Where Hope Begins Read online

  “Tomorrow,” I tell her. Something about her smile creates an ache that scares me. Once Zoe and Adam reached high school, I went out of my way to avoid small children. Raising the two of them was hard enough. I can’t bear to be around anyone who reminds me of Shelby.

  Yet here I am, smiling back at her almost mirror image. “What time should I come over?” I ask her father.

  “Teatime, I guess.” He gives a quick lopsided grin partnered with a shrug.

  “It’s four o’clock, Daddy. That’s teatime, you know.”

  “Yeah?” He rolls his eyes, tweaks her nose, and gives a chuckle that warms me and chases away my fear. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’tcha, Miss Maysie?”

  “I am smart,” she declares, hands on hips. “You tell me so all the time.”

  “I do indeed. You’re the smartest six-year-old I’ve ever met.” He pulls her against him and she wraps her little arms around his waist and my heart twists.

  “You hafta be on time.” Maysie turns to face me and pats my hand, looking very serious about it. “Aunt Clarice is British and she does not abide tar . . . tarda . . .” She looks up at Brock. “What is it?”

  “Tardiness.” His proud father’s grin is wide.

  Maysie nods and looks back at me. “Tardiness. It means don’t be late. Aunt Clarice said.”

  This is nothing to joke about, apparently.

  “Well then, I shall be right on time.” I nod and try to hold back a grin of my own.

  I don’t remember Clarice. When I was Maysie’s age, a German couple owned the house next door. He was a botanist, and the greenhouse was full of tropical plants and bright-colored flowers that could just be seen behind the steamy glass windows. The Schwartzes were not the friendly sort, despite my mother’s best efforts to be neighborly. I never did get an invitation to visit their greenhouse, but my imagination as a young girl said it must be the most beautiful place on earth.

  The Chandlers bought the house a few years ago. My mother said Dr. Schwartz only sold it to them because Joseph Chandler was also an avid gardener with an interest in botany. Kevin and I stopped coming up here before that.

  Brock pulls Maysie’s hood over her head. “You know where we are, right?” His eyes land on me again, like he’s infiltrating all my secret thoughts, sifting through them, sorting which to keep and which to deem completely cracked. Which is how I’m feeling at this moment. Completely. Cracked.

  “Um. Yes.” I walk to the edge of the porch, shade my eyes against the sun, and point. “You’re the large house with the green shutters. That way. I can walk through the garden to get there.”

  “And we have a greenhouse too!” Maysie’s eyes shine with this news. From my vantage point I can just make out the glass structure that looks like a long finger stretching toward the lake. When I was last here, a brief visit with my parents over a holiday weekend last summer, it lay derelict. I remember my mother remarking on it as we walked past the house. “Terribly sad,” she said, with her usual dramatic flourish.

  “Well, it’s not much of anything anymore.” Brock sounds as bereft as my mother. “Since my uncle passed, Clarice can’t bring herself to go inside the place. Most everything’s dead by now, I reckon.”

  “C’mon, Daddy. Let’s go home now.” Maysie is already skipping down the steps. “I’ll see ya tomorrow!”

  “Thank you for stopping by.” I cough and force a smile. “And for cleaning up my mess.” This man unnerves me. Not in a creepy way . . . but . . . “We haven’t met before, have we, Brock?”

  “Can’t say that we have.” Something flashes in his eyes and I think whatever it is, I’m better off not knowing. “Oh, there’s extra firewood in the shed out back. You should have enough in the house for the next few days. When you need more, give a holler.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” I sound too formal and I have no idea why. But the man does not seem the overly talkative type. Nice enough, yes. Good looking, definitely yes, but not chatty. Which is fine by me. I think.

  “See ya, Miss Savannah!” Maysie calls. Brock simply nods, takes the steps two at a time, and jogs to catch up with her.

  I blow air through my mouth as I watch him leave.

  Okay. So that was interesting. My racing pulse and dry throat inform me I’m not quite the dried-up old bat my husband seems to think I am. Take that, Kevin.

  I’m actually a little stunned. Finding a man that attractive . . . not that I’m looking, or even in a position to do anything about it. At least I still have morals.

  I need to speak to Beth. She will talk some sense into me. I’ll call her.

  Immediately.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.”

  —OSCAR WILDE

  Survival.

  To say he was obsessed with the task of late would be an understatement.

  “Did you meet her?”

  “How did I know that would be the first question out of your mouth?” Brock shrugged off his coat and sat at the kitchen table, fumbling with the laces of his boots. Even with gloves on, the cold found its way in, and now he felt like an icebox. Maysie hung up her jacket and scarf, peeled off her mittens, left them on the floor, and skipped down the hall. Brock sat back and uttered a groan that seemed to dredge up all the feelings he couldn’t yet put into words.

  Why was this happening?

  Why did he feel like his life was spiraling out of control? Why did it seem like he was suddenly all out of options? And why, why, why was his aunt always infernally right?

  “Well?” Clarice moved lithely across the kitchen and picked up Maysie’s mittens, shoved them in the pockets of the pink coat. For an eighty-year-old woman, she had far more energy than he did these days. Another unwanted reminder of what was to come.

  “I met her.” Brock wrapped his hands around the mug of cocoa she offered and met his great-aunt’s eyes as she sat across from him. “She’s a nut job.” An extremely attractive one, he wouldn’t deny that, but a nut job just the same.

  “Oh, pishposh!” Clarice’s lined face crinkled in a smile as she wagged a finger. “What a horrible thing to say, Brock Chandler. You should be ashamed.”

  He rolled his eyes. “She took one look at Maysie and practically lost it. Dropped her coffee, broke the mug, the stuff went everywhere . . . She didn’t really say more than two words to me, and her hands didn’t stop shaking the whole time we were there. Nut job.”

  “Wounded soul.”

  “Really?” Brock sipped and let the hot liquid slide down his throat. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the two of us are going to get along well on that account.”

  “Perhaps.” Clarice presented him with that smug smile she used when she wanted to say she was right but refrained because she was too much of a lady. “I did tell you this day would come.”

  He gave a muted sigh. “You did, but I pretty much ignore you when you yammer on about your premonitions, Aunt Clarice.”

  Her sharp eyes lit with humor. “You should pay attention, Brock. Remember what’s at stake here.”

  Like he could forget? His temples began to throb and he went to the cupboard for Tylenol. “I think you’re way off on this one. You’ll see. She’s coming tomorrow for tea, like you asked.”

  “Ah, lovely.” Her beaming smile pulled a chuckle from him as he sat down again.

  Lovely. Who says that? Oh, right . . . the crackpot next door.

  And his semi-senile great-aunt.

  “Maysie told her about the greenhouse.”

  “I expected she would.” Clarice waved a withered hand as she looked across the kitchen to the long glass structure beyond the closed door separating it from the rest of the house. “That’s perfectly all right.”

  “You’re planning to show it to her, aren’t you?” He knew she was. He could see the glint of excitement in her old eyes.

  “Perhaps. If God tells me she’s the one.”

  Bro
ck cleared his throat and hid a smile with his hand. He should probably take her with him next time he went to see his doctor. “The family never comes up in winter anymore. Why is Savannah Barrington here this time of year anyway?”

  “Why, indeed?” Clarice sipped her tea. “I presume she has come here to seek refuge. Her husband has left her.”

  Brock put down his mug. A strange and unexpected sense of foreboding slithered down his spine. The haunted look on Savannah Barrington’s face made much more sense now. “I suppose God told you that too?”

  “Oh, don’t be a ninny, Brock.” Clarice’s small frame shook with laughter. “Her mother did. When she rang to say Savannah was coming.”

  “Ah.” He didn’t hide his smile this time. “Well, I’ve got a headache. I need to lie down for a bit. I’ll leave you to your plotting, Aunt Clarice.”

  “Dear boy.” She nodded, sorrow flooding her face. “I will keep an eye on Maysie. You rest.”

  He rose, put his mug in the sink, and rounded the table.

  She grabbed him firmly by the wrist as he passed and skewered him with a look that demanded his full attention. “You will be here tomorrow afternoon, Brock. For tea.”

  A growl stuck in his throat and he sucked back his first thought. It wouldn’t do any good to argue anyway. It never did. “Yes, ma’am. I will be here.”

  “You should totally sleep with him.”

  “What? Beth!” I press the phone to my ear and fall against the cushions of the couch. “I cannot believe you just said that!”

  “I’m kidding, Savannah!” Beth dissolves into laughter, and I can’t help joining in once the horror dissipates. The thought of actually being intimate with anyone other than my husband is too terrifying to contemplate. It is indeed laughable.

  “You did say he was hot, though, right?” She’s incorrigible.

  “No, I don’t think I said that at all. You don’t have to worry, Beth. I’m not getting involved with anyone. Kevin can go off and do what he likes, but I’ll be just as happy to never lay eyes on another man again.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She sobers and her breath catches. “I read your blog this morning.” Beth is the only one who knows about it. “You’re still so angry.”

  “Am I?” Of course I am.

  “Do you really think . . . Do you think you’ll get divorced?”

  “It’s what he wants, Beth. He’s found someone else. He doesn’t want me.” Not anymore.

  “And is it what you want?”

  “No.” It’s not? I ponder that, studying my mother’s collection of photographs on the wall of the living room. Years upon years framed into lifelong memories. The last thing I ever wanted, ever expected, was a divorce. “What I want doesn’t seem to matter. We’ve exhausted every avenue possible for reconciliation. You know that. Kevin’s given up. Moved out. Moved on.”

  “It’s just so wrong. So sad.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I hear it from Zoe ten times a day. And my mother. And Adam . . . everyone. Everyone is painfully aware of how sad this all is. Everyone except Kevin, it seems.”

  “He’s running away.”

  “Oh, he’s running all right, away from me and right into Alison Kramer’s bed. He emailed me last night, said he wanted to make sure I got here, then asked if I’d started the process, filed for divorce. Nice, huh? I’m not about to beg him to come back. I’ll just accept the new status quo and get on with filing the papers.” I sigh and shudder at the thought. “Daddy wants me to call Walter. You know his reputation as a divorce attorney, and he’ll go all overprotective with the goddaughter angle too. It’ll be a bloodbath. I’m not ready for that.”

  Beth sighs. “I think you can take your time. Make Kevin wait. Don’t file until you’re absolutely certain . . .”

  “Beth?” I hesitate, fiddle with the rings I still can’t remove, and close my eyes a minute. “I love you, but I’m going to hang up now. Okay?”

  “Sleep well. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I know. Good night.” I smile as I put down the phone, but my eyes burn. Beth still believes in our marriage. Still prays for us. Prays for Kevin.

  I don’t pray for Kevin.

  Huh.

  The thought grips me and I bring my knees to my chest. But really, when was the last time I truly prayed for my husband? My sporadic prayers of late have been bitter. Filled with contempt and outrage. Part of me wants to ask God to smite him with some horrible plague, maybe something to disfigure him. In even darker moments I see him standing in the way of an oncoming tractor trailer.

  In that time-stopping moment, when I knew for certain what he’d done, I ceased praying.

  For our marriage.

  For him.

  I gave up too.

  I rest my forehead on my knees, close my eyes, and try to summon words that won’t make me sound like a witch. Before I can get one out, my phone belts out an old Beatles tune.

  “All You Need Is Love.”

  The irony in Kevin’s ringtone is not lost on me.

  “Hello, Kevin.” I stretch out again and try to sound friendly.

  “I gather you made it there in one piece. You didn’t answer my email.” His words are clipped and cold. My prayers change to ones that plead for patience.

  “No. Didn’t you get my text?” The one I never attempted to send.

  I am a horrible person.

  “Why’d you call Walter, Savannah? Do you have any idea what kind of damage that pit bull will do to me? I’m willing to be fair, but I’m not made of money, you know. Your terms are outrageous. What the—” He pauses, draws a breath. “What on earth are you thinking?”

  Truly, at this moment, I have not a single coherent thought. “When . . . did you hear from Walter?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Well.” It takes me a minute to realize what has happened. “You did ask me to file.”

  Okay, that was snotty.

  “I can’t believe you would do this!” He’s raging.

  I shake my head. “I’m glad you can’t believe it, Kevin, because I didn’t do it.”

  “You what? You didn’t call Walter?”

  “Nope.”

  Silence. Then . . . “Your father.”

  “That would be my guess.” I watch the sun dip toward the towering pines and realize I never made it down to the lake today. Seeing that little girl, thinking about Shelby . . . My eyes start to puddle again. I am so tired of crying. So tired of this hatred, this anger. I want it all to end.

  I’ve felt this way before.

  “Savannah? Are you still there?”

  I grab a gaily patterned cushion, hug it to my chest, and hold tight.

  Hang on, hang on, hang on.

  My breath leaves me in a slow heave. “Look, I probably don’t even need a lawyer. I know you’ll take care of the kids, and I certainly don’t need your money. I just . . . need this to be over.”

  There is another long silence. “Okay.” He’s tapping his fingers against his phone.

  “I’m not going to fight it. If this is what you want, let’s get it over with.”

  I hear him blow air through the phone. “You need a lawyer. Keep Walter, since he’s apparently already started the process, but tell him to back off. Like I said, I will be fair. I want to do this amicably.”

  “Amicably?” How I hate that word. “Then you might want to start by apologizing for snapping my head off a minute ago.”

  I should be used to the silences by now, yet I still find them unnerving.

  “I think you’re probably a little sick of hearing me say I’m sorry.”

  “I think you’re probably right, Kev. Don’t bother.” I wonder if my father has that nice California cabernet I enjoy. I’ll open a bottle. Or a case.

  The thought is tempting, but I know I can’t do it. More than a glass and I’ll turn into a raging lunatic. Too dangerous. I’m teetering on the cliff’s edge tonight as it is.

  “Savannah, are you all right?”<
br />
  My eyes widen. When did he become a mind reader?

  “Am I all right?” Sure. Dandy. And if I tell him I thought I saw Shelby this morning, he’ll be on the phone to my shrink and have me back in the psych ward before the week is out. “Like you care.” Brilliant. Very mature.

  Kevin makes a noise like he’s got a rock stuck in his throat. I’ll bet he’s squeezing the last bit of stuffing out of his stress ball. “I care. I will always care about you, Savannah.”

  “You’ve got an awfully warped way of showing it.”

  He sighs again. “How long are you going to stay up there?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. I just got here. I don’t have anything to go home for, do I?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Right. By the way, I told Zoe to call you. You’re welcome.” And I hang up.

  Anger and sorrow duke it out against the wall of my stomach and I glare at the photographs on the wall. I don’t know when this will get easier. When I’ll be able to talk to Kevin without wanting to hurl obscenities at him. Frankly, I’m getting tired of it.

  After I gather my racing thoughts, I call my parents. My father picks up almost at once, like he was expecting it. “Savannah, honey.”

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Everything okay up north, hon?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yes. Everything’s fine here. Is Mom there?”

  “Sure. Let me just—”

  “No. Put the phone on speaker. I want a witness.”

  He does. “Ellie, it’s Savannah. On speaker. She wants a witness.” The look of chagrin he’s probably wearing clues my mother in at once.

  “Oh, sug-ah. You didn’t.” I hear my mother’s sigh of disappointment and almost smile.

  “Yes, yes, he did, Mom. Daddy, are you there?”

  “No, I’m in Monte Carlo.” He’s gruff now.

  “Well, listen up because I’m only going to say this once. I love you. But call off Walter. I’ll talk to him, but on my terms. When I’m ready. And you . . . stay out of it.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Hope is a waking dream.”

  —ARISTOTLE