Нора Робертс - The Perfect Hope

So with words that touched her heart, he seduced her. With hands thorough and skilled, he aroused her. She gave herself to him, thrilled to be wanted, grateful to want. She opened herself on the dew-laced grass as the last stars guttered out like candle flames, as the moon slid away under the rise of shadowed land. As those first glimmers of red and gold eked through the night-dark woods.

He took what she offered; gave her what he had. With her he ended the night and began the day. The dreams of death and despair faded away. Inside him something turned, just a little. Something clicked and fell.

Here was hope. Here was Hope. And she was perfect.

As he felt her crest, birds woke singing. And the sky bloomed with another dawn.

SHE EXPECTED GUESTS by three, and the family well before. After she picked up her car, drove back to the inn, she spent the time doing her routine room checks.

She needed to be busy, she thought, so she wouldn’t be tempted to speak her thoughts aloud. To speak to Eliza.

In Nick and Nora she checked the lights, the TV remote, the room folder, added a bit to the room diffuser before going out and doing the same in Jane and Rochester.

Fresh flowers would arrive early afternoon.

She moved from room to room changing lightbulbs when needed, adjusting room temperatures.

Back in the kitchen she filled a fruit bowl, set out cookies, made a fresh pitcher of iced tea.

In her office, she checked and answered emails, phone messages, busied herself while she wished the time away.

Today, they’d tell Lizzy they’d found her Billy. What would happen then, she couldn’t know. But she wanted to.

Just as she wanted to know what had been behind that look in Ryder’s eyes in the predawn dark. He’d been too quiet, even for him, since they’d found Billy Ryder’s grave.

And there’d been something quietly urgent in his lovemaking. They should have laughed, she thought now. Two people making love on the lawn with a dog for silent company should have laughed, been playful. But he’d been intense, so focused.

And she? She’d been swept away, taken under by his intense, focused need.

She wanted to reach him. She thought she’d begun to, and now? She didn’t know, and he wouldn’t say.

She remembered Avery’s words. You didn’t love and try to change. That was true, that was real and right. So she’d wait until he was ready to tell her what was behind that look in his eyes.

She heard Carolee come in, call out. Hope ordered the rest of her work, added to her list, crossed off what she’d done, then walked out to the kitchen.

“I got sticky buns from next door.” Carolee offered a slightly shamed smile. “I just wanted to do something.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Then I thought I’m not sure sticky buns were the right thing to do.”

“They always are.” Understanding, Hope put an arm around Carolee’s shoulders.

“Will this change things, you think? I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want things to change. I love everything about this place, including Lizzy. I know, some part of me knows, what we’re doing is important. Important things so often make change.”

“I wish I knew.”

“I guess we’ll all know soon enough. I left The Lobby door unlocked,” she said when they heard it open. “I thought that would be easier all around.”

Clare and Avery came in together. “Sticky buns,” Avery said. “I just said to Clare we should go over to Icing and get something. You thought of it first.”

“Food’s comfort.” Clare rubbed a gentle hand on her belly. “I fixed Beckett and the boys cheesy eggs this morning. I just needed to do something. Beckett left early, to try to get some work in.”

“Owen, too.”

“That makes all three of them,” Hope said. “There’s Justine and Willy B. Right on time.”

“Nervous?” Clare linked hands with Hope.

“Yeah. We did what she asked. Now we’ll tell her what we know. I should be excited, but …”

“It’s sad,” Avery said. “It’s not like we expected to find him alive and well and living in Vegas, but it’s sad.”

“Sticky buns,” Justine observed. “I made popovers.” She set the plate on the island. “I’ve been restless all morning, and baking helped some.”

“We won’t go hungry,” Avery decided. “We may lapse into a sugar coma, but I’ll risk it.”

“There’s iced tea, but I’ll make coffee.”

“I’ll do it.” Carolee patted Hope’s arm. “Let me take care of it.”

They came in together, the three brothers, in work clothes and rough boots. Hope caught the scents of wood and varnish and paint. For some reason, it relaxed her a little.

“So,” Owen began.

“I got something to say,” Ryder interrupted. “To her, I guess. To everybody. I had to get my head around it,” he added looking directly at Hope.

“Okay.” She nodded.

“I had a dream about him last night. Billy Ryder. And don’t give me any shit,” he warned his brothers.

“Nobody’s going to give you any shit,” Beckett told him.

He thought he might have given some out if the situation had been reversed. And appreciated the restraint. “It was really vivid. Like being there.”

“Being where?” Justine asked him.

“Antietam. September 17, 1862. You read about it, you see war movies, but this … I don’t know how anybody gets through it, pulls out of it if they live through it. He was in the Union advance on Bloody Lane. It was still morning, and they’d taken heavy casualties. The kid he’d made friends with—George, blacksmith’s apprentice—damn near got his head blown off. The blood was all over Billy. He was dazed, probably in shock. He knew where he was. I mean literally. He knew the Pipers, knew the land, knew the sunken road divided the farms.”

Carolee stepped to him, held out a mug of coffee.

“Thanks.” He looked down at it, but didn’t drink. Not yet. “I could hear what he was thinking. It wasn’t like reading his mind, but more like …”

“Being inside it?” his mother suggested.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it. He started thinking about her. Eliza. She wrote to him when she couldn’t get away that night they’d planned to elope. She managed to send the letter to his mother. He got it, and he wrote her back, but he wasn’t able to send the letter. Didn’t know, I guess, where to send it. The night before the battle, he’d written her a letter.”

“He loved her,” Clare said softly.

“He had a picture of her,” Ryder continued, “and he took it out to look at it, thinking how he’d find her when it was over, how they’d get married, he’d build her a house, they’d have kids. She’d changed him. Opened him, is how he thought of it. Anyway, it seemed like a long time in the dream, in his head that he was lying there, wearing his friend’s blood and thinking of staying alive so he could have his life with her.

“Jesus, Clare, don’t cry.”

“It’s sad, and I’m pregnant. I can’t help it.”

“Tell us the rest,” Hope demanded. Did no one else smell the honeysuckle? Did know one else realize Lizzy needed to hear the rest?

“They ordered another attempted advance. If you know anything about that phase of the battle, you know it took hours, the Confederate force hunkered down in the sunken road, the Union trying to break their line. And both sides took heavy losses.”

Damned if he’d describe it, here in this sunny kitchen with a pregnant woman silently weeping.

“By afternoon, even though both sides brought in reinforcements, it was a goddamn slaughter. Somebody screwed up, ordered a part of the Confederate line to withdraw, and that gave the Union the gap they needed. He was part of that, of that advance once the Confederates were down to hundreds, and the Union had the high ground. You know how it was, Mom, fish in a barrel. They picked them off until bodies lay stacked up. He couldn’t do it. He shot, and he killed, thinking of his friend, of his duty. Then he couldn’t do it anymore. He thought of her, of his mother, his dead brother, of the blood and the waste, and he couldn’t do it. He just wanted it over. He wanted her and the life they could have. And when he lowered his weapon, he was shot.”

“He died there,” Hope murmured.

“He fell where he stood. He could see the sky. He thought of her, he kept thinking of her, and took out her picture again. That’s when he knew it was over for him. When he saw the blood, and he finally felt the pain. He thought about her right up to the end, and he thought he saw her, in his head, calling to him—sick, scared, and calling him. He said her name, and that was it.”

He looked down at the coffee in his hand, this time drank deeply. “Jesus.”

“He’s part of you.” Justine wrapped her arms around Ryder, held tight. “Of all of us. He needed someone to tell his story, someone to tell her. It breaks my heart.”

“Stop that.” But Ryder brushed a tear from his mother’s cheek. “It’s hard enough without everybody crying about it.”

“No more tears.” Eliza Ford stood beside Hope, and she smiled.

“Well, holy God.” With Tyrone in his arms, Willy B dropped heavily on the stool beside Clare. “Beg pardon.”

“You found him.”

Ryder wished to God she’d chosen someone else to latch those eyes on. “He’s buried a few miles outside of town, on part of what used to be his family farm. He’s buried with his brothers.”

“He loved his brothers, and when he learned of Joshua’s death, he began to talk of joining the fight. But no, not his grave. It isn’t his grave you found that matters.”

She laid her hand on her heart. “His spirit. He thought of me—thank you for finding that thought, that spirit. He thought of me and I of him as this part ended. I wanted a little stone house, and a family, and every day. But most of all, I wanted my Billy. I wanted his love, and to give him mine. I have it, and I feel it. So much time since I could feel it.”

She lifted her hand, turned it. “It does not fade. You found him. Now he can find me. You are his.” She turned to Hope. “You are mine. And I will never forget this gift. I have only to wait for him to come.”

“There was honeysuckle near his grave,” Hope said.

“My favorite. He promised we would let it grow wild near our little house. He died a soldier, but he was not born one. He died thinking of others. Thinking of me. My Billy. Love, the truest of it, never fades. I need to wait, to watch.”

“Lizzy.” Beckett stepped forward.

“You were the first to talk to me, to befriend me. You, all of you, helped me become again, gave me a home again. Gave me love again. He will come to me.”

“Love can work miracles,” Justine said when Lizzy vanished. “I’m going to believe she’s right.”

“She’s happy.” Her eyes damp, Avery leaned against Owen. “It really matters that she’s happy.” Then she grinned at her father, who sat stock-still, Tyrone’s paws on his big shoulders, the pug’s tongue lapping at his face. “What’s the matter, Dad? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Holy God,” he said again, and reached for a sticky bun.

On a quick burst of watery laughter, Clare leaned over to give him and his adoring pug a hard hug.

As they left to go back to work, run errands, live the everyday, Ryder drew Hope out into The Courtyard. “I wasn’t not talking to you.”

“I know. I do know,” she promised him. “You had a strange and difficult experience. I think it must’ve been like being in the war.”

“Yeah, and whoever said war’s hell was playing it light. It’s worse.”

“You needed to process it, take some time. Talking to me doesn’t mean telling me everything that’s on your mind.”

“Okay. Maybe we can set out some guidelines sometime.”

“Maybe we can.”

“I’ve got to get back to it. Maybe you want one of those salads you like tonight.”

“That would be nice.”

“I’ll see you later.”

She watched him and his dog walk away and, smiling to herself, went back inside to her own work.

AT JUSTINE’S REQUEST, HOPE BLOCKED OFF THE INN FOR family on the night of MacTavish’s Restaurant and Tap House’s friends and family night. For the last ten days of a sweltering August, Avery and her crew—and anyone she could dragoon—hauled, carted, scrubbed, and polished her new space. Often when she did her final nightly walk-through of the inn, Hope would see the lights on across the street, and knew Avery and Owen had yet to call it a day. Sometimes she spotted Willy B’s truck parked late into the night, or stirred when Ryder and D.A. slipped in well after she’d gone to bed.

His usual comment was: “Jesus, the Little Red Machine never runs out of gas.”

She helped when she could, hanging art or scrubbing tiles, and as she had with the inn, saw the transformation of a neglected, unused space into something vital and exciting and smart.