The Wonder of You (14 page)

“Thanks, John. Yeah, I’ll be right out.” Max stirred a bite of his pancake into the syrup.

When the door closed behind John, Grace rounded on Max, cutting her voice low. “Max, I know what you’re thinking, but . . . I don’t know if I’m ready. And
 
—”

The floor creaked upstairs, and she shot a look to the landing. Max followed her gaze, but no one stood there. Just her fears probably.

What was it about telling her parents that had Grace so locked
up inside? He cut his own voice low. “Grace, we can’t keep sneaking around.”

She had turned off the stove, leaving the rest of the batter, and now came around to sit on the opposite side of Yulia. She ran her hands over the little girl’s hair. “Should I brush your hair, sweetie?”

Yulia just looked at her, those brown eyes wide.

“I don’t think she understands you,” Max said, considering adding a bit about how he didn’t seem to speak Grace’s language either. Instead he voiced a thought that had occurred to him more than once. “Do you regret marrying me?”

The words tumbled out with too much of his heart hanging in them, and he wanted to yank them back.

Or . . . not. Because he understood, and if she said yes, he’d be the first to suggest . . . what? An annulment? That might not be quite possible. But maybe a quick divorce.

The word burned inside him. He should have seen this coming, should have
 
—

“No!”

He raised his gaze, found Grace’s urgent and angry.

“Of course not. I’m just savoring the quiet before the storm.” Her hand ran down Yulia’s hair again, smoothing over the snarls. “She’s made quite a mess of her hair. It’s going to hurt to brush it out.”

Max frowned. “Yeah, I suppose. That’s the problem with long hair.”

“But it’s so beautiful. It’s worth the pain. Trust me, I spent years flinching as my mother untangled my hair. I finally convinced her to let me cut it, only to regret it instantly. It took years to grow out, but I didn’t complain about the snarls ever again.”

She leaned down and caught Yulia’s eyes.
“Vakoosna?”

He recognized the Russian word, something that Vasilley, one of his teammates, said occasionally. It meant delicious or good
 
—although Vasilley usually said it as a hot rink bunny happened by.

Probably Grace didn’t realize that.

Yulia beamed and said,
“Da.”

Grace glanced at Max. “I downloaded a dictionary of basic Russian off the net, thought I’d learn a few words to make her feel more comfortable.” She turned to Yulia.
“Yeshow?”

More.
He got that from the way Yulia nodded, then held out her plate. Grace forked her another pancake and covered it in syrup and powdered sugar. “She’s so brave. Hardly makes a peep in her sleep. Smiles like she hasn’t just lost everything. I wish we could talk to her.”

It wasn’t so much her words as her tone that slid between Max’s ribs to jab at his heart. And when Grace backed it up by putting her hand on Yulia’s shoulder in an affectionate gesture of compassion, he wanted to weep. Because he could have predicted her next soft words, spoken through a tender expression as she slid the pancake plate in front of Yulia again.

“It must be so terrible to be the only one left.”

There it was. The awful truth of their marriage.

He’d doomed his wife to a life of grief.

He pushed his plate away. “Grace, maybe . . . maybe we need to think a little harder about all this. Maybe there’s a reason you don’t want to tell your parents about us.”

She frowned, started shaking her head, but he held up his hand, cutting off her words. “I love you. You know that. But love isn’t enough to carry you through our future.”

“Yes, it is.”

He could see the fire kindling in her eyes, kept his voice low.
“No, it’s not. You haven’t lived through it, seen the damage, the grief. And I should have really thought about that before we said, ‘I do’ in Cancún. But I’m thinking now maybe it’s not too late.”

A little of the blood drained from her face. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying . . . maybe we should get a . . . divorce.”

The words seared through him, but he refused to wince. Refused to release the wail building to a crescendo inside him.

Grace exhaled in a shaky stream of pain. “I think you need to go help my father.” She flashed a lopsided smile at Yulia when the little girl glanced at her and got up. “I’m going to find a hairbrush and straighten out this mess.”

Max slid off the stool, reached for her arm, but she yanked it away, not looking at him. “Leave, Max. Because I’m not sure how to keep from saying what I want to say to you right now, and I don’t want my parents to overhear and discover that I’ve married a man who is so afraid of living, he’d rather destroy the very thing that makes him feel alive.”

A
DAY LIKE THIS,
with sparrows chirruping from the poplar trees and a fresh, lilac-scented wind over the lake, could clear a girl’s thoughts, make her lean into hope.

Cajole her into believing that heartbreak didn’t lurk just beyond the horizon.

It helped, too, that the photo shoots of the Sawdust Sweeties had eaten up Amelia’s free time over the past three days. Sure, she’d joined in cleaning the Evergreen Resort cabins, airing linens, and planting flower boxes with pansies for the upcoming Mother’s Day weekend and fishing opener, but she’d also managed to escape with her camera, taking portrait shots of the pageant girls all over town.

At the harbor dock, with the lake an inviting indigo as a background. On the abandoned railroad tracks west of town. On the
hood of a peeling Ford pickup in the woods near Pincushion Trail, and on a stack of hay bales at the Crosbys’ farm, just out of town. There, she’d posed one of the girls in a yellow-hubbed tractor wheel, and another with an umbrella in the middle of a field of tall grasses. Then they headed up to the school and took shots in the rickety wooden bleachers on the visitors’ side of the football field, and others at the baseball diamond backstop. Finally Amelia took pictures of all six girls eating ice cream cones from Licks and Stuff and gathered around the beautiful street lanterns that bordered Main Street.

She had managed a look inside Java Cup, just to check, and yes, Roark still worked the coffee counter, garbed in an apron, those blue eyes charming the coffee addicts. Or if they weren’t addicts yet, they would be, especially when he started taking orders with that too-devastating accent of his.

Even that thought had sent Amelia scuttling back to the resort in a sort of shame.

Two men. A girl who didn’t know what she wanted and still nursing failure shouldn’t be allowed that much male attention.

Who knew what crazy decisions she might make? Like settle down with Seth? Run away with Roark?

Now Amelia sat on a stool at her parents’ kitchen counter, editing the photos, ready to upload them to Facebook. The scent of her mother’s chocolate cookies fragranced the house, guaranteed to call Ingrid’s children from afar. She had gone out to deliver the first gooey batch to John and Max, their fire pit rebuild turning into an overhaul of the entire beach area.

“Oh, my goodness, look what I found on the front stoop!”

Amelia turned toward her mother’s voice, only to find her face obscured by an array of six long-stemmed red roses wrapped in
green paper and covered in cellophane. Ingrid set them on the counter. “Who are they from?”

Amelia searched through the bundle, produced a card. “They’re from Seth.” He’d signed it with just his name, bold, simple, and she found a smile for him.

“Wow, that’s sweet.” Ingrid retrieved a vase from over the sink, filled it with water, then returned to the counter, scissors in hand.

Amelia unwrapped the flowers and snipped off the ends, adding them one by one to the vase.

She hadn’t realized the quiet that settled into the room until she looked up. Her mother was watching her, an eyebrow lifted. “Care to elaborate?”

“He wants us to get back together,” Amelia said. “I . . . I don’t know.”

Her mother let the words sift through the air without comment. Amelia went back to selecting photos to upload, not sure what to think about the flowers.

“Those are nice,” her mother said from over her shoulder, referring to the photos. She set a glass of lemonade beside Amelia’s laptop, along with two cookies on a napkin. “What are they for?”

“Vivie asked me to take shots of the Sawdust Sweeties. It sort of got out of hand, but I captured some keepers.”

“The Sawdust Sweeties. They’ve held that competition for nearly thirty years. I remember wanting to enter years ago.” Ingrid began scooping cookie dough onto a pan for the next batch.

“Seriously? Mom, it’s a beauty pageant.”

“With a scholarship as a prize. Some girls pay for college that way.”

“I’ve always thought it was silly. Girls in Daisy Dukes, getting judged on their ability to twirl a baton?”

“Twirling a baton is harder than you’d think.” She put the cookies in the oven. Tossed her hot pads on the counter. “Seems like an ingenious way to pursue your dreams.”

If she had dreams left to pursue. These days, she seemed fresh out. Amelia checked her notifications and found a number of likes attached to her previous shots of the river. And over a thousand for the photo of Yulia standing on the rock, staring at the waterfall, her ribbons a bright red against the watery backdrop. Someone had left a link with a comment.
Prize-worthy? Check it out.

She clicked through to the website. “Someone sent me a link for a photography contest called Capture America.”

“Really?” Ingrid came over to look, a cookie in her hand. “How does it work?”

“It looks like I submit pictures and the world votes on them. The photographer with the combined highest score after three rounds wins a cash prize. Wow, five thousand dollars.”

“Huh.”

Amelia returned to her photo, to the comment containing the link. “It was posted by Java Cup.”

“Someone at the coffee shop likes your photography apparently.”

Her mother’s words settled a sweet curl of warmth into Amelia’s bones. No . . . it couldn’t be, but . . . ?

“Wow, nice flowers.” This from Grace, who was coming down the stairs with Yulia, wearing what looked like new jeans and a sweater, her hair braided. “Who are they from?”

“Seth,” Ingrid said. “Yulia, would you like a cookie?” She picked one off the plate and handed it to the little girl.

“Trying to keep up with Roark, huh?” Grace said as she swiped one of her own.

Amelia frowned, and it took Grace a second before she followed
up with, “Ames, did you not see the flowers in the entryway? They came earlier today. You must’ve walked right by them.”

“Oh, those were for Amelia?” Darek said, walking into their conversation from the resort office. “I thought Mom ordered them for the front entry for Mother’s Day.” He set his coffee cup in the sink, then went to the entryway.

“Two suitors?” Ingrid said. “My, my.”

“Mom, it’s not like that.”

“I think that’s exactly what it’s like,” Darek said as he brought in the vase of a dozen pink roses. “There’s a card here, which I gather Grace already read.”

“I was curious.”

Amelia retrieved it.
Thinking of you, sweetie. Roark.

“Sweetie?” Darek said, reading over her shoulder.

She yanked the card away. “Darek!”

“I’m just sayin’ . . . ‘sweetie’? He sounds like either a Texan or a throwback from the seventies. Who calls their girlfriend ‘sweetie’?”

“I’m not his girlfriend.”

“Clearly,” Grace said, dumping out a puzzle for Yulia on the counter, then turning over the pieces. “Two deliveries of long-stemmed roses in one day? To have your problems.”

Darek shook his head. “I feel sorry for Seth.”

“What?” Grace said. “Are you kidding me? What about Roark? He came all the way over here to win her back
 
—I think you need to cut him some slack.”

“Cut who slack?”

Amelia hadn’t heard Casper come in, but he was toeing off his shoes in the entry, dressed in a suit coat, tie, oxford shirt, and dress pants. Raina followed, carrying her daughter, Layla. Casper took
the baby from her and walked into the kitchen. “Anyone want a baby kiss?”

“I’ll take that action,” Ingrid said and reached for Layla, untying her hat, then kissing her fat cheek.

“I was just defending Roark to Darek, who still, apparently, wants to run him out of Deep Haven.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Raina said, joining Casper in the kitchen. She set the diaper bag on the counter, began to root inside it. “Roark came all the way here, ready to apologize, and you all nearly crucified him.”

“He can’t be trusted,” Casper said in a tone that reminded Amelia that he’d seen exactly how Roark’s behavior had ruined her, for a time.

Yes, maybe she should keep that in the forefront of her mind. Still . . . “You guys don’t know him like I do. He
can
be trusted.” She held up a hand to Casper’s protest. “I overreacted in Prague.”

“So he didn’t step out on you with another woman?”

“We weren’t exactly dating
 
—so no . . .”

Darek’s mouth tightened.

“And he said she was just a friend.”

Even to her, that sounded lame.

“Listen, if it weren’t for Roark, I might be human trafficked somewhere. He saved my life.”

Okay, she hadn’t meant for that information to leak out. But there it was.

Her mother stared at her, wide-eyed. “What are you talking about?” she said in a whisper that seemed to thunder through the room.

Amelia glanced at Darek, then back to her mother. “If I tell you, promise not to freak out and lock me in a tower?”

Silence.

It appeared that Darek might be contemplating that very action.

“Just for the record, it all ended well.”

Casper eased the baby from Ingrid’s grip.

“And it wasn’t really my fault.”

Grace kept turning over puzzle pieces, her expression grim.

“Fine. It was about a week after I arrived in Prague. My roommates heard about an art show across town and asked if I wanted to join them. I thought it sounded fun, and it was a Saturday night, and we didn’t have a lot in common, so I decided to go along. Turns out it was more of a graffiti show, with local street artists showcasing their styles in an old, giant warehouse. A band played a mix of funk and fusion
 
—not my kind of music
 
—and the minute I arrived, I knew I wouldn’t stay long. My roommates got drinks, started dancing, and well . . . I’m not a great dancer, either.”

More silence. Not even a twitter from the audience.

Ho-kay. “So I stayed to watch the drinks. But somehow we ended up scattering, and after about an hour, I decided I wanted to go home. Problem was, I wasn’t sure exactly how we got there. So I went out and found a bus
 
—thought it was mine
 
—and ended up in the south end of the city. When it pulled into the terminal, long after midnight, I realized it was the end of the line. I got off thinking I’d find a bus route that led back to Lesser Town, where I lived, and saw that I’d managed to stray into the run-down part of the city. More graffitied cement buildings, feral dogs, trash trickling along the sidewalk in the wind. I walked for about six blocks looking for a different route and . . .”

“You were scared,” Ingrid said, her hand now fisted around a cloth on the counter.

“Yeah. And it got worse. A car pulled up, and the driver identified himself as a taxi, asked if I wanted a ride
 
—”

“You didn’t
 
—”

“I was desperate. And lost. It looked like a taxi, even had a permit in the window. But when I got in, he didn’t start the meter, and I realized . . .”

Ingrid pressed her hand over her mouth.

“I was really scared, and I didn’t know what to do, so I got out at the next light and just started running.”

If Amelia closed her eyes, the night could crawl over her: the sound of her boots on the sidewalk, the odor of garbage and sewer as she lost herself in alleyways and rutted, dark yards. The taste of fear, metallic and hot in her throat. “I hid behind a Dumpster and tried calling my friends. But no one answered. I’d only met Roark a couple times. On the Charles Bridge, and we had dinner once after class, but he seemed nice. He’d given me his number in case I needed anything, so . . . I called him.”

He’d answered on the first ring, with a simple
Amelia
. The way he said it, like he’d been waiting for her to call, was crazy, but she’d heard a calmness, a strength in his tone. It had reached right through her phone and stilled her careening heart.

She could still dredge up the tremor in her voice as she said his name. Still cringe at the way she burst into tears.

Still hear his simple, lifesaving words:
Tell me where you are.

She didn’t know. So she went out into the street and described the landmarks, the stores, the street signs, sounding them out terribly.

He’d kept her on the phone, his voice soothing, as he got into his car and headed south, toward the bus terminal, then worked his way north, following her recollections, all the while telling her about being a new boy at Eton. Just his voice in her ear, soft,
with the lilt of a knight, calmed her pulse, and yes, she might have fallen in love with him while huddled in her trench coat behind a Dumpster, avoiding the rats and tomcats.

She definitely gave him too much of her heart when he finally found her, pulling up right alongside her hiding place and venturing into the murky shadows.

“He came out into the night and searched for me,” Amelia said to her now-rapt audience. She left off the part where she’d flown into his arms, and the way he pulled her tight, his own breath just a little ragged as if she’d scared him too.

“He drove me home without a word of lecture
 
—”