This Time Around, page 29
“I have to go.” She turned and ran into the house.
“What kind of wine would go best with this dinner?”
Jack looked at Paige, then down at his bowl of mac and cheese. “Pepto-Bismol?”
“No,” Paige said, with a dramatic eye roll. “Come on, Daddy. You’re not doing it right.”
The story of my life, Jack thought.
But at least his kid was trying to connect with him, so he did his best to rally. “Let’s see . . . how about a Chardonnay? Cuddly with overtones of deer scat, Elmer’s glue, and shavings from the floor mat in a 1968 Oldsmobile Cutlass.”
Paige erupted into laughter, and Jack felt better. Not great, but better. He might not have won back the woman of his dreams, but he did have the best kid on the planet.
He shoveled up a bite of pasta. Admittedly this meal was not one of his shining moments of parenting, but he’d had a busy week. Researching the best possible domicile for a northern flicker woodpecker had been time-consuming enough, but building it to the precise specifications he needed had taken a good chunk out of his week. Paige had helped, of course, and they’d worked together between schoolwork and visits with Grandma at her new apartment. Paige had been the one to paint it, her small brush skimming over the arched top of the tiny shutters as she’d smiled up at him with a smear of yellow on her cheek.
No matter what, he had that memory. Plenty of others, too.
“Chardonnay’s good,” Paige said. “Or maybe a Merlot. It would be crusty with hints of bubblegum and the fuzz off a tennis ball.”
“Very nice,” Jack said, and held up his plastic cup of orange juice to toast her.
“Thank you.” Paige grinned and spooned up the last bite of her dinner. “May I please clear my plate?”
“After you eat two more slices of apple.”
She shoved both in her mouth at the same time, then stood up and headed toward the kitchen.
“Don’t forget to rinse the bowl before you put it in the dishwasher,” he called.
“Roger that,” she said, saluting him from the doorway. It was a phrase Jack had heard Wade utter countless times, and hearing it from his daughter should have annoyed him. Instead, he just felt empty. Jesus, was it possible he missed Wade, too?
Paige had just set her bowl on the counter when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” she yelled, halfway to the door before Jack had a chance to finish chewing his too-large bite of mac and cheese. He wasn’t expecting company, and his stomach did a stupid flip at the thought that it could be Allie.
But that seemed impossible. He’d put up the birdhouse four days ago, sneaking over when he knew she’d be at work and Skye had class. For the first couple days, he’d waited. Allie wasn’t the most observant person in the world, so maybe she needed time to notice.
After four days, though, it seemed clear she was still angry. Angry or hurt, probably both. She had every right to be. She’d spilled her guts and he’d shot her down. She’d shown him how to see the best in things, and he’d insisted on pointing out the worst. She’d tried to reach out to him and he’d ignored her like a big, grudge-holding ass. Was a birdhouse really going to fix all that?
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“There’s no one at the door, but there’s an envelope with your name on it.”
“Can you bring it here?”
She trotted across the living room and deposited it on the table in front of him. Goose bumps rippled up his arms the second he saw his name scrawled on the pink paper in Allie’s swoopy, cursive script.
“What is it?” Paige asked.
“I’m not sure.” He grabbed his butter knife and slit it open, heart thudding in his ears. A single piece of paper fell into his lap. Jack picked it up with fingers that felt numb and useless.
“What does it say?” Paige leaned close, and Jack angled the card away from her to shield the words. He didn’t know what to expect, what he might have to explain to Paige after all this. He needed to see the message for himself first.
But as he took in the words, a slow smile spread over his face. He read them twice, just to enjoy the lovely lilt of her cursive across the pale-pink paper.
“I’m super thankful,” he read aloud. “Go look in the tank(ful).”
Paige frowned. “What does that mean? Like a fish tank? We don’t have a fish tank.”
Jack stood up. His heart was racing now, and his brain was only a few steps behind. Tank? Like a piece of military equipment? Tank top? Toilet tank? She wouldn’t have risked sneaking into the house for a treasure hunt, so it had to be something outside—
“Gas tank,” he said, and hurried out the front door.
Sure enough, there was another small envelope taped to the inside of the fuel door covering his car’s gas tank. This one was white with little roses along the top and his name was scrawled in the same loopy script across the front. He yanked it off and ripped it open faster this time, tearing the corner of a rose-flecked card.
“‘You’re pretty adorable,’” he read. “‘Go look by the doorbell.’”
Paige cocked her head to the side and leaned over his elbow to read the words for herself. “I’m not sure that really rhymes,” she said, but Jack was already running back toward the front porch.
A pale-yellow envelope was tucked up under a shingle, which is probably why he hadn’t seen it before. He snatched it with shaking hands and tore it open to read the words aloud.
“‘I love you still. So damn much, Jack. Go look in the rosebush.’”
“That really doesn’t rhyme,” Paige said. “She could have tried windowsill.”
A familiar laugh rang out from the edge of the house, and Jack looked up to see Allie stepping out from behind the rosebush. She wore a green sundress and a killer smile. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and the setting sun made a halo behind her.
“I could have used you an hour ago, Paige.” She smiled at his daughter, then slid her gaze to Jack’s. He felt the full force of it deep in his gut. “I’m not much of a poet, as you may recall.”
“It’s perfect,” he said, hardly daring to move. He couldn’t believe she was standing here in front of his house looking pale and nervous and so damn beautiful he couldn’t breathe. “You’re perfect.”
Her laugh was sharper this time. “Definitely not. But at least I can admit that. I can admit it and work on it and try to do better each time.”
“I can do that, too,” he said, taking a step toward her. “I’m sorry, Allie.”
“So am I.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize that people need to handle things in their own way,” he said. “That there’s a time for the coldest, hardest, truest version of a story, and a time for the one that just lets you get up in the morning and put your clothes on and brush your teeth and go about your day until you can deal with the other version.”
Allie shook her head, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed. “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured, tears glittering in her eyes. “For a lot of things. But mostly for not trusting you with the truth. For not trusting myself with it. I’ve been working on that.”
“I know,” he said. “I saw the newspaper.” He’d almost reached her now, and he held out his hand palm up. She laced her fingers through his, and Jack pulled her closer. “We’ve got plenty of time to talk about who’s the sorriest and how we plan to do better.”
Allie squeezed his fingers with hers, then looked at Paige. “Is this okay with you? If your dad and I date each other again?”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “He’s been very grumpy.”
“Thank you for the birdhouse,” she said, then turned her gaze back to Jack. “Both of you.”
“Does it work?” he asked. “Are they leaving your house alone?”
Allie nodded. “They’ve moved in already. No one’s heard a bird pecking for days. Who knew that’s all it took?”
“Paige did,” Jack said, reaching over to ruffle his kid’s hair.
“I read it in my bird book,” the girl said. “We found the plans online for a flicker house. We got the right bedding in there and everything.”
“Smart kid,” Allie said.
“About a lot of things.” Jack watched as his daughter’s cheeks turned pink, and pride swelled so big in his chest that it nearly cracked his ribs.
He lifted Allie’s hand to his lips and planted a kiss across her knuckles. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.” Her eyes flashed with sunlight and the green sundress fluttered in the breeze.
“Are you guys going to kiss now?” Paige asked. “Like for real. None of that hand-kissing stuff.”
“We’ll get to that eventually.” Jack’s fingers were still linked with Allie’s, but he reached up and brushed a windswept bit of hair off her forehead. “I’ve been reading about your mom’s appeal. The headlines make it sound pretty dramatic. Your dad’s laying it all out there.”
“It’s been a busy couple weeks,” Allie said. “It’s going to get messy, but he’s trying to do the right thing. That counts for something.”
“It does,” he agreed. He let go of her hand and slid his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. Breathing in the Chardonnay scent of her hair, he had to remind himself she was really here. That he was really holding her again. Her arms cinched around his waist, and they stood there holding each other so tight he felt his ribs creak. But Jack didn’t need to breathe deeply. He just needed this, right here, right now.
“You guys want to be alone?” Paige asked.
“Nope.” Allie drew back and stretched out an arm. “You should be part of this, too. Group hug!”
Paige giggled and wrapped her arms around both of them, and they stood there on the edge of the driveway like some mutant three-headed creature made of tangled limbs and twisted hearts.
When Jack finally pulled back, he looked down at the two amazing females who made his heart feel whole. “So we’re all in this together?”
“Uh-huh,” Paige replied, then craned her neck to look at Allie. “You good with that?”
“I’m good with that,” Allie said, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
EPILOGUE
“Cut it out, Jack!” Allie tried swatting him away, which did no good at all. He kept his body pressed against her back, his mouth on her neck, and his hands wrapped around her very pregnant belly.
“No way,” he said. “I keep missing it when he kicks. I’m determined to feel it this time.”
Allie laughed and wiggled against him, which probably did more to encourage than dissuade. Truth be told, it felt damn good, so she was in no real hurry to escape.
“You’re going to feel my foot to your butt if you don’t go pick up Paige,” she said as she dropped into the chair in front of the computer. “Come on, I need to finish processing all these reservations before she gets home.”
“Au contraire.” Jack bent down to kiss her neck again. “Your mom offered to pick Paige up. Apparently they had a date at some fancy English tearoom. They’ve been planning it for weeks.”
Allie felt a warm bubble in the center of her chest. Much more pleasant than the heartburn that had been plaguing her for most of this pregnancy. Jack leaned down to smooth his palms over her belly some more, and Allie gave up trying to organize all the online reservations that had come in that morning for the B&B.
“Hey, guys!” Skye swooped into the room in a flutter of purple tie-dye, then swooped back out just as quickly. “Sorry,” she called from behind the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt sexy time.”
“It’s fine, we’re not getting busy in the parlor,” Jack called, lowering his voice as his lips brushed Allie’s ear again. “Not this time, anyway.”
Allie took another swat at him, but he moved away in time and flopped back onto the couch. Two big orange polydactyls—Maestro and Matt—hopped up on either side of him, flanking him like fuzzy bookends. Jack looked so perfect there—so much a part of this home and this life they’d reconstructed together—that Allie wanted to fold herself onto his lap and kiss him six ways to Sunday.
But Skye swept back into the room again and deposited a stack of mail beside Allie. “It’s another batch of fan mail for the cats,” she said. “Looks like we need to make some more of those paw-print postcards.”
“Really? We went through all six boxes already?”
“Crazy, right?” Skye tucked a blue curl behind one ear. “Maybe we can make the paw-print stamp with one of the other cats this time. Luna or Marilyn might be good.”
Allie nodded and glanced down as one of the cats in question scampered across the carpet. “I still can’t believe people get so nuts about getting paw-tographed letters from famous cats.”
“So should I order a few thousand more?” Skye asked.
“Already on it.” Jack stood up again and returned to his spot beside Allie. “And I’ll also process all those reservations after dinner.”
“Someone’s on the ball today.” Skye grinned at Allie. “Need anything at the store? I have to run out anyway, since I’m out of cuticle cream in the salon, and the guests in the Laurelwood room ate all the cream cheese this morning.”
“Please don’t mix up the two,” Jack called as she headed toward the door.
“I’ll do my best!”
As Skye vanished from the room, Jack turned back to Allie. “Come on. There’s something I want to show you.”
She looked up at him. “Are we going somewhere?”
“Not leaving the house, if that’s what you mean.”
He pulled her up and out of the chair, and Allie felt a tingly swoop in her belly. “Don’t you dare try to pick me up, Jack Carpenter,” she said. “You’ll break your back.”
“Relax, woman. Come with me willingly and I won’t have to carry you anywhere.”
Allie would have followed him off the end of a dock with her pockets filled with rocks, though she couldn’t do it all that quickly in her current state. Why had no one told her that being eight months pregnant felt a lot like swallowing an angry watermelon?
Jack towed her out of the parlor and into the foyer, rounding the corner toward the stairs. “Wait,” Allie said as her gaze landed on the framed collection on the wall. “Hang on a sec.”
He let go of her hand, and Allie paused to straighten the framed letter from Ernest Hemingway. The words—and the legally documented authenticity of it—were a big part of what had put the Rosewood B&B on the map. She owed it to Ernie to at least make sure things looked tidy.
“I still can’t believe we own Ernest freakin’ Hemingway’s cats,” Jack said as Allie touched the edge of the framed feline family tree next to the letter. Her grandmother’s handwriting was tidy and flourished, and Allie felt a pang of nostalgia.
“Not all of them,” she reminded him. “Just some. Enough to make them a historic attraction, anyway.”
“Good enough for me.” He caught her hand again. “Come on.”
Allie let him pull her away from the documents, which was fine by her. She’d had plenty of time to study them in the eighteen months since she’d found everything in the attic and pieced it all together. About the cash her grandmother really had squirreled away for her, a mixture of smart investments and a few sizeable contributions from one famous literary figure. It was payment for the care and feeding of his favorite felines, though apparently Ernest had vastly overestimated the cost of cat kibble. Either that, or he’d been exceptionally grateful for some of the other things Allie had read about in the letters.
She preferred not to dwell on that part of the story.
As Jack pulled her up the stairs, Allie thought about how damn lucky she was. She had a husband who loved her and the best step-kid any woman could ask for. Her father might still be in prison, but things were better now that her mom could visit him. Each time Allie saw their eyes light up or watched them hold hands across the familiar gray table, she learned a little more about love and forgiveness and all the things that made marriages survive the worst stuff life throws at them.
She rested a hand on her belly now as Jack towed her down the second-floor hallway. Looking at him, she felt a swell of gratitude so fierce it took her breath away. Or maybe that was the exertion of climbing stairs while incubating a baby the size of a small rhinoceros.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “I thought you said I wasn’t allowed in this wing because the paint fumes might be bad for the baby.”
“I lied,” Jack said, turning to face her with his back to a closed bedroom door. “Sorry about that.”
His grin told her he wasn’t the least bit sorry.
“So there’s no paint?”
“No paint. Not right now, anyway.” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. “But I wasn’t lying about renovating. I promise the new master suite will be ready before the baby’s here.”
“I don’t mind, Jack. As long as we all have beds to sleep in, I’m not picky.”
“Never thought I’d hear Allie Ross say those words.”
“That’s Allie Ross Carpenter, thank you very much.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, and Jack pulled her close to deepen the kiss.
Well, close was a relative term.
“Ooof,” he said as the baby belly bumped him squarely in the crotch. “Cock blocked by my own spawn.”
Allie laughed. “Not the last time, I’m sure.”
“Come on.” Jack let go of her and reached for the door. He turned the knob to the room Allie hadn’t set foot in for months. When they’d first reopened the B&B for guests, they’d set aside this wing of the house for their own quarters. The plan had been to renovate eventually, but between the wedding and the pregnancy and the unexpected flood of guests, they hadn’t had time.
Or Allie hadn’t had time, anyway. It was clear Jack had been up to something. As they stepped into the room, she took in the magnitude of the something.
Brocade drapes—exact replicas of the ones her grandma had purchased so long ago—lined the windows. They were open now, letting slabs of yellow sunlight spill across a blue duvet the color of a robin’s egg. The carpet had been ripped out to reveal freshly refinished hardwood floors that gleamed like honey in a sunbeam.
