3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Noah
She never noticed me standing in the doorway, watching the exchange between her and my son. I wish I had waited a little longer before making my presence known.
Her laugh was warm and genuine. Just listening to it made me happy, and the little hiccup that escaped her lips made me smile.
Now that she knows I'm here, her laughter fades, and her smile disappears. I ignore the cool reception and approach her with my hand extended.
"Hi, Lily. I'm Noah."
She takes my hand, her warm fingers wrapping around mine. An unexpected urge to kiss her hand flashes through my mind, but I brush it aside and smile, hoping she'll let us start over.
"Hi," she says, smiling. The dimple on her left cheek appears, a reassuring sign of her sincerity.
"I wanted to—" we both say in unison. "No, you go first," we repeat, followed by some awkward laughter.
"Go ahead," she says softly.
"I need to apologize for the way I acted when we first met. There's no excuse for my behavior."
"I'm sorry too," Lily replies softly. "I could have handled it better."
A heavy silence settles in, and we're both at a loss for words.
Davey looks up at us, his curiosity breaking the tension. "Are you two going to be friends now?" he asks innocently.
"Friends?" I ask Lily.
"Yes," she nods with a shy smile.
"You have to shake hands," Davey insists, his eyes wide with excitement.
As our hands meet again, an electric current pulses through me. Is she feeling it too? Our eyes lock, holding each other's gaze a beat too long.
"You can let go now, guys," Davey chirps, snapping us back to reality.
Reluctantly, I release her hand, and we both laugh awkwardly.
What is happening? I feel like a lovestruck teenager. I'm a forty-year-old man, and she's barely an adult. This is madness!
When Sharon enters the room, Lily quickly looks away, and I feel a wave of guilt wash over me, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Jon should be here any minute," Sharon announces, "Davey, would you like to help me set the table?"
"Yeah!" Davey exclaims with enthusiasm.
Dinner is a whirlwind of activity. Jon and Sharon’s family updates fill the room with laughter and chatter. Their three daughters, Katherine, Loren, and Laila, are all married. Katherine and Adam have three kids: Tori, Jon, and baby Adam. Loren and Aaron are expecting twins to join Holly and Peter. That'll soon be seven young kids in the family—eight if you count Davey. Laila is in Boston, finishing her medical residency with her new husband, Sam.
The warmth and love in this house are palpable, yet all I can think about is the woman across the table. Her smile is perfect, and her laugh is infectious. It's the kind of laugh I could listen to for the rest of my life. Not only is she stunning, but she's also intelligent and wise beyond her years. She's sweet and kind, with a natural warmth that draws people in. She loves children and has helped raise most of the Linder kids since they were little, becoming a cherished part of their lives.
"Have you talked to your dad lately?" Jon asks Lily, breaking my reverie.
"I spoke to him two days ago," Lily replies. "He promised to visit this summer."
"Where does he live?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
"He lives in Mérida."
"Mérida, Yucatán?" I say, a hint of excitement in my voice. "I've been there."
"You have?!" Lily asks, her eyes widening in surprise.
"I attended a writer's conference there about six years ago. It's a beautiful city and close to the beach."
"A writer's conference?" Jon's question reminds me Lily and I are not alone.
When I glance at Jon and Sharon, their puzzled expressions also remind me that they have no idea I've changed careers. Little do they know that I wrote half the books in my son's playroom.
"I have a confession to make," I say, watching Jon lean back in his chair and cross his arms while Sharon's eyes fill with curiosity.
"I started writing twelve years ago. What began as a hobby quickly became a passion. When Davey was born, I realized I wanted to be home with him, to witness his first smile and step. So, I quit my career and started writing full-time."
"Are you kidding me?" Jon laughs, unable to hide his surprise. "What do you write?"
"Children's books."
"We have five grandkids under the age of ten," Jon says, "I've never seen anything written by Noah Linder."
"I use a pen name."
"You just paid cash for Mom and Dad's house," he adds, "so I'm assuming you're doing very well as a writer."
"I am."
"What's your pen name?" Sharon asks.
"Shay David," I say.
Recognition lights up on not one but three faces. If my goal was to shock them, I've succeeded.
"Well, I'll be!" Jon exclaims, shaking his head in amazement.
Sharon's eyes well up with tears as she realizes her profound impact on my life. Because of her, choosing a pen name was easy.
Lily is momentarily speechless, and then her eyes widen with realization.
"I love your books!" she exclaims. "How you wrote each series to captivate audiences from toddlers to teens is absolutely brilliant. You've touched so many lives, including mine. I bought them for Aaron's daughter when I started babysitting her in Boston and as gifts for the rest of the kids. They're in Davey's playroom!"
"I know," I smile, "I saw them in there last night. Thank you." Is that admiration I see reflected in her sapphire eyes?
"Did Mom and Dad know?" Jon asks, a touch of melancholy settling in his gaze.
"Yes, they both knew."
"Why didn't you tell us?" Sharon asks, her tone free of criticism.
"It was a hobby for a long time before it became something worth mentioning," I assure them. "And when I quit my job, not even I was convinced that my crazy endeavor would succeed. I guess I didn't want you to know just in case I failed. Especially because I had invested everything into something that wasn't a sure thing."
"I can't wait to tell the girls!" Sharon's excitement puts me at ease about not telling them sooner.
When we get ready to leave, we all walk out together. Jon's arm is around Sharon, just like it's been for the last thirty-three years.
I walk Lily to her car. Before she climbs in, she glances up, meeting my gaze.
"Watch out for ducks," she teases.
"And other wildlife," I add.
"Try not to rear-end me."
"Try not to brake suddenly."
"I'll always brake for ducks."
"Then I should give you a five-minute head start."
"Daddy, can we watch Toy Story when we get home?" my son asks.
"Yes, Buddy, we can," I reply, still looking at Lily. "Thank you for the mural. It's perfect."
"You're welcome," she says. "Good night, Noah."
"Good night," I smile and watch her drive away.
When I turn around, Jon is still standing by the door, his expression unreadable, but I don't have to wait long to hear his thoughts.
"Noah, Lily is family," he says, his voice steady but carrying a weight of unspoken meaning.
"Yeah," I respond, my tone firm. "You've mentioned that. No need to remind me."
***
After kissing my son goodnight, I head to the office to write. My thoughts drift back to what Lily mentioned during dinner—she's read my books. I wrote those stories as an adult, and she read them as a child. There's an eighteen-year difference that feels like a deep chasm, a gap as wide as a lifetime, enough for someone to grow up and vote. I've created something in my mind that reality can't match.
A knock on the door makes my heart skip a beat—I know it's her. I glance at my watch. It's nine o'clock.
"Hi," I say, opening the door. She's holding one of my books.
"Would you be willing to autograph your book for me?" she asks, her voice full of hope.
"Are you serious?" I ask, a mix of surprise and curiosity in my tone.
She nods and hands me the book.
"This is the first book I ever wrote," I say, tracing the cover with my fingers.
"I know. I read it when I was twelve."
My heart plunges into that eighteen-year chasm between us.
Instead of signing the book and sending her on her way, I invite her in.
"I just made a pot of coffee," I say. "Would you care to join me?"
I open the door wider, and she steps inside. The fresh, captivating scent of her perfume makes me inhale deeply—I never want to forget it. White lilies.
When I head in the opposite direction of the kitchen, she asks, "Where are you going?"
"I set up a coffee bar in the office," I explain. "I was planning to work for a few hours tonight, so I made a pot of coffee in there."
She follows me into the office, and I motion for her to sit in one of the two leather armchairs.
"How do you take your coffee?" I ask.
"With creamer, no sugar. What about you?"
"Black."
I hand her the cup, and she wraps her fingers around it, blowing into it before taking a sip.
When I realize I'm staring, I turn away and sit at my desk.
"What would you like me to write?" I ask, opening the book to the title page.
She puts the cup on the saucer and sets it down on the coffee table. "Why don't you decide?"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Anything you say will be fine."
I write a few words using my best penmanship and sign it. Her eyes linger on mine when I hand the book back to her. I can't look away. I'm mesmerized by her eyes, her beauty, her scent.
"Thank you," she says without opening the book to read what I wrote.
"Good night," she adds, standing up.
"I'll walk you to the door."
At the door, she turns around and says, "Thanks again for the autograph. I never imagined meeting one of my favorite childhood authors."
"You're welcome," I say before watching her walk across the lawn.
Her compliment only serves to remind me of the lifetime that separates us.
***
For the next few days, I juggle my time between entertaining Davey and writing. I wake up at the crack of dawn, typing away for a few precious hours before he wakes up. After that, my focus shifts entirely to him until bedtime, after which I return to my manuscript for a couple more hours. Jon and Sharon kindly offered to watch him for a few hours each day, but they're leaving soon. With my book due in six weeks, I know I'll need a better plan.
Today, Davey and I spend the morning wandering through the multiple booths at the farmers market, filling our basket with fresh bread, creamy cheeses, and an array of colorful fruits and vegetables. When we return home, Davey kicks off his shoes and promptly dozes off on the couch, looking peaceful and content.
Our tenant, however, has been a bit of a mystery. Since the night she asked me for my autograph, we've only exchanged brief "good mornings" in passing. She did drop off her rent check yesterday, but otherwise, she's been keeping to herself. The house feels quieter than it should, almost as if it's holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to break the silence.
I'm putting the groceries away in the kitchen when a soft knock on the back door catches my attention.
"Hi!" Lily's bright voice and beautiful face greet me when I open the door.
"Hi, Lily. How are you?"
"I'm doing well, thank you. Can I come in?"
"Yes, of course," I say, stepping aside to let her in. As she walks by, I catch a whiff of her perfume, a scent that seems to carry memories with it. I glance at her, feeling like she can read my thoughts.
"What?" she asks, her blue eyes searching mine.
"Nothing," I lie, trying to play it cool.
She tilts her head, lifting an eyebrow.
"You smell like white lilies," I confess.
Her smile widens. "Oh my gosh! How do you know that?"
"When I was a little boy, I used to garden with Sharon. She and Jon lived in the guesthouse for almost a year after they got married, waiting for their house to be built. They moved out right before Katherine was born. We spent a lot of time gardening, and I loved planting white lilies because they smell like heaven."
"Wow," she says, looking away, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm sorry. That wasn't appropriate."
"No, I don't mind," she smiles, a soft, genuine smile that reaches her eyes. "I'm just speechless."
"Still, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"It's okay to say exactly what you're thinking," she says, her blue eyes locking onto mine.
She changes the subject, but the warmth of her smile lingers. "I was at Just In Clay today, talking to the manager, when Sharon stopped by."
"Okay," I say, leaning casually against the doorway and folding my arms.
"You remind me so much of Jon," she says, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
"How so?"
"He has the same habit of leaning against surfaces, doorways, and walls just like you do."
I chuckle, feeling a warm connection to the men in my family. "My father did it, too. It must be in our genes. We do it so subconsciously that we don't even realize we're doing it."
"Where's Davey?" she asks.
"He's napping. I was about to fix lunch."
"Can we sit?" she asks, her voice gentle.
"I'm so sorry," I say, feeling like an idiot for not inviting her to sit earlier. "Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?"
"What do you have?"
I walk to the refrigerator and open it. "Right now, we have water."
"Hmm," she laughs, a light, musical sound that makes my heart skip a beat. "I think I'll have some water."
"I'm sorry. I did buy fresh lemons to make lemonade."
"Let me help you make it, and then we can have some together."
She's already so familiar with the house's layout. I watch her effortlessly find a pitcher, a measuring cup, and a saucepan. She walks into the pantry and comes out carrying sugar.
"Can you juice four to six lemons?" she asks, setting the sugar on the counter. "Enough to make a cup."
"Yes, ma'am." I take the cutting board and start slicing the lemons in half.
She stands over the stove, making simple syrup in a saucepan using a cup of water and a cup of sugar. Standing next to her, I feel a nervous excitement. She smells amazing, a mix of fresh flowers and something uniquely her.
"Can I ask you a question?" she asks, glancing at me.
"Yeah, what is it?" I ask, my heart racing. If she asks me if I want to kiss her, she will have read my mind. The idea is both thrilling and absurd. Get a grip, man! I chastise myself silently.
"Why did you get a divorce?"
Her question hits me like a punch to the gut . Why on earth would she want to know?
"Now I'm the one who's sorry," she says quickly, her face flushing. "Never mind. I'm sorry. That was inappropriate."
She picks up the saucepan and pours the simple syrup into the pitcher. I hand her the measuring cup with the lemon juice, and she adds it to the mix, stirring the concoction with a large spoon.
I walk to the refrigerator, grabbing some ice and cold water, my mind whirling. Can I really open up to this young woman?
I fill the pitcher with ice and water and stir it. Then Lily adds a few slices of lemon.
"Forget I asked," she murmurs, shaking her head.
"Lily," I say gently, "it's okay. I'm just surprised you don't know. Jon and Sharon know the whole story."
"I may be like family," she says softly, "but I'm not. There are things they would never tell me, and I would never ask. I'm embarrassed that I asked you something so personal."
"It's not a secret," I say, my voice steady.
When she looks up at me, I feel an overwhelming urge to tell her everything—not just the sordid story of the end of my marriage but also how beautiful she is and how her eyes captivate me in ways I never expected.
"When my mother got sick," I begin, "I returned to the States to care for her. Davey was just a baby, so Marian stayed with him in Japan. I was here for almost four months. After Mom died, I went back to Japan and found my wife was two months pregnant—with another man's baby."
The look on Lily's face is pure shock, her eyes wide as she absorbs my words.
Her blue gaze locks onto mine. "Why would anyone ever cheat on someone as—" She stops mid-sentence, leaving me hanging on her unfinished thought.
"It's okay to say exactly what you're thinking," I say gently, my heart pounding in anticipation.
"Why would anyone cheat on someone as cool as you?" she smiles shyly.
"You think I'm cool?" I ask, feeling the weight of our huge age gap in that one word.
"Yeah," she says. "You're a great dad, a good brother, a gifted writer."
"Please, don't stop," I laugh, the tension easing. "You're on a roll."
She laughs, throwing her head back. It's a loud, contagious, amazing laugh—a sound I could listen to until the end of time.
"And funny," she says, pausing just long enough to add, "You make me laugh."
I make her laugh, and she makes me believe I could fall in love again.
Just not with her .