Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
“You ready for this?” Deckard asked.
“Yes. I’m very curious to see how Nick behaves today,” she whispered.
Would he be his true self or play the doting husband?
Definitely the latter. Her stomach rolled at the thought of him playing the grieving widower.
Maybe he was truly grieving. Perhaps he was innocent, and she was being too harsh.
But how he’d treated her friend before her death spoke volumes of his character, or rather, lack thereof.
Deckard held the storm door open for her, wind whipping at her dress coat as voices carried through the wooden door.
“Thanks,” she said, turning to face him. “You’ll watch him closely, won’t you? You’re better at reading people.” Her voice remained barely above the hum of a whisper.
“Oh, come on.” He tucked a loose strand of hair from her messy bun behind her ear, but the wind just whipped it loose again. “You’re very talented.”
“At reading evidence.” Sure. “Not people.” She exhaled, wishing she could see straight through Nick to know what really happened the night of Taylor’s death.
“We’ll do it together. Okay, Ace?” He winked, and heat flushed her cheeks.
How she wished with everything inside of her that she’d just stayed home from the humanitarian trip in the first place.
Her heart had screamed for her to stay with Deckard, but he hadn’t been ready for a relationship, and she’d convinced herself she wasn’t either, so she’d gone and now regretted it with every fiber of her being.
Now . . . she was too much of a mess from all she’d endured and feared she’d never get past what happened. It was early in the recovery process, but as deep as the sorrow and fear were anchored in her spirit, they might always be there.
Besides, Deckard wasn’t shy about his stance on relationships. He flat-out didn’t do them. According to him, they were too complicated, and he humbly admitted he didn’t have what it took for one.
And she’d thought, given her work and her regular humanitarian trips, perhaps it was for the best, but after this last trip .
. . she was never going back. She would never feel safe doing so again.
She’d always believed God had her, and while He had provided the timing and means for her to escape, He’d also allowed her to be taken in the first place.
She wouldn’t lie. What happened had shaken her faith.
Was God really in control? What would have happened if she hadn’t escaped?
“You okay?” Deck asked.
She looked up to find him studying her. The sun breaking through the cloud cover silhouetted him in the late-morning light.
Wait. What had he asked, and where was her mind?
He tipped her chin up a gentle notch and lowered his face to hers. “You okay?”
“Yep.” She shook herself out of it, realizing they were still standing in front of the door, and people were heading for the house, carrying casseroles and trays laden with fruits and veggies.
“Oh shoot! The cookies,” she said. “I left them in the car.” She could still taste the combo of peanut butter and chocolate and smell the soft dough as he made the cookies this morning, following a family breakfast.
“I’ll get them.” Deck started to turn.
“Hang on,” she said, grasping the end of his black tie and tugging him to her.
“Your tie needs some rework.” She smiled at the mishap that was his tie.
“Yeah.” He gave a cheesy grin. “I imagine it does. I can never remember if it’s the rabbit through the hole or the frog jumping over it.”
She chuckled, thankful for the momentary joy it infused. “I think it’s the rabbit around the loop and through the hole or something like that, but there you go.” She smoothed it out and stepped back. He cleaned up nice.
“Deckard MacLeod.” Veronica Melling headed up the brick steps for them. “I’d recognize that backside anywhere.” She chuckled.
Deck set his jaw, clearly the opposite of flattered.
Veronica was harmless, but she spouted embarrassing comments at times—most of the time. She and Riley had become friends, though, which was good. Veronica needed a decent friend in her life.
“I’ll be right back,” Deck said, squeezing around Veronica and her new husband, Brad, then down the steps. Harper moved to the side, allowing the couple and a few others to pass by and into the house.
Seconds later, the front door opened again, the hum of voices pitching high. She turned to find Nick standing in the doorway. His pink polo shirt and faded jeans were hardly the attire of a grieving widower. “Harp.” He smiled.
Her nickname, started by Taylor when they were in undergrad together. But on Nick’s lips it rankled her.
“What are you doing out in the cold?” He rubbed his arms as another chilling gust of air whooshed by, but at least the sun remained out.
“Please come in. We’ve got a roaring fire in the fireplace as well as in the fire pit outside.
The patio heaters are on too, as it’s getting pretty crowded in here. ”
“A lot of people loved Taylor.” Don’t start crying yet. Once she opened the floodgates, it was all coming out—the devastating and sudden loss of Taylor, what happened in Syria, the sadness of knowing that she and Deck would never be more than friends . . .
“She was easy to love.” Nick’s words grated on her ears.
And easy to cheat on. She buried the snarky reply.
Nick stepped back, welcoming the gang inside.
Heat wafted out, taking the chill out of her bones.
Before she realized what was happening, Nick had stepped behind her and grasped the collar of her coat.
She stiffened.
“Whoa! You’re tense. You should try my masseuse. I went this morning, and I feel so much more relaxed.”
Relaxed at a funeral? Or as close to a funeral as they’d get for sweet Taylor. That had to be a first.
He helped her slip out of her coat and hung it on a hook of the already-piled-high coatrack.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He smiled.
Smiling. Faded jeans. A massage. Nothing about Nick screamed funeral or even remembrance ceremony, and certainly not a grieving widower. She hated Taylor had died knowing about her husband and his extracurricular activities.
“Here you go,” Deck said, pushing through the crowd to reach her side. He shoved the plate into Nick’s hands.
“Cookies.” Nick stole one and broke off a bite. “Wow! These are good. I didn’t realize you could bake, Harp.”
She cringed again at the sound of her nickname on his lips. That was for friends, and he, most certainly, wasn’t one. Not anymore. Okay, objective was out the window. She’d have to trust Deck to be the objective one when it came to Nick, which should be easier given he hadn’t known Taylor.
“Deck made them.” She forced a smile, hoping it didn’t scream “You suck.” Real mature.
But on a basic level, it was the truth. How he’d treated Taylor during the last few months of her life sucked.
There was no way around it, but they wouldn’t get anything out of Nick with vinegar.
Although, she wasn’t convinced they would with honey either.
“Excellent baking, man,” Nick said, half a cookie still in his mouth. “Come join the remembrance party.” He gestured to the overflowing living room. “The kitchen and dining room are bursting with food. Grab a plate and find a spot to sit.”
Party? This was most certainly not a party. It was a remembrance ceremony—not some causal barbecue.
She gazed about the overflowing room, studying the faces of those in attendance. Many familiar to her, but some new. Her gaze tracked past the crowd to the sliding glass doors, where she caught sight of Steve and Susan outside.
Nick shifted to head off, but she caught him before he did. “When will the service begin?”
His brows V’d. “Service?”
“Yes. It’s a remembrance ceremony, right?”
“Oh, I see the miscommunication.” He patted her on the shoulder, giving her the heebie-jeebies.
“It’s an informal time for us to get together and remember Taylor through stories anyone would like to share, and just chatting with one another about her.
It’s nothing formal. But anyone who wants to say something is welcome to. ”
“I’m sure you’ll be saying something very kind.” She smiled, curious what he’d say.
“I’m honestly a little too choked up to say anything.”
He wasn’t going to speak? Not say anything? His wife was gone, and he’d remain silent?