Wildflowers from Winter (23 page)

Evan fought to keep his expression neutral.

“I told Robin I would stay until I found a job. Right after my promise, I get Fenton shoved in my face. It’s like the Universe is reminding me why I hate this place.”

“What is it about that guy? Why do you hate him so much?” Sure, the guy came across a smidge self-righteousness, but whatever Bethany felt toward Fenton went much deeper than a simple distaste. It was something very personal.

She didn’t answer.

He gave an involuntary shudder, his body protesting against the cold, and stuck out his arm. “Are you ready to go back inside?”

She handed back his coat and ignored his offered elbow. Despite the ripple of bumps spreading up her arms, she straightened her shoulders, tilted her chin, and together, they rejoined the masses. For the rest of dinner, she hovered somewhere a little bit above everybody else. What he might have considered arrogance before now appeared to be nothing but a defense mechanism. How could anybody hurt her when she couldn’t be touched?

While music played and people danced, Bethany stared at Pastor Fenton and her mother mingling with a group of First Light attendees at a far-off table. Annoyed by Fenton’s deceptive good looks and her mother’s rapt attention, she wrapped one leg over the other, hooked her foot around the back of her ankle, and crossed her arms. Suffering through an entire dinner next to him, then listening to his exorbitant speech afterward, had wound her nerves tight.

It was time to go.

She glanced over her shoulder, toward the front of the stage, where Mayor Ford’s wife droned on and on to Robin, who nodded vacantly, gripping Micah’s postmortem plaque to her chest. They came. They honored Micah’s memory. Enough was enough. Bethany unwound her legs, ready to go rescue Robin so they could make their escape. But somebody beside her let out an exaggerated sigh. She looked over to find Evan.

He plopped down in a chair and drummed his fingers against the table.

“What?” The word came out snappier than she’d intended.

He leaned toward her. “Do you want to dance?”

She laughed. “You’re kidding.”

His face was completely deadpan. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”

Bethany twisted around and stared once again at Fenton and her mother.

He leaned closer. “This past month hasn’t been very fun. For you or for me.”

“No kidding.”

He studied her for a bit, as if considering something, until Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” sounded through the banquet hall and a smile lit his face—one that made his cheeks dimple and her insides flop in a very silly way. He stood suddenly, took her hand, and pulled her up next to him.

Panic knocked through her body. “What are you doing?”

“Time for some fun,” he said, dragging her toward the mass of moving bodies.

He pulled her to the edge of the dance floor before she managed to dig in her heels and twist her hand from his grip. “Are you nuts? I’m not going to dance.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not about to make a fool out of myself.”

“Who says you’re going to look like a fool?”

She raised her hand. “Me. I don’t dance.”

“Do you always have to be in such control?”

She crossed her arms.

“It’s frightening how two people can be so much alike yet so very different.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I have a hard time letting go too. Thankfully, it’s an acquired skill.” A stupid, devilish grin spread across his face, and before she could react, he took her hand again and spun her onto the dance floor—her heart tumbling and crashing with the spin. The way he moved forced her to move with him—stiffly, awkwardly. She was all too aware of her body. And all too aware of his. Heat pooled in her cheeks. She was not going to do this. Not here. At this banquet. With this man. With all these people she used to know watching.

“We can’t both lead here, Bethany.” His breath tickled her ear.

“I’m not leading.”

“You’re not following either.”

“That’s because I don’t want to dance.” She stepped on his foot and the heat in her cheeks exploded. “Evan, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Bethany, it doesn’t matter.” He pulled her closer. “Because I do.”

The heat from his body and the hardness of his chest made warmth
gather inside her belly. She tried to yank away, but he refused to let go, and the up-tempo beat of the music played on. “Evan.”

“Bethany.” He raised his eyebrows in mock challenge, but a seriousness burned in his eyes and his feet continued to move. In perfect, annoying rhythm. “Just trust me.”

“You say it like it’s so easy.”

Evan spun her around him. “Of course it’s not.”

“Then how am I supposed to ‘just trust’ you?”

“Funny thing about trust.” He let go of one of her hands and made her move in a way she didn’t think possible. Her eyes widened. “Sometimes you have to give it before you can experience it.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Of course it does.”

He twirled her around. Did some loopy-thing with their arms. Twirled her again. Faster this time. And all of a sudden, Bethany wasn’t thinking about her feet anymore. Evan whirled her around the dance floor, and Bethany caught herself smiling. Wanting to laugh, even. Because he was right—this was fun. And his steps were so sure that she didn’t have to think. She lost herself in the music and found that the more she let go, the more fun the dance became. They moved to the fast-paced melody, and Bethany felt flushed. Exhilarated. Freer than she could remember feeling in a long, long time.

Evan spun her around. Pulled her close. Flung her back out. And then he dipped her, and the song was over and they were both out of breath and his face was inches from hers and he was smiling too—a giant grin that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Bethany?”

“What?”

He pulled her out of the dip and they stood in the middle of the dance floor, Bethany becoming more and more aware of the crowd. More and
more aware of her body. More and more aware of herself. She tucked her hair behind her ears, embarrassed by the heat in her neck and cheeks.

Evan’s face grew serious. Intense again.

“Not all Christians are like him,” he whispered.

She didn’t have to ask who he meant. She knew exactly who he was talking about. And she had no idea what to do with the words.

TWENTY-THREE

P
urgatory trickled into something much longer than she anticipated. Bethany’s life became a series of gray, five o’clock sunsets, all infused with the dismal admission that another day had passed and she was no closer to a job than when she first moved in with Robin three months ago. Nobody had even called her for an interview.

She munched on the last bit of apple and cheese she had prepared for lunch and stared at the slip of paper in her hand. Yesterday, one of Robin’s friends stopped by, and when Robin mentioned Bethany’s predicament with the farm, the woman wrote down the contact information of a local Realtor.

Today Bethany was determined to get her life moving forward again. She dumped the last slice of colby jack cheese into the garbage. Her attention snagged on the dripping sink and, above that, the calendar. March twenty-second was circled in red ink—the date of Robin’s twenty-week ultrasound. Just as she had for the other three appointments, she’d asked Bethany to go. And just like the other three times, Bethany couldn’t bring herself to say no, especially after hearing the heartbeat for the first time two months ago. Proof that life not only grew but thrived inside Robin’s womb.

For a woman who didn’t have much of a maternal instinct, the quick patter had obliterated the growing frustration in Bethany’s chest. When the tiny heartbeat filled the examination room, she’d looked to Robin in awe
but quickly checked her expression. She could tell by the look on her friend’s face that the sound of that heart was breaking Robin’s own.

Many times, Bethany had attempted and failed to coerce Robin from her longstanding stupor, usually by trying to elicit some excitement over the café. But their plans had stalled. The café turned into nothing more than a saved project on AutoCAD, while Bethany grew more and more attached to Robin and her baby.

It had to stop.

She snatched the phone, picked up the slip of paper, and dialed the number. When the woman on the other end of the line started asking questions, Bethany dug out the paperwork from one of the dresser drawers in the guest bedroom. The woman sounded very pleased and asked if Bethany could meet her at her office in an hour. Bethany readily agreed, relieved at such quick timing.

Throughout the interim, she had refused to dwell on the what-ifs. She had forced herself to focus on the possibilities. And after three months of hibernation, her heart stepped out into the sunlight, and the warm blood of purpose pulsed through her veins. Her heart rate increased, her temperature rose, until a healthy, warm sensation tingled through her. It didn’t falter. Not when she sat in her car. Not when she drove out of town. She hummed the entire way, tapping the steering wheel, pleased with her decision.

Until she drove past the farm.

Bethany’s foot eased off the gas pedal when she passed the gravel road leading to Dan’s farmhouse. She caught herself staring in her rearview mirror, searching for Evan out in the fields. After New Year’s Eve and that dance she couldn’t get out of her head, he’d been very intentional about visiting Robin at least once a week. Once he showed up with his younger brother, Gavin, who looked to be faring just the same, if not worse, than Robin. But in late February, his visits started tapering off. And now, by mid-March, she hadn’t seen him for at least two weeks. She refused to ask
about his absence and ignored the correlation between his waning presence and her darkening mood.

Bethany blinked several times and forced her eyes away from the mirror, exhaling as the farm fell out of sight.

Her stomach dipped, and it had nothing to do with the rolling hills. Here she was, plunging ahead with her decision to sell, while Evan labored in the fields. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and swallowed, imagining a lump of self-assurance sliding down her throat—a much needed nutrient.

Yes, Evan would be upset. Yes, she was taking away his job, but she had her own life to consider. Her own goals. Over the past few months, she’d let other people’s feelings and opinions influence her decisions. Robin’s grief threw her off course. Evan’s opinions churned her emotions into chaos. Dominic’s doubt scared her away from taking a chance. And Susan Sparks delayed her plans. She sat straighter. No more of that. She needed to take control. She needed to do what was best for her.

Just when she convinced herself, the steering wheel jerked under her hands. The car lurched, and a loud rumbling filled the inside of her vehicle. Was it the muffler? How in the world could a muffler go bad on a new car? Her foot shifted from the gas to the brake. She attempted to pull over to the side of the road, but the steering wheel wouldn’t cooperate. Did faulty mufflers impact the steering? She cranked the wheel, forcing it to submit.

After turning off the engine, she stepped out to survey the damage. It didn’t take long to find the problem—a flat tire. And it wasn’t just kind of flat either. It was flat-flat. She brought her hands to her hips. Great, this was just great. Of course something like this would happen. Just when she pushed her life back in motion, Peaks reached out its dirty claws and popped her tire.

She let out a frustrated sigh, the gravel crunching beneath her feet as she pivoted in a circle, scolding herself for not knowing how to change a tire. It
was a skill she should have taken the time to learn. Precisely so she wouldn’t end up in a situation like this.

She looked down at her new shoes. She wouldn’t make it more than a mile without getting horrendous blisters, and where would that get her? Next to some cows? Her phone was inside her purse on the console, but who was she going to call? She didn’t want to upset Robin with her plans, there was no way she was calling Evan, and her mother was probably sleeping. She strode to her trunk, popped it open, and pulled out the spare tire. She rolled it next to the flat and went back for the jack. She turned the tool over in her hand, examining the shiny metal before getting on her hands and knees. The sharp gravel dug into her palms and even through the cotton fabric of her Calvin Kleins as her knees protested against the sting.

Thinking one place was as good as any, she set the jack beneath the car and rejoiced when she elevated the vehicle enough that the offensive tire hung a few centimeters above the ground.

Her joy, however, was short-lived. She tried to remove the screw things from the hubcap, but no matter how hard she tried to fit the L-shaped iron device over the four metal pieces, it wouldn’t engage. Surrendering to defeat, she chucked the worthless tool against the ground and plopped onto her butt. Melted snow seeped through her jeans. She checked her wristwatch and put her face in her hands. She was already ten minutes late.

With nothing else to do, she retrieved her purse from inside the car, fished out her cell, and dialed information for the number of a local towing service. Maybe they could change her tire. When the operator connected her to Study’s Towing and nobody answered, Bethany stifled a scream. What kind of business didn’t answer the phone in the middle of a weekday?