Chapter 11
eleven
JORDAN
Three weeks and one day until I find out if Sam Granger is right and my marriage to Marilee is indeed “pointless,” as she so aptly put it yesterday.
But who’s counting?
Standing at my desk, tucked away in the back corner of Go Round Adventures, I check the clock on my laptop again for the thousandth time. Just a few more minutes until I head out to pick up Marilee for a pre-lunch meeting with my attorney to go over the case and any prep work we need to do ahead of time. I just want the whole thing over with. I just want peace.
Not that I can get much peace with Marilee as my wife.
Thankfully, work has kept me busy this morning. I run a small operation here, only hiring a few other employees to lead day trips and run summer camps for kids but saving most of the overnight tours for myself. This puts extra burden on me, but when Georgia was alive, I simply scheduled around the weekends when she had Ryder. Now that Georgia’s gone, it’s putting a burden on my loved ones for me to work these long hours, but I’m not sure I have the funds to hire someone else. Maybe I should try to figure it out though.
The problem is the overnight tours are my most lucrative—and I do love them. Getting lost in nature, tuning out the rest of the world, immersing myself in the adventure of it all… Those are my favorite things. Even better when I can convince a few friends to come along.
And now, thanks to Chloe and her connection with Mitchell McGraff, I may have a new opportunity to woo customers who are willing to pay more for a high-end experience. More money per tour would be a boon that might help me be home more with my family.
Breathing out, I shoot off the email to Mitchell that I’ve been working on all morning and shut my laptop, stretching out my lower back, which still aches from the odd angle I slept at last night. Because despite my agreement to share a room with Marilee, when I finally got around to going to bed last night—she had hit the hay two hours before, thanks to having the early shift at work today—it just didn’t feel right to climb in beside her without her being awake to acknowledge she was still one thousand percent okay with it.
So I slept in an old wooden kitchen chair shoved in the corner of my room instead.
Ouch.
Grabbing my keys, wallet, and phone, I leave my cozy den, which consists of a standing desk and portable treadmill, a huge window overlooking the forested hill behind my shop, and framed sports memorabilia on the walls, including a baseball signed by famed Padres pitcher Randy Jones. I shut my door behind me and step into the small yellow lobby, where there’s a couple of sofas for people waiting for tours, a wall of rental equipment for the beach, and lots of eclectic pictures of past tour groups.
People clinging to zip lines as they fly over Pinot Noir vineyards and companion oaks, throwing their hands in the air through the open-air top of a dune buggy flying down the beach, popping their heads out of tiny tents they hauled through the forest themselves in the rain.
All smiling. All having the time of their lives.
Seeking the thrill, the adventure in the mundane.
And I get to foster that.
Man, I love my job. I just wish that the busy life it results in wasn’t the main reason I’m going to court over the custody of my son.
“Everything okay, boss?”
I turn to find Mandy sitting atop the green stool behind the counter-height desk in the center of the room. The brunette—who is a former basketball player, sturdy and easily almost six feet tall—loves the outdoors as much as I do. About five years my junior, she’s been with my company for the last two years, first working with her sister Sarah as camp counselors one summer. Now, she doubles as a tour guide and my office assistant.
“Yep. Just gotta head out for that appointment I told you about.”
“Sounds good. I’ll hold down the fort here.” She tilts her head, and her ponytail falls over one shoulder. “So this email you copied me on just a minute ago… Who is this Mitchell guy?”
I shove my phone and wallet into the right pocket of my joggers and join Mandy at the desk. “Essentially, he owns a gussied-up camping site with incredible views near the foothills of the Santa Lucia Mountains. He’s interested in partnering with us to get some tours up there at a discounted rate.”
“Ooo, that might bring in a different clientele than we’re used to. Expand the business.” She shoots finger guns at me and winks. “Great idea, boss.”
“Ha. That’s the idea. Chloe vouches for him, so I’ve got a lot of confidence things could work out.”
“But your email says you want to see the site before agreeing to anything.”
“You know I don’t do business with anyplace I haven’t visited myself. That’s disaster waiting to happen. I want to be sure it’s perfect for our needs.”
“Good point.” She pulls up our Google calendar on her computer. “After he responds, do you want me to reach out to him with dates that work for you? How about Valentine’s weekend? Doesn’t look like any tours on the calendar then.”
That’s the weekend before our court date, but maybe it would be nice to get away from the pressure and stress. “I might not be able to make it, but why don’t you see if that weekend or the following would work for him?”
“Will do.” She clicks around before shooting me a sly look. “Will Marilee be going with you? You two didn’t take a honeymoon, right? This would be the perfect opportunity to get away for a romantic weekend.”
I groan internally. Like I need a romantic setting between us right now—because yeah, despite our talk yesterday, I can’t get the kiss out of my brain. “I’m not sure she’ll be available.”
“All right.” Mandy’s eyebrows lift but she doesn’t say anything more about it. “Just leave this with me. I’ll get it all arranged with Mr. McGraff.”
“Thanks. I’m off for my meeting with the attorney but will be back in once it’s done.”
“Good luck.” She gives me a wave, and I’m out the door, driving the short distance to The Blackberry Muffin, where Marilee has been working since four a.m. She’s got to be exhausted after taking care of Ryder and Scarlett all day yesterday, but at least she was completely out cold last night when I slunk into the bedroom, so I know she got some good sleep.
I pull up beside the building with the blue-and-white-striped awning, a brown bench in front of the large picture window through which I can see yellow tables sprinkled with customers. Marilee is behind the pastry counter chatting with Marla, a grandmotherly-type with round cheeks and a graying bun. She looks like Mrs. Claus minus the red dress.
They appear to be deep in discussion, so I lean back against the passenger side of my truck as I wait for Lee to join me. As if sensing me, she glances up and waves, holding up a pointer finger. I flash her a thumbs up before crossing my arms over my chest.
Hallmark Beach at the end of January isn’t overly crowded with tourists, but the locals are out and about like usual—strolling along Main Street with Styrofoam containers from The Green Robin, walking their dogs and letting them stop to sniff the base of the wrought-iron black lampposts, and sitting on benches enjoying the sun that’s burned away the clouds from this morning.
Just another day in this paradise we call home.
The front door of Al’s Grocery pops open, and a young woman steps through holding two large paper bags. I can’t see her face, but she’s about to trip over a flower display, so I hop over to help. “Watch out.” I steady the bags from my side and ease one out of the woman’s arms.
Big, brown eyes greet from the other side. I smile at Amy Montrose. “Need some help?”
“Oh. Hi, Jordan.” Her cheeks grow red. “Um, thank you. Tommy ran out of almond milk and a few other supplies and asked me to refresh our stock before the lunch rush.” She nudges her chin toward The White Mocha. “Would you mind helping me get these into the kitchen?”
I glance back at the front door of the bakery, but Marilee’s still not out here. “Sure.” I follow Amy around the back and stop abruptly in front of the door while she fetches her key from the pocket of her jeans. I catch a whiff of lavender off her hair, which is just under my nose.
She glances up at me as she swings the door open, the brown paper bag on one hip. “Sorry to inconvenience you. Waiting for Marilee?” Something in her tone sounds wistful.
“Yeah.”
“Hmm.” Amy leads me through a hallway and into a bright kitchen with white cabinets and a gleaming marble-topped island spread with a few dirty mugs and baking supplies. She clears a spot and sets her bag down. “Thank you for your help.”
I plop mine beside hers. “No problem. Glad to help.” Turning to leave, I blink at Amy when she follows me.
“Sorry, I left one more bag at the register with Alberta.”
“I could have carried it.”
She bites her lip. “Yeah, I was flustered, I guess. At the heavy load, I mean. Didn’t think about it.”
We both exit and take the walkway in between the bakery and coffee shop. As she walks beside me, Amy tugs on the end of her braid. “I haven’t seen you to offer my congratulations, but um, well…congrats. On your marriage.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
We stop near the front of Al’s. She turns to me, squinting upward. “I always kind of wondered if the two of you were more than friends.” And is it just me, or does she emit a tiny sigh? “But I’m so glad for you, that you found each other.”
“Thanks, Amy.” I reach out and squeeze her elbow.
Her face brightens, then reddens again as she takes a step backward. “I’d better go get that other bag, or Alberta’s going to give it away to charity. I’ll see you around, Jordan.” Then she ducks back into the store and disappears.
When I swivel back to my truck, Marilee’s standing there, watching me. No smile, no real reaction. The woman just looks exhausted, like I knew she probably would be.
I approach and can’t help but reach out my thumb, swiping underneath her glasses, where tinges of dark rim her eyes. “You look tired.”
She seems to snap back from whatever world she’d retreated to in her mind. “Thanks, Jay. Just what every girl wants to hear.” Again, no smile.
Oops. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I know.” She waves it off as she pulls open the door and climbs inside.
I round the truck and get in beside her, turning on the ignition and pointing my vehicle toward San Luis Obispo. We’re running a few minutes late, but I can make it up on the highway.
Marilee fiddles with her wedding band, spinning it round and round her finger.
“You know”—I say, tapping my thumbs to the beat of some country song that’s popped on the radio, set at such a low volume I can’t discern more than that—“if you decide to start your own cake decorating business, you could set your own hours. Aren’t you sick of the early mornings? You used to be such a night owl.”
“I was.” She straightens. “But things change. We adapt as we need to.”
There’s something serious in her voice. I give her a sharp look before redirecting my attention to the road. “What’s going on, Lee?”
After a few long moments, she finally answers me. “I’ve thought a lot about it, weighed all the options in my head. And yes, I do love decorating cakes?—”
“Love seems rather a weak word to describe the joy that seeps from your very pores when you’re doing it, but go on.”
“Okay, Mr. Dramatic.” She huffs a laugh, but I can tell there’s something staid in it. Marilee is definitely in her head about something. “Yes, I love it, but I’m afraid it won’t always pay the bills.”
“Won’t know unless you try. Go part time at the bakery. Heck, quit the bakery altogether. I make enough for us to live on for the next year. Spend time focusing on you, Lee. On your dreams.”
“It’s just not practical. Marla’s got a solid business plan that’s been working for her for thirty years. It’s so seamless, even I can’t mess it up.”
“I hate it when you talk about my best friend that way.” I try for a tease, but apparently, it falls flat, because it doesn’t so much as lift the corners of her beautiful mouth.
“The fact is, we won’t be married forever.”
Geez, Lee, shoot me in the heart. “No, but?—”
“And so if I quit the bakery and try to start my own thing, there’s no guarantee whoever does buy the bakery will hire me back. And then where does that leave me? There isn’t anything else I’m good at, nothing else I’d want to do for a job. Even selling the house to Blake and Lucy wouldn’t make me enough money to live on indefinitely. I’d either have to do something I hated or move. And I’m not moving.”
“Hey.” I reach for her hand, and after a few moments, she gives it to me. I loop our fingers together and give her what I hope is a friendly squeeze. “You’re basing your entire decision on what might happen. On the predication that you’re going to fail. But what if you don’t fail? What if instead, you fly?”
Marilee’s hand trembles in mine before she pulls it away and tucks it into her lap. “It’s hard to fly with a broken wing.” Her words are soft, but they break me all the same. I want to pull this truck over to the side of the road. Want to grab her gently by the shoulders and wrap her into the tightest hug, to shelter her from all the doubts and worries and lies that life has thrown at her, from all the arrows being flung her way.
But they’re coming from inside of her, and I don’t know how to stop them. I don’t know how to heal her. Probably, I can’t. All I can do is reassure her that her brokenness doesn’t scare me. That we’re all a little broken, but that healing is possible.
Before I can find the words, she continues. “A few minutes ago, I told Marla I wanted to buy the bakery. All I need from you is to cosign the loan, but I will make sure I don’t ever miss a payment.” She blows out a breath. “I’m going to establish a life for myself, one that doesn’t require anyone else to rescue me.”
One that doesn’t require any risk on her part, she means. That doesn’t require her to ask anyone else to step into that risk with her. If only she knew that, if I could, I’d grab her hand and leap in with her head first, no questions asked.
Because that’s what love does.
But love also has to let go. And maybe that’s what I’m supposed to do. Maybe that’s how I can love Marilee best.
I just wish I knew one way or the other.