Chapter 9 #3
Charlotte was the first one to go back, when Andy invited her to spend Valentine’s weekend at the farm, since Julia was planning to spend the weekend with friends.
Charlotte had avoided getting any deeper into the relationship with Andy.
They’d been having a great time, but she was leery of a bigger commitment, and didn’t want to make a mistake and fall head over heels in love with someone who’d be leaving in a few months anyway.
When his father came back from London, Andy was going back to Aspen.
She’d had all the flings she wanted in one lifetime.
But he was hard to avoid because she enjoyed him so much.
She had tried to slow things down, and being with him on the Valentine weekend was the opposite of what she was trying to do.
But it was so tempting that she finally decided to accept, and told herself she could handle it.
She’d be staying in her own house, and he in his, and as long as they stayed sane and relatively sober, she thought they could stay out of bed, and just have a nice time together, as they had for the past two months.
They hadn’t known each other for long, but they had learned a lot about each other, and themselves, in the time they had spent doing fun things in New York.
She relaxed and was happy with him, and he was wonderfully creative about dreaming up events for them to go to, places to see, and just having a good time together.
Charlotte was more relaxed with him than she had been with anyone in a dozen years.
She knew she was tempting fate by going to the farm on a weekend dedicated to romance, but they were both sensible adults and she thought she could manage it without misleading him and deluding herself that they had suddenly each met the love of their life at forty-two and forty-seven.
She was trying to be reasonable and sane for both their sakes.
Neither of them wanted to get hurt, and she was sure they wouldn’t.
She was looking forward to reading what Andy had been writing that week.
She was thoroughly enjoying the rough drafts and manuscripts he let her read.
She felt honored to be included in the process of his creative life, and they spent an equal amount of time talking about her business.
Everything they did was fun, and she was trying not to be swept away by the illusion that it was a fairy tale or a dream come true.
She explained her theory about the weekend to Quinne before she went, and her sister laughed at her.
“Oh, you are in big trouble here. You’re trying to reason with your heart and convince him, me, and yourself that you’re not falling in love with him.
You’re human, Charlotte, just like the rest of us.
Flesh and blood and a beating heart. You love him and you’re scared.
That’s normal, but thinking that you can go up there, be alone for two days, and not wind up in bed with him, and in love with him, which I think you already are, you’re crazy if you think you can pull that off.
Why don’t you just let life happen, and let go of the controls for two days and see what happens.
You deserve to be happy, Char, and so does he.
Let him be your hero, if he wants to be, or your Prince Charming.
He’s a great guy and I think he loves you, and you finally found the one guy who I think won’t hurt you or disappoint you.
So go up there and have a good time, and if you fall in love with him, you’ll be a happy woman. ”
“Don’t be such a romantic,” Charlotte scolded her, and sounded like the curmudgeon she used to be before she met him.
“Stop holding on so tight,” Quinne told her.
“I’m not,” Charlotte insisted.
“If you were holding on any tighter, your fingers would break,” Quinne scolded her back.
“Have a happy Valentine’s Day, Charlotte.
I’m giving you permission to be happy,” she said, and they hung up a minute later, as Charlotte thought about what Quinne had said.
Her words haunted her on the drive up to the farm.
She got to the house and unlocked the front door with her key.
It was five o’clock and Ellen had already gone home for the evening.
Charlotte flipped on the lights when she walked in, and saw a huge vase of red roses in the front hall, another one when she walked into the living room, another one on the coffee table, and yet one more vase of roses in the library, and a big basket of red roses in the kitchen with a note.
When she opened it, it said “Happy Valentine’s Day, love, A.
” She smiled as she read it, he had outdone himself.
It looked like a florist shop, and there was a path of rose petals all the way down the hall to her bedroom, where another vase of red roses was waiting for her, and another note from him.
He had made it fun for her, like everything else he did.
He was thoughtful and funny and kind. Ellen had been in on the rose secret.
She loved the roses and he had pulled one out and handed it to her.
It was turning into the most fun Valentine’s Day Charlotte had ever had.
She called to thank him for all the roses, smiling when he answered.
He showed up a few minutes later with an enormous bouquet of red roses he handed her.
It was excess delivered with charm and creativity and everything he felt for her, and had never felt before in his life.
He put his arms around her and held her close to him, and as he did he chased all her fears and demons away.
All her resolutions were forgotten, her reservations, her vow to herself not to fall in love with him or even sleep with him.
He kissed her, and they were in bed five minutes later, making love just as Quinne had predicted would happen.
Reason took a back seat to desire, and their lovemaking had all the passion of two people who had run from love for years.
Now they were vulnerable and sincere, and Charlotte knew she loved him and would never find another man like him.
He was the last of the good guys, and the first good man in her life, and she hoped he wouldn’t break her heart, but there were no guarantees that it would turn out the way they wanted.
They both took the chance, which was all it took to make love happen and sweep them both away to a magical place where only they existed.
All she had to do was open the door and let love in.
It had finally arrived in the person of Andy York, the best man she’d ever met, and in an odd way he was a final gift from her mother.
They would never have met if he weren’t the son of the man Felicia had loved.
They fell asleep and woke up and made love again.
They spent the night together at her farmhouse, and it felt totally natural to be with him. They had dinner at midnight and went back to bed, talking and laughing and sharing secrets. They were the two happiest people in the world. Neither of them had ever felt that way before.
—
In her apartment in New York, Olivia had been staring at her computer for an hour and didn’t know what to do.
She finally wrote a brief email to Francois Vernier, asking him how he was.
It was her way of putting a message into the universe.
She had no idea if he’d even answer. She had told him she wanted no further contact with him and had meant it at the time.
And maybe whether or not he responded didn’t matter.
She had finally taken the first step back into life.
It had taken her twelve years to do it, but she had finally found the courage to take a chance, to reach out to someone she had loved greatly, and destiny had intervened cruelly.
She couldn’t be with him after the accident.
It wouldn’t have been fair to him. He deserved a whole woman who could dance his ballets and be an active woman beside him, not one in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
She couldn’t be that person and condemn him to a life with someone like her.
And now she was reaching out to him to say hello.
She had been thinking about it for weeks after her sisters asked about him.
He was a ghost from the past now, and so was she.
Ghosts didn’t answer emails, and he probably wouldn’t either.
She imagined him happy with his wife, and possibly children by now, after five years of marriage.
She didn’t want to intrude in his life. She just wanted to peek through a window for a minute, and see him in his world.
They had been perfectly synchronized, minutely in time with each other, like a ballet of their own.
He had been a flawless dancer, technically and emotionally, and she had been the perfect match for him, floating in the air, totally in harmony with him.
The email to Francois was just a brief greeting, a flutter of wings from the past. It served no purpose except to communicate with him for an instant, their wings barely touching as they brushed past each other, wanting to know the answer to an unspoken question, if she still loved him, and if he loved her.