Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Loren
I want to believe Bridger is right.
He says good stuff is all around us, happening all the time if we just take the time to notice.
So I spend the whole day looking.
And my husband has a point.
I play three full games of chess out in the garden with my dad, and he remembers the rules well enough to beat me. Twice. As for the third game, I’m pretty sure he lets me win. This gesture, plus old memories of him teaching me to play in the first place, makes my heart swell with the sweetness.
Afterward, we eat lunch together in the open-air restaurant.
Just him, me, and his fellas. The chicken salad is delightful.
So is the conversation. By the time we leave for my dad’s pottery class, both my stomach and my heart are full.
I stay for the whole class. And my dad’s lopsided bowl going into the kiln pulls a teary-eyed laugh from me.
This is the good stuff.
And my father really is thriving.
Still, the tally marks don’t fall entirely on the positive side.
Ignoring Sayla’s texts gives me twinges of guilt. The thing is, I don’t know what, if anything, Bridger might have told Dex, and that leaves the door wide open to questions from her I’m not prepared to answer. At least not until I talk to Bridger.
Also, tutoring has never been harder for me, if I’m being honest. Yes, my students are as funny and smart as ever. But in the quiet moments of our lessons, my mind drifts back to Margaret’s threats if we don’t end our marriage.
Not to mention her promises if I do.
For now, Bridger set up my dad’s residency to be paid automatically, but what happens if Margaret regains control of the trust? If I force an annulment, she claims Bridger will maintain control of the trust, and that my dad will keep his spot at Havenwood.
Indefinitely.
But on the drive back home to meet Bridger, a not-so-gentle voice echoes in my head:
Can you really trust Margaret Adams more than you trust your husband?
Walking away from the man I love only to have his mother betray me would be some pretty rich irony. A lesson worthy of my World Lit class. Real Gift of the Magi energy. Or Romeo and Juliet.
Either way, not good.
Still, thanks to Operation Fool Margaret, my mother-in-law has the upper hand.
If only I could go to that afternoon at Fig & Apple and rip up the evidence.
Or if Bridger hadn’t left his tux hanging in the guest room closet.
Or if Margaret hadn’t ended up in that room in the first place.
So many variables. And none of them matter, because what’s done is done.
That’s a truth nobody can argue. It’s the weight of what’s to come that makes the minutes drag.
Right along with my heart. More than anything, I want to trust that Bridger and I will be okay, that we can meet every challenge, even if the how of it all seems impossible.
Look for the good, Loren.
By the time our estate emerges above the tree line, my pulse is galloping through my veins.
The sunset glows along the rooftop as I follow the long drive up the property.
Bridger’s car is in the circular drive. Of course it is.
He knew I was returning, and my husband has made a habit of being exactly where I need him to be whenever I need him.
He’s even waiting for me at the door.
“Welcome home,” he says, the timbre of his voice deep and sure.
“Hi.” I step right into his arms. And as he folds himself around me, I try on the idea that we could just be this.
Just be us.
If we walk away from the trust, the bills and debt will tag along, but we’re both smart and hardworking. We could put our heads down and figure things out. I picture us living in his cozy bungalow or in Dexter’s apartment. My apartment.
Our apartment.
Maybe I’ll reapply at Tequila Mockingbird. Or teach six classes next year instead of five, like Mr. Wilford offered. Or both.
Either way, I won’t take a penny from Margaret Adams.
Would I love the money and security? Yes.
Would I trade that for Bridger's faith in us?
Never.
I don’t even know how to tell Bridger about his mother’s offer.
Could he ever forgive her? Would I want him to try?
We might need an entire encyclopedia on marital communication for that.
But for now, he leads me to the library, and we sink onto the couch.
Our couch. The first place I felt safe enough to fall asleep in his arms.
He kisses my forehead, and I know I’m home.
Even if we have to move out of here soon.
The most important thing we need to clarify tonight is how much he’s giving up for me. He’s leaving the entirety of his old life behind, with no promises he’ll ever be invited back. He says he doesn’t want certainty. That he wants me.
But even with answers from genetic testing, my future isn’t promised.
He’d be giving up his family inheritance for me. And what I’ve inherited from my family remains a big question mark. At least for now.
“How was your day?” he asks, and I drape my legs over his.
“Long. Good. Hard. Scary.”
“Don’t be scared,” he says.
“Can’t help it. It’s the factory setting I came with.”
“We can work on that.” He lays a hand on my knee and squeezes. “And for the record, I’m ready to fight her. Say the word, and I’ll never give up fighting. Or we can walk away and make that our battle. Whatever you decide, Loren. Name the dragon, and I’ll slay it for you.”
“All the dragons are pretty terrifying,” I say with a shaky breath. “So many dragons.”
His hand drifts to mine. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“But there are things you can’t protect me from.” I swallow. “And vice versa.”
“Don’t underestimate—”
The doorbell rings.
“You have got to be kidding me," I groan. “If your mom sent a funeral arrangement for our marriage, I might—”
“Nope.” A smile finds his lips. “I really did order pizza this time.”
My stomach growls, right on cue, as we head to grab our dinner. Except it’s not the pizza guy on our doorstep.
It’s Rosalind.
Winthrop.
Barrington.
In the flesh.
I’ll spare you the effort of imagining what the woman looks like.
Goddess.
One word.
Done and done.
If you insist on more, I’ll ask you to picture long blonde hair on top of a long blonde body. Lithe. Willowy. Impeccably dressed. The total opposite of me in every way. Except for her smile, which is wide and friendly. I’d like to think I’m friendly too.
“Well, aren’t you lovely!” Rosalind says this to me as soon as the door flies open. “I definitely get teacher vibes. English, is it? You look like you teach English.”
“I do.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and begin to fidget.
Immediately.
My, but she’s confident.
“Sorry to drop in unannounced,” she says. “Very rude, I realize, but I just had to see you. In person.”
Apparently, this means we’re seeing Rosalind in person, too.
“Why?” he asks. “Not to be rude.”
“You aren’t rude.” She waves his comment away. “I just feel like too much information gets lost in the translation between your mother and my father. They’re unreliable narrators.” She shoots me a look. “That’s an English thing, right?”
“You got it.”
Smart too.
Slivers of jealousy prick my insides. Not because I doubt Bridger’s feelings for me, but because this is the woman his mother wanted for him. I’m quite literally nothing like Margaret’s vision of his ideal.
Okay. We do have the smile thing in common. And I’m smart.
Great.
“Well, come in, then,” Bridger says, leading her through the house and into the parlor, where we take seats across from each other. I’ve lived here for weeks and never been in this room.
Rosalind’s a parlor girl.
Bridger clears his throat. “So, what brings you here?” he asks. “Unfiltered, in person?”
“Margaret reached out to my dad last night to say a marriage between us is back on the table, and I thought you should know. He called to tell me this morning. Obviously he’s in favor.”
I blink. “And you flew all the way here to tell Bridger you don’t want to go through with it?”
A girl can hope.
“No, I was already in Asheville. I’m the keynote speaker at the Blue Ridge Heritage Foundation’s annual gala. Happy accident, huh?”
Duh.
Of course.
“I figured an hour’s drive in a rental car was better than more back and forth and dilution of the facts.”
“Ah. You drove here.” I bob my head. “Makes sense.”
Stop talking, mouth.
“I also wanted to apologize,” she says to Bridger. “Margaret and Lyle can both come on strong when they have an agenda.”
He chuckles. “True story.”
“But there’s one thing they did get right, so I feel like I need to clear the air with you.” She swings her attention to me. “Especially since I found out you’re already Bridger’s wife.”
My throat goes dry. “Okay.”
“I was more than willing to go along with the marriage,” she admits. “For the same basic reason that’s always driven him, I imagine.”
“Oh.” My stomach flips, and my throat’s an official desert now. What basic reason does she imagine would drive these two gorgeous people together, exactly?
“I think we both wished for a while now that we could steer our families in a new direction. One that’s slightly more … ummm … how to put this delicately?”
“More generous?” Bridger offers.
Her lip twitches. “Well, you couldn’t get less generous than Lyle and Margaret. And I was going to say philanthropic. But same difference.”
“That’s an oxymoron," I chime in. Then my cheeks heat.
“Good to know.” Rosalind bobs her head, not unkindly. “Either way, I was unattached, romantically speaking. I am unattached, I mean. Still single, in other words.”
Yes, we get it, Rosalind.
“My focus has been on using my family’s means to make whatever positive impact I can.” Her gaze flicks between Bridger and me. “And Margaret insisted you felt the same.”
“I do,” he says.
Wait. What’s he agreeing with? Being more philanthropic? Or wanting to marry Rosalind?
My heart stutters for a beat until I remind my silly nervous system to take a backseat.
He isn’t Foster.
Bridger deserves your trust.
He deserves everything.