Sweet Forgiveness (21 page)

“Cherry Capital of the World,” RJ says.

“Really?”

“The lake effects on this peninsula . . . and that one there”—he comes up beside me and points across the bay to another finger of land—“create a perfect microclimate for cherry growing. Same goes for
vinifera
grapes, the ones used in wine making.”

I gesture to what looks like a chest of drawers in the orchard, each drawer painted in a pretty pastel shade. “What's that?”

“One of my bee houses,” he tells me. “A single acre of cherries requires about a hundred and forty thousand bees. A few more weeks and they'll be dancing around the blossoms, working their magic.” He points to the trees. “And all of those buds you see will soon turn into big white blossoms. From a distance they take on the hue of the red branches or the green of the leaves, so when you're driving down the peninsula, you'd swear you see orchards of pinks and greens. It's a pretty spectacular sight against the blue backdrop of the lake. You really need to see it.”

“Maybe I will someday.” I look at my watch. “But for now, I better get going.”

“Not on your life. I'm taking you to dinner. I've already made the reservation.”

A
better woman would have said no. Even a mediocre woman would have felt guilty. But when RJ suggests we have dinner at his favorite restaurant, I hesitate just long enough to leave Michael a quick message.

“Hey, it's me,” I say, standing in the powder room, popping a chocolate mint into my mouth. “You're probably at your meeting with Jennifer and DeForio. Just wanted to let you know I'm heading out to dinner. I stopped at a vineyard up here, and now I'm going to grab a bite with the owner. I'll call you later.”

I know I'm making excuses, and I know I'll probably burn in hell, but I convince myself that I'm still within the boundaries of what's right. Okay, so maybe I'm straddling the line a bit, but I've got at least a toehold on the good side.

We sit at a window table overlooking Grand Traverse Bay, eating steamed mussels and grilled rare tuna and scallops drenched in whiskey sauce. But it could have been a fast-food burger. It wouldn't have made a difference. It still would have been the best date of my life. That is, if it were actually a date, which it isn't.

He pours me a glass of wine. “White Burgundy is made from Chardonnay. It's the perfect complement to the butter-based sauce on these mussels.” He shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I sound like a pompous ass. You're from New Orleans. You know more about food and wine than I do.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” I say.

He looks at me. “Really? You're a foodie, eh?”

“No,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I was referring to the pompous-ass statement.”

His face falls before he realizes I'm joking. I burst out laughing, and then he does, too. “Ah, you got me. I really did sound like a jackass. I am so sorry.”

“Not at all. You have no idea how I've longed for a tutorial on white Burgundy.”

He grins at me and lifts his glass. “To white Burgundy and red faces. And to unexpected visitors.”

As we sip our wine, I ask him about Zach and Izzy, the ragamuffins who visit him after school each day.

“I get as much out of having them over as they get out of coming. It's a win-win.”

“Really?” I say. But I don't buy it. This guy has a soft heart, no doubt about it.

“In the summers they're a great help. Zach's a natural beekeeper. He claims he's charmed them, and I can't disagree. I'm fermenting the honey, experimenting with an ancient drink called mead. If it sells, the profits will go to Zach's college fund.”

“And what does Izzy do?”

“Izzy helps with . . .” He pauses, as if he's trying to think of something. “She helps in the kitchen.”

I chuckle. “Oh, yeah, a five-year-old is a lot of help in the kitchen. You don't fool me, RJ. She's more trouble than she's worth. You just adore them. Admit it.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “They're pretty special. Maddie has her hands full trying to raise them on her own. She's not always the most responsible, but she's young and doing the best she can.”

“I'm sure you're making a huge difference in their lives. Where's their father?”

A cloud crosses RJ's face. “Died. Almost two years ago now.”

“Was he ill?”

RJ inhales. “Yeah. He was. Sad story.”

I want to ask more, but the shadowed look in RJ's eyes tells me the subject's closed.

We spend the next hour talking about our passions—his wine making and cooking, my baking. We talk about our greatest achievements and biggest disappointments. Without going into detail, I tell him about my mother. “It's been a difficult relationship since I was a teen, and I'm finally realizing that a big part was my fault. I'm hoping we can come to some sort of peace treaty now.”

“Good luck with that. From a selfish standpoint, I'm hoping the two of you become inseparable.”

My heart speeds, and I twist the napkin in my lap. “Tell me about your biggest disappointment.”

He tells me about his marriage, the good and the bad.

“Problem is, we didn't share the same dream. Staci was furious when I told her I wanted to leave E&J. And I was stunned she didn't know I'd always wanted my own vineyard. Frankly, I don't blame her for not wanting to uproot her life. And the truth is, I'd probably still be married, and still stuck in the corporate grind, if it hadn't been for her boss, Allen. They married last November.”

“Oh no. I'm so sorry.”

“What do you do?” He throws up his hands. “She's happy, Allen's happy. We were never a great fit. I see that now.”

“I get that.” I'm shocked to hear myself tell the story of Jack, and our meeting in Chicago, and how I felt when I heard he was getting married.

“It was just the shock of it,” I tell him. “He claimed he wasn't the one, but at that moment, when I realized he was getting married and having a baby, I just panicked. I mean, what if I'd made a mistake? What if I should have given him another chance? But it was too late. That door had been slammed shut and dead-bolted.”

“So what do you think? Was he the one?”

“No. He wasn't. Jack was a great guy. But he said something to me that I'll never forget. He said, ‘When you love somebody, you never give up on them.'”

RJ seems to mull it over. “I think he's right. If you'd wanted that relationship, you'd have figured it out. There's someone else out there, I suspect.”

I feel my face heat.
Yes, I suspect there is. And I suspect his name is Michael Payne. And I suspect I shouldn't be enjoying your company quite so much.

He folds his hands on the table and leans in. “Okay, how's this for a cliché first-date topic: tell me something that's on your life list.”

I smile and dip a piece of French bread into the wine sauce. “That's easy. I want a tree house.”

RJ laughs. “A tree house? C'mon. I thought that fantasy ended around age seven.”

I like the way he teases me and how our conversation flits from serious to silly. “Not for me. I want my very own tree house, with a ladder and a rope. It'll have a view of water, and it'll be big enough for a chair and a bookshelf and a table to set my coffee, which is all I need to make me happy. The rest of the world can go away.”

“Real nice. So, it's like a private tree house. Let me guess, you'll have a sign on the door that says
NO BOYS ALLOWED
.”

“Maybe,” I say, playing coy. “Unless they know the secret password.”

I feel his eyes on me. It's so intense I have to look away. He lowers his voice and leans in some more, so that our faces are only inches from each other. “And what's the secret password?”

My heart races and I lift my wineglass. My hand trembles and I set it back down. I gaze across the table, into the eyes of someone I have no business liking as much as I do.

“I have a boyfriend, RJ.”

R
J raises his eyebrows, and I hear the sharp intake of his breath. But just as quickly, he recovers. “Interesting password. I was thinking more like, two knocks, then three quick taps.
I have a boyfriend, RJ
. I think that's one I'll remember.”

I groan. “Look, I'm sorry. I kept telling myself that this was okay. That you were a nice guy, a friend, someone I'd enjoy having dinner with, whether you were a man or a woman.” I stare down at my napkin. “But the truth is, I'm enjoying myself too much. And it's wrong.” I force myself to look at him. “And it's scaring me.”

He reaches across the table and touches my arm. “Hey, it's okay. You go home and tell the bloke that you've met someone else. You're dumping him for some guy you barely know, a real catch who lives in the hills of Michigan. You tell him that you're going to pursue a long-distance relationship, because, well, one thousand two-hundred eight-point-six miles is so easy to overcome.” He tilts his head. “And yes, that is the correct distance from your doorstep to mine. Which means yes, I've given this some thought.”

His eyes are so tender that I want to grab him into a hug. But I'm not sure I could offer comfort now. It feels like we're a couple of kids who've fallen in love at summer camp, and now, because of families and schools and different hometowns, we're about to be separated. And already I'm heartsick.

It's midnight by the time we get back to the vineyard. I haven't even checked into my rental cottage yet.

“You're okay to drive?” he asks.

“Yes.” I drank only a half glass of wine with dinner, two hours ago. “Thanks for everything.”

Our eyes lock, and before I know it, I'm in his arms. I lean into him and feel the heat of his chest and the gentle touch of his hand, stroking my hair. I try to etch this moment into my memory—the weight of his cheek resting against my head, the warmth of his breath on my ear. I close my eyes, willing the world to disappear.

He kisses my head, then steps back. We stand staring at one another until finally I force myself to turn away.

“I need to go,” I say, my heart simultaneously fluttering and shattering. “I've got a busy day tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry,” he says, and jams his hands into his pockets. “I got a little carried away.”

I want to tell him it's okay, that I got carried away, too. I want to return to that place against his chest and feel his arms around me all night. But that's wrong. I'd never forgive myself.

“Will I see you again?” he asks.

I lift my shoulders, the hopelessness of the situation bearing down on me. “I don't know.”

“I suppose calling you is out of the question.”

“Honestly? I'd love it. But I don't operate that way. I'm too invested in Michael.” It's the first time I've said his name aloud, and RJ stiffens.

“I hope Michael knows what he's got in you.”

I put a hand on my throat and nod. I hope so, too. But I'm no longer sure. Ever since I stumbled into RJ's little vineyard last month, I've had doubts about Michael.

He looks down at me and smiles, but his eyes are heavy. “When you decide to kick him to the curb, I want to be at the top of your dance card, you hear?”

I try to smile. “Absolutely.” But we're both dreaming. Even if I were single, there's no way we'd ever be anything more than an occasional fling. Our careers would kill any chance of permanence. And more than anything else, I want permanence.

I wake the following morning in my rental cottage, my gaze at once drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay. The sun is just crowning the horizon, mopping the sky with pinks and oranges. I stare out at the bay, covered with a blanket of mist, and say a silent prayer for the day ahead.

I move to the living room, taking in the stone fireplace and oak floors and built-in bookcases. Definitely my kind of house.

I'd love to show this place to RJ, maybe have him over for dinner. But of course I can't. Again I feel a pang of sadness. How is it possible to feel such a connection to someone I barely know? Is it because lately Michael seems so distant? I'd hate to think I'm one of those women who needs a backup man, but maybe that's what it is. Michael's distance is making me vulnerable.

I brew a cup of coffee and take it onto the deck, along with my laptop. It's chillier than I realized, but the beauty is so captivating I refuse to leave. I wrap my robe tight across my chest and tuck my bare feet under my legs. I gaze out at the majestic view, thinking of RJ and how right it felt to be with him.

I groan. This is crazy! I throw open my laptop and connect with the Internet. James Peters appears in my in-box.

I hold my breath, waiting for his message to appear.

Hannah,

Thank you for your proposal on fracking and the Great Lakes. Rest assured, you are still in contention for the position. We plan to have a decision in the next day or two.

Best,

James

I let out my breath. Good. I still have a chance. And if I happen to get the job, I won't have to worry about how to finesse the proposed show. I'd no sooner have my mother on the air in Chicago than I would New Orleans.

I'm reading an e-mail from Jade when my phone rings. I glance at it. Michael. Instead of smiling, I sigh, preparing myself for another stilted conversation. Just a couple more days and we'll be back to normal. At least that's what I tell myself.

“Good morning,” I say, with more cheer than I feel.

“How goes it in Michigan?”

“Good. I'm sitting on the deck looking out at Grand Traverse Bay. It's like a postcard.”

“Really?”

“I know. It's weird, I don't remember it like this.”

“Have you seen her?” His voice is clipped. He doesn't want to hear about my memories. He only wants to hear that I've made peace with my mother and I'm on my way home.

“I'm going over there this morning. I'm hoping to time it so that she's still home but Bob is off to work.”

“What'd you do last night? I tried calling.”

My heart speeds. “I went to a great French restaurant,” I say truthfully.

“Oh, right. I got your message. With the vineyard owner.” He laughs. “Hell, I wouldn't even admit that.”

He's making fun of RJ. I bite back my anger. “He makes a great wine. You'd be surprised. And the vineyard is gorgeous. This whole area is pretty spectacular.”

“Well, don't fall in love with it,” he tells me. “I want you back this weekend. We've got the City Park fund-raiser Friday night, remember?”

Another fund-raiser. More bullshitting and promise making. More hand shaking and shoulder slapping. For the life of me I can't muster any excitement for it.

“Yes,” I say. “I'll be there. Of course I'll be there.” I pause only a moment before adding, “I only wish that sometime you'd be there for me.”

The words tumble out of my mouth before I have time to rein them in. I wait, hearing nothing but a good ten seconds of silence at the other end of the line.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?” he asks, his voice frostbitten.

My heart thumps wildly. “I'm doing something today that has my stomach in knots, Michael. You haven't so much as wished me good luck.”

“I made it clear that I think it's a mistake, dredging up the past. I advised against it, but you won't listen. Instead, you plow forward, full steam ahead. So maybe your definition of ‘being there for you' differs from mine.”

I won't let him manipulate me. “Look, I know you don't approve of what I'm doing, but I need you to trust me. I'm not going to hurt us—if there even is an ‘us.'” Whether it's because I'm a thousand miles away, or because I spent last evening with a man I found very interesting, I feel emboldened today, as if the balance of power has shifted. “Sometimes I wonder if we're ever going to get married. I'm thirty-four years old, Michael. I don't have all the time in the world.”

My heart thunders in my chest, and I wait. Jesus, what have I done?

He clears his throat, the way he does before making an important political point. “You're on edge. I get that. But yes, to answer your question, there is an ‘us.' At least
I
think so. I've made it clear from day one. I want to wait until Abby finishes school before I think about remarrying.”

“She graduates next spring. It's not too early to make plans. Can we talk about this?”

“Jesus, Hannah. What's gotten into you? Yes, we can talk about this when you get back.” He chuckles, but it's the same forced chuckle he uses with his opponents during debates. “Now I need to scoot. Be careful today.” He pauses. “And, for the record, good luck.”