Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Cara
On Monday afternoon, I find out my supplier has raised the prices on two products I can’t run my business without. Five minutes later, I get a text message from Hayden.
HAYDEN
Are you still thinking?
If he’d sent the message any other day between his ridiculous proposal and me sitting with pen and paper, trying to calculate how to tighten my financial belt another notch, it would have been an easy text to answer.
But he caught me in a weak moment and my thumbs hover over the keyboard for a few seconds, itching to grab the lifeline he’s throwing me.
CARA
No matter how much I think about it, I don’t think it can work.
It isn’t a yes, but it also isn’t a definitive no. The idea of telling Gin I’m marrying Hayden Reilly makes my stomach hurt, and no matter what he says, I don’t see the ruse playing out the way he’s so certain it will. And yet, I can’t bring myself to reject the proposal out of hand.
I thought about Hayden yesterday, while I was standing next to my mother in the cemetery for our annual Father’s Day visit to my dad’s grave.
The Gambles have a private, fenced area within the larger grounds, which seems unnecessarily showy to me.
I don’t like these visits for his birthday and other important dates, preferring to remember my dad in small, happy ways—remembering his laugh, or seeing a tractor and remembering how obsessed he was with them.
But my mother insists and it feels like a thing a good daughter would do, so I go.
Yesterday, though, there was anger. Anger at my dad for putting us in this position.
Anger at my mother for keeping us in it.
I’d looked around, trying to get my emotions under control, and saw the area by the outer fence where members of the Reilly family were laid to rest. Hayden’s father is there, having been killed in a workplace accident sometime right before he’d started middle school.
And once I’d thought of Hayden, his proposal popped back into my head and lingered there while Gin talked to the slab of marble with my father’s name engraved on it.
HAYDEN
I’m in Boston, but I’m coming back tomorrow afternoon. Let’s meet for dinner.
His text drags me back to the present, where I’m staring at numbers that don’t add up.
I buy specific shampoos that are best for the animals in my community and I don’t want to switch to a more generic, all-purpose shampoo.
But maybe I can shop around for a disinfectant that’s still as effective, but perhaps cheaper.
First, though, I need to make Hayden stop dangling his wild ideas in front of me, distracting me and making me hope things could be better.
CARA
Maybe. I’m still trying to figure out if it’s brilliant or the worst idea I’ve ever heard.
HAYDEN
Two things can be true at the same time.
I laugh at the message, feeling lighter. Then another text comes through on the heels of the first.
HAYDEN
I’m going into a meeting, but I’m leaving dinner open all week so we can get together whenever works for you.
I don’t bother to respond, since he’s going into a meeting, but the invitation stays with me as I make a note of which products I need to research and go through the process of closing up the shop for the day.
During my walk home, I know I should be considering the feasibility of the marriage idea, but all I can think about is having dinner with Hayden again.
While lunch was rushed and ended on a strange note—Cara Gamble, you should marry me—I really enjoyed both of our meals together.
There were moments the past crept in, reminding me that once upon a time, he really hurt me.
But it was a long time ago, and this grown version of him has all the traits I fell for then, but with added confidence and broader shoulders.
And seeing him with Penelope didn’t do me any favors when it comes to reminding myself he’s a heartless jerk.
No, I absolutely should not have dinner with him again, I decide as I walk up my front steps. The marriage thing is a non-starter, as far as I can see, and spending time with Hayden just makes me yearn for things I can’t have. A fresh start. A life of my own.
Him.
By the following evening, I’m feeling steady again. I’ve managed to juggle the price increases without sacrificing quality, and Gin’s in a better mood. She thinks the matter is closed, so the iciness between us has thawed. And Hayden hasn’t popped up on my phone.
Maybe life isn’t good, but it’s stable again and that’s probably the best I can hope for. It’s what I’m used to and, as my mother said, we’ll find a way. Probably. We always have.
And then I get in the shower.
Not only is the water just a bit hotter than lukewarm, but it’s starting to run cooler as I rush through rinsing the last of the conditioner out of my hair.
Even though I keep turning the cold water lower and lower, there’s no hot water left by the time I hit the button to turn off the overhead spray.
Frigid water swirls around my feet as I turn the faucet off.
After wrapping my hair in a threadbare towel, I wrap another around my body and step out onto the bathmat. Then I just stand there, letting the chilled water run down my skin while I try not to cry.
I can handle putting plastic over some of the windows to keep the draft out in the winter.
Every summer, we keep the curtains closed while the sun is shining and rely on breezes and fans to move the evening and night air.
I’ve put up with trying to sleep in stifling humidity.
I clean our gutters and mow the massive lawn we don’t use.
I’ve even patched a small section of the garage roof.
But not being able to take a shower?
Gin yells my name and lets me know supper’s on the table.
Since I’m hungry enough to table the total emotional breakdown for later—although I guess there won’t be any more crying jags in the shower for a while—I towel dry my hair and then walk to my bedroom in a towel that’s so small and worn, it’s barely a nod to not actually walking around naked.
By the time I get downstairs, wearing a T-shirt with no bra and cotton boxers because we’re a house of women, my mother’s already halfway through the leftover tuna casserole on her plate. It’s one of my least favorite meals, but it’s cheap and two people can make it stretch.
“I think the hot water heater’s about to shit the bed,” I say as I slide into my chair.
She nods. “We might have to get one of those shampoo-and-conditioner-in-one products, and maybe get wet, shut the water off while we lather up, and then rinse off really quick.”
“That might buy us a little time, but I think once they start to go bad, they go fast.”
“I’ll ask around and see if anybody’s selling one,” she tells me, as if people replace perfectly good hot water heaters and sell the used ones for cheap every day in Sumac Falls. “If we have to, we’ll heat water for dishes and baths until we find one.”
My fork hits my plate with a clatter, startling us both. I didn’t mean to drop it, but the idea of toting buckets of boiling water up the stairs like this house is a sixteenth century castle is so mind-blowing, my fingers forgot how to hold a utensil.
I wait for her to laugh, but she’s either serious or she’s been practicing her poker face. “We can’t…that’s not really a viable option, Mom.”
“It’s more viable than buying a new hot water heater.”
I pick up my fork, but only to move my food around on the plate so I have something to look at. My delayed emotional breakdown is joining forces with my rising anger to build a perfect storm, and my mother might not like my expression at the moment.
“We’ll get through it, Carolina,” she says in a much softer tone. She might not be able to see my eyes, but she knows. “We always do.”
I swallow hard, determined to keep my voice as level as possible. “We can’t do this for the rest of our lives, Mom. Do you really see us catching water from the leaky roof in metal pails we then boil on the stove so we can take baths? What are we going to do when the stove dies?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the roof.”
“Yet.” I knock my knuckles lightly on the wooden table. “But I don’t remember when that roof was last done, which means it was a very long time ago. And you get the point I’m making.”
“Maybe Sherry can give me more hours at the flower shop.”
Even if she doubled Gin’s hours and gave her a raise, it wouldn’t be enough. “Or we could consider Hayden’s offer.”
“No.” Gin slaps both palms on the table, making me jump. “I promised your father I would keep this house in the family.”
“Dad’s gone,” I say quietly—almost a whisper. “But you and I are still here and I don’t think he would want us to struggle like this. Do you really think Dad would have wanted this for us?”
“Leave it alone,” she tells me, her voice thick with threatening tears.
“I can’t anymore.” I can’t do any of it.
“I’m not selling this house. Not to that Reilly boy and not to anybody else. And that’s my final word.” She’s pushed back the tears and given way to anger. “I don’t want to hear any more about this.”
I take a bite of tuna casserole, hating the texture in my mouth almost as much as I hate cold showers. And drafty windows and wet basements. Except for Pampered Pets, I hate everything about my life.
But now I know how I can change it. All I have to do is marry Hayden Reilly.