Hold Her Heart (Words of the Heart)
Read Hold Her Heart (Words of the Heart) Online
Authors: Holly Jacobs
Just One Thing
“
Just One Thing
is an emotionally compelling page-turner. I could not put it down.”
—JoAnn Ross,
New York Times
bestselling author
“This poignant story about new discoveries, hope, and love is truly unforgettable.”
—RT Book Reviews
“An unforgettable story of unconditional love.”
—Fresh Fiction
“
Carry Her Heart
is a beautiful story of love and friendship. And, Holly Jacobs’ message of love is strong and touching.”
—
Lesa’s Book Critiques
“A heart breaking love story with exceptional scenes. . .Highly recommended.”
—Obsessed Book Reviews
“
These Three Words
by Holly Jacobs is about rediscovering love, even during the toughest times.”
—Harlequin Junkie
Just One Thing
Christmas in Cupid Fall
Words of the Heart Series
Carry Her Heart
These Three Words
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
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Dedication
To Kelsey! I promise; there’s a happily ever after!
Sometimes home isn’t just a place . . .
I am not your birth father, nor am I the father who raised you, but you are part of me. And when you find Pip, you’ll find me.
You’ll find us.
And when you do, there will be no shock of recognition; there will only be a welcome home.
For wherever we are, you have a home with us . . . you are part of both of us.
And we’ll be waiting for you.
—From
Carry Her Heart
by Holly Jacobs
Ned Chesterfield was done waiting.
He stood on the front porch of the unfamiliar house, in an unfamiliar town, feeling uncharacteristically uncertain as his hand froze mere inches from the door.
He knew that once he knocked, Pandora’s box would open wide. There’d be no undoing it.
He also knew this was not what Pip wanted. More than that, she’d specifically told him not to come here. Ned also knew Pip could forgive him almost anything, although he wasn’t sure she’d forgive him this.
But he’d decided that was okay.
If Pip never forgave him—if she carried a grudge for the rest of her life—he could live with that.
What he couldn’t live with was a world without Pip in it.
He didn’t hesitate any longer. His hand came down on the door. He prayed Pip would be mad at him for a very, very long time.
Chapter One
There was a scene in Tolkien’s
The Hobbit
where the dwarves all arrive unexpectedly at Bilbo’s. It’s chaos as he tries to play host to these unexpected guests. Felicity had always laughed as she read the scene—and she had read it many times.
It wasn’t until she opened her front door and found the entire team on her porch that she began to feel a certain sympathy for Bilbo. As she looked at the team’s faces, she realized an unexpected truth: you can never tell what’s waiting for you on the other side of the door.
—Felicity’s Folly
, by Pip
I heard someone knocking on the door. It was amazing that I managed to hear it because Carey was practically shouting.
“So what you’re saying is it’s over?” he asked loudly for the umpteenth time, giving his absurd blond ponytail a flip back over his shoulder.
I didn’t bother to answer his question because I’d already answered it multiple times. Yes, that’s what I was saying.
And I’d kept saying it.
Once I even said, “hell yes.” Carey simply wasn’t hearing me.
“Someone’s at the door,” I said instead of answering him yet again.
I was almost grateful that someone was interrupting this fight. I hoped it wasn’t a neighbor here to complain about Carey’s shouting. Mrs. Carmondy was very particular about noise levels. Once she scolded me because I had a group of mourning doves on my roof and they were causing a racket.
I’m pretty sure that a group of mourning doves is a bevy, but I’d have to look it up to be positive. I’m sure that a group of ravens is an unkindness. I’d always loved that term
. An unkindness of ravens
. It’s not that I was a bird expert, but I found the group names fascinating, and thinking about them was easier than dealing with Carey.
“I’m getting the door,” I announced and walked toward the front of the house.
“Leave it,” he said. “Let’s finish this. What you’re saying is it’s over?”
I turned back toward him. “Fine, Carey, let’s finish this. I can finish it in four words, and I’ll still have time to get the door. It. Is. Definitely. Over.
We
are most assuredly over. That’s what I’ve been saying for days. Now I’m saying all that and also adding two more words
, get out
. Move out. Pack your stuff and leave.”
“Where will I go?” This time it wasn’t so much a shout as a whine.
How on earth had I ignored his propensity to whine for the last eight years? “You are a twenty-eight-year-old man. I’m sure you can figure something out. Maybe your girlfriend will let you move in with her?”
“I told you that she’s not my girlfriend,” he said. “It was just once. I told you that. You’ve been distant lately, and you’ve ignored my needs. Jocelyn was there for me. But it was only that once. I just made that one mistake.”
“No, the mistake was mine. I’m rectifying it now. You need to pack up your stuff and get out by tonight. You don’t have much, so it shouldn’t take long.”
I’d bought the house and most of the things in it. Carey had his video gaming system, his clothes, and not much else.
“I want . . . ,” he started. That was Carey’s favorite way to start a sentence.
I want
.
I need
.
Well,
I
didn’t
want
to stay to hear the rest of it. I could hear another knock at the door, and I headed toward it.
I was so over Carey
I peeked out the window at the top of the door. I didn’t recognize the man on the porch. I was thankful it wasn’t a neighbor.
The stranger had a nice face. The kind of face that said you can trust me. His short hair was brown—very brown—with just the merest hint of gray at his temples.
I opened the door. I couldn’t quite manage a smile, but I tried not to look annoyed. After all, the fact that I’d wasted the entirety of my adult life on Carey was on me, not on the stranger at my door. “Hi, can I help you?”
For a moment, he simply looked at me as if I were a long-lost friend. He whispered, “Siobhan.”
I nodded. “Yes. Siobhan Ahearn. Can I help you?” I asked again.
“I hope so. You see—”
“Ban,” Carey called. “If I leave I’m not coming back.”
I turned back to Carey. “Good. That’s what I’ve been trying to say. Go. Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on the way out. Oh, and don’t come back.” I turned back to the stranger on my porch. “I am so sorry. You were saying?”
“Ban?” the stranger asked, homing in on my nickname and ignoring the fact that he’d been thrust in the middle of a fight.
I might not be able to answer any of my own questions about why I’d stayed with Carey so long, but this I could answer. People always found my nickname a bit disconcerting. “My name’s Siobhan. It’s pronounced Shove-on, and if I lived in Ireland, I’d probably have a better chance of someone—anyone—knowing that. Every year on the first day of school, some teacher would stumble over it. I was in fifth grade when Mr. Lewis said, ‘Ceo-ban.’ The kids picked up on it and I was Ban from then on. It drove my mom nuts. She said Siobhan was a perfectly good name, and she hadn’t imagined that anyone could find a nickname for it. She didn’t count on my classmates. I was simply thankful I got Ban. Bryce Jazak didn’t fare as well.”
“Oh?” the man asked.
“Lice. He went through grade school as Lice.” I’m not sure why I told him that, other than I was thankful to have a reason to be at the door.
I heard slamming coming from somewhere in the house and knew I was yammering at this stranger in order to avoid Carey. I just wanted him gone, not the gentleman on the porch but Carey. I wanted this drama to be over.
I was ready to move on to a new chapter in my life. Even though I didn’t know what it would look like, I was sure it had to be better than this.
“Plus, I always told my mom that Ban is better than having people shorten my name to Shove,” I added in a lame attempt at a joke. I could hardly manage a chuckle myself.
The man winced and I figured it was a really bad joke.
“Sorry. I’m sure you didn’t come for a lecture on my name.”
He offered me up a forced smile. “Hey, with a last name like Chesterfield . . .”
His name brought back sweet memories of days spent curled up on a blanket in the tall grass in my grandfather’s field, reading. I loved the feeling of being hidden from the real world as I escaped into a good book. “You’re named after a sofa?”
He nodded. “Ned. Ned Chesterfield.”
“When I was a kid, one of my favorite books had a character named Coach Divan. It mentioned Chesterfield sofas in it. I had to look it up. They called him Coach Couch. Sometimes even Couch Couch.” I was sure the book was still packed up in the attic.
Carey claimed my books collected dust and he was allergic. Well, I wasn’t allergic to anything. As of tonight, after he moved out, I might not dust for a month just to prove a point.
A mental image of the Charlie Brown character wafting dust lightened my mood. Yes, I would
Pigpen
it for a few weeks at least.
I noticed that Ned Chesterfield wasn’t smiling. He made a face I couldn’t quite interpret, so I didn’t even try. “How can I help you, Mr. Chesterfield?”
“Ned, please,” he said, still wearing a bemused look.
“Ned,” I echoed. We were still speaking through my screen door. I didn’t have any more idea of what Ned wanted than when I’d first opened the door. I was pretty sure he wasn’t planning on anything nefarious, so I stepped out onto the porch.
He was taller than I was but not uncomfortably so. I didn’t need to crane my neck to look at him. And as I looked, I noticed his expression—he looked as if he were in pain.
“This is difficult,” he said. “You see, I’m here about your mother.”
I felt my heart constrict. If he knew my mom, maybe it wasn’t my bad joke but my mention of her that made him wince.
I repeated, “My mother? I’m sorry to have to tell you that she passed away eight years ago.”
And eight years later, saying those words still hurt.
I missed my mom. It was an ever-present hole in my life. I’d gotten used to it and even learned to live with it. At least most days. Some days—like today—I wanted her so badly I ached with it. I wanted her to wrap me in her arms and tell me everything would be okay.
