“But he’s not too busy for Ginger.” Merrilee’s bitterness hit her stomach and, for an instant, she feared she might be sick in Grant’s new truck. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Maybe you can nip this in the bud.”
“I don’t know. After what he’s done, I don’t see how Mom can ever forgive him.”
“She loves him. Love solves a lot of problems.”
“Causes problems, too.”
Grant reached over, grasped her hand and threaded his warm, callused fingers through hers. His comforting touch called up powerful emotions Merrilee thought she’d buried for good.
Grant said, “I don’t think love has anything to do with what’s going on between your dad and Ginger.”
Merrilee extricated her hand. She’d been thinking of how love had made her initial move from Pleasant Valley so hard. She’d felt as if she’d been torn in two, one half deliriously happy to be living her dream, the other half crying herself to sleep at night, missing home.
And especially Grant.
She’d managed to overcome her homesickness. And she’d confined Grant to a deep corner of her heart that she refused to visit. Whether she stayed in Pleasant Valley a day, a week, or longer, she’d make certain he remained locked away. She didn’t want those wounds opened again. And, after all, he had Gloria now, so any residual feelings MJ had for Grant were moot.
In a matter of minutes he stopped the truck in front of her parents’ home.
He opened his door and she put her hand on his arm. “Don’t get out. I can manage my bags.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. This homecoming was difficult. She had to face it alone. She forced a smile. “Gloria’s waiting, remember?”
His scowl puzzled her. “How could I forget?”
Maybe things at home weren’t going well for Grant, either, but Merrilee had her own problems. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Call me if you need me.” Grant’s brown eyes darkened to almost black with what appeared genuine concern. “I want to help.”
“Thanks. I will.” But, for the life of her, Merrilee couldn’t think what help Grant might be. She couldn’t even conjure how she could ward off the looming disaster.
With a farewell nod, Grant closed his door, pulled away from the curb and gunned the engine in his hurry to return to Gloria.
Merrilee stood at the curb, studying the house where she’d lived until her college years and her subsequent move to New York. The century-old, two-story Victorian with its Queen Anne turret that held her second-floor bedroom hadn’t changed. The white clapboards, set off by a dark green roof and shutters, sparkled in the sun. Her mother’s beds of daffodils and tulips filled the borders with cheery color, and the blossoming red-bud tree was a splash of lavender against the white siding. Baskets of verdant Boston ferns nestled among the inviting wicker porch furniture.
Home.
MJ loved her life in New York, the bustle of activity and the ever-changing variety of the city, but she’d always held this image of home in her heart, like a treasure locked away in a bank vault whose existence gave her security and peace of mind.
With a start, she realized she’d thought of Grant that way, too. Even though she’d refused to marry him, she’d always known that he was here in Pleasant Valley, working with her father, his life unchanged since she’d left, as if waiting for her eventual return.
Except now, with Gloria, Grant had moved on. She tried to feel happy for him, but all she felt was a depressing sense of loss, which made absolutely no sense. She’d refused to marry Grant.
And now she couldn’t picture herself ever marrying at all.
Merrilee climbed the porch steps, fumbled in the bottom of her purse for her key and opened the door. She was greeted by a blast of musty air instead of the usual delicious aromas emanating from the kitchen. Her footsteps on the hardwood floor echoed eerily in the empty house and suddenly it didn’t seem like home at all.
She dropped her bags in the family room and sank into her father’s leather recliner while she assessed the painful irony of her situation. What she’d loved most about home and Pleasant Valley was the fact that nothing ever changed.
And what she’d hated most was that nothing ever changed.
May you have what you wish for.
The old Chinese curse popped into her mind and she rued the day she’d ever longed for life in Pleasant Valley to be different.
She gazed around the familiar room at the shelves of her mother’s favorite books, the sweater, folded across the back of a chair, that her mother kept downstairs in case of a sudden chill, the stack of old 45s her parents had danced to, the seed catalogs beside her father’s chair and the row of framed photographs on the mantel, a pictorial chronicle of the Strattons’ life as a family.
Her family’s life had been happy, satisfying and filled with love and excitement. So how had things gone so horribly wrong?
That question shook MJ to her core.
Unable to dislodge her depression, she wandered upstairs to her parents’ bedroom and opened the closet. Her father’s side was empty, her mother’s sparsely filled. If Merrilee couldn’t mend the break between her parents, would they divorce and sell this house, the only real home she’d ever known? She tried but couldn’t picture another family living here. Couldn’t imagine her mom and dad not being together.
Merrilee sank onto the edge of the queen-size bed, remembering Sunday mornings as a child when she’d climbed in with her parents while they’d read the comics and laughed together.
The emptiness of the house taunted her and resolve hardened her backbone. She didn’t know if Nana’s book scheme would work, but Merrilee would give it a try. New York, fame and fortune would have to wait until she’d knitted her unraveled family back together.
GRANT OPENED HIS FRONT door and braced himself for Gloria’s assault. The majestic young Irish wolfhound bounded into his arms with a whimper of delight, her long tongue washing his face. If he’d weighed a few pounds less or the dog a few more, Gloria would have knocked him off his feet.
With dismay, he surveyed the living room of the log cabin he’d spent his savings and spare time to renovate. Dacron fluff from shredded cushions littered the sofa, a drapery panel hung at a precarious angle and a disgusting wetness puddled on his laboriously refinished and highly polished pine floor.
He curbed his frustration and greeted Gloria with an affectionate hug. The dog couldn’t help her separation anxiety. It wasn’t her fault the medication he’d prescribed hadn’t taken effect yet. He could only imagine the abuse the poor animal had suffered before he’d rescued her from the roadside, injured, dehydrated, starving, with her fur matted and dirty. Her fear of men had been a silent testament to prior mistreatment. He’d worked for weeks to earn her trust. Now if he could only cure her fear of abandonment, she’d make a perfect companion.
And, God willing, Grant thought, surveying his domain, he would accomplish that feat before she wrecked his house completely.
Gloria loved riding, and Grant usually took her on rounds with him, but he’d been reluctant to leave her in the truck at the airport. No telling what she’d have done to his new leather upholstery.
Not that Merrilee—or MJ, he corrected himself with a grunt of disapproval—would have minded Gloria’s presence. She’d inherited her father’s love of animals, one of the many interests she and Grant had had in common. While he mopped the floor with paper towels, then sprayed it with an enzyme cleaner and wiped again, he pondered how his encounter with his ex-fiancée had affected him.