Chapter 44
Forty-Four
burgeon (v.): to grow or develop quickly
I never loved the saying “Never say never.” But it’s a life motto I might have to consider adopting.
Case in point: Here I am, participating in trivia night, of all the ridiculous things, and my teammates are an eclectic bunch of townies from a writers group I was dead set against joining.
Chase has ditched me to play on Dot and Tony’s team. While nothing in the food carts would tempt my son to eat, I’m not worried. He brought an avocado from home.
Meanwhile, as I carry my dinner basket to Team Charity Falls Writing Society’s picnic table, it’s possible I’ve never been more excited about a dining experience.
Cilantro wafts from my dos tacos from Rigo’s, and I have to hand it to Ian, the creative genius who proposed this field trip.
For bonding purposes, he said. Because “creativity thrives when we give ourselves opportunity to play.”
I’m fairly sure Sunny is enjoying her wood-fired Margherita pizza. It’s hard to tell, but she’s certainly approaching it with gusto. I settle in next to her.
Dot’s been clocking me and Wyatt all night, shooting over-the-top winks with great regularity.
I can play it cool. Although if I keep stealing glances at Wyatt’s laughing eyes or that darn dimple, I’ll be done here. Worthless.
I’ve never had a poker face.
The deep-voiced guy calling out the trivia questions is dressed to the nines like a retired Grand Ole Opry legend. Black Stetson. Embroidered black sport coat. Crisp white shirt accessorized by one of those fancy cowboy neck cord thingies.
“Next question,” he bellows into the microphone. “What are the names of Prince Charles’s five grandchildren? And . . . go!”
Country music resumes at full volume while the clock ticks. It’s the final round, and our team sits dead last. The only one in our group who’s at all up on pop culture is Billie, and she’s becoming more and more useless by the minute, no thanks to a second glass of wine.
Ian acts as team captain, cheerleading and recording our answers. “Wyatt. Lucy. Can either of you help? The five royal children. So far we have Charlotte and George. I may be an embarrassment to my home country, but that’s all I know.”
Unlike Ian, Wyatt, I’m learning, isn’t super competitive. “Hold on,” he says. “These tacos deserve a moment.”
“Mmm. Right?” I say. Who cares if there’s taco juice dripping down my hand?
Wyatt holds out his taco, and I clink it with mine.
Nytasha’s brow furrows. I can see her wheels turning, analyzing the energy zipping between me and Wyatt.
“Oh, wait!” I say. Thanks to Dot’s passionate tutelage about all things British royal family, I may actually know this one.
“Thirty seconds!” barks the George Strait guy.
Ian leans toward me, pencil at the ready. “Whatcha got, Lucy? Hurry.”
“Okay, okay. Let’s see. Harry and Megan have two. The boy is Archie. Write that down.”
“Got it. Good. We only need two more.”
“The girl has a pretty name. Lilly? Lillian? No.” C’mon, brain. “Lilibet!”
Ian writes quickly.
This is way too stressful. “Okay, and it’s the other prince that has three kids, and the little one is . . . Ah! Fiddlesticks. I’m sorry, I don’t think I—”
Ian slaps a hand to his forehead. “Wait! I do know this! How could I forget? Louis!”
I don’t know why I’ve always avoided this kind of thing. Fear of making a fool of myself? Who really cares?
Also, who knew that spending time with these people I’ve come to know and accidentally bonded with over a common goal would be such a charming way to spend an evening?
George Strait’s voice reverberates through the frigid October night. “Bonus question! Triple points! Ready? Here it is. How many Star Trek movies are there to date?”
Wyatt slaps the table, throws his head back, and whoops. “I can’t believe I know this!”
“Take it away, Wyatt,” I say, laughing.
It’s not enough to propel us out of last place, but as I look around the table, I’m struck with a deep sense of peace and belonging. Writers are weird. But we’re anything but losers.
On their way out, Tony and Dot stop by our table.
“What’s this I hear from Chase?” Dot says. “Your parents are moving back to Oregon?”
“It’ll be a process. Dad’s working on selling his business. But yeah, can you believe it? They’ve still got Nana’s house in Salem, and lots of family on Dad’s side there. And good old friends.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t hurt the cause that they’ll be in driving distance of you and Mister Man.”
I’m sure too. The thought of being back in my parents’ proximity warms me through. “Mom and I will be able to work more closely together on this new book of hers. Dot, this project has got its hooks in me. I’ve been writing a ton.”
“Attagirl. Well, your son sure seems excited. And speaking as someone who just found out she’s going to be a grandma, I’m so happy for—”
I explode into a grin. “What? Dot! Congratulations! Gah. You’re going to make the best grandma.”
She giggles. “Aw, thanks. Yep, Grandma Dottie. Does that sound too unhinged? Hey, what say Tony and I drive Chase home and give you a little, you know, time?” She smiles her juiciest, peachiest smile at Wyatt, leaving no doubt as to her meaning.
Wyatt’s smile starts in his eyes, and here comes that sensation of helium beneath my ribs again.
I cock my head at her. “Oh, I don’t know if—”
Chase suddenly stands between us, crowding me. “Mom, can Tony and Dot come over for a little while?”
I look between him and Dot. “Mm-hmm, I see what’s happening here.”
She side-hugs me. “Well. It’s just nice to see you’re bouncing back.”
I give one of Dot’s pigtails a tug. “It’s not my first rainy-bow.”
***
Giving our writers group the slip, Wyatt and I stroll downtown.
There’s a bluish haze over the mountains and a misty halo around each of the old-fashioned streetlamps that portends rain. Perhaps even an early snow flurry? I snug my jacket collar closer.
Wyatt draws to a stop and stands facing me in a pool of soft, diffused light.
Over his shoulder I spy the lone yellow larch two streets away, rising pale and luminescent in the mist, and I’m carried back to the day it first caught my eye.
The day this man before me, now sliding his warm fingers through mine, showed up at the Trading Post instead of Ian.
The day he didn’t squirm away when he learned about Chase.
Was that the day I fell in love?
Gratitude warms me from the inside out. And wonder. For the one tiny uncomfortable yes that kept me in my chair, sipping Amy Carmichael’s words with my tea. A writer who leveraged yeses of all sizes for purposes greater than herself and more gratifying than seeking her own comfort.
“You know,” I say, “C. S. Lewis suggested that comfort is the one thing we can’t get by looking for it.”
Wyatt lifts my hands to his lips. “Sounds about right.” Ever so gently, he kisses the backs of my fingers.
They probably smell like cotija cheese, but whatever.
“What if I told you I threw the spelling bee?” His voice is a low rumble. “Let you win?”
“I’d say you better be lying, mister, or my entire life is a sham.”
“All right. Then, what if told you I had such a big crush on you that I choked?”
“Now I know you’re punkin’ me. No one had a crush on me in middle school.”
“How would you even know whether anyone was crushing on you?”
“Never once was I asked to a school dance.”
“Pshaw. Teenage boys don’t know how to ask.”
“Are you making this up? You’re making this up.”
“That there, ma’am, is confidential police business. But I might be persuaded to kiss and tell.”
I don’t kid myself. Stubby nails and skimpy curves don’t make for a classic temptress. But with Wyatt I feel beautiful. Desirable. Admired for the real me—quirks, blunders, and all.
He leans down. Places slow, tender kisses on my lips. My forehead. My temple.
I’m enveloped in his light woodsy scent.
Wyatt looks at me in that all-seeing way. That’s what it is—he sees me.
“You know,” I say, “it’s too bad you moved after seventh grade.”
“And why is that?”
“We could’ve been academic rivals all through school, like Anne Shirley and Gilbert Blythe, from—”
“I know the reference.”
I grin. “Right.”
“Sisters,” we both say.
I tuck my hands in his coat pockets. “Anyway, we missed out on the whole enemies-to-lovers trope.”
“Would you say they were enemies? Seems like he just waited for Anne to love him.”
“Meanwhile, she was unkind to him. That always frustrated me.”
He leans close, his breath brushing against my hair. “Would you have tormented me, Luce? I mean, if, say, I’d been Gilbert.”
My mouth forms a coy smile. Exhilaration zings around in my chest at the mere suggestion that this man, with his strong arms and his poetic soul and his penchant for deep conversation, this man who is so deftly chipping away at my jaded attitude about love just by being his wonderful self, might be my Gilbert Blythe.
Wyatt puts a finger to my lips. “Don’t answer that.
Either way,” he says thickly, “I would have waited for you.” He rests his forehead against mine, and when our eyes lock, all sense of time and place falls away.
The intensity and openness of his gaze feel like an open window, inviting me to a private showing of his heart.
And what I see there compels me for the first time in what feels like forever to draw back the curtain and fling wide the window to my own.
“I will wait for you, Lucy Montgomery. I think I’ve been waiting for you all my life.”
“Maybe you don’t have to. Maybe I’m readier than I knew.”
We resume walking. The sidewalks are empty, the streets mostly quiet. When Wyatt stops again, we’re across the street from my favorite tea and used bookstore. There’s a warm yellow glow in the window now decorated with piles of crunchy-looking maple leaves.
“Here we are. Home of the illustrious Sweet Reads Writing Society,” I say.
“The exalted Sweet Reads Writing Society.”
“The distinguished Sweet Reads Writing Society.”
“Word nerd,” he teases. “Hey, Lucy, really, though. I’m so proud of how much you’ve accomplished since we began. Excited for this book project with your mom. Does it scare you?”
“Yes. If I’m honest, it does a little.”
“Maybe that’s because it matters to you.”
I think about this for a beat. “Maybe that’s why I so quickly ran away from what you and I had begun. Because it matters so much.”
Wyatt leads me to a bench, and we huddle together, pretending it isn’t miserably cold.
“You know, this part of town reminds me . . . did I ever tell you that on my first day out on bike patrol, I thought my biking days were numbered?”
A mental warning light flashes yellow. “Mmm, no. I don’t think so.”
“You’ll never believe this, but I was coming along Pine—well, actually, right there.” Wyatt gestures to the street in front of us. “And lo and behold, someone nearly smacked into me.”
“Someone . . .” My warning light flickers to orange.
“A woman. On foot.” He looks me up and down. “Matter of fact, she was about your build. Same hair color, too, I’m pretty sure.”
Red light. I feel the tips of my ears go hot. “Wyatt Hayes, you knew all along!”
“What did I know? Is this some kind of confession?”
“That depends. How serious of a crime is jaywalking?”
“Great question. Very pertinent. In the state of Oregon, jaywalking is considered a discretionary infraction.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning officers may use their discretion about issuing a citation.”
“Lieutenant Hayes, fess up right now. Did you—”
“Next round, spelling bee. Your word is . . . misdemeanor.”
My hand slides to my hip. “Ahh! You did.”
“Not quite sure what you’re referring to. You’ll have to spell it out for me.”
“Whatever. Write me a citation. Fine me. Get it over with.” I press a kiss to his chin, his lips. “You’re worth it.”
Wyatt’s eyes spark. “I’m the guilty one. Guilty of falling in love with you, Lucy Montgomery.”
For a time we stay like this, contentedly cocooned.
“What if . . . what if it’s hard?” I say into his warm neck.
He answers without hesitation. “Hard doesn’t scare me.”
I feel the rumble of his words as much as hear them.
“What if I . . . ? What if we . . . ?”
“Hey, hey, hey,” he croons, brushing strands of hair off my face. “Look at me, Luce.”
I seek Wyatt’s eyes with mine and find intensity there. But also an amber ocean of infinite tenderness.
He cups my chin. “What if it’s wonderful?”