Love on a Spring Morning (12 page)

Fine was the last thing she was, apparently. Maybe numb and useless, but definitely not fine.

Emmett gave her a little hug as she headed back downstairs, but that just made her think of Ryan’s solid warmth.

She didn’t need him. Or if she thought she did, she was wrong, and in the meantime, she could damn well pretend she didn’t.

You’re an actress. Start putting those skills to good use
.
 

“You get yourself unfucked?” James barked as he stomped back in.

She took another deep breath. “Yep. Let’s do this.”

— —

On Thursday, Ryan scowled at the privacy fence being erected between his house and the cottages closer to the lake.
 

“Stop making that face,” Olivia said from beside him. She had a clipboard and a cellphone that kept ringing, plus a radio headset.

“You look like you’re running half of the free world with all that gear,” he grumbled. “I can’t believe this is necessary.”

“They’re going to be doing some filming here next week. It’s not a big deal.”

“My kids like to play on that trail! Why couldn’t this be put up after the weekend?”

“They’re still welcome on the trail when filming isn’t happening. We haven’t turned your lane into a gated community or anything, and it won’t be up for long.” Olivia waved him off as her headset crackled. “Oh, and Emmett says that step is still squeaking!”

Ryan crossed his arms and scowled again for good measure. One sad benefit of being a widower—nobody thought twice about him being a curmudgeon.

— —
 

On Sunday, hammering woke Holly up at seven.
Bang. Bang. Bang.

A piece of wood clattered a little louder than necessary, and then the hammering resumed.

She lay there, glowering at the ceiling for a few minutes. There was only one person who would be doing minor construction at this hour, since the set construction guys knew better than to do that on her day off. She listened to Ryan literally beat against her house. Okay, his in-laws’ house. But still, it was her temporary cocoon and he was battering it. The imagery was clumsy and heavy-handed.

It was also painfully on point.

She put on her robe, went to the kitchen, made herself a cup of coffee on the one-cup machine, then pasted on her Hope Creswell face and opened the slider door. “Can I help you with something?”

“No, ma’am, just fixing the step.”

“I don’t recall there being anything wrong with it.”

“Your assistant told Olivia that it squeaked. We wouldn’t want the fancy movie star to be annoyed by that.”

“Seriously?” She almost spun around and glared at the house, but something about that didn’t quite ring true, and Emmett maybe didn’t need her wrath. “No other reason why you might feel the need to take a blunt object to the space where I’m staying right now?”

“Nope.”

“You pushed me away, Ryan, not the other way around.”

“You lied to me.”

“And this is a very passive aggressive way to punish me for that.”

He put down the hammer and glared up at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, then. I’m going back to bed.”

Inside, she found Emmett making coffee. He gave her a surprised look. “What are you doing up? It’s your day off.”

“Ryan Howard is replacing the step. He wasn’t quiet about it. I’m surprised you slept through it.”

“Is that what that was?” He shrugged. “It didn’t bother me.”

Really?
It had driven Holly out of her mind.
 

And for the rest of the day, she wouldn’t be able to shake the memory of him looking up at her, practically vibrating with anger.

— —
 

“Go away.”

Emmett sat on the edge of Holly’s bed and smoothed his hand down her back. “Come on, up you get.”

“I don’t want to. I hate Mondays.”

“I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”

No, it wasn’t.

She’d pulled her shit together in the last week, as James would say, but he hadn’t stopped picking on her. She was one day away from having her agent call the producer and run interference, because it was ridiculous. “I’m being punished for having a bad day. One single bad day. Joshua’s a complete mess, and I’m—“

“I know. Into the shower you go.”

“It’s still dark outside,” she whined as he hauled her out of bed and shoved her toward the bathroom.

“I’ll make you a coffee smoothie.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It will be.” He laughed as she groaned. “No, it’ll be good. I’ve already had one this morning.”

“That explains the chipper. Go away, chipper man.”

He just crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows.
 

Fine. She shut the bathroom door and turned on the shower, but she didn’t get in right away. Instead, she stared at herself in the mirror.
What’s wrong with you, woman?

What was really wrong was that Emmett woke her up mid-dream. Mid-
Ryan
dream. She was hopeless, because their little encounter on the porch the day before should have been the final nail in the coffin of her crush.

But it had done the exact opposite. Now he was in every thought, and even his anger was twisted in her head, like it was proof he couldn’t shake her, either.

Stripping down, she stepped under the hot spray, but that only reminded her of him, too. How she’d wanted this shower that first night and how he’d helped her figure it out for herself.

Fast forward two months and she’d shattered his trust in her. Way to repay him. So dreaming about him? That must be her penance. It was so cruel that she’d only had one brief afternoon of kissing him. Had never had a chance to press against him naked.
Like that would make it better? That you didn’t get to break his heart even further?
 

But it wasn’t just that she longed for what she’d never had with him.

It was also that she’d squandered what she
did
have.

Every time James yelled at her, or Joshua checked out during an important scene, she wanted to run to Ryan’s arms and tell him about it. They’d spent six weeks flirting and talking about
nothing
, because she was scared he wouldn’t want her as she really was.

A legitimate fear, since he hadn’t.

Maybe if things had gone differently…

Unfortunately, wishing wouldn’t make it so.

— —

The support group met in a church basement in Lion’s Head, a ten minute drive across the highway.

He didn’t have any reason not to go, although he tried to find one. He put off asking any of his friends to watch the kids, and Dani finally cornered him at Mac’s on Thursday morning. She drove up in her own car, but she was in her paramedic standard-issued blue pants and shirt. “Didn’t you say that bereaved spouses group was meeting tonight?”

Shit, had he told her that? “Maybe?”

“I’ll take the kids. My place or yours?”

“Aren’t you getting off a night shift?” He looked pointedly at her uniform.

“That’s what naps are for.”

So that’s how he ended up sitting on a folding chair, drinking cheap coffee and listening to people just like him share their painful stories. It was all chest-achingly familiar.
 

Faith gave him a reassuring smile when it was his turn to introduce himself.

“I’m Ryan. My wife died last fall, unexpectedly…” As he talked, he stared at the linoleum floor. He didn’t want to look up and see recognition on anyone’s face. “I’ve got three kids, and we’re all doing as well as can be expected, I guess. Some days are better than others. And me personally…I have these moments where I feel like I’ve got it together enough to move on, and then it all falls apart.”

As it had with the others around the circle, a warm pause followed his introduction—it seemed like the group policy was to triple check that a speaker was done before carrying forward. Finally Faith cleared her throat. “Thanks, Ryan. As a reminder, everything we talk about in this circle stays in this circle. We mean that in two ways. One, this is confidential group. But secondly, we don’t need to carry each others’ burdens away from here. We’re here to unload in a safe space, leave those thoughts and fears and doubts and worries” —she pointed in the centre of the circle of chairs— “here, and hopefully walk out a bit lighter than when we came in.”

“Before we get started with tonight’s topic,” an older woman said—Emily, according to her name sticker, “I have some general announcements. Next month’s meeting will start a half hour earlier, to accommodate the church choir…”

As she droned on, he carefully looked around the circle. Nobody gawked at him. No excess sympathy. Most people looked similarly numb, in fact.
Grief is selfish
, Faith had said. Boy, was she right about that.

“Thanks, Emily.” Faith grinned at the group. “Okay, so taking a cue from the changing season outside, I’d like to talk tonight about blooming. Opening up to others, finding another way to have our needs met—those things that our spouse used to do for us. Who do you talk to now when you have a bad day at work? Have you taken another stab at being intimate with someone? Are you relying more on your friends, or finding new people to fill the gap?”

“Nobody,” was the first answer from a man across the way. “I’ve never been a talker. My wife pulled it out of me, even when she was sick. But now…I don’t know. It’s easier not to talk to anyone, I guess. Not that anyone wants to hear my grumpiness.”

Ryan nodded. “I hear you on that. And I’ve got close friends, but…I just can’t.”

“I do most of my talking online,” said Emily. “I was on a crafting forum before my husband was killed, and that’s a huge community. Thousands of people. So that’s where I found people like me, before I knew this group existed. There’s something easier about talking anonymously.”

“Where they can’t see you crying at the other end of the Internet connection,” Faith said softly. “And you can reply on your own terms and own timeline.”

“Exactly.”

“I did the same thing in online writing circles,” Faith added, “but it wasn’t enough. Particularly with my son, I felt like my real self was wasting away, and all my feelings were locked inside that virtual community. That’s a danger for someone like me, who works in words all the time.”

“That’s what my doctor said, that’s why I’m here,” the first man said gruffly. “My blood pressure is too high. He said I need to talk about this stuff or I’ll kill myself, too.”

There was a long pause then, and Ryan wondered if everyone else was having the same thoughts as him—there was a part of him that wanted to die after Lynn was shot. And the guilt for those thoughts still ate him up inside.

“It’s not so bad, living again,” another woman, Jenny, said quietly. “I have a boyfriend. I actually thought about putting that in the announcements, it’s such a big deal.”

“Nothing wrong with not wanting that, either.” Faith said after she finished giggling at the announcements comment. “There are other ways to take care of those needs without dating. But it’s wonderful to celebrate, and hear when other people find that happiness, because there some societal expectations of mourning that are hard to negotiate.
 

You know in movies, how the dead spouse leaves a note, explaining how they want their partner to keep living and be happy? I didn’t think my husband would want that for me. And that’s held me back for a long time. It’s complicated, figuring out how to move on.”

The conversation continued, but that thought stayed with Ryan for quite a while. He had no idea what Lynn would think of his attraction to Holly. Or how he’d feel if the situation was reversed. They hadn’t been particularly possessive of each other. No jealousy or any reason for it. They’d fought, about drug use and taking out the garbage, some minor parenting disagreements…but never about fidelity.

Which only made him feel guiltier about how easily he’d slid into wanting Holly. Shouldn’t he be more loyal to Lynn? Wouldn’t she want that?

But it hadn’t felt wrong in the moment. It had been too much for him to handle, but not for reasons of guilt. So why did he feel like he should be guilty now? Would that boomerang effect ever stop?

It wasn’t Holly that he felt guilty about. He still felt like he’d failed Lynn, and it had nothing to do with what he was doing in the present, and everything to do with what he hadn’t done in the past.

— —
 

Holly tossed and turned in her bed for almost an hour before she padded downstairs and made herself another cup of chamomile tea. Back upstairs, she unfolded Ryan’s well-worn apology note.

She already knew what it said, word for word. But she read it again, her eyes devouring the sharp points and harsh swoops of his handwriting.

Reaching for the notepad and pen she always kept beside her bed, she started writing.
Dear Ryan…
.

— —

Ryan had known it was just a matter of time before he ran into her again. She slept five hundred feet away from him and now the entire movie production had been moved into his backyard. But knowing that and experiencing it were two different things.

On Saturday, they were halfway through a road hockey game in the driveway—Jake Foster and Gavin playing the Montreal Canadiens versus the Vancouver Canucks, aka Ryan, Jack and Maya—when Olivia pulled up. Instead of driving through the manned gate, she parked in front of Ryan’s house and got out.

“Hey guys!” she said, far too cheerfully.

Everyone was far too cheerful for Ryan these days.

Maya abandoned the game and sprinted toward her friend. “Livvie! I want to see the movie!”

Ryan clenched his jaw. “Maya Howard, we talked about this.”

Olivia just laughed. “It’s fine…I’m actually waiting here for Dani, she wants to come for a tour, too. We can take Maya with us.”

“Aw, come on! That’s not fair!” Gavin threw down his stick and gloves.

“Hey!” Ryan whirled, pointing at his son. “First of all, I don’t like that word. It’s not fair that some kids don’t have hot dinners and hockey sticks to play with. Go sit on the porch and think about what’s truly fair and not fair in this world. Two minute time out.” Shaking with unfair resentment, he took a deep breath. “Everyone just hang on a second.”