name of social correctness on the last response.

“What do you want?” Jimpson asked. “Besides Hope?”

“What makes you think I want Hope?”

“Do you deny it?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter what I want. I would also like to be intuitive and eloquent, but I’m not.”

“No,” Jimpson agreed. “You’re never going to be. But I don’t think Hope cares about those things. She loves you anyway.”

That was good to hear. It warmed his heart, even if it wasn’t true.

“Do you want to know how I know?” Jimpson asked.

“No. Not unless she told you directly.”

“She didn’t have to. A woman who runs away from you barefoot and crying because she caused you pain loves you.”

“Even if that were true, it’s not enough. She’ll leave and go back to Charlotte.”

“Did you tell her you love her? Did you ask her to stay?”

“No.”

“Did you when she left you before?”

“She knew.”

“Did she?” Jimpson asked.

“Of course.”

“Just because you have next to no perception, you assume others are a hundred percent correct at reading people.”

“I don’t think that. I don’t think it of you.”

“And that’s another mistake. I have lots of time to ponder the human condition while I buff floors. And I buff a lot of floors.” He stood up. “Here comes Coach MacKenzie and Miss Vanessa.”

Great. More MacKenzies. Just what I need.

“Jimpson. Heath.” Hope’s uncle shook their hands.

“Hello, Jimpson,” Miss Vanessa said. “And Heath. Why don’t you come join us?”

First Rafe and Abby. Now the coach and his wife. Everybody wanted him to “join them” except Hope.

As the three of them walked away, Jimpson said over his shoulder, “Remember what I said, Heath. If it won’t sink in go buff some floors.”

Hope had hurt over Heath for ten years, but that was nothing compared to hurting
for
him.

She could barely fathom it. He’d been a groom at twenty-one and a widower at twenty-two, while others his age were taking one last trip to the beach before real adulthood set in. She could imagine him sitting by Aimee’s bed, taking her to doctors’ appointments, and trying to find a way to console her when he didn’t have the tools to do it.

He’d never had the tools, never known the right thing to say or do when the unexpected happened. Sometimes he said all the wrong things, and, sometimes, nothing at all. But it hadn’t mattered to Hope. His love had been so complete and given so freely that it was the very definition of comfort. And back then, she’d taken it for granted, had thought all love was like that. She’d even imagined Aimee basking in that love.

She knew better now. She and Heath had had something rare and beyond special. And not only had she thrown it and him away, she’d pushed him into purgatory. On top to the day-to-day horror of witnessing her devastating illness, Heath had been fond of Aimee, so there had surely been grief. There would have also been guilt over not being able to love her back and, later, accepting condolences from people who thought he’d buried the love of his life.

She remembered now reading one of the first articles about him after the Milton building was finished. The author said it must not be true that only those who had suffered deeply could become great artists, because Heath Beckett was a great artist and was too young to have suffered very much.

Clearly, the reporter hadn’t done his homework. Later, the sad story made great press. Heath had probably felt guilty about that, too.

Hope rose from the sofa where she had collapsed after her desperate escape to her apartment. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there, but she couldn’t endure the clothes she was wearing for another minute. She stuffed the Armani jacket and skirt into a garbage bag, along with the silk blouse that was meant to slightly soften the severe look. She bought a new “work uniform” every season, and she didn’t care if this was her newest one. Then, on impulse, she added her underwear and Christian Louboutin pumps.

Even now, her practical nature would not allow her to throw the clothes in the trash, but some savvy thrift store shopper would have a very lucky day. One thing was for sure, Hope never wanted to see these clothes again, never wanted to remember what she’d learned and felt when she’d been wearing them.

She had just pulled on yoga pants and a sweatshirt when the downstairs bell rang. She was in no mood for company, but it was likely her mother on her way home from the hospital.

Though she’d planned to go after meeting with Heath, Hope had not visited her father today. She probably had a scolding coming over that. If Hope didn’t answer the door, her mother would just call.

She made her way down the stairs. For certain, it wouldn’t be Heath. There was nothing to say, and even if there were, he wouldn’t know what it was.

But when she opened the door, there he stood. Her heart hadn’t gotten the message from her brain that she had screwed this up beyond redemption, because it gave a little joyful leap.

“You should check who’s there before opening the door this time of night.”

“I thought you were my mother.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I might install a peephole in this door for you. Unless you’re leaving.”

“No. I made promises to Miss Sticky and Miss Julia—promises I mean to keep. But before you go altering Noel’s door, you might want to speak with her about it.”

“All I have to do is tell Nickolai that a peephole would keep ‘his Noel’ safe. It would be a done deal.”

It was difficult, but Hope reached down inside and found some laughter. He had tried hard to make a joke, and she wanted to reward him.

He looked pleased. “You left your knitting on the bench.” He held up her bag.

And that’s when her heart finally got the message. He’d only come to return her knitting. She had to swallow the ache and find some words. Any would do.

“Oh, I hadn’t missed it. But I would have. I’ve found that I love to knit. I’ll never be an artisan, but I do understand better why you had to make stained glass, even back when you had no idea you could support yourself.”

He nodded and looked at the floor.

“I’ll take that.” She reached out to take the bag.

He tightened his grip on it. “I’ll take it upstairs for you.”

Hope did not have the mental energy to ask him why or tell him no, so she nodded and led him up the stairs.

He set the knitting bag on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. She smiled a little to herself. Unlike the Beaufords and so many others who’d gone through Amelia Beauford’s etiquette classes as teens, it would never have occurred to Heath to wait to be asked to sit down or to stand until she sat. Sofas were for sitting like air was for breathing. But none of that mattered. He was the kind of man who had done his best to make a dying girl happy when he was heartbroken himself.

“Can I get you something, Heath?”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow I’d like you to buy me some barbecue and corn light bread, because you threw away my leftovers.”

She studied him intently. If that was a joke, it was a very bad one. If he meant it, he would be disappointed. She really could not stand to be around him anymore. Since returning to Beauford, she’d learned something besides how to knit. She would never get over loving this man, but in order to function, she had to get as far away from him as possible.

“I brought you something.” He removed a small, flat, tissue-wrapped package from his pocket.

She waited for him to cross the room and give it to her. When he didn’t, she went and sat beside him on the sofa.

He handed her the package. “I made it for you because I was sorry about how I treated you Halloween night—especially when I found out your dad had gotten hurt. I didn’t know it at the time.”

“But you didn’t give it to me. Did that mean you weren’t sorry anymore?”

“No. I still was. But I kept getting mad all over again.” He gestured to the package. “Open it.”

She untied the string and found inside a stained glass jack-o’-lantern about the size of her palm.

This was huge gesture. He really was sorry he’d given away her jack-o’-lantern to hurt her. Maybe this would help bring about the closure she needed. She couldn’t be friends, but she doubted he wanted that either. Though he did want that barbecue—probably only because she had wasted good food and owed him.

“Thank you, Heath. This means a lot. More than you know.”

“How does he look?” Heath gestured to the jack-o’-lantern.

“Look? It’s beautiful. Everything you make is beautiful.”

“No. His expression.” He let her into his brandy eyes, and she knew they were both thinking how she’d always said the other jack-o’-lantern looked like he was in love.

She looked at the droopy mouth and slanted eyes. “Sad,” she said. “He looks sad.”

Heath nodded. “That’s what I think. I thought he would look mad, but he just kept coming out sad.” He pushed his hair off his face. “Hope, I’m not good at this. I’m never going to be. If I were good with reading people and saying the right thing, maybe I could have kept you before.”

Fire surged through her. “Don’t you dare blame that on yourself, Heath. Besides, if you weren’t the person you are I wouldn’t—” She stopped herself just in time.