Something About Sophie (27 page)

The door began to open slowly, tentatively at first and then he was there. Tall and a smidge too stout; a Caesar's crown of graying hair and warm brown eyes behind round wire glasses—unwavering devotion in his expression.

“Daddy.”

“Baby.”

She was out of bed and in his arms before the first tear slipped.

Chapter Sixteen

“J
esse gave me the blue room across from yours. It's a lovely old house. You can see she's put a lot of work into it,” Tom Shepard said, promenading with his daughter on his arm down the second-floor corridor of Clearfield General Hospital shortly after the dinner hour.

Dr. Kelsey's only stipulation to her discharge the next morning was more walking. This was their third go-around.

“Isn't she great? And Mike? Have you met him yet?”

“His mother warned me about him, but he was out when I arrived.”

“Warned you,” she scoffed. “Wait until you meet him, Dad. He's a great kid. Really funny. An
ardent
basketball player. And don't let her fool you—he's her pride and joy.”

He smiled, having already assumed that.

Sophie couldn't stop looking at him and was fully aware that it was more fear than happiness that kept her from looking away. She couldn't get close enough or hold him tight enough. And he was content to let her lean as heavily on his calm, gentle strength as she needed to . . . because that's what a
real
dad does.

“She certainly seems fond of you.”

“The feeling is mutual. I don't know what I would have done without her this whole time.” How do you explain someone like Jesse? How do you describe a friend who knows you well enough to call your father when you can't quite bring yourself to do it—even though you want to. Was it even possible? She giggled. “She'd tear into the sheriff if he even
looked
like he was going to accuse me of murder again.”

He chuckled. “Well, let's face it: You are quite sinister-looking for a kindergarten teacher.”

Ha! She was
flint
!

“Right. To a shy five-year-old. For the first week of school. Maybe.”

They turned a corner laughing—and her legs wobbled a bit when she saw Drew at the nurses' station up ahead. She had a flash of déjà vu taking in the white lab coat and the small laptop that held his rapt attention.

Not walk-into-a-wall handsome, he was tall and fit with the customary number of limbs and short, dark wavy hair. A truly ordinary man. And truly magnificent to her. Truly. It was as if a blurry film had been peeled away, leaving her world brighter, clearer, more defined—in every sense.

“Oops.” Her father steadied her misstep. “Getting tired, honey?”

By the time she realized he'd spoken, he'd already seen whatever look she had on her face and tracked her gaze to Drew.

“Yeah. A little.” Too sorry to say it, she knew her fatigue would depend on Drew. If when he turned and saw them, his eyes sparked in the way that caused her pulses to skitter and it was clear they were still in mutual crazy-aboutness, then she'd be up to a marathon. If they didn't, if they weren't, she wasn't sure her heart would ever get up again.

The cuts on the sides of her feet remained tender to walk on. She knew it wasn't necessary to conceal the way she limped, but somehow it seemed critical to appear less weak, less injured . . . less pitiable. Sympathy was not what she wanted from him.

They strolled into his peripheral vision and he looked up—she didn't miss the slight hesitation in him before he turned his head to look at them.

For a moment his uncertainty was not enough to hide the light in his eyes, that glow that was more than the fire and life inside him, beyond his empathy and compassion. They were brilliant with delight and desire. His affection made her heart swell and buoyed her spirits. His ardor thrilled her, made her shiver.

For a moment.

He didn't even glance away, merely blinked and it was gone—and he was Dr. Andrew Kingston McCarren, an extraordinarily kind and understanding physician and an all-around great guy . . . but not more.

“Hey, Sophie.” Dr. McCarren was quick and thorough with his appraisal. “You're looking much better. How are you feeling?”

Did she look as devastated as she felt? She caught herself staring, looked away and muttered. “Better.”

So she was going to be in a train wreck after all, she thought, seeing the headlights coming down the track in her mind. And there she was: aware, waiting, feeling helpless to stop it.

“Good. That's good news.” For a long moment they tried to ignore the uneasiness raining down on them. “And you must be her dad.” He held out his hand. “Drew McCarren.”

His hand was taken readily. “Tom Shepard. I'm deeply sorry for your loss, young man. I know your family's in a terrible place right now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” The strain in his voice brought her gaze to his face. He had more to say, but the words were stuck in his throat.

“I don't know how to begin to express my gratitude to you and your family for all you've done for my daughter.”

“Please. There's no need.” Stiff. Brittle.

Her father backed down, not wanting to press on anything painful. “At least let me thank you for calling to let me know about it.”

Drew gave a short nod and said, “You're welcome. I—”

“You. You called him?” Yes. Yes, of course, he would—without asking, without uncertainty—because he knew her, knew her heart.

He darted a glance in her direction, noted the emotional quiver in her chin, and shot back to Tom Shepard. “I figured she'd want you here and you'd want to know so . . . it was nothing.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and immediately pulled them out again. “Ah. Well. I'm happy to hear you're on the mend. I guess I should get going.” In a swift automatic motion, he snapped two keys on his computer and pulled the cover down, explaining, “Patients to see. Good to meet you, Mr. Shepard.”

“Doctor.” He shook Drew's hand again. “I'm in your debt.”

He was wagging his head when his gaze slipped into Sophie's eyes. He squinted as if deliberately hardening his eyes—but he couldn't hide his deep remorse. He swallowed, then swallowed again. “Take care, Sophie.”

“Drew. Don't.”

His smile was small and resigned. “I'm sorry. I can't do this.”

When he turned, snatched up his computer and started to walk away, Sophie cringed at the noise in her head, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Or, come to think of it, maybe on
flint
. She was not some poor, helpless thing caught in the headlights of a train. She was
flint . . .
damn it!

A fleeting look at her father and he graciously started melting into the woodwork.

“Drew.” He stopped, shoulders drooping—his escape foiled. She strode forward and spoke in a soft, private voice at his back. “I know you're hurting. I know what it's like to lose your mother. There's no other pain like it. I know. But, please, don't shut me out. We can talk. I can help you, if you let me.” She waited. She watched his back expand and contract with short, tight breaths. “So. You're just going to walk away? Feeling the way we feel happens so often in your life that you can afford to throw it away without even talking to me?” She heard him sigh; watched him bow his head. “Talk to me. Please. Turn around and tell me why you're doing this.”

He set the computer back on the counter as a nurse rounded the corner into the nurse station. One look at the two of them and she suddenly recalled something she'd forgotten to do elsewhere.

“Come on, Sophie,” he said, swinging from formal to frosty. “Too much has happened. Everything is different; it's changed. What did you expect? That life would simply go on as if Thursday night never happened?”

“No. But I didn't expect you to be like this.”

“How'd you expect me to be?”

There was a clear line between what a person hoped for and what they were reasonably allowed to expect. She knew that. She'd hoped he'd hold her in his arms every second of the day and night till she was ready to let go. She'd hoped that nothing would change between them. Realistically, though, at the very least, she'd expected they'd work their way through it together and . . . yeah . . . eventually get back to where they left off.

“I expected you to be heartbroken. I expected you to trust me with your feelings. I expected you to know that I love you and I want to be here for you. And I expected that you of all people would know that it wasn't your life that ended.” She paused, knowing that last one might sting a little, but he said nothing. “I guess I expected too much.”

“Maybe I'm just more of your bad luck with men.” And there it was . . . he looked at her sympathetically. Her fingers itched to slap him.

“Maybe you are,” she said gently, slow to reconcile. “But it isn't because of what happened the other night. I'm sorry about your mother, Drew. More than I can tell you. But nothing about that night is my fault.” He opened his mouth to speak but he'd had his chance; she cut him off. “Nothing about that night is
your
fault. And nothing that happened that night twenty-eight years ago is our fault. We weren't involved, never have been. None of it
ever
had anything to do with us. So mourn your mother, you should. But don't kid yourself. If you are more of my bad luck with men, it's not because of what happened—it's because you want to be.”

Her tone dared him to contradict her. When he didn't, she sidestepped him and limped back to her room—head high and heartsick.

Tom Shepard stood when his daughter broke into the room, swinging the door closed behind her as she hurried straight into his open arms.

I
t didn't seem fair that Elizabeth McCarren's funeral was less populated than Arthur's. True, she was not the leader of a congregation of Unitarians, but she was a member of the local Presbyterian Church—and she sat on every charitable committee in town. And while there were plenty of people there to stare and whisper when Sophie walked in with her father, Jesse, and Mike, she had braced herself for far more.

On the other hand, which was far more generous, perhaps so many of the good citizens of Clearfield stayed away to spare Elizabeth's husband and children any excess emotions that didn't directly pertain to their loss—like having to deal with curious, prying eyes, awkward comments, and unconscious but judgmental body language.

That's the explanation Sophie chose to believe anyway. That muggy, overcast morning she deliberately chose to think only good thoughts, dwell only on pleasant memories, and hope the McCarrens—and Elizabeth's soul—found the peace they so needed.

And that was all she was going to think about—though Drew was ever-present in her heart.

Sitting in the back of the church to cause as little disruption as possible made it easy for Lonny to find them—and
his
arrival disrupted those gathered . . . a lot. So much so that the family turned their heads to look back. Lonny stood like a noble snow-capped mountain and gave a respectful nod to them and their sorrow—and in return received their silent, humble welcome. He took a seat in the pew beside Mike, but not before he locked eyes with Sophie, who beamed at him with great pride and love.

After a moment, Sophie looked to her left to catch her dad's reaction—he winked and beamed at
her
with great pride and love.

Perhaps it was because a happy, contented life was all she'd ever known that she found it . . . well, not exactly easy but also not grueling or complicated to find closure to the past two weeks. Maybe Mike was right; maybe she was simply rebooting to her original default mode because her qualms at having her past and her present meet for the first time were mild and few. Her romantic relationships were clearly an on-going, head-banging nightmare of epic proportions, but that might be due to the fact that her bar was set extraordinarily high by the men who'd already proven their love and trustworthiness to her.

And so it was that when Lonny came to see her at Jesse's after her release from the hospital, and she introduced him to her father, the initially awkward meeting was as short lived as she'd expected it to be, turning quickly into acceptance and appreciation for the sacrifices they'd both made and the gifts each had given.
These
men knew love was a rare and unconditional miracle, meant to be cherished and foolish to ignore.

Her dad, not as reserved as Lonny, was the first to launch into the “I remember this one time” stories of Sophie's childhood that her grandfather seemed to guzzle down like homemade cider. After a while Jesse and Mike stepped out on the porch to join the gaiety and a cool summer breeze, which had Sophie unwinding in a heightened but unfinished satisfaction.

One more person would have made it a perfect afternoon.

And so it was at the funeral the next day that the two men—father and grandfather—nodded and smiled in friendship as their lives were now forever intertwined.

They hadn't planned on attending the interment—assuming the McCarrens would appreciate the privacy—nor were those congregated invited from the pulpit. But when Billy found them after escorting his mother's casket safely to the hearse and requested they come, they couldn't refuse him.

I
n sorrow and profound regret, Elizabeth's dearest friends and relatives gathered at her grave. Her immediate family grouped close together, the women comforting one another and weeping behind their dark glasses; the men standing stoically in theirs. Sophie's group stood across from them but behind the other mourners.

The minister's final words were not vague or ambiguous. He spoke of Elizabeth's great devotion to her family and to her community; her empathy toward those less fortunate and to those who found the obstacles on the paths they'd chosen too great to overcome. He briefly addressed her humanness and invited only those without sin to throw stones at the memory of the woman whose sole purpose in life was to love her family and to give friendship and comfort to her neighbors.