Willow Spring (24 page)

And added to all that, she feared that in addition to losing their burgeoning romance that maybe she’d truly lost Logan’s friendship, too. She didn’t know the answer to that. She didn’t know the answer to
much
lately. And when she got right down to it, all she really knew for sure was that her heart hurt whenever he came to mind.

Which was . . .
always
now.

L
ogan sat on the ground in the Destiny Cemetery, just outside town, next to his father’s grave, knees bent, forearms balanced atop them. The marker was typical—gray granite, about waist-high, the name Whitaker across it in bold capital letters. There was a spot for his mom on one side, the year of death not yet filled in, but his dad’s side had been completed now for far too long for his liking.

He’d come to grips with his dad’s death, but he’d been thinking about him a lot lately. Ever since the fire. Ever since he’d quit the DFD. Was Amy right? Would his father be disappointed in him for giving up the job they’d both loved?

“I don’t want to let you down—I don’t want to let
anybody
down—but I’m just afraid . . . afraid to let anybody else die.”

Aw shit. Since when did he sit talking to graves? Never. Even when his dad had first passed away, he hadn’t had imaginary conversations with him. He was more of a realist. Usually, anyway.

And yet, to his surprise, something about talking to his father for the first time in a long while felt instantly . . . easy, and almost even a little comforting. So he thought—what the hell? He was the only person here after all, on this bright, hot summer day, so no one else would know anyway.

“Something changed in me that night, Dad. Something that . . . well, even though I’m doing better, starting to pull myself together—something that isn’t changing back. It’s like I lost some part of myself that night, like . . . letting Ken and Doreen die made a part of
me
die, too.”

And then something hit Logan—hard. God, how had he not remembered this before now? Maybe because he’d been young when it happened, but . . .

When he’d been around six or seven, his father had gone through a whole summer barely speaking, in a dark humor, hardly paying Logan any attention at all. It had hurt and confused him at the time—it had felt . . . like his dad had just stopped loving him or something. He’d wondered what he’d done wrong. And as an only child, close to his dad, he’d felt . . . abandoned.

And then one night while his mother tucked him into bed, she’d told him, “Daddy is just sad right now, Logan. But don’t worry, he’ll feel better soon, and things’ll get back to normal.”

“What’s he sad about?” Logan had asked in the shadowy light of his bedroom.

His mother had hesitated, and then lowered her voice as she replied. “You remember that fire last month? The bad one over in Crestview?” It had been an apartment building.

He’d nodded, having no idea where this was leading—because his dad was . . . his dad. Strong. Tough. Capable. He took care of them. He took care of lots of people.

“Well, honey,” his mom had told him, “some people died. In the fire. And . . . it’s just rough on your father right now, that’s all.”

The idea of death had been fairly new to Logan at that age, but he’d simply accepted it for what it was—an explanation, a reason. And he’d quit feeling so bad. He’d even gone out of his way to be nice to his dad. And soon enough, his father had bounced back and become the same fun, loving father he’d always been. And Logan had mostly forgotten about that time. Until now. This very second.

He swallowed back the lump that rose to his throat upon realizing that his dad had gone through this, too, or at least through something similarly painful. The people in that fire hadn’t been personal friends the way the Knights were, but . . . Logan didn’t know how many had died there, either, and suddenly he had the suspicion that it might have been more than just a couple. And what if there had been children involved?

And yet his dad had quietly battled those demons, and then he’d gone back to work doing what he did, fighting fires.

“I wonder if you ever thought of quitting,” Logan mused to the headstone. “I wonder if you were ever scared after that. Of it happening again.”

In a way, it was hard to think of his dad being afraid—but in this moment he was forced to realize, perhaps more than ever before, that his father had only been a man, like him. Surely he’d been afraid. Who wouldn’t after something like that? And yet his dad had gone back to work.

And he’d never discouraged Logan from following in his footsteps, either. “You must have thought I could handle it, whatever happened,” Logan said. Then, struck with fresh emotion, he drew in a deep breath and blew it back out. “I’m sorry you were wrong about that, Dad. I did my best, though, I promise. I really did.”

A lump rose in Logan’s throat then, but he swallowed past it. His dad would understand that he’d needed to quit. He would tell Logan to do whatever he felt was best. And sure, his dad might not think being a lousy bartender was the right path to follow, but that was only temporary—soon he’d find something else that felt fulfilling, something that would have made his dad proud of him all over again.

“I love ya, Dad,” he said softly, looking to the grass, the earth, below him. It was hard to believe his dad was in there somewhere. Then he shifted his gaze to the vase of silk flowers at the base of the gravestone—currently filled with yellow roses, which he knew were among his mom’s favorites because they were so bright and sunny and cheerful. And he tried to let them—and the love and support his parents had always given him—make him feel a little happy inside.

As he got up to walk away, heading back through the maze of headstones to his car, he caught sight in his peripheral vision of a large mound of dirt off to the right in the cemetery. Not far from his dad’s resting place, it was in a newly opened section with only a few markers so far, and this pile of dirt didn’t yet have one. Because—he knew from experience with his dad’s grave—they were waiting for the ground to settle thoroughly before they placed it. But two large sprays of dead flowers lay across it.

A lump rose back to his throat when he realized he couldn’t quite keep walking, couldn’t get in his car and drive away, before he went over. Ken and Doreen were buried there.

It was hard as hell to approach the graves, but he knew he had to. Just had to.

As he drew near, the dead flowers accentuated his sadness. And then he dropped to his knees—not because he ever made the conscious choice to do so, but because his legs gave out beneath him.

“I’m so sorry,” he heard himself whisper. “I’m so damn sorry.”

And he was struck by the stark silence all around him, and the blistering heat of the day—or it suddenly
seemed
blistering anyway—and everything inside him began to feel . . . a little bit futile again, and he wondered how he would ever, ever get over this.

But then a bird twittered in a tree somewhere nearby, and maybe it reminded him that life went on. Somehow, it went on.

And the truth was, he’d felt a lot better about the fire since talking to Amy that night by the creek—it really
had
helped. He hadn’t had any nightmares since.

And maybe . . . maybe coming here would help a little more. And maybe he’d find more and more things that helped. Until eventually he could quit hurting so bad over it. And maybe what he needed to do right now—corny as it sounded, even corny as it felt—was to tell Ken and Doreen the things he couldn’t the night their house caught on fire.

“If there was anything I could have done, I would have. Anything at all. And . . . I think you both know that. I think you both know I tried my best. But it was just too much. Nobody could have saved you. Nobody. Not even my dad.” And wow—he wasn’t sure where that thought had come from, but it was true. He’d spent most of his life thinking his dad could do anything, but every man had his limits, even Ron Whitaker.

“I wish I could have gotten there five minutes sooner. Hell—I wish the damn fire had never even started. But it did.” He stopped, swallowed. “They say things happen for a reason, and we’re supposed to just go through life believing that—but I’ve had a damn hard time with it lately.” He shook his head then, at a loss. “And I don’t know the answers, that’s for sure. But the thing is . . . I did my best. And it wasn’t good enough. And there’s just . . . nothing more I can do except . . . go on, the best I can.

“I think you’d forgive me if you could. So . . . I think I need to start forgiving myself now, too. I think that’s what you’d both want me to do.”

He rested there on his knees for a few more minutes, quiet, listening for more birdsongs, heartened when they came. And when he finally got up and headed back toward his car, he felt . . . well, a little more at peace inside. Far from healed, far from over it—but every little bit of peace helped.

Part of Logan wanted to just head home, veg out on the dock with Cocoa a while, rest up for work at the Dew Drop in a few hours. But another part of him was in the mood to be around people—he couldn’t deny that had really helped his mood ever since he’d broken out of that initial dark place. So he decided to head into town. Maybe he’d stop by the police department and see if Mike was around, and if not, he’d drive by Becker Landscaping and look for Adam’s truck.

As he parked on town square, though, he couldn’t help noticing Under the Covers across the way, looking quaint and tidy and as cheerful as usual. And it reminded him that he missed Amy. He tried not to think about her, tried not to think about all that had gone down between them these past couple of weeks, but he couldn’t stop missing her, damn it.

And he missed her not only in the way you miss a friend, but also in the way you miss . . . a lover.
So Amy became my lover, and I ended up losing my friend. Wow, you sure are batting a thousand lately, Whitaker.

And for a second he considered forgetting about Mike, walking over, peeking inside the wide front window, seeing if she was alone. Maybe if they just talked a little they could find a way to put all this behind them and move on.

But he wasn’t sure
how
to put their troubles behind him. It still hurt that she kept trying to get him to do something he didn’t want to, and something that was so painful to him right now, too. He knew she meant well, but . . . he needed support at the moment, not someone pushing him in a direction that no longer felt right.

And yeah, that night he’d found her in the bookstore and given her the stuffed cat, he’d really started thinking that maybe he could have something with her that went far beyond friendship. Being with her in that way had felt damn good, and discovering Amy’s sexy side . . . well, seldom in his life had he ever thought anything more amazing or beautiful. And there was no denying that the two times they’d been intimate together were the two nights when . . . well, when he’d ended up the happiest—and the most at peace inside—since the fire.

Yet as he stood on the edge of the square, just staring across at the bookstore, he let out a sigh and felt a little deflated. Because that happiness sure hadn’t lasted long. And even as much as he cared about her, even as good as it had begun to seem—how could it really be
that
good,
that
right, if she could hurt him like that and feel totally justified doing it?

There’s always Anna.

He almost hated the little voice inside that had just reminded him of that. Because he still didn’t know how he felt about her. Had that kiss on the ferris wheel felt wrong because they didn’t belong together, or was it only because he’d been with Amy that night? And if he turned to Anna now, would that be running away from the heavy stuff? Or just doing something easy and fun that didn’t hurt anyone?

Aw hell. Maybe you should just forget about women for the time being.

And with that thought in mind, he turned toward the police department, ready to look for Mike, like he’d come here to do in the first place.

“Hey, Logan! Logan Whitaker!”

Uh-oh. He knew that pretty voice. And he turned to see none other than Anna Romo on the sidewalk just outside the bookstore. As always, she looked gorgeous, today wearing a stylish top with white shorts that showed off her long, tan legs. And when she waved and crossed the street toward the square, he really had no choice but to walk toward her. Even if something about the moment suddenly felt very wrong.

“Hi,” she said when he finally reached her. Her infectious smile told him any hard feelings left over from the carnival had passed. “What’s up?”

He attempted a smile, but wasn’t sure it quite reached his eyes. “Not much. Just looking for your brother. Know if he’s working today?”

“Mike?” Her mood soured at the mere mention of his name, and it made Logan’s heart break a little for his best friend. “No idea.”

He couldn’t help giving her a chiding look, even though he spoke gently. “Go easy on him, Anna.”

She just shrugged.

And he felt compelled to go on, for Mike’s sake. “I kinda thought you two might make a fresh start now that he’s back from the honeymoon. I talked to him yesterday and he seemed happy as a clam—which isn’t like Mike,” he added with a wink. “So you might want to take advantage of that while it lasts.”