Jumped (24 page)

She covered her mouth with her hand.
I want to raise our kids together
 . . . She hadn't yet decided whether she was going to let him back into her life, and he had leapfrogged to their great-grandchildren. She swallowed a few times, then sipped more coffee to ease her aching throat.

When she trusted herself to remain composed, she met his gaze. As she knew he would be, he was looking right at her, that Finn laser that made her feel like the most important person in the world. Things certainly had changed over the past five years. Finn had acquired the courage to be vulnerable.

Could she say the same?

He wasn't done. “Fourth, I have some land. Now, take a deep breath honey, because this is gonna be rough.”

Blerg! What does that mean? I'm already crying.
She dabbed her eyes with the napkin and tried to look encouraging.

“Some of the land I own used to belong to your family.”

What?

“I bought the land around the lake. About a hundred acres.”

“How can that be?” she blurted.

“I'll get to that. I initially bought it—you'll see why when we get to Ptarmigan—but I initially bought it to build on it.
My
houses.
My
designs. I got a loan. But when you told me about your horse rescue idea, I checked to see if it's zoned for horses. It is.”

Beth thought she must be suffering from a severe sugar rush. None of this made sense. Finn owned her family's property? Now he's talking about her horse rescue? Did he think the horses could live in the houses he planned to build? She gulped some coffee and eyed the maple syrup.

He continued. “There's not much there—a few small cabins. You might be able to keep some of them and convert them, for barns, storage, garages . . . that kind of thing. Hell, I don't know if you'd even want your rescue up here. You might want it in Florida. But Amanda and Grady would be relatively nearby in summer. If you don't want it up here, you'll make a sizable profit if you sell the land. It's lakefront property that's attractive in summer and winter. It's close to Steamboat. If you sell, you'd be able to offset the cost of purchasing a more suitable tract, if not cover the cost outright.”

“Whoa!” she said. She couldn't help herself; she had to interrupt. She made a T with her hands. “It's
your
land. Not mine. Why are you talking about it like it's mine?”

“I thought it was obvious. I'm giving you the land for your horse rescue. You can do whatever you want with it, but my thought was, it would make your dream come true.”

15

B
eth sat there,
stunned and feeling like she'd just been told something outrageous, like Finn was an alien or she was going to cure cancer.

Finn had obviously lost his mind. She'd take all this talk of land with a grain of salt because there was no way he was serious. As he drank his newly refilled coffee, he
looked
sane enough. But he couldn't be.

“What do you think?” he asked. Mildly. As if logic prevailed.

“That you're insane.”

He laughed.

“Don't worry, Finn, we'll get you the help you need. I'm sure there are plenty of great shrinks in Aspen and Grady will hook you up.”

“Bethany, this is the sanest thing I've ever done.”

“You're just
giving
me land.” She thrust her upturned palms at him. “You're just giving me one hundred acres? There must be strings attached. What are they, Finn? Do I have to marry you to get it, like some kind of antiquated reverse dowry? Do you need a kidney or something?” She was almost spitting the words.
None of this made any sense.

“No strings, and you don't have to marry me or lose any organs. The land is yours free and clear. I've had the papers drawn up, and they've all got your name all over them.”

“What if I don't want to put the horse rescue there? What if I just want to live in our old summer house on my hundred-acre plot of land?”

“That's completely up to you.” He tilted his head. “But you probably won't want to do that.” It felt like a warning. Finn's jaw moved ever so slightly and he was tapping his front teeth together. Something was up.

And then Beth realized why this felt like she was being given a multimillion-dollar grand prix jumper only to find it was missing a hoof. She leaned toward him. “Why on God's green earth would my father sell his house to
you
, of all people?”

Finn's jaw moved a little more and he looked toward the loaded bakery display case, then at her. “He . . . he didn't know it was me. His Realtor handled the sale, and I bought it through a third party. It's perfectly legal. But I knew he wouldn't sell to me.”

“Why did you want our house?”

“It was exactly what I was looking for—desirable residential mountain property near a resort town. And it's cheaper than Aspen, Beaver Creek, or Vail.”

“It had nothing to do with me?”

He looked into his coffee mug. “It might have had something to do with you.” His gaze returned to her face. “Obviously you're the reason I knew about the place. I bought your family's house several years ago, and have been lucky enough to buy the land around it in the meantime.”

It seemed to make sense, on paper, at least.

“Why are you giving it to me? What about
your
dream of building your designs?”

This time his lovely blue eyes stayed locked on hers and he shrugged. “I want to. I want to do this for you. It seemed like a golden opportunity, and maybe it will make up for how I treated you while we were married.”

“Isn't it a little overboard? I'm not complaining; it's extraordinarily generous, but . . . think about it. Finn, it's a
lot
of money to relieve some guilt from a failed marriage that wasn't all your fault. What if I refuse to take the land?”

“I'll sell it and donate the proceeds to your horse rescue as soon as it's set up. My mind is made up. And if you never set up your horse rescue, I guess I'll donate to another one. I'd like your input on that.”

She molded her hands to her coffee mug, the warmth of the smooth ceramic comforting. “It's a lot to process,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“This is why you've been so weird all morning and almost refused sex.”

“Yes.” Tap, tap, tap went his incisors.

“I'm not going to decide anything now,” Beth said. “I need time to think.”

“Understood.”

Silence hung around the table like morning mist in a summer pasture. They were both very interested in staring at their coffee. Finally, Finn reached for the check and they left Winona's for Ptarmigan.

Finn looked at Bethany
in the driver's seat. It was a natural spot for her, behind the wheel of her pickup. The only thing that would make her feel more at home would be a horse trailer in the rearview mirror and Mingo next to her. She wore a dusty-blue polo shirt that turned her eyes the same blue-gray as an early-morning sky above a Florida beach, and khaki shorts. She looked fresh and carefree, the same way she looked the summer they'd met.

The truck bounced as they turned onto the dirt road that led to the lake and the house. It was a mile from the paved road to the house, up a gentle grade. When they were almost to the crest of the hill, Finn said, “Why don't we pull over here?”

“Why?”

“Just . . . would you mind? I want to get something out of the back before you see the lake.”

Bethany squinted at him, but parked on the gravel shoulder.

He said, “Stay there, okay? I'll come around.”

“You're a gimp. You don't have to.”

“Humor me.”

Finn lowered himself out of the truck and opened the back door on his side. He removed the box with the window in it, which Harris had wrapped for him in black-and-white paper and tied with a lime-green satin ribbon. Finn needed it to look good. The presentation had to be terrific, because Bethany wasn't going to like the contents. He adjusted his crutches, slammed the passenger-side doors shut, went around the front, and opened her door for her. She unbuckled her seat belt and jumped down onto the rocky road.

“I want to know what the hell—” She stopped talking because she saw the box under Finn's arm. “What's that?”

“It's for you. Would you mind carrying it? Sorry—not very gallant of me, but under the circumstances . . .”

“No worries.” She took the box, then tilted her head at him. “What is it?”

“You'll see soon enough.”

“Why do we have to walk? Especially you—wouldn't you rather drive?”

“It's not so bad with the brace instead of the cast. It's lighter.”

She twirled around him as they walked, her long hair billowing and shining in the sun.

“When I was little, I used to get so excited at this part in the road, where you crested the hill.” She started to jog.

“Wait! I'm fast, but not that fast.”
Please, Bethany. Please stop.

“Okay!” She walked, and continued her train of thought. “When you got to the top and you could see the house and the lake? Hurry up, gimpy! Ooh, can you smell that? The lake? It smells like summer! All it needs is hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, and bug spray. Mom used to marinate us in Skin So Soft. It was like a flea dip.” She faced him, her back to the top of the hill. She was waiting for him so they could see her precious family summer house together.

When he caught up to her, he said, “There's something else I have to tell you. It's about the house. It's . . . uh . . . not . . . the same.” He chickened out.
Fucking coward!

They walked up the last yards to the summit of the road and stopped at the top of the hill. Finn looked at Bethany. He felt like such a complete shit.

His heart shattered. Future archaeologists would be sure to find a few shards right there in Ptarmigan, Colorado, because he knew his heart would never be the same.

Bethany was staring at a field of wildflowers where the summer house used to be.

She started to walk, haltingly, toward the spot. Her pace quickened, until she was jogging, still gripping the box. She stopped when she got to where the front door had been and set the gift on the ground.

Finn crutched to her as fast as he could. His chest felt like every stone and board from that house was on top of it, crushing the breath out of his lungs.

“What happened to it?” she said in a half whisper. She had been staring straight ahead, looking at the lake. Now she turned to Finn, who was catching his breath beside her. “What happened?”

“Please open it.” He looked at the box. “Then I'll explain.”

In her pragmatic, Bethany way, she fell to her knees and sat on her heels in the tough, broad-bladed alpine grass, burnt orange Indian paintbrush, and purple fireweed. She jerked the bow loose. Sighed hard. Then attacked the paper as though she had a vendetta against it. “I don't know why you won't just tell me.” She opened the box. Seeing the bubble wrap, she pulled the window out and began to unwind the material. As though it was an artifact. Something dead from long ago.

Her fingers trembled as she let the wrap fall and held the window at arm's length.

It was still beautiful. A small rose window in jewel-toned panes of red, blue, green, and gold, with a heart in the middle. It had been on the wall above the landing of the stairs leading to the second floor. At night, outside, the window had glowed.

It was under this window, bewitched by its shining heart and the radiant brunette in his arms, that Finn had first kissed Bethany on a night when the Milky Way was a bold silver river across the Colorado sky.

She had taken off her sunglasses. Tears pooled on the edges of her eyelids and spilled over, careening down her cheeks. “Finn, why do you have this? Was there a fire?”

In for a penny . . . he thought, ludicrously. He eased his way down, using his crutches for support until he could sit and stretch out his leg. He braced his arms behind him, sighed, and said, “Okay. The real reason I bought the house was you. I thought I'd feel better if I could come here and think of when we were happy. And—brutal truth—I'd hoped I could win you back and we could live in the house together.”

“And then there was a terrible fire?” she asked. “Caused by lightning? An act of God?”

“Then there was a terrible night. This was about a year after we were divorced. I came up, I was depressed, and I was drinking—and I mean
drinking
. Like Hemingway. I missed you like hell. You need to understand, I was at an all-time low that night. I blamed you, I blamed me, and I needed to destroy something. I decided to remodel. I could change the house a little, and it would be mine while still being yours. I got my sledgehammer and started to take out a wall. It felt great to swing that thing and
break
something.

“I kept going. I wrecked the house because I didn't want to live there if I couldn't live there with you. And then I decided I didn't want anyone else to live there, either. I didn't want to see it anymore and be reminded of what I'd thrown away. I kept tearing down walls until I collapsed. Then I called a friend in the middle of the night who brought a crew in the next day and razed the place. I didn't even bother with permits. I was out of my mind. You called me insane at Winona's—your diagnosis was about four years too late.”

He looked beyond her, at the high midday sun shimmering off the lake. His memories of that night were the polar opposite of this optimistic, hopeful vista.

Looking back at her, he said, “It was the second-worst night of my life, second only to the night we split up. That night I knew what it was like to live without you and to live without any hope of getting you back. I felt so . . . unworthy of you. More than I've ever felt in my life. And you know how great I am at dealing with feelings.” He smiled.

She pressed her lips together in a tense smile.

“But I didn't do this to hurt you. Hell, I never thought I'd see you again, and I certainly didn't think you'd know I tore down your old house.”