The Wonder of You (33 page)

Dropping their team to the bottom.

Seth raised his fist in the air at his 8.2-second time.

The crowd roared for the hometown favorite even as Darek came over to Roark, shook his hand. “It happens.”

“It was me. I pushed too hard. I bowed the saw.”

Darek clamped him on the shoulder, but Roark could see his disappointment. “Next year.”

Roark had no words. He stepped back as Seb Brewster mounted the stage, taking the microphone to announce the winner. The totaled points appeared on the scoreboard. With Roark’s loss in the double buck and the catastrophe in the birling, he’d dropped to sixth.

Seth’s name appeared at the top of the board.

Roark mustered up a smile, harkening back to his schooling, fighting the urge to run from the stage. Or better, to take Seth off with him in a full-out American football–style tackle.

Especially when Seth stepped up to receive his trophy and took the mic. “I told you all that I planned on winning for my girl, Amelia.”

Roark rolled his eyes.

“And in case I won, I had a little surprise . . . Amelia, could you come up here?”

Roark’s chest began to tighten. He searched for her in the audience, which parted around her. Oh, there she was, hiding. In fact, she wore her sunglasses again.

Amelia’s mouth opened and she gave the slightest shake of her head, but hands pushed her forward.

She hesitated before she mounted the stage. Roark wanted to
reach out, grab her hand, but she walked right past him without a word, a nod, an acknowledgment that he existed.

And then, if this day could nose-dive further, he watched as Seth got down on one knee.

No. Roark glanced at Darek, who was shaking his head.

“Amelia Christiansen. I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old.”

This could not happen.

“The years we dated in high school and afterward were the happiest of my life. And when you left me for Prague, I was in agony. I’ve realized I never want to let you go again. So . . .”

He was not sticking around for this. Roark pushed past Darek, headed for the end of the platform.

“Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Roark didn’t turn, didn’t wait to see her answer, just hit the ground and pushed through the crowd.

But something died inside when he heard the spectators begin to clap, the applause swelling.

Apparently the best man had won.

Roark cleared the crowd and continued down the street, away from the festivities and the town’s delight at their hometown prince getting his girl.

He felt a hand on his arm, grabbing him, and wished it might be Amelia. But no
 
—Jensen, who stopped Roark cold. “That’s it? You’re done fighting for her?”

“Clearly she’s made her choice.”

“Roark
 
—”

“Leave it.” He shook out of Jensen’s grip, kept walking.

“Where are you going?”

The words came out like poison, burning through his chest. “Where I belong. Home.”

“S
O ARE YOU ENGAGED OR NOT?”
Grace slid a plate of flapjacks in front of Amelia, doctored in syrup and powdered sugar as if that might balm the crash and burn of her love life, not to mention her reputation in the annals of Deep Haven events.

“It depends on who you talk to. The crowd would say maybe. From Vivie, the answer would be a resounding yes. Especially after Roark stormed off the stage
 
—”

“Could you blame him? From what Darek said, you didn’t even look at him as you walked by. After he’d practically taken out his heart and pinned it on his rather muscular chest.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours.” Grace poured her orange juice. “And Roark’s.”

“Thanks. Thanks for that.”

“I just want you to be happy.” She smiled, but Amelia could see the sadness marked by the red cracks in her eyes. Since Yulia left three days ago, it seemed nothing could free Grace
 
—or Max, for that matter
 
—from the shadow of grief. As if they’d truly lost their own daughter.

Max had finally gotten ahold of his lawyer this morning and was pacing his way across the deck, just beyond the sliding-glass door, gesturing his frustration as he talked.

Grace kept glancing his direction, and Amelia’s heart went out to her. “You’ll get her back,” she said, reaching out to touch Grace’s hand.

Her sister nodded, nothing of conviction in it, then returned to the stove, flipped the pancakes cooking in the cast-iron pan. Keeping with the theme of the weekend, Grace had stirred up her own tasty version of north shore flapjacks and given the dry ingredients in a bag to each guest cabin. How Amelia had missed this
 
—sampling Grace’s experiments.

Her mother came into the kitchen, fresh from delivering breakfast baskets to the cabins. “We’re running so late I don’t know if we’re going to make it to church today. . . . Oh, Amelia, you’re up.”

“I hardly slept.”

Ingrid pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “This too shall pass.”

“Mother, I don’t think the town will soon forget Seth’s proposal. I bet it makes the paper today.”

“The local Girl Scout car wash also made the paper. It doesn’t mean it will live in infamy. This is not your legacy.”

It felt like it. One epic, foolish moment after another.

Her bite of flapjack and homemade syrup melted in her mouth. “For the record, I didn’t talk to Roark because I was terrified of
what Seth might say. And what was I going to do
 
—throw my arms around Roark right there in front of everyone? Especially since
Seth
invited me onstage.” She said this for Grace but also for her mother, who’d probably gotten the entire disastrous rundown from Darek.

“Did you think he was going to propose?” Ingrid asked. She opened the fridge and took out a package of hickory-smoked, thick-cut bacon.

“Of course not! We sat together at the competition, and I cheered him on, but . . .” She stirred a bite around in the syrup. “I just didn’t even know what to say.”

No. No, Seth.
She should have mustered the courage right there, instead of her stumbling, awkward reply.

“Mom, it was awful. He was on one knee. Had declared his love for me in front of the entire town. He even produced a ring. And the hope in his eyes . . . I just couldn’t bear to hurt him in public.”

So she’d made it all worse.

She sighed. “I said, as discreetly as I could, ‘I can’t talk about this now.’ Just loud enough for him. He looked at me, really hurt, and said, ‘Is that a no?’”

“Oh, Ames,” Grace said, plating her current pile of pancakes.

“I know, right? I couldn’t embarrass him in front of everyone.”

Ingrid pulled out a synthetic cutting board, laid the bacon on it. “Except he’d just done the same to you.” She wore her mouth in a tight bud of disapproval. “I find the entire thing manipulative.”

Amelia frowned. She hadn’t thought about that before.

In fact, if she took a close look, she might say that Seth had tried to manipulate her from the moment she arrived back in Deep Haven. With his ultimatums and the picnic, the vision of the house, and his proposal at the competition.

The thought brushed through her that Roark had done just about anything he could not to manipulate her. He’d lied, or something like it, about his pedigree, yes, but because he didn’t want to skew her feelings his direction.

“So why did Seth kiss you?” Grace poured more batter into the pan.

“Because when he asked if my answer was a no, I said . . . no. Right then I didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it, and I just wanted to get off the stage. Which he assumed meant my answer would be yes.”

“That’s a pretty big leap,” Ingrid said, cutting the bacon with more oomph than necessary.

“Maybe. I . . .” She frowned.

Good enough for me,
he’d said. Then he’d kissed her. Wrapped her in his sweaty arms and kissed her good. While the audience cheered.

“I left as soon as I could. He was being congratulated and I just . . . I left.”

“He’s called here three times. I suspect he’ll be on our doorstep anytime today,” Ingrid said. “He’s probably at church right now, hoping you’ll show up.”

“Which is why I’m not going. That’s just what I need
 
—for Seth to make an announcement to the congregation.”

“Honey, you have to find the courage to tell him no.”

“But what if . . . what if I should say yes? What if that is the logical, right thing to do? On paper
 
—”

“No.” Ingrid set down the knife. “It’s not about what looks logical. Or even what’s in your heart. Amelia
 
—what do you hear God telling you?”

Amelia stared at her cold pancakes. Then back at her mother.
“If I tell you something crazy, do you promise not to laugh? Just be my friend and not my mom
 
—or my sister
 
—for a moment?”

Ingrid wiped her hands. Nodded. Amelia waited for an accompanying nod from Grace.

“Okay. I know I’ve said this before, but ever since Roark and I met, I’ve had the strangest sense that we belong together. That God wanted us together. And that despite our differences, our destiny was out there
 
—not here in Deep Haven. That sense has only grown since Roark has been here. I was so convinced he was the one a week ago. Until he lied. The problem is, I want a man who loves God, and Roark is . . . well, he’s hurting. And Seth . . . he’s a good man, a Christian man.”

“But something is still tugging you toward Roark,” Ingrid said.

“Yeah. Maybe it doesn’t matter, though.” She tried not to let her words choke her. “Roark’s gone. Darek said that he told Jensen he’s leaving, and I tried to call him. He didn’t answer.”

Ingrid leaned over. “Your friend would say, give him time. And your mother would say the same thing.”

“So would your sister,” Grace said. “Because she remembers you talking about how he came here, ready to rumble, or whatever Brits do
 
—maybe duel at dawn for your heart. So she would say that he’s not a coward. Not a runner.”

But that’s exactly what Amelia feared. They didn’t know Roark like she did. In her heart, she just knew he was halfway to Brussels by now. She didn’t respond.

“You need to get out of this house. Clear your head,” Ingrid said. “Don’t you have photographs to take? Grace tells me you made it into the finals of your competition. The top ten in the nation? What do you get if you win?”

“Five thousand dollars. And a trip to New York City if I want it.
But . . . I’m not going to win. There’s this guy who lives in Nevada who has the most gorgeous shots of the desert. And a woman from Chicago who can capture the soul of the city. Besides, what would I do with that money?”

“See the world?” Ingrid picked up her knife again. “Follow your dreams?”

“Mom
 
—”

“You need something epic,” Grace said. “Did you get any shots of yesterday’s competition?”

“My camera’s in my bag.” She nodded toward her backpack, hanging in the entry.

Grace plated the last of her pancakes, then went to fetch it. She came back with the camera, scrolling through the pictures. “These are great. Roark looks like a superhero. You’d never know the man was worth millions.”

“9.72 billion.”

“But who’s counting,” Ingrid said, looking at Amelia. She took the bacon to the stove, switched on the burner, then layered it in.

“Mom, seriously. I was kidding. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Really?” Grace was still scrolling through the pictures. “Not a smidgen?”

“I don’t like that he lied about it.”

“I think it’s forgivable,” Ingrid said, turning from the stove.

“Because he’s rich?”

“Because he loves you. And he wanted you to love him without the money. You know, money is a cruel taskmaster. It doesn’t play fair. The lack of it leads a man to foolishness; the abundance, to paranoia. In the end, a man ruled by it is not his own. I think this was Roark’s attempt to not let money rule his future.”

“Except it did. It destroyed us.”

Ingrid returned to the sizzling bacon. “That part’s up to you. It seems to me that maybe you’re the one letting money make your decisions for you.”

“I don’t care about being wealthy, Mom. He made a fool out of me. Again. And again.”

“I’d say he made an even bigger fool out of himself.” Grace showed her a picture, perfectly captured, of Roark flying into the air, on his way to a dunking in the birling pool. Arms up, he looked like a child.

She advanced to the next picture, the one where he came up out of the cool water, sodden, his mouth open, gasping for air.

Amelia allowed herself a smile. Oh, why hadn’t she gone after him when he marched off the stage? Told him she’d forgiven him?

Because she realized now that she had. Or wanted to.

But it was too late, wasn’t it?

Ingrid came over, carrying two crisp pieces of bacon in tongs. She put them on Amelia’s plate, then reached for the camera, looked at the shots. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

“Mom!”

“I have eyes. He’s got a little bit of Casper’s dark locks, Darek’s determination, and maybe even some of Owen’s impulsiveness. And your father likes his protectiveness.” She handed the camera back to Grace. “Very tall, dark, and dangerous.”

“Nice, Mom. You watch too many spy movies.”

“I was thinking of your father.” She winked and returned to the stove.

Tall, dark, and dangerous.

Yes, he had been. Dangerous to Amelia’s heart because he suddenly fit into every picture she had for her future. Here in Deep Haven or taking pictures of an ancient castle or . . .

So much for being meant for each other. She’d slammed the door in his face once again.

“I like this one of Tiger eating a stack of pancakes,” Grace said. Amelia remembered it
 
—had picked it for one of her final entries. Her nephew sat at a picnic table with a stack on a paper plate, syrup dripping off his chin. Ivy had stood just a few feet away, rocking baby Joy and watching, the ever-protective mother bear of her adopted son.

Bear . . .

What if she did win the contest? Amelia picked up the bacon. Slid off the stool. Grabbed her camera. “I gotta go. I have one more epic shot to find.”

“Attagirl!” Ingrid said. “Don’t forget
 
—we’re having a family campfire tonight.”

“I’ll be back, I promise.”

The sun had already dipped below the horizon as Roark drove along the shoreline, the wind blowing into his ears through the open window. He’d cracked it just to inhale the last of the north shore’s fresh, piney breeze before he entered the city limits of Duluth.

He’d be in Minneapolis in a few hours, back in Brussels by tomorrow evening.

And in his office the next morning, rolling up his sleeves, ready to do . . . well, he wasn’t quite sure what after his phone call to his uncle last night.

He’d waited until midnight to place the video call. Until after all the revelers had dissipated from Main Street, the artists’ displays emptied, the sawdust swept, the vendors packed up. Until he’d let
the searing pain in his chest dull to an ache, pervasive and clinging to his every breath.