22. Jessica
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Friday afternoon,I’m sitting in the reception area of Troy’s sparsely decorated but very masculine company office, filling in the order form for the screws and nails Troy requested. Bailey snores softly by my feet. The flowers in the vase Troy left on the coffee table Wednesday morning are still fresh and beautiful and remind me that he loves me.
God, how different my life would have been if Anne hadn’t offered her great-aunt’s house for me to stay in while I recovered from my past. For one, I wouldn’t have a boyfriend—a sweet and loving boyfriend.
The phone rings, and I answer it, my smile directed at the flowers.
“Carson Construction. How may I help you?” My fingers are poised over the keyboard, ready to type a message for Troy if needed.
No one responds, but the deep even breaths of the other person come loud and clear through the phone line.
“Hello?” My voice is a little louder this time in case they haven’t realized I’ve answered the phone.
Still nothing but breathing.
“Can I help you?” Impatience weaves through my tone but is held in check with the need to be polite. It might not be a crank call.
Again, I’m only met by deep even breaths. Whatever. I hang up. It’s probably some bored teens who randomly dialed this number.
I complete the hardware order, power off the computer, and head out for the day. “I just have to get a few things from the grocery store first,” I tell Bailey as we walk to the front entrance of the building where my bike and trailer are locked up. “And then we can go home.”
At the store, I decide to play a game. I’m writing about Angelique’s time in occupied France; maybe I should try getting into her headspace and catalog people’s appearances like she did. It can’t hurt.
A woman walks toward me, carrying a basket. She’s about thirty-five, my height, and very curvy. Her wavy hair is a brassy blond, but based on her dark roots, it’s not her natural shade. Her eyes are large, chocolate brown, and pretty. Her nose has a small bump on the bridge.
She walks past me before I can catalog anything else unique about her.
I head for the produce section and quickly select a couple of ripe peaches. I put them in my basket and look up. Olivia is inspecting the lettuce display while Nova is sitting in the seat of their shopping cart and cuddling her bunny.
A pang of longing hits me hard in the chest. I used to love taking Amelia grocery shopping and turning the trip into a scavenger hunt. I would cut out pictures of things we needed to buy, like bananas and grapes, and Amelia would help me find them.
I push the memory aside and walk to the lettuce display. “Hi, Olivia. Hi, Nova!” My heart squeezes at seeing the sweet little girl. Squeezes in both a happy and painful way. God, she reminds me so much of Amelia at that age.
Olivia’s gaze makes contact with mine, and her eyes widen. It only lasts a nanosecond, but it’s long enough for me to notice. “Uh. Hi.”
“Hi!” Nova says, a big grin on her cute face. She peers down at Bailey by my side with her Service Dog in Training vest on. “Hi, doggy!”
Olivia scans the produce section, her gaze failing to find mine again.
An uncomfortable sensation squirms in my stomach. “How’s it going?” Uncertainty and worry twist my tone into something strained and high-pitched.
Olivia clears her throat, her attention on her daughter. “Fine.” She’s even twitcher than I used to be around Noah—before I realized he really is a good guy. “I should go now. It’s…it’s almost Nova’s nap time.”
At 5:00 p.m.?
Olivia hurries away, not giving me a second glance.
Weird. Does her behavior have something to do with Troy—and how she likes him as more than a friend?
I swallow at the other possibility. The scarier one. Cora. Cora is Olivia’s sister. She’s the one who wrote the article that mentioned I’m living under an assumed name in a small mountainous town in Oregon. She would have told Olivia about my old identity.
I haven’t seen Cora since the article was published. Thank God for that. I don’t need her writing another article about me. An article that could destroy everything I’ve worked hard to rebuild.
My eyes make contact with a pair of narrowed ones belonging to a man I don’t recognize. I quickly catalog his features—continuing my earlier game. Except this time it feels less like a game. Short black hair with the peppering of graying strands. Thin lips, well-shaped nose. Tanned skin that gives him a rugged appearance. Jeans and a faded navy-blue T-shirt.
In a way, he reminds me of Lincoln, my late husband’s younger brother.
I drop my gaze like an ostrich burying its head in the ground, hoping no one will notice it. I hurry around the store, collecting the rest of the items I came for, and pay for them.
I quickly load the groceries into the basket on the front of my bike and pedal home, feeling more exposed than when the article hit the newspaper twelve days ago.
Stop it. I’m letting my past traumas play tricks with my mind. That’s all. That man probably wasn’t looking at me. And Olivia’s in love with Troy, which is why she was acting weird. I’m overanalyzing things and coming to the wrong conclusion because of my fear and paranoia.
Robyn would agree I’ve got to stop doing that. I’ll never get better if I let the mind games win. And that means I’ll never get to see Amelia again.
* * *
The following morning,Troy’s warm body stirs next to me in my bed and pulls me from my dream.
He kisses my shoulder. “I wish I didn’t have to leave yet,” he murmurs on my skin. His hand slips under the covers and rests on my stomach, his palm flat, his fingers spread out. “But Garrett and Kellan will kill me if I’m late because I’m making love to my girlfriend.”
I laugh softly, the sleepy sound tickling deep in my chest. “Lucas won’t kill you?”
“I’m sure he’s still in bed making love to Simone. So let him face Garrett and Kellan’s ire instead of me this time.”
My laugh comes out louder than before and takes the form of a giggle. “Were they really that mad last Saturday when you were a few minutes late?” The early morning sex that made him tardy was definitely worth it from where I’d stood.
Troy’s finger taps a rhythmic pattern on my bare hip. The Morse code for ILU. Tap-tap. Tap-taaap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-taaap. “Of course. Can’t say I blame them, though. I’d be grumpy too if I didn’t have a beautiful woman in my bed to wake up to.” He kisses me on the lips, not giving me a chance to remind him that I’m not in his bed every night.
It’s a quick kiss because we both know we can’t stop once things get heated. And then he’ll be extremely late.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I love you.” He climbs out of bed. His hot naked body moves around the room as he gathers up his clothes, giving me a great view of his sexy ass.
“You’re drooling.” Amusement lilts his tone, his back still to me.
Laughing, I hurl my pillow at him. It bounces off his hard muscles and flops to the floor.
Troy grabs it and tosses it at me, catching an eyeful of my breasts. Something for him to remember while he and his brothers and their guests are being one with the wilderness. I give a teasing little shimmy to really give him something to remember.
“You’re killing me, Jess,” he groans and walks out of the room.
The sound of water showering against the tub comes from the bathroom. I glance at my phone. And now I’m the one groaning. It’s six in the morning. On a Saturday. Since I have no real plans until this afternoon, I drift back to sleep.
Unfortunately, Bailey and Butterscotch aren’t big advocates for sleeping in. Butterscotch scrambles into my bedroom a short time later and barks.
“Okay,” I grumble while contemplating the odds of getting away with putting my head under the pillow and ignoring him. “I’m getting up.”
I drag myself out of bed and go into the bathroom. Stuck on the mirror is a Morse-code message that wasn’t there last night.
It takes me a minute to decode it: Can’t wait to have you in my arms again. Love you. T.
I get ready, take the message to my bedroom, and slip it into the large floral box where I keep all of Troy’s Morse-coded messages. I fire off a text to him.
Me: I can’t wait to be in YOUR arms again
Once Bailey, Butterscotch, and I return home from our walk, I head into the backyard and gather a bouquet of flowers from my garden. I fetch a vase from under the kitchen sink, fill it with water, and place the vase with the wildflowers on the small, round patio table outside.
Then I spend the next hour weeding the flowerbeds. As I work, I mentally plan out what I’d like to do to the garden over the next year or so. Like add more flowering bushes. Maybe hydrangeas.
I push to my feet and brush my dirty hands on my jeans. At Amelia’s age, I pretended a family of fairies lived in the tree in Granny’s backyard.
The tree in my backyard has a trunk that’s perfect for those tiny doors and windows available online that turn a tree trunk into a fairy home. I bet Amelia would love that like I would’ve loved it when I was a little girl.
I pick up my phone from the table and look at her three photos. The only photos I have of her. It’s been six and a half weeks since I called Grace to ask if I can see Amelia again. Maybe she’s changed her mind. She didn’t say how long they needed to get used to the idea of me being in Amelia’s life. Before, I’d hesitated because the house wasn’t done, but it’s eighty percent there now—so close.
Plus, to begin with, I could visit her in Seattle. If that makes Grace feel more comfortable. And…and Amelia’s birthday is a week from tomorrow. I could send her a present if they’re okay with that.
I open up my contacts on my phone and stare at Grace’s number for several rapid heartbeats. I draw in a long shaky breath and tap on Call.
I release my breath, praying Grace answers. Praying she gives me the response I’m hoping for.
“Hello?” a little girl replies on the other end of the line, her voice sweet and singsong. Amelia.
I love you and I miss you. A small sob falls from between my lips, and I cover my mouth with my hand. Pull yourself together.You won’t be able to talk to Grace if you’re a blubbering mess.
“Hello?” Amelia repeats, her tone more curious this time, her voice less singsong.
“Hi, can I speak to your mother?” I ask in a super friendly voice. Tears sting my eyes. I don’t want her to stop talking, but I also don’t want to give Grace a reason to refuse my request to see my daughter. I don’t want to come off as problematic.
“Mommy!” Amelia yells.
“Indoor voice, Lia,” Grace gently reprimands.
I shut my eyes at the name she uses for my daughter instead of the one I chose. The one that honored my grandmother’s middle name. I hate that I had no say over that.
I tighten my grip on my phone, fighting the urge to hurl it into the bush. Pretend. Pretend they’re using the name I gave her when she was a precious newborn in my arms.
“Hello?” Grace’s voice comes clearly through the line, a patient lilt to it.
“Hi,” I squeak through my tightening throat. The thump-thump-thumping of my heart echoes in my ears. “It’s Jessica Smithson.”
Please remember the name without me having to say Savannah Townsend out loud.
“Hello, Jessica.” The words come out flat and lifeless and leery. “How can I help you?”
The question feels loaded, daunting, and I swallow my frustration at the situation I didn’t ask to be in. I made a mistake in allowing the wrong man into my life, and in the end, I lost everything. Sure, Amelia wouldn’t exist if not for that man, but I also wouldn’t know the sharp pain of loss like I do.
“I’m calling for the same reason I did last time.” I keep my voice friendly and cheerful. No point giving her a reason to end this conversation prematurely. “I’m not asking to be her mother again. I just want to be in her life. To get to see her grow up.” The friendly tone warbles, and an on-the-verge-of-crying tremor slips in.
My daughter’s beautiful voice replays in my head. She sounded so happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for her. “And…and I would love to have a more recent photo of her.” Please tell me that’s not asking too much.
My garden turns blurry, and I close my eyes against the tears.
A strained silence stretches endlessly on the phone. Even the birds in my backyard seem empty of song. I open my mouth to utter something, to beg, to plead, but the words disintegrate in my dry throat.
“Craig is away for a few days. I’ll talk to him once he gets back and see what he thinks.” Her voice is barely more than a scratched whisper.
Please let him be less resistant to the idea than his wife.“Thank you.” The words aren’t whispered, but they are rough like a steel-wool pad, leaving my throat shredded and sore.
Grace doesn’t say anything else. She simply ends the call.
Bailey abandons her game of playing chase with Butterscotch and comes over to my chair. I slide off it, and my knees land on the cobblestones. I wrap my arms around Bailey, close my eyes, and silently sob against her warm body until I’m utterly depleted inside.
I’m being dragged under the surface, and the more I kick to try to break free, the less energy I’ll have to suck in a breath.
What do you see? Robyn’s words from one of our sessions float into my thoughts.
I open my eyes. “I see Bailey sitting next to me, the green grass, pink flowers in the garden. I see the blue sky and the rainbow the sun’s creating through the vase onto the glass tabletop.”
What do you hear?
“I hear a lawnmower, birds chirping, a vehicle driving past. I hear kids giggling and a neighborhood dog barking.”
What do you feel?
“I feel Bailey’s hair running through my fingers, the movement of her chest as she breathes, the warm surface of the cobblestones under my knees. I feel the soft cotton of my T-shirt.” I run my hand over two cobblestones and the long blades of grass poking between them. “I feel the velvety grass.”
I repeat the five-four-three-two-one exercise four more times, repeating one less item for each question with each round. By the time I’m finished, I can breathe easier again.
“Thank you,” I whisper to Bailey and plant my butt back on the chair.
But more than anything, I wish Troy was here to hold me and to kiss away my pain.
An hour later, my phone pings with a text from Grace. There are no words, no answer to my request. It’s simply a photo of a young girl with golden-brown hair and eyes like my own.
I draw in a sharp, hopeful breath.
The picture looks to be fairly recent. Amelia is playing with a black Lab in what appears to be a backyard. She’s not looking at the camera. She’s paying attention to the dog. But the smile on her face, the laughter in her eyes…they’re priceless.
My little girl is more than happy—she’s living her best life.
And that realization brings a new round of tears to my eyes, my chest two sizes too small.
So many emotions…so many emotions whirl and clash inside me, but I can’t help the grin that tugs on my damp cheeks.