Wildflowers from Winter (20 page)

Bethany looked at him as if he’d tracked cow manure into the kitchen.

“You lean on things that will dry up. Like a puddle. I lean on God.” And just to make sure she understood the analogy, “God’s the pond.”

“Doesn’t your dad know that ponds can dry up too?”

“Not God’s pond.”

Bethany rolled her eyes.

“I know. It’s an annoying metaphor, isn’t it?” It used to drive him crazy when he was a kid. Even crazier when he turned into an angry teenager.

She opened her mouth, but the rumbling of the garage door stopped her from saying whatever she was going to say. A few moments later, Robin stepped inside the kitchen, her nose red, her hands trembling. Evan hurried to her side and took her elbow. “Where were you?”

Unlike Bethany, she didn’t fight away his offered hand. She let him lead her to a nearby stool, her teeth clicking together like an old-fashioned typewriter. “The cemetery,” she said.

His heart twisted. The cold couldn’t be good for her health. Or the baby’s. And hanging out at Micah’s grave didn’t sound like a good idea. He turned to the cupboards and began searching for a mug so he could make her something hot and steamy.

“I’m okay, Evan. I promise.”

He turned from his quest, cupboard door ajar. Nothing about her looked okay.

“I’m sorry for leaving church.” Her ears were red, her cheeks even redder. “You don’t have to be worried about me.”

But he was. He was very worried. She looked like she’d shrunk three sizes over the past couple of weeks when she should be expanding. With Micah gone, he felt an obligation to take care of her. “Do you want me to stay?”

Bethany held up the rack of cookies. “Do you want a cookie?”

“I’ll be fine. I just have to lie down for a bit.” She patted his hand, as if he were the one who needed comforting, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

He stared after her.

“I’m worried about her,” Bethany finally said.

He plunked down at the table. “Me too.”

“She barely eats.” Bethany eased onto the seat across from him. “She says it’s because of morning sickness, but I’m not sure I believe her.”

An instrumental version of “Little Drummer Boy” floated in from the living room.

She rested her chin in her hands. “This was my dad’s favorite song.”

“It was Dan’s, too.”

They sat there, listening to the melody, the words playing through Evan’s mind.
“I have no gift to bring … That’s fit to give the King …”
What did Bethany think about those lyrics? Did she know them as well as he knew them?

“Why do you think he did it?” she asked.

Evan didn’t have to ask what Bethany meant. He knew she was talking about Dan’s farm and the way he’d split his inheritance. It was something he’d thought about frequently over the past week. “I don’t know.”

“I wish I could ask him.”

“Would it change your decision?”

The song ended, replaced by “Blue Christmas.”

Bethany pulled her chin out of her hand and sat up straighter, as if noticing him—really noticing him—for the first time that evening. “Isn’t your family expecting you to be somewhere?”

His family was probably on their way out to the farm right now. Waiting for him. Waiting for Robin. But something about that kitchen and the music and the smell of store-bought cookie dough kept him still in his seat. “I can stay awhile longer.”

“Do you want some cookies?”

He nodded.

And then he ate cookies with Bethany on Christmas Eve. They weren’t homemade. They weren’t even baked all the way through. But they were warm. And there was milk. And even though he hated what Bethany was planning to do with the farm, even though he couldn’t stand the thought of her selling it, he couldn’t help feeling grateful that she was here. That Robin wasn’t alone. That Bethany was watching out for her.

TWENTY-ONE

S
itting on the floor of Robin’s guest bedroom, Bethany ripped open the last of her moving boxes and searched for her favorite cashmere sweater. When she didn’t find it, she pushed the box away, set her elbows on her knees, and fisted her hands through her hair. After accepting a short but civil visit from her mother on Christmas Day, followed by an unexpected but much welcomed phone call from her brother, Bethany had driven back to Chicago and spent two days packing her things, moving most to storage and stuffing a few boxes in the back of her car to take with her.

Dominic had stopped by and helped for a while. Their good-bye was awkward and anticlimactic. He said she could visit whenever she wanted, and Bethany said maybe she would come down in January, but they were empty words. They’d reached a stalemate in their three-year relationship, although neither one of them wanted to say it out loud.

So now here she was, back in Peaks, on the floor of Robin’s guest bedroom, unable to find what she was looking for. She pulled out a pair of shoes and placed them in the closet while Robin talked with someone downstairs. Bethany heard snatches of their conversation. The flood of visitors who came the week before Christmas had slowed to a steady trickle after. Mostly people from Robin’s church.

Robin endured the company, answering questions and smiling when appropriate, but Bethany doubted anything penetrated the invisible barrier
of grief Micah’s death had erected. The sound of the front door opening and closing told her the visitor had left.

She plopped down on the bed and opened her laptop. Her empty inbox made her want to scream. She’d posted her résumé on every site imaginable and called architecture firms across the entire United States, only to be met by a barrage of rejection and silence. To keep her sanity, she fiddled around on AutoCAD, creating designs for art museums that would never exist and skyscrapers that didn’t need building. She changed the layout of Robin’s café so often that all the designs blended together like an indiscernible pile of mush.

Three days post-Christmas, sitting in that room folding and refolding her clothes, checking her e-mail every thirty seconds—finding nothing but spam—her sanity finally snapped. She found a phone book in the kitchen, pulled the number of a Realtor from the yellow pages, dialed, squeezed her eyes shut, and convinced herself Dan was not rolling in his grave.

Sixty minutes later, Bethany stood in front of the farmhouse and pulled at the door, but it stuck in place. She tried again, but with no luck. Her breath froze as soon as it escaped her lips, and with each inhalation, her nose hairs tingled with frost. She rubbed her gloved hands together and considered peeking under the rock near the kitchen door. Maybe Evan kept a key there.

She looked over her shoulder—nervous, jittery. She hadn’t seen or talked to Evan since his drop-in visit on Christmas Eve, when they established some unspoken truce. Once he found out what she was up to, the truce would end. Whatever peace they’d found would combust.

“Excuse me, are you Bethany Quinn?”

Bethany spun around and came face to face with a storklike woman bundled in a coat much thicker than her own. Behind her, a shiny van was parked next to Bethany’s car. The fresh layer of snow blanketing the drive must have muffled the woman’s approaching vehicle.

“Yes, I am.” Bethany stuck out her hand. “And you must be Susan. Thanks for coming at such short notice.”

Susan pumped Bethany’s hand. “That’s my job.” She motioned to her surroundings. “So, this is the farm. How many acres did you say it was?”

Bethany opened her shoulder bag and pulled out the file Drew had given her. “Five hundred. I have the property details right here.”

“Shall we go inside?”

“The door’s locked.”

“Don’t you have a key?”

Bethany folded one corner of the folder over and back until it lost its shape. “I don’t own the house.”

Susan’s beaklike nose twitched. She turned slowly and surveyed the land stretching past the horizon.

“I don’t own the surrounding ten acres either.” Bethany winced along with the admission, hoping this tidbit of information wouldn’t cause trouble. She tried to assess Susan’s expression, but her poker face revealed nothing. “Will that be a problem?”

“That depends.” Susan held out her hand and Bethany gave her the folder. The Realtor sifted through the papers, puckering incredibly thin lips as she surveyed the information. “Says here the acreage wraps around the house, sort of like a horseshoe. And it’s boxed in by a creek.”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s not ideal.” Susan straightened the papers, tapped them inside the folder, and gave them back. She surveyed the drive. “Access to the home cuts through the property.” She muttered the words to herself, as if making a mental note. “So who owns the farmhouse? Would that person be willing to sell?”

Bethany looked over Susan’s shoulder toward the empty paddock. “There’s a possibility.”

As if sensing the lie, Evan pulled down the lane in his Bronco. He came to a stop, jumped out of his vehicle, and clomped toward them.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Bethany ignored the writhing in her stomach. She had no reason to feel guilty. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. “Evan, this is Susan Sparks, my Realtor. Susan, this is Evan—”

“You’re a piece of work, you know that.”

Bethany stiffened. “I told you I was going to sell.”

“You also told me you’d keep me informed.”

She pulled back her shoulders and gripped the folder with both hands. “Well, consider this your information.”

“If you think I’m going to let you stand on my front porch while you—”

“Evan?”

Bethany and Evan swiveled their heads at the sound of Susan’s voice. The scowl on his face melted into recognition. “Susan?”

Bethany groaned. Of all the Realtors in the county, Bethany had to pick one who knew Evan?

Susan touched Bethany’s arm. “I used to baby-sit Evan’s little sister when I was in college. What a small world.” Susan frowned and cocked her head, her face morphing into the same expression people kept throwing at Robin. “How are you holding up?”

Bethany bit her tongue. Evan wasn’t going to die if somebody looked at him wrong, and neither would Robin. She shifted her weight and addressed Susan. “What steps do we need to take to get the ball rolling?”

Susan blinked, her allegiance obviously torn. Bethany watched the war play out across her features. Finally, her eyes settled on Evan. “Bethany said you might consider selling. Is that—”

“She lied,” Evan said. “I’m not selling.”

Heat climbed up Bethany’s torso. “So you’d keep the house, even if that meant living here with no farm?”

“That’s right.”

“Even if that meant you’d be surrounded by a new housing development?”

“I said, that’s right.”

She balked. “That’s ridiculous. And really stubborn.”

“Dan gave it to me for a reason, and I intend to take care of it.” He turned to Susan. “I don’t know what Bethany told you, but I’m not selling. You might want to write that down in your notes.” He stepped around them and fished a key from his pocket. “I’m sorry you got sucked into the middle of this, Susan. I hope you understand why I can’t invite you in, at least not as someone who wants to sell my farm.”

Bethany gritted her teeth. “It’s
my
farm.”

“That’s just semantics.” He jammed the key in the lock and addressed the Realtor. “But you’re more than welcome to come inside as a friend.”

With her hands buried in her pockets and her shoulders hunched up by her ears, Susan looked tempted by the offer. “Thanks, but unfortunately I’m on the clock.”

Unfortunately?

Evan nodded good-bye and stepped inside, leaving the pair of them standing in the cold.

“You might want to discuss your plans with Evan, Ms. Quinn.” Susan dug in her purse. “Honestly, you have time. Land development has slowed quite a bit in the recession. And winter isn’t the optimum time to sell. In fact, it’s almost impossible. I think you’ll save some energy by waiting until spring.” She pulled out a business card. “Give me a call when you’ve figured out what you want to do.”

Bethany forced a smile but didn’t touch the card. “Thank you, Ms. Sparks, but I think I’ll be working with somebody else.”

Bethany barged inside Robin’s house, fuming over Evan’s stubborn refusal to sell. Job interviews weren’t coming in. Most of the companies she had solicited were probably running on maintenance staff during the holidays.
She couldn’t look for another apartment until she knew where she’d be working. And getting rid of the farm might prove more difficult than she hoped. Bethany was stuck in her own personal hell, right alongside Robin.

Well, enough was enough.

Maybe she couldn’t do anything at the moment about her own situation, but she could try to do something for Robin’s. She marched up the stairs to Robin’s room and poked her head through the half-opened door. Her friend lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Bethany said, rapping her knuckles against the trim.

Robin pulled herself up, her hair in tangles.

“Want to go to Lowe’s?” Bethany asked. “We could get out of the house. Look at paint colors for the café.”

“No, thanks.” Robin lay back down, her disheveled hair fanning across the pillow.