The First Love Cookie Club (27 page)

But their differences melded perfectly. He balanced her, pulling her into life with rich gusto she lacked; and she balanced him, by suggesting he step back, take a deep breath, and think things through before jumping in willy-nilly.

He’d finally said the words she’d wanted so badly to hear and yet was so afraid for him to say them because she didn’t know if she could say them back. She felt love for him vibrating to her very core. She’d never experienced anything so expansive, so filled with possibilities. Part of her wanted to withdraw, to go off by herself so she could think this through, set the stage, and come up with the perfect reply.

But here he was looking at her with such hunger in his eyes, as if he was just craving to hear her tell him what he so badly wanted her to say. And he was giving her space, keeping his distance, letting her process what he’d said. His actions—or rather lack of action—told her what she needed to know. He was willing to temper his natural tendencies in order to give her what she needed. If he could do that, then so could she.

Declaring her love would mean opening herselfup to pain. If she committed herself to love, she was committing herself to a lifelong struggle over the security of being alone. To choose him would be to choose uncertainty. Loving him meant admitting the possibility of losing him.

She looked into his eyes, so honest and true, and felt something shift inside her. He was worth the risk. This relationship was worth facing the dreadful gap between the ideal fantasy and the real man. He was worth the price.

Sarah shut down the part of her brain that thought too much. She closed off the internal filter that had kept her locked in a metaphorical tower. She allowed the feelings bubbling in her heart to overflow.

And she just went with it.

She stepped forward. “Travis.”

He opened his arms wide, his smile was tentatively hopeful, but he waited for her to come to him. “Sarah.”

She rushed to him as surely as the river rushed to Lake Twilight, headlong, heedless,
happy.
“I love you, Travis,” she cried exuberantly. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He caught her in his embrace, squeezed her tightly, and spun her in a complete circle. His broad laugh echoed around the room, and that’s when Sarah Collier realized that finally, at long last, she’d come home.

There is a story in this acknowledgment. When I was a young nursing student, I was assigned to work in a pediatric clinic that treated children stricken with cancer. This was an extremely difficult rotation, and I saw many families split apart by the terminal diagnosis of a child. It was truly heartbreaking to watch. Most of the time it was the fathers who broke, unable to handle the pressure, and took off, leaving the mothers to shoulder the burden alone.

But there was one father I will forever remember. When his little golden-haired three-year-old daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he was the one who stayed and his wife was the one who abandoned them. He’d gone to the same high school I’d attended and I recalled him as a real hell-raiser in his day. No one would have ever expected him to turn out to be such a wonderful father. He’d bring his daughter into the clinic every week and she’d be dressed in adorable clothes, patent leather Mary Janes, her hair styled in ringlets. He’d holdher in his arms and whisper tender words of comfort to her as we did wretchedly painful things to try and save this child’s life.

I would love to say that we succeeded. That we saved the real Jazzy and she had a happy life with her very special father, but alas we did not.

That was many, many years ago, but the memory of that father and his daughter stayed with me. They are the inspiration for Travis and Jazzy Walker, except this time, I’m in control and they will darn well get their happy ending.

T
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OOKIE
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2010 by Laurie Vanzura
ISBN 978-0-06-198842-4
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