CHAPTER ELEVEN #2
Getting these two together would be easy for Henry to do. But the realization didn’t bring any excitement or relief. Not the way playing matchmaker usually did. No, it only brought a sickening feeling in his stomach and the desire to swallow a handful of antacid tablets.
* * *
Two nights later, Henry wasn’t feeling better.
It wasn’t his stomach this time, but insomnia.
He couldn’t sleep. He also couldn’t move, thanks to Ruff and the nameless gray cat using Henry as a personal mattress.
Henry would miss their companionship, but he wouldn’t miss sharing a twin-size bed with them when he was gone.
Maybe he could talk Dash or Blaise into getting a dog that Henry could visit and spoil.
The other guys traveled or worked too much to have a pet, though Wes might consider it.
He wouldn’t miss all the work it took to winterize the farm, either. At least he was no longer making so many mistakes. Or rather, not such noticeable ones.
He succeeded in playing fairy godfather. Well, sort of. His efforts were working for everyone but Elisabeth. The kids loved their yard sale gifts, and the porch swing was coming along with Gabe’s help.
Gabe.
Henry liked the man. Respected him, too. The guy was working miracles with the porch swing and teaching him a thing or two about carpentry. But woodworking wasn’t the only thing Gabe knew about. He also knew women.
Forget fixing him up with Elisabeth.
Gabe Logan was too much like Henry—a rogue not a hero—and that wouldn’t do for Elisabeth. She deserved better. She deserved the best.
But with Henry’s job, he didn’t have time to meet all the single men in Berry Patch and find the right one for Elisabeth. He would have to forgo matchmaking. The decision brought a rush of relief. He needed to put all his effort into not making mistakes around the farm, he rationalized.
Suddenly, the soft sounds of a trombone filled the air, followed by the plucking of strings and the crashing of cymbals… It sounded like an orchestra. But at this hour?
Henry scooted the gray cat from his chest and sat, careful not to bump his head on the upper bunk. He listened to the classical music. An odd sound, considering he’d never heard music being played at the Wheelers’ house. Not from her cell phone and not on the radio.
The music piqued Henry’s curiosity. Maybe Abby was analyzing a composer. Maybe there was more to Sam than baggy pants and a bad attitude. No, it had to be Abby.
Henry slid out of bed and headed downstairs. The only lights were the dingy brass candlestick wall sconces above each end of the fireplace mantel. The soft glow provided enough light to see into the living room.
Halfway down the stairs, Henry froze.
Elisabeth sat on the couch. She wore a ratty light-colored robe. Her bare feet beat in time to the music. Her hair was loose and tousled.
He should go back to bed before she saw him, but then he did a double take.
Her eyes were closed. She had a serene Mona Lisa smile on her face. She swayed gently to the music. So lovely. He sat on the stairs and watched.
When a harp played its first note, so did Elisabeth.
She plucked and strummed at a nonexistent harp with the skill and precision of a master.
The play of emotions across her face captivated Henry.
He’d never seen such passion, such concentration, such…
contentment. Her expressions made him want to find a way to make her feel this way every single day, not just in the middle of the night, alone in the dark, air-harping.
This was a private moment he intruded on.
Henry didn’t care. He would stay until she made him move. This new side of Elisabeth mesmerized him.
As the music continued to play, so did she. Not once did she open her eyes. She sat with such grace. Her elbows up and out, her thumbs up, and her fingers curved. Her feet pressed make-believe pedals. He wondered what she thought about, what she imagined as she played.
The song ended.
Elisabeth rose from the couch and bowed.
Henry clapped. A little too enthusiastically before he caught himself.
Too late.
The light on the end table next to her turned on.
Whoa. He’d forgotten about the clapper.
Elisabeth’s eyelids sprang open. Her eyes sparkled. Her cheeks flushed. “What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He climbed down the rest of the stairs. “I heard music and wanted to see what was going on.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It was worth getting up to see you play.”
“I wasn’t playing, only pretending.” She sounded embarrassed.
“Or practicing?” he offered.
The color on her cheeks deepened. She sat on the couch.
He sat next to her. “I didn’t know you were a musician.”
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “I mean, I used to be. But not any longer.”
“You seem to enjoy it.”
“It’s okay.” She clasped her hands together. “I started playing when I was six. An older woman in town asked my father if she could teach me. I think she felt sorry for us because my mother had died.”
“Why did you stop playing?”
“No time. Plus, no reason to keep at it. Berry Patch doesn’t have an orchestra. There are weddings and wineries, but it’s easier to use a folk harp for those gigs. You could do it with a pedal harp, too, but it’s not as easy to cart around.”
Her answers sounded too rehearsed. Too much like excuses. Had she used them to justify not playing the harp? He would hate it if that were true.
“Where’s your harp?” he asked.
A muscle clenched in her jaw. “I…I sold it.”
“Why?”
“We needed the money.” She sighed. “The Deere broke down right before harvest two years ago. The Suburban needed an overhaul. A hundred other things.” The light in her eyes dimmed.
Henry wanted to bring it back. “Elisabeth—”
“It’s no big deal. Really.” She spoke quickly as if trying to convince herself. “It’s not as if I was going to make a career out of playing the harp and travel the world performing with all the great orchestras.”
“Was that your dream?”
“Yes. I mean, once it was.” She tilted her chin. “Not now.”
She might think so, but Henry wasn’t convinced. “There’s nothing wrong with dreams.”
She shrugged.
He wanted to give her what she wanted. “You’ve given up so much of your life already to the farm and your siblings. You can’t give up your dreams, too. It’s not too late—”
“It is too late. I have the kids and the farm and my job.”
“You could sell to Mr. Jackson.”
“Never.” Her eyes darkened. “This is the only home my family has ever known. I won’t take that away from them. No matter what.”
“Even if it’s not what you want to do?”
“It’s what I have to do. I don’t deserve to have my dreams come true. If it weren’t for me, my dad and stepmother would still be alive.” The words tumbled out.
Her eyes widened once she realized what she’d revealed.
Henry needed to proceed slowly, cautiously. “I thought they were in a car accident.”
“They were, but I’m the one who convinced them to go out on a date. If it weren’t for me, they would still be alive. My brother and sisters would have parents. The farm wouldn’t be struggling so badly. Neither would we.”
“It isn’t your fault, Elisabeth.” Henry wanted to take away her pain—her guilt. “You weren’t driving the car. You weren’t even there. It was an accident.”
She stared at the pictures on the mantel. “Caitlin wouldn’t sleep through the night. I’d come home for the weekend, and my stepmother was so tired. She needed a break, so I told them to go on a date night, and I would watch the kids. They did, and they never came home again.”
“They might have gone out anyway. Or had all the kids with them. Or a million other scenarios.” Henry wanted to shake some sense into her. He knew what this kind of guilt could do to a person. “You can’t continue blaming yourself.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. “How can I not blame myself?”
His heart ached for her.
He’d been there himself. Except he’d been a lot older than twenty-one, and he didn’t have a baby to take care of and a brother and a sister and a farm.
She would have had no time for herself. No time to mourn the loss of her parents.
Only time to blame herself and give up her own life and dreams to make up for something that wasn’t her fault.
“Things happen for no reason,” he explained. “Sometimes good things, sometimes bad. And that can be hard to accept, especially when those things are beyond our control.”
She said nothing. But her pain, her despair, tore at him.
He never opened up, never let anyone get too close, but just this once he needed to. For Elisabeth.
“After my parents were killed in the plane crash, I blamed myself.” That wasn’t easy for him to admit.
He took a deep breath. “I was supposed to be on their flight, but I was too hungover and called them at the airport to tell them I would take a later flight. They were disappointed in me—a common occurrence—but said they would wait and take the later flight with me. I told them it wasn’t necessary.
I didn’t relish being trapped on a transatlantic flight, listening to them tell me how I wasn’t living up to their expectations.
But if I hadn’t been so selfish and let them wait for me, they wouldn’t have been on that flight. They wouldn’t have died.”
Elisabeth’s face lightened. “So you know.”
“I know.”
Her gaze met his. “How did you get through it?”
“I didn’t at first. The guilt. The grief.
” Knowing he would never be able to gain his parents’ love or show them they’d been wrong about him.
“I spent my time partying. Until my friends stepped in. Laurel and Brett Matthews. Cynthia Sterling. Ryland Guyer. Wes Lockhart. A few other guys who Wes introduced me to. They got me through it. Saved me.”
And Henry would do whatever it took to repay them for their friendship and ensure their happiness.
“You’re lucky to have them,” Elisabeth said. “I don’t—didn’t—have many friends to rely on. Theresa’s great and always has been, but I was engaged when the accident happened, and my ex-fiancé didn’t understand. He didn’t even try.”
“The guy must have been an idiot.”
The corners of her mouth lifted. “That’s what Theresa said. She’s a good friend.”
“Yes, she is. And smart.” Henry held Elisabeth’s hand. Engaged so young. Too young. No wonder it didn’t last. And to have lost her parents, too. “Does Theresa think you were to blame?”
“No.”
“Neither do I. So you’re the only one we need to convince.”
Her eyes darkened. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Try to accept it.”
She sat silent. At least she hadn’t said no.
That was a start. Henry would take it. “Say, ‘I’m not to blame.’”
“I—I…” Tears fell from Elisabeth’s eyes.
He covered her hand with his other one. “Try again.”
She exhaled loudly. “I—I’m not to blame.”
“Was that so hard?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Henry released her hand, even though he wanted to keep touching her. “It gets easier.”
“I doubt that.”
He smiled to encourage her. “Keep saying it, and you’ll see.”
“I’ll try.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m sorry for crying. I know guys hate tears.”
Henry wanted to get her ex-fiancé alone in a small, dark room and make him cry. He put his arm around Elisabeth and gave her a squeeze. “Everyone needs a good cry. Even guys. And it’s a lot cheaper than therapy.”
“How do you do it?” She gazed up at him, and he felt as if he could lose himself in her eyes. “How can you make me feel so good when we’re talking about something so serious?”
Warmth settled in the center of his chest. He found himself scooting toward her instead of away. “It’s a gift.”
“Thanks for sharing it with me.”
Elisabeth hugged him. The fresh scent of her soap and shampoo filled his nostrils. He wanted to capture the fragrance in a bottle and spray it on his pillow. Her hair tickled his face, and he ached to run his fingers through the long, silky strands. She felt so soft and perfect in his arms.
Henry relished the shared moment. The hug. Her.
He yearned to kiss her.
With a pulse-pounding certainty, he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t cross that line.
She didn’t need his kisses; she needed his shoulder. A friend. He knew how to handle friends. He was good when it came to taking care of his friends and knowing what they needed.
Elisabeth released him.
A chill shivered through Henry, but her trusting smile reassured him. He had made the right choice. The only choice.
Henry caressed her cheek. “Anytime, Elisabeth. Anytime.”
He meant it.