Silver Linings (7 page)

For the next session, Katie arrived at the cafeteria first. James was only a minute or two behind her, but instead of sitting in the chair across the table from her, he sat next to her.

Katie looked up in surprise, afraid to mention the change in position and even to guess what it might mean. Her heart started pounding like a runaway horse, and when she reached for her pencil her hand trembled.

James acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, but it was, and Katie didn't know what it might mean.

He was reviewing her homework assignment that she'd started in class when one of the guys from his group of friends strolled past.

“James,” he called out. “How long are you going to be? We're one man short.”

“It'll be a while.”

The other boy trained his look on Katie. She'd seen him around but didn't know his name. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable.

“How long is it going to take before you're back, man? The girl is taking all your playing time.”

“The girl has a name: Katie Gilroy,” he snapped.

“You taking her to Homecoming?”

In that instant it felt as if the entire world had stopped. Katie's heart shot into her throat. She hated that James had been put on the spot. He would never ask someone like her to Homecoming, and so she answered for him.

“No,” she blurted out, feeling the telltale blush fill her cheeks with color. Her face burned with it and she lowered her head so low her forehead practically touched the textbook.

“I'll stop by the gym later, Brandon,” said James.

“Sure.”

Brandon left and Katie felt the tension ease from James and realized it had from her, too.

“Sorry about that,” he said after a moment.

“That's okay, you don't need to apologize.”

He rolled the pencil between his open palms. “Has anyone asked you to Homecoming?”

“No. It isn't for another couple of weeks, right?”

“Right.”

She thought for a minute that he wanted to talk about the dance, but he dropped the subject and she was just as glad. Even if by some miracle a boy asked her, Katie wouldn't have been able to attend. She didn't have money for a dress or shoes or anything else and she wouldn't ask the Flemmingses.

When she'd finished the assignment, Katie closed her book and returned it to her backpack. She expected James would want to go and join his friends in the gym right away. Instead he lingered behind.

“I saw you walking home the other day.”

Whenever she stayed after school, she missed the bus. “The buses have all left by the time we're finished here. The house isn't that far.” The Flemmingses' home was more than a mile from the school, but Katie didn't mind the exercise.

James glanced outside. “Would you like a ride?”

His invitation left her nearly speechless. “What about your friends? Aren't you going to go play basketball?”

“No.”

She wasn't sure what to tell him. It felt like he was offering her a lot more than dropping her off on his way home.

“Do you want a ride or not?” he asked, smiling, when she didn't answer right away. He grabbed hold of his own backpack and swung it over his shoulder by one strap.

Katie smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

“No big deal,” he said. “It's on my way.”

When he smiled at her it felt as if the whole world was smiling on her.

It wasn't until early afternoon that I looked outside and saw that Mark was busy painting the gazebo, clearly hoping to finish the job today.

As far as I could tell he hadn't even stopped to eat lunch, working straight through. I raised my fingers to my lips, which remained slightly swollen, even now, from his kisses earlier in the day.

Standing out of view of the gazebo, I watched the hurried pace he'd set for himself, my stomach in knots. For whatever reason a memory came to me of the day I'd gotten the news that Paul was missing in action and presumed dead. An army chaplain and officer had come to deliver the news. It had been early—just after six in the morning. I was up and had coffee brewing, getting ready for the office.

Little of our meeting, the actual words spoken, stayed with me. Everything stopped when I heard the words
missing in action—presumed dead.
The shock of it had knocked me so far off balance that I'd started orbiting another world.

What stuck in my mind from that terrible morning was how desperately I needed my mother. I don't know how long it took me to reach for the phone. It could have been hours or minutes. I was completely numb. I don't think I said anything more than “Mom.” Reeling, my head spinning at warp speed, I wasn't emotional or sobbing. Shock had a tight grip on me and yet just the desperate way I cried out her name, my mother knew.

The next thing I remembered was that she was there with me. I didn't cry until my mother had her arms around me. She held me close as I wailed. I rocked back and forth in a strange effort to absorb the wave upon wave of pain, this body blow of overwhelming grief.

As I stood watching Mark work, I had the strongest desire to reach out to my mother, needing her comfort once more and not knowing how to explain why. I resisted as long as I could before walking into my office and slumping down in the chair. For a full five minutes all I did was stare at my landline. When I found the courage to pick up the receiver I dialed my family home.

It took three rings for Mom to answer. “Jo Marie, what's up?”

“Hi, Mom. You busy?”

A short pause followed. “What's wrong?”

“What makes you think anything is wrong?” I asked, already regretting the urge to call her. I should have known my mother would see through my attempt to be casual. She knew me well enough to realize I was upset even before I could tell her.

“Something's up,” Mom insisted, “so you'd best tell me without pretending this is just a checking-in kind of call. I know otherwise, so cut to the chase.”

Leaning forward, I braced my elbow on the desk and pressed my hand against my forehead. “Mark's leaving.”

“Ah…so it's Mark,” Mom said, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did.

I pinched the bridge of my nose in a futile effort to hold back the tears. “He's just about finished with the gazebo and then he's heading out.”

“Yes, you'd said he was moving on,” my ever-practical mother said.

Apparently, she didn't fully understand the significance. “Yes…he told me that a few weeks ago.”

“Didn't you believe him?”

“I did, but…”

“So what you're telling me is now that it's actually happening, you don't want him to go?”

That was it in a nutshell. “I don't,” I admitted. “He's become important to me. He's my handyman and builder and my best friend, and now he's leaving. He hasn't even left yet and I'm feeling lost and alone.”

“Oh, honey, I'm so sorry.”

“I feel…I don't know.” It was hard to explain when I hadn't been able to put it into words, even to myself.

“When Dad and I were at the inn for dinner, your father was convinced then you had a soft spot for Mark, remember?”

“I remember.”

Mom wasn't one to hold back. “You do have feelings for him, don't you, sweetie?”

My fingers went back to my mouth and I closed my eyes and remembered the anguished way in which Mark had held and kissed me.

“Jo Marie?”

“Yes,” I admitted, “I guess I do.” It was the first time I'd been willing to say the words aloud. Until he kissed me I'd denied any emotional attachment to Mark. Now I had to ask myself if I'd been falling in love with Mark, and I was afraid of the answer.

“Does he feel the same way about you?” Mom asked me, her voice gentle and careful, as if she was afraid the question would bring me pain.

“I believe he loves me.” Mark had as good as said he was in love with me. “He won't tell me why he has to leave, but whatever it is has to be serious. He's done something he refuses to discuss with me or apparently anyone else.” Our conversation from three weeks ago lingered in my mind.

“Do you think he's done something illegal?” Mom's voice dropped to a whisper as if the FBI had tapped my phone line and was listening in at this very moment.

“No, I don't think so,” I said, though I couldn't be sure. Almost from the first time I'd met him, I'd suspected Mark Taylor was hiding some deep, dark secret. Everything about him was mysterious. I'd done copious amounts of research to dig into his past and had come away with no significant information. At one point I'd considered making an appointment to talk to Roy MacAfee, a retired Seattle police detective who did a bit of private investigation on the side. In the end I'd decided against it.

“Okay.” Mom didn't sound convinced. “What could it be, then?”

I so badly wanted the answer. “I don't know; I just don't know.” Whatever it was tormented Mark. From the way he held and kissed me I knew that he no more wanted to leave than I wanted him to go.

“Oh, sweetie. I am sorry, but in some ways I think his leaving might be for the best.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. “What do you mean?”

My mother's hesitation told me this was a matter that had weighed heavily on her mind. “I've watched you over the last eighteen months, Jo Marie, and you've used Mark as a crutch.”

“A what?” She wasn't making sense.

“A crutch. He's become your friend and your confidant, and that's all well and good, but it's time, Jo Marie. Time for you to break out of that protective wall you've built, insulating yourself from the world. You were crazy about Paul and he about you. He was your whole world and then he was gone. You were lost, alone, drifting, and then there was Mark…”

“Mom—” I started to protest, but she cut me off.

“My goodness, Jo Marie, look at your life—Your best friend is a cranky handyman you've kept at arm's length. You no longer go out with friends. You behave like a grandmother, baking cookies, pruning roses.”

“I'm an innkeeper. I don't have a lot of free time,” I argued.

“Make time,” Mom countered. “You're young and full of life—it's time you started acting like it. Yes, I know you're grieving, but really, is this what Paul would have wanted?”

I didn't want to argue with my mother. “Okay,” I whispered, “I'll give it some thought.” What I'd wanted were some gentle words that would ease the ache in my heart. “I called to talk about Mark,” I reminded her.

“I know. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything, but I've been worried about you for quite a while now and hesitated to mention it. I know it's a blow that Mark's leaving, but maybe it's for the best.”

“He put his house on the market.”

“Let him go, Jo Marie, and use this time to reach out and make new friends.”

My mother had certainly given me something to think about. I didn't necessarily agree with her, but what she said was worth considering.

“Would you like me to come over and spend a few days with you?” my mother offered.

I was tempted to accept, but then decided it would be a hardship for my dad to be without Mom. If I said the word, she'd be on the next ferry to Cedar Cove, but it would disrupt their lives for my own selfish reasons. I'd survived much worse and I would get through this, too.

“I appreciate that you would be willing, but no thanks, Mom.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Call me if you change your mind.”

“I will,” I promised.

We spoke for a few more minutes, exchanging family news. I'll admit by the time we disconnected I did feel better. Just talking to my mother had helped ease the ache in my heart.

Rover was asleep at my feet, his chin resting on the top of my foot. I reached down and scratched his ears. When I left the office I noticed the sun was shining and the afternoon had grown warm.

I glanced out the window and saw Mark wipe his forearm across his forehead. I'd made a pitcher of iced tea earlier in the day, so I poured him a large glass and added a slice of lemon. The oatmeal-raisin cookies I'd baked earlier in the week were tucked away in the freezer. I removed the plastic bag and took out four and set them on a plate and carried the tea and cookies out to Mark.

He looked over his shoulder when I came onto the porch, and a frown marred his brow when he saw me.

“I come in peace,” I assured him. “You look like you could use a cool drink and a few cookies.”

For a moment it seemed as if he was going to refuse me. “Thanks. Set them down on the porch and I'll have them later.”

“Okay.” I was disappointed but said nothing. Doing as he asked, I placed the glass and the plate of cookies on the top step. “This works out best, as the cookies are frozen.”

He frowned. “You put cookies in the freezer?”

“I
hide
cookies in the freezer,” I corrected.

“Because I tend to eat them as fast as you bake them,” he said and smiled.

I smiled back. “No, because I'm afraid
I'll
eat them. You know what they say, don't you? Out of sight, out of mind.”

Right away his smile faded and his look sobered. “Is that how it will work with me, Jo Marie?” he asked, his gaze holding mine in a tight grip.

He was so serious that for a moment I couldn't find my voice to answer. “No,” I whispered, “I won't forget you, Mark. You'll always be right here.” I pressed my palm over my heart.

He continued to hold my look for a long moment before he turned away and resumed painting. I watched him, unable to move. Despite his effort to hide it, I caught a glimpse of pain and regret in him. For just a millisecond I thought he was about to drop the paintbrush and take me in his arms again. The look passed so quickly I couldn't be sure. Perhaps it was my own heart speaking, calling out to him.

I returned to the kitchen, where I stood looking out the window above the sink. Once again I reviewed the conversation with Mark I'd had three weeks previously when he'd first mentioned he had feelings for me. Something Mark had said then kept bugging me. He'd talked about climbing out of a black hole, but I didn't know what he'd meant. I'd tried to ask him questions, but he wouldn't answer. He had reminded me that Paul was a hero and in the same sentence claimed he himself was flawed and broken.

Even now I remembered how intense he'd gotten, regret coating each word. Although Mark had never said it, I was convinced he'd been part of the military. In my talks with Peggy and Bob Beldon, they'd said they had the same impression. Someone, I didn't remember who, had said they were fairly certain Mark spoke fluent German.

Last year when he'd broken his leg and was dopey on pain meds he'd muttered something unintelligible at me. At the time I assumed he was incoherent with pain and just babbling. In retrospect it might have been another language, one unfamiliar to me. I wanted to ask him and immediately realized I couldn't. Anytime I questioned him he grew impatient and either ignored me or changed the subject. He'd become a master at evasion.

If I had only a day or two left with Mark I was determined not to waste them digging for information he was intent on hiding.