Chapter Seven
Several Months Later…
G race!” Sally, the owner of my new favorite shop, called when I walked in. She stocked all sorts of local artisan products in the little cafe she ran, nothing I could afford right now, but I liked to come in here, buy myself fresh-cut flowers, smell the soaps and lotions, and dream.
“Hi, Sally. What flowers do you have today?” I walked over to the small stand and looked over the selection. Late summer blooms filled the small space in every color imaginable, but a bouquet of pink carnations dotted with green and purple mums caught my eye. I picked them up to smell.
“Just got those in this morning.” She leaned on the counter, watching me as I examined the flowers.
“They’re beautiful.” I set them down for her to wrap up and walked over to the small shelf in front of the window that held the candles, picking them up one at a time and smelling the selection. A shadow passed in front of me, startling me. I set the candle down carefully before I dropped it.
I hadn’t stopped jumping at shadows for weeks, and even now, if something caught me off guard, I jumped and started looking for an exit.
My therapist assures me that with time and work, that will continue to ease, but today the hairs on my arms still stood on end at the two men standing just outside the shop.
I turned back to Sally, shoving my shaking hand into my pocket, not close enough with the kind shop keeper to trust her with my fear. I paid quickly, mumbled something I couldn’t remember as soon as it left my mouth, and darted out of the shop, keeping my head down as I walked.
The men were familiar, though I couldn’t place their faces. You’re just paranoid, Grace, it’s ok. I sped up anyway, practically racing back to my apartment. I slammed the door behind me, locked it, and then slumped to the floor, my heart racing in fear.
I pulled my knees up, holding them close, and let myself cry at my pathetic reaction. At least no one was here to see it.
That night, after I put the flowers in a vase and climbed into bed, a crisp white envelope slid under my door, turning my blood cold and robbing me of any sense of peace my small home brought.
This was a bad idea .
One of my worst.
Maybe not the worst, but definitely close.
I sat in my car outside the small, unassuming bungalow on Tybee Island.
The beach house had a large porch that wrapped the sides of it and a garage set towards the back of the property.
It was blue, the kind of blue that might be green in a different light.
I don’t know why I bothered noticing that.
I was here for help and all I could think about was the cream-colored shutters and symmetrical windows.
It was not at all what I would expect a Marine veteran to pick out.
I shouldn’t be here.
He never wrote me back.
If he wanted to hear from me, he would have written me back.
I sent so many letters in the weeks after my divorce.
I never received a response. Like the stalker I didn’t want to be, I hunted him down.
My cheeks heated at the thought of what I did to find him.
One of Mr. Jones’ clients had several properties that he used as collateral for something.
He taught me how to look up titles as part of our research to verify ownership of the properties.
One day, on a whim, I looked up Anders. I had just enough information about him to find this place. Frankly, it was more luck than skill. Thankfully, Anders Gonzales wasn’t a popular name. I filed away his address for my own fantasies and was glad now that I had.
“You can do this, Grace. If he says no, he says no. Your life isn’t harmed in any way by asking him a question,” I said out loud. I took a deep breath and then another, trying to psych myself up.
I grabbed the letters from the seat beside me.
It was my proof of who I was. That I was telling the truth.
That I really needed his help. They were all well-worn and torn in some places.
I carefully wrapped them in my coat and held them to my chest as I stepped out into the rain that had picked up as I sat there debating. No time like the present.
I paused before knocking. Long enough to hear the faint hum of music coming from somewhere inside and a few cuss words strung along after a clattering of metal on wood.
I smiled at that. Anders never held back in his letters.
I learned more than one new word from him and apparently, he’s exactly the same in real life.
A warmth settled over me at that. I knew him.
I may never have met him, but I knew him. He would help.
This time, when I raised my hand to knock, I didn’t hesitate. The sound coming out was steady and sure. No going back now.
“Yeah?” He answered a moment later. He leaned against the door jam and crossed his arms. Even leaning like that, he was taller than I imagined.
His voice was deep and gravely. Sweat dotted his brow and dripped down the line of his white shirt.
A white shirt that hugged his chest and biceps.
Tattoos covered his arms, wrapping around them and highlighting their contours.
Good lord . Why did I never ask for his picture?
I could have been enjoying it the entire time.
I was struck momentarily dumb as I stared at him.
He cocked one thick eyebrow at me as he moved his arm to lean against the doorjamb, further highlighting just how much muscle he had.
His shirt rode up a little, and I saw hints of tanned skin and dark, coarse hair. I swallowed several times.
Get it together, Grace.
“Anders Gonzales?” I finally got out. My pulse had picked up from nerves and something more as I took in his tousled brown hair and light brown eyes. An amused smile played on his lips at my obvious appreciation and subsequent idiocy.
“Yeah.” He looked me up and down slowly, but otherwise, didn’t move. He didn’t offer me anything else, clearly leaving room for me to continue. Maybe. Oh, shoot. I took another deep breath and tried again.
“I’m Grace Witherwood, well it’s Sheppard now, or it will be soon.
I hope.” I was rambling. I tried again. “We write — well, we wrote. We haven’t in a while and I don’t know why you stopped writing me…
” I fumbled for a moment as I extracted the bundle from my coat.
This was not going well. “I have our letters. Well, your letters to me, of course. You would have my letter to you, hopefully. Maybe you don’t.
I don’t know what you did with them.” Stop.
Talking. Grace. The very helpful voice in my head practically shouted at me and I squished my lips together to stop myself from talking more. It didn’t work.
“See, these are all of them. I need help and I didn’t know where else to go.
” I held the letters to him as proof of our connection, as desperation clawed at my throat and closed it up.
This was a mistake. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
I shouldn’t have come here. It turns out I had something to lose.
It hurt. He stopped writing me for a reason and I should have accepted that.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“Grace?” He took the letters from me and leafed through a few of them, seeing that they were indeed his.
I couldn’t have made them up, though I suppose someone could have stolen them from me, but I had an ID to show him if he needed to see it.
That would be a lot of someone to do just to pretend to be me.
He looked at me again, and it was like he actually saw me this time.
I tried to take stock of what he saw. The rain soaked my hair, turning it a dark blonde and plastering it to my face.
It dripped onto my coat and my pants had at least four inches that were soaked through at the bottom.
I was shivering. It didn’t get too cold here in Savannah, but the rain was never fun to be in.
My eyes were likely red-rimmed and puffy from crying the whole way here.
At least I skipped makeup today and it wasn’t running down my face, though I’m sure I looked pale and tired with concealer to cover the bags under my eyes.
He turned into his house after he got a good look at me and I thought for sure he was going to shut the door in my face.
Of course, he wouldn’t help me. I was a rain-soaked stranger standing on his porch, begging for help.
It couldn’t get much worse than this. I braced myself for the worst and prepared to take a step back, admit defeat, and accept that I was well and truly alone in this world.
Tears stung my eyes already. I needed to get out of here.
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” he said as he turned back to me.
The letters were gone. Before I could react, he grabbed me, wet coat and all, and wrapped me in the tightest hug I’d ever had.
Those muscular arms I had just been admiring wrapped around me and pulled me in out of the cold and rain.
I couldn’t respond for a minute. Of all the scenarios I’d thought up in my head, this was not one of them.
He never seemed like much of a hugger in his letters.
Maybe I just didn’t think of marines as affectionate.
I didn’t know. I hoped he’d listen for a minute, maybe offer some advice.
Not even in my wildest imagination did he hug me. My imagination needed work.
I didn’t hate it, though. He smelled like fresh sweat and grease and citrus.
The smell wormed its way into me and settled somewhere deep in my mind.
I didn’t realize how cold I was until his arms came around me and the warmth of him seeped as equally deep as his smell.
He melted my insides, warming me up body and soul.
My arms went around him to return the hug before I realized what they were doing.