A Wedding in Truhart (16 page)

Minutes later I practically collapsed on the green, as my breath vaporized in the brisk air. “Oh my God, I am way too old for this.”

Nick had arrived several moments earlier and barely looked winded. “Not me. I feel great. Most of the time it's too hot or muggy to run in Atlanta. But this is perfect.”

“Well, don't forget, it may be forty-five degrees right now, but it will be ten below in another few months. No one will be running then. Skiing . . . or wading through snow . . . maybe. But not running.” I was still bent over with my hands on my knees.

“You wimp, Annie. You're panting so hard, you've created a microclimate with your breath.”

“Well la-di-da, Mr. Marathon Man! Not all of us can train at some fancy gym with a hulking trainer named Thor.”

“More like a cute cheerleader named Trixie. She keeps me in tip-top shape.” He patted his chest and posed like an Adonis.

“Well, excuse me,” I said as I straightened and walked off ahead of him. Images of a girl named Trixie wearing Lycra on her sculpted body danced in front of me. I would have said more, but I was still out of breath. Nick laughed at my irritation and I buried my hands in the pockets of my old jeans, not only to keep them warm but to keep them off Nick.

Nick drew up beside me and matched my footsteps. “So, are you jealous?”

My heart did a little dance. Being accused of jealousy meant I had reason to feel that way. It was one short step in the right direction, and the first reference he had made to anything that might mean there was an
us
.

“I could never be jealous of a girl named Trixie.”

He wrapped his hand around my elbow and tugged until he pulled my hand out of my pocket. Then he held on to it. I rolled my eyes at him, feigning anger just because it felt good to be jealous, and even better to be coaxed out of it.

We were coming up to a copse of trees and the old shack at the edge of the golf course. Above us low clouds moved at a fast pace across the sky. The wind carried a cluster of leaves out of our path and I realized we were close to the shortcut that led to the large barn that had been Russell Conrad's workshop. The trees shielded us from the road and the inn farther away, and we walked more slowly until we stopped and faced each other.

Nick took a step forward and brought his hands up to either side of my face. “I missed you,” he said before lowering his head and pressing his lips to mine.

There was no tender beginning to this kiss. Instead we came together, impatient and trembling. My hands ran up the inside of his coat, along his chest and around his back, pressing him closer as our mouths and hands explored each other. Our kisses were anything but neat or careful. In fact, with every powerful moment, I felt myself losing control.

I had been kissed before, and had done much more than that in my life. But somehow I had always been conscious of my body and my feelings. I had known where my lips wandered, where my hands went, and as strange as it sounds, I had always felt like there was a part of me that was detached and looking down at myself from above. A little voice inside would direct me.
Move your hand here. Feel his hand there.

But this was so much different. I was almost frightened by my lack of awareness of my own body. I found myself with my back against an old pine tree, my legs wrapped around Nick and his body hard and warm, keeping me in place.

A crow cackled above us and we paused to catch our breath. I gazed into Nick's startled face and knew mine was a mirror image. I had no idea how much time had gone by and I could never have drawn a map of the places my hands had been. From the dazed expression in Nick's smoky dark eyes and the shaky way he drew in breath, I could tell he felt the same way.

He raised his hand and ran his fingers along my cheek. His eyes softened and he smiled. “I should have shaved this morning. You're getting red here.”

“I don't care.” I sighed and reached up to pull his head down to bring his lips right back where they had been. Now he was gentler, taking his time as he kissed each side of my mouth, then down toward my jaw.

“So, how have you been?” he asked into my neck, teasing me with his tongue.

“Good,” I said absently as I tilted my chin so he could reach the most sensitive part of my neck.

“You aren't too stressed about the wedding?”

“Well, yes. I'm really worried about it. But we'll deal. I mean, we have no choice, really.”

“Well, there is always the possibility of an elopement. Oh, that is for you, I forgot.” He was back to my face and kissed me gently on the lips.

I shivered.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

As if answering me, the wind sent a powerful gust our way, lifting Nick's unbuttoned jacket and exposing my hands to the chill.

“Come on, let's get out of the wind,” he said as he gently lowered me to the ground. With his arm around me, we scurried over the ridge toward the large barn beyond. I felt a wayward drop of icy rain against my cheek and looked up, wondering if it was cold enough to snow.

I let go of his hand and ran ahead to the large red barn door, where I rattled the padlock. It was locked. I hadn't been inside in years.

“Can we get in?” I asked, wrapping my arms around myself and feeling like a child breaking into a secret fort.

“Ian and I always had a top-secret entrance,” he said, looking like he wasn't sure about telling me. We walked around the corner of the barn and his hands trailed gingerly along the boards.

He turned and confessed, “We used to steal beer from the refrigerator at the inn, come up here at midnight, and smoke when we were teenagers.”

“Are you kidding me? In your dad's workshop barn? Why didn't you use the golf shack?”

“We were afraid Aunt Addie would spy. Shh,” he said, raising his finger to his lips. He pointed to the house a hundred yards beyond, where his mother was probably waiting for him.

I felt like a kid again and clapped my hands in anticipation. “Let's go in!”

“I don't want to, but you can—”

“Oh, come on. Are you scared you'll get caught?”

He was quiet as he concentrated on the wood at waist level and found a loose board. He raised it up to let me in.

I crouched low and kneeled to crawl through, then paused. “I don't want to go in there by myself. There could be all sorts of creepy things inside.”

“You'll be fine.” He grabbed my rear and practically pushed me into the barn.

I scrambled forward on my knees, making contact with the rough pine floor that was covered in a layer of dust. Once I was clear of Nick's secret portal, I rose to my feet and looked around me. It was like visiting an old friend from childhood. It had changed, but then so had I.

I cupped my hands over my mouth. “Nick!” I screamed.

Within moments Nick crawled through the opening behind me, concern on his face.

I pointed up at the ceiling. “I thought I saw a bat . . .”

He stood up, not sure whether to believe me. But then his eyes traveled around the barn and he was lost in memories.

The inside of the barn had a hollow, abandoned feeling, like an empty church. To the left were two large doors that marked the entrance. They were always padlocked from outside. Above them was a shallow loft with several large windows that tapered down from tallest to shortest on each side. Dust motes danced in the air where the grimy windows filtered light into the rest of the barn. Below the loft was a small office and two restrooms that Nick's dad had used when he employed a dozen carpenters. Above us the beamed ceiling spanned the entire huge interior, and I looked up just to make sure there actually were no bats.

Nick looked down at me and put his hands in his back pockets. “I feel like I should have brought in a six-pack, but I guess I'm too old for that stuff, huh?”

I smiled. “It kind of takes the fun out of it when it's legal, doesn't it?”

We walked through the cavernous space and looked at it from different angles. I was remembering how loud this barn was when Nick's dad was alive. The sounds of power saws and hammers were always reverberating from the open doors. Nick's father had been a large man, almost as tall as Nick, and I remembered how quick he was to smile and even quicker to laugh. His eyes used to crinkle in the corners when he came out into the light and greeted me or my parents.

I looked at Nick now and wondered if his own memories were rattling around in his mind. There was a grim twist to his mouth as he wandered to the back of the barn and lifted a tarp. Underneath was an old machine, and he ran his hands lovingly along the surface.

I moved to stand beside him. “What is that?”

“It's an old Powermatic reciprocating saw. My grandfather bought it and passed it down to Dad. They don't make them like this anymore.” He bent down to look around the edges and underneath the machine, tracing the lines of the machine with studied intensity. It dawned on me that here was a man who truly had a passion for the fine details and hard work that went into carpentry and building. He was the third generation of Conrad men who understood the lines of a building and the strength of a power tool.

“So your mother never wanted to get rid of it?”

He looked up at me as if he had almost forgotten I was there. “No.” He stood up and reached for the tarp. “This is actually not my mom's to get rid of.”

“Oh?”

“No. It's mine.” He settled the tarp over the machine and turned back toward me. “My dad left it to me.”

I reached out and adjusted the tarp to cover a side he had missed and tried not to look like it mattered to me that a little piece of Nick had stayed right here in Truhart. “So, do you ever wish you could use it?”

“No,” he said.

“Well, why not? Wouldn't it be kind of fun to play around with these old tools and do some woodworking? You used to love that stuff. Your dad was the best in the county and beyond . . . I mean, not that you ever wanted to become a builder like your dad. But still.”

“My dad worked his ass off, Annie. He gave more of himself to his work and this town than you or I could ever imagine.”

“I'm sure he did. More of the buildings in this town were built by your dad and grandfather than anyone else. But that's something I don't understand.”

His hands rested at his sides, but I saw them clench into fists as I talked. Perhaps I was pushing it, but there was something that bothered him and I wanted to figure it out.

“What don't you understand?” he asked slowly.

“With all this—your dad's barn, the buildings in Truhart, your mom—why don't you come back? Is it just hard because you miss him? Or is it something else?”

Nick tilted his head.

I put up my hands defensively. “I'm not trying to make you a woodworker. I know you love designing those monoliths. I just wonder if maybe you are the least bit interested in coming back to Truhart once in a while.”

“I'm here now. Isn't that good enough?”

“Well, yes,” I said, moving closer to him. “Maybe it's just me imagining things, but it doesn't seem like you actually
want
to be here.”

“I have changed, Annie. Small town life isn't for me anymore.” He grasped my shoulder and pulled me close.

“What is for you, Nick?”

“I've been wondering that.”

His lips touched mine. For several minutes he proved just what kind of wondering he was referring to. I let myself melt into him. It wasn't until I heard barking from outside that I realized we had been discovered.

“God, I hate those dogs.” Nick moaned as I pulled my flannel shirt back together. My hands shook as I struggled to recover.

“Somehow I don't believe that.”

He stopped my hands and buttoned the last few buttons himself. Kissing me on the nose, he said, “Finn, I like. But those other two, especially Lucifer, are obnoxious. I'm surprised my mom hasn't given them away by now.”

“They keep her company, Nick,” I said, looking him squarely in the face. “She is lonely.”

He looked away. “She has friends.”

I shook my head and changed tactics. “Are you sure you can't come to the art festival tonight? It doesn't have chocolate martinis, but there will be some wine from Michigan's west coast.”

“No.”

“Why—”

He shut me up with a firm kiss and then turned back to the secret portal, speaking over his shoulder. “Sometimes you really talk too much, Annie.”

A
s I drove home from the art show late that night, I stared blankly at the headlights illuminating the empty road ahead of me. I tried to understand why Nick was so reluctant to attend tonight. Earlier, when I'd entered the St. Francis parish hall, Mary had greeted me and said she thought Nick might show up after all. The excitement on her face was so contagious I felt my own spirits rise. But as the night wore on it became apparent that he wasn't going to come. One night home in three years, and he couldn't seem to find it in himself to spend the evening with his mother?

As disappointed as I had been, it was even more pitiful to watch Mary check her phone over and over for a message that never came. Even worse, when her beautiful quilt won first prize in the fabric category, and second prize overall, she had stood by herself while the other award winners took pictures with their families around them. Of course, everyone who loved her made a big deal of her prize, but it wasn't the same.

Tired of small talk and my head throbbing from the flash of my own camera, I had been one of the first to leave the show. It was almost 10:00 p.m. The old SUV ate up the winding state road, and I realized that my hands were clenching the wheel like a vise. I flexed my fingers and tried to calm down, but it wasn't working.

I should have trussed Nick up like a calf and hauled him to the show.

Would it have been so hard for him to make a simple appearance? He had driven all the way from Detroit but couldn't be bothered to drive fifteen minutes to St. Francis?

Things had been so good this afternoon. We were so hot and heavy we might have generated enough electricity to use that old reciprocating saw in a whole new way. And then when the dogs had followed our trail and erupted in a frenzy of barking, we had split apart as if the saw had done its job. Mary's confused expression as she stood on the front porch and watched us crawling around the side of the barn on our hands and knees would have been funny if it hadn't been so embarrassing.

When we righted ourselves and brushed off the dirt, Nick cupped his hand over his mouth and called out, “Annie just found a loose board, so we were trying to secure it.”

Mary had crooked her head sideways and given us an odd glance. She was still giving me strange looks at the art show, but if she had figured anything out, she hadn't said a word.

Turning into the long driveway that led to the inn, I noticed a sedan with a rental agency tag on the license plate in the visitors' parking area. I parked across from it and grabbed my camera equipment from the backseat.

Opening the front door, I was momentarily blinded. The room was uncharacteristically bright and the smell of turpentine and paint hung in the air. I looked around with curiosity at the work lights, tarps, and ladders by the front desk. A pile of boxes and books were gathered in the center of the room and I heard the sound of scraping nearby.

“Hey, Annie, how was the show?”

Nick appeared around the corner by the front desk and I took a step backward. He wore an old pair of jeans with rips in the knees, and a faded Lions T-shirt with paint smeared on it. He was so adorable I almost forgot my irritation.

“Fine,” I said weakly.

“Did you have any photos in the show?”

“No.” I hadn't entered any shows or contests in years and had no intention of doing so again. “Your mother won an award in the fabric division and second place for best overall. She would have really appreciated it if you had been there tonight.” He needed to understand how he had hurt her.

His smile faltered. “Whatever my mother is feeling, I am sure she will be fine.”

“But I don't understand why you couldn't just come to the show, even for a short time.”

“I don't really want to talk about it right now,” he said as he wiped his hands with an old rag. He closed the gap between us and lowered his head to give me a light kiss. As kisses went, it wasn't as life altering as his others, but it still had that goosebump quality to it. “I was happy helping out right here and waiting for you to get home.” He smiled with huge charm, and for a moment we were nearly back to where we'd left off in the barn.

He walked toward the pile of boxes in the middle of the floor. “Grady and I decided to get started on the lobby tonight, while things were quiet.”

I didn't see Grady, only cans of spackling compound and painters' tools at the top of the stairs.

“Well, that was nice of you,” I said, wondering what he was looking for in the pile in front of him.

“We were clearing out some boxes by the reception desk and I came across this.” He turned around with a smile, and held his hands up.

I felt a chill run up my spine. He was holding one of the photo albums I had worked on this past summer. Not wanting anyone else to see what I had been doing while I spent long hours at the front desk, I had tucked it away in a back closet, thinking I would put it in the attic later. Inside the book were photographs I had taken of the backcountry roads and small towns I had traveled last spring. They were marked with comments, the names of the towns or roads, and random titles that held more personal meaning than I wanted to share. Each sleeve in the book held pictures of life in struggling towns throughout our county. In many ways they were a departure from my simpler, off-the-beaten-track images. They were edgier and bleaker.

Nick turned a page to a photo of an old woman wearing a man's hat, sitting on a porch next to a young girl in a torn dress and bare feet.
Crooked Porch
was scrawled in pencil next to that photo along with questions I had wondered about.
Whose hat is that? Where is the child's father?
He turned to the next page and I already knew what was on it. An old Chevy truck with no wheels parked behind a gas station.
Going Nowhere
.

A sour taste formed in my mouth as I watched Nick leaf through the pages of the album.

“These are great, Annie. You should do something with them.” He sounded as casual as if he was looking through a cookbook.

I walked over to him and held my hands out for him to pass it back to me. “I didn't want anyone to see them.”

He closed the book, held it to his chest, and gave me a tentative grin. “No, I mean it. These are really great! You should get them published. Or even consider displaying them in a gallery. You could create an entire show with these.”

“I'd rather not.” I continued to hold my hands out. I heard my voice speak calmly and clearly, but inside I was shaking with emotion.

He frowned. “Are you mad that I looked at them? I know that art is really personal, but you have talent.”

I lowered my arms and took a deep breath. I was overreacting. Why shouldn't I be proud of my work? I knew in my mind that it was silly to feel so agitated. But the book was as personal as a diary to me. It was strange to know that he had just looked at the photos and notes without my consent. I felt exposed, as if my clothes had been ripped off.

Nick sensed my mood and put the book back down in the pile, and I resisted the urge to snatch it up.

“It's personal, that's all.”

“You seem mad. I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself. You really need to show that book to someone. Brittany has some friends—”

“I wasn't ready for someone to go through it,” I interrupted. The image of Brittany looking at my book made me nauseous. “Was there anything else you went through behind the desk? Feel free to look at my checkbook while you're at it.”

“Whoa,” he said as if I were a wild horse. “Sorry to upset you. I won't do it again. Look, I appreciate art. I thought the photos were beautiful and had no idea you would have a problem sharing them.”

His tone sounded patronizing to me. “If you're so into art, you should have gone to the art show.” I couldn't hold it in any longer.

“I was helping out here.”

“We are fine without your help. Next time help your mother. She is lonely and misses you. It was just one night, Nick. You couldn't give that much?”

Nick's eyes darkened and his body tensed. “Stay out of it, Annie.”

“Oh, so it's all right for you to go snooping through my photos, but I can't discuss something that is right in front of us. Like the way you treated your mother tonight.”

“I don't want to talk to you about that,” Nick said, turning his back on me.

“Why not? Are you afraid you'll sound as stuck-up as June Lowell or Scarlett Francis? Go ahead, Nick. I am a big girl. I can take it.”

“Say what, Annie? You're so good at reading people. What is it you think I am going to say?” Nick bent his head and stared at the floor. I couldn't see his expression.

“Tell me how much you hate this town. How much better Atlanta is than Truhart.”

“Oh, are we back to that? Is that you what you think?” His voice was flat and ominous.

“Well, you won't tell me what's going on. I have no idea what you are feeling half the time, so it's easy to think you hate this place.”

He swung around to face me, his cheeks mottled red and his eyes black. “You want to know what I feel? You have this naïve idea that just because this is a small town with people who go to church and play bingo together, nothing is ever bad. Big cities are bad. Right, Annie? Atlanta. New York. Evil places. But Truhart, well, it is just full of good citizens who would never harm a soul.”

I stood rigidly.

“Well, guess what, Annie. All isn't perfect in Mayberry.” I could see a vein clearly throbbing at the side of his neck.

“What are you talking about?”

He opened his mouth and closed it several times. I waited for him to say something. He stared at me, but he wasn't seeing me at all. He was lost in a place I couldn't begin to picture. Around us the room was silent except for the sound of the clock above the mantel.

Finally, he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. “You couldn't possibly understand how I feel, Annie.”

“That's because you won't tell me. I'm not a mind reader.” I swallowed before adding, “I just don't think you should punish your mother by running away from your hometown and abandoning her. It isn't her fault.”

“Abandoning her? Is that what you think I've done? You don't really know me at all.”

“Well—”

“You know, I can't believe you're talking to me about abandoning things. That's ironic. It really is. You're the expert at running away, not me. You ran away from your dreams a long time ago.”

I tried not to let his words twist in my gut. “I don't have any dreams, Nick. I am perfectly happy.” I was surprised how feeble the words sounded as soon as I said them.

Nick pointed to the photo album lying nearby. “That's not the story those pictures tell.”

I stared at the book, speechless. I was happy, wasn't I? The book was full of images of lonely roads and decaying buildings. And sure, the pictures were sad, but it wasn't like they were a Rorschach test. The other albums I had created were stuffed with pictures of life off the main interstate, too. Even though I knew my photographs were growing increasingly glum, they were a reflection of the times. They were a part of the backdrop of my life. Not some deep subconscious neurosis.

I was so lost in thought that it took me a moment to realize Nick was holding his coat and looking up the stairs with a stony expression.

“See you later, Grady,” he said. I looked up at Grady, who was standing at the top of the second-floor landing looking like he wished he was on the other side of the planet.

“You're going? Just like that?” I asked.

“There is a fundamental problem between us, Annie.” He put on his coat, painstakingly adjusting the collar while the silence grew. Then he stared me in the eye. It felt like he could see through my skin and I wanted to look away. “You want to stay in Truhart. You want nothing to change. And I don't.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Was this over before it even started? I thought we had begun something special. I knew the reality of loving Nick was different than my dreams—but everything had been coming together.

I couldn't get enough air. Nick blurred in waves as he walked away from me.

“You know, Nick, I may still be here in Truhart, but at least I don't let anything get in the way of what I care about. Whatever feelings you may have for this town, you're letting them get in the way of coming home, and you're hurting the people who care about you.”

He froze for a moment.

I blinked furiously and walked over to him. “This little town didn't seem to bother you so much when you were a kid,” I said, grabbing his arm.

Nick pulled his arm away from my grasp and stepped around me. He walked out the front door without looking back. I stood in the doorway for a long time and watched his car drive down the road until his taillights faded in the distance.

A part of me wanted to pick up stones and throw them at his back windows.
Good riddance.
The cold wind did nothing to cool the anger that washed over me. Good thing we figured out how incompatible we were now, before anything else happened.

I stepped back inside and slammed the door.