Bloom (Evergreen Series Book 3) Read online

  I began editing my notes, furiously thumb-typing and mercilessly deleting. By the time we reached Drea’s house, I had a completely new list.

  Five Ways I Can Grow Emotionally

  1. Approach problems with compassion and determination.

  2. Be honest and tactful.

  3. Allow myself to be vulnerable.

  4. Continue doing the work that gives my life purpose.

  5. Accept responsibility for my mistakes and hold others accountable for their actions, or inaction.

  As Drea pulled into a parking space outside the coffeehouse, I grabbed her hand before she could get out of the car. “I’m sorry if I put you on the spot back there. I know Jack needs time to sort things out. It’s not you or Barry’s responsibility to piece my marriage back together. I’m sorry I got impatient with you.”

  She smiled as she squeezed my hand. “Laurel, you’re going through a really shit time. You’re allowed to get a bit pissy once in a while. Just don’t make it a habit or I’ll throw you in the bloody river.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  We found an empty table and Drea made me sit down while she went to the counter to order our drinks. When she returned with my hot chai tea latte, I wrapped my hands around the mug to warm my frozen fingers. Taking a sip of the spicy, frothy tea, I sighed as the tension in my shoulders melted away.

  “They’re warming up our croissants. They’ll bring them to the table,” Drea said, bringing her coffee mug to her lips then putting it down without taking a sip. “Listen, I think… I think you ought to go talk to Jack. He’s not in the hotel anymore.”

  I stared at the cinnamon floating on top of my tea. “I will. But I think I need to focus on fixing myself before I can even attempt to tackle the problems in my marriage. Turns out I’m really screwed up, you know?”

  She nodded as she picked up her mug again. “Understatement of the century, love. But seriously, when you think you’re ready, I think you need to be the one to go to him. What do you think?”

  I chuckled at her delicate approach. “I think you’re probably right. I also think… I want you to help me with the PTSD app I’m working on.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, disappearing beneath her dark fringe. “Pardon me? But I think you just asked me to work with you?”

  I shook my head. “I know you claim to be allergic to work, but I do remember you telling me you were a pretty kickass PR rep back in London. And I could really use some help marketing the app to healthcare providers. I got lucky with the Barley Legal drinking apps. But I don’t know anyone in the healthcare industry. I could really use your brilliant mind on this one. Please?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re too good. You know bloody well I can’t resist shameless flattery.”

  I clapped my hands softly. “Thank you!”

  She waved off my excitement. “Yes, yes, that’s all good, but I thought you were going to release the app under Jack’s new company. What is it called? Restart or HeadStart?”

  I laughed. “It’s called Reboot. It’s supposed to be a reference to rebooting your brain.”

  “My brain could use a reboot. Or even just a warm croissant. I’ll be collecting my pension by the time we get our food.”

  “I’m serious. I want you to work with me,” I said, dipping my fingertip into the froth in my cup and licking the cinnamon off my finger.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Do you really think it’s a good idea to start a new business venture without Jack when you don’t know if you’re getting divorced? Shouldn’t you wait a bit?”

  “If he still wanted me to work with him, he probably would have contacted me by now.”

  “Bloody hell, Laurel. You broke the man’s heart. Is he not allowed a moment to get his bearings?”

  I covered my face with my hands, feeling properly shamed. “I’m awful, aren’t I?”

  “No, you most certainly are not. I’m sorry I blew up like that,” she said, prying my hands off my face. “But you are the most bloody impatient woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Just… Just give Jack some time… I hear he’s started seeing a grief counselor. Maybe something like your group thing. The point is he’s trying, Laurel. Just as you are.” Drea’s phone vibrated on the table and she rolled her eyes as she glanced at it. “Oh, Lord. If it isn’t Cunty McCuntington.”

  I tried not to laugh as Drea answered her mother-in-law’s call. I pretended not to listen as she confirmed that she and Barry and the children would be in London for Christmas. And, no, she had no plans of moving back to England now that Barry was no longer working at Halo. And, yes, they did have a tamper-resistant home security system. And, no, she didn’t think any crazy Americans were going to try to murder her whole family.

  Drea sighed as she ended the call. “I’m sorry about that. I can’t even say she means well. Just the other day, I heard her suggesting to Barry that he should divorce me and move back to London. She’s a total nutter.”

  “You’ll want me to housesit for you while you’re gone, right?” I asked, eager to change the subject.

  She shrugged. “If you can. If you’re back home by then, I can totally ask Christy.”

  I shook my head at the mention of Drea’s only other friend in Hood River. We used to hang out with her occasionally after yoga class, but I stopped talking to her when I began to suspect she had sold pictures of the inside of my house to a tabloid magazine. Drea went to lunch with her a couple times while I was living at my mom’s house in Portland. She didn’t think Christy was the source of the photos, but when I asked her who she thought it was, she didn’t know.

  Christy was a great place to start practicing the five items on my list. Maybe she wasn’t guilty of selling those pictures. I had already held her accountable by not talking to her for two years. Maybe now was the time to allow myself to be vulnerable. Being friends with someone meant risking betrayal, but being betrayed was part of life. And the pain of losing something or someone you cared about was preferable to a sterile, pain-free life of loneliness.

  Like the Tennyson quote: Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. It was a terribly trite cliché, and also a truth so sharp it punctured the thickest cynicism. It was better to have known and loved my son for those three short months than to never have known or loved him. And if Jack couldn’t forgive me, I would move on, a better person for having known and loved him.

  As Drea drove us back to her house to shower before we picked up the kids from school, I had a strong urge to ask her to stop at the market so I could get a bottle of wine. Then, I remembered — to my great horror — I was pregnant. And, even if I wasn’t, I couldn’t keep retreating inward, numbing my pain and anxiety with alcohol and destructive behavior.

  I had to send Jack an email. This whole separation started with a letter to Jack. Maybe I could end it with a very different letter.

  Dear Jack,

  I’m sorry for everything that happened while you were in Idaho. I don’t think I’ll ever stop regretting these months apart. Maybe if I had taken better care of myself, I could have taken better care of you.

  While I take full responsibility for my actions and inaction, I also need you to acknowledge that our problems — past and present — don’t rest solely on my shoulders. I’m not the only one who abandoned this marriage.

  I don’t want to hurt you or me anymore. I just want to love you.

  My first ultrasound is December 20th at 11:30 a.m. at Dr. Eastman’s office. My second ultrasound is March 15th at 10 a.m. Will you be there?

  Yours always,

  Laurel

  Chapter 7

  Jack

  The slab of concrete on the east end of the property, nearest to Parrett Mountain Road, was all that remained of the small three-bedroom farmhouse, which once stood on this sixteen-acre parcel of land. The house had been torn down, but the concrete foundation remained, to protect the existing utilities, and making it easier to tie in utility lines whe
n the new house was built.

  I kicked the stub of an old, black drainage pipe and it didn’t budge. The old house was solidly built sometime in the ’50s. And here I was sixty years later, a thirty-year-old man on the verge of a divorce, contemplating building a house I might not have any use for.

  I heard the crackling rumble of tires rolling over gravel and looked up to see my Dutch architect, Erik Jansen, parking his teal Infinity SUV next to my truck. He hopped out immediately and flashed me a bright-white smile. Erik had come highly recommended by a former colleague who used Erik’s firm to build him a smart home on Vancouver Island. So far, he had impressed me with his creativity and knowledge. I wondered how he would take the news that we had to put the project on hold.

  Erik stood next to me, looking at the tiny pools of rain collecting in various areas of the concrete slab we were standing on. “Have you decided which side of the property you want to build the main home?” he asked in his mild Dutch accent.

  I shook my head. “Actually, I’ve got really shit news. There’s been some… new developments since we last met at the property a couple weeks ago. Some… stuff happening in my marriage, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to be able to move forward with the project.”

  Erik’s blond eyebrows shot up. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that, but I totally understand. I got divorced about a year before I moved to Portland. I know how it puts your life in limbo for a while. Listen, if you’d like, we can continue working as normal through the planning phase. And if you don’t end up building here, at least you’ll have the specs and blueprints if you want to build in the future.”

  I nodded. “That sounds like a good idea.” I glanced around the vast expanse of overgrown grass and craggily old trees. “I want the main house here, right where we’re standing, pushed back about a hundred yards from the road. And the far northwest corner will be for the Clarkes. Submit the zoning plans to the city and let me know what they say about giving the Clarkes four of our sixteen acres.”

  “We’ll get right on it. It usually takes a few days to get a surveyor out here to measure and another couple days to draw up plans. It takes about a week or two to get an answer back from city planners, so you should hear back on the zoning issue in two to three weeks. Definitely before Christmas.”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “And, it goes without saying, but I’d appreciate if you could keep the stuff I told you about my marriage between you and me. I don’t need any media attention right now. They’re already having a field day with the news that I left Halo.”

  I stayed at the property, standing on that slab of concrete, as Erik drove away. I stood there as the rain returned, dotting my skin with beads of frigid water. Closing my eyes and tilting my head back, I forced myself to think of all the times I’d kissed Laurel in the rain. I didn’t open my eyes until my blazer was soaked through and clinging to my cold skin.

  Looking around, I saw Laurel’s greenhouse. I saw kids running around, squealing with laughter. I saw Laurel lying poolside. I saw her pressed up against the shower wall.

  I saw her everywhere. I saw her in everything.

  Then, I saw my hands, cradling her face, a memory from just three months ago.

  “You can have anyone and anything you want. Why are you still fighting for me?”

  “Because you’re not anyone or anything… You’re everything.”

  I left my second therapy session with Dr. Michael Lopez feeling a bit lost. When I told him about my experience at the property today, imagining Laurel and our life together, I expected him to respond with some psychobabble. It’s easy to imagine Laurel in your life because that’s all you’ve imagined for the last eight years. But his actual response left me even more confused than when I stepped into his office.

  “Love cannot be forced. Love is effortless. That is why a person in love will often describe it as being swept away. It takes no effort to fall in love. Falling out of love is an entirely different story. It requires a lot of effort and, more importantly, a lot of good, solid reasons. You are expecting to fall out of love with your wife just because you have a reason. You believe your wife betrayed you, but you are not even sure if the betrayal was intentional. So your reason is not solid.” He tilted his head to the side, a gesture I was beginning to realize was his tell. Whenever he was about to make a point he thought would be met with resistance, he tilted his head. “You need to decide if it is more important to be righteous or to be in love.”

  I arrived home a few minutes later and immediately took a hot shower. Afterward, I grabbed a beer and fixed myself a ham sandwich, which was nowhere as good as the ham sandwiches Laurel would make. Taking a seat at the dining table, I opened up the email app on my phone and stopped mid-bite when I saw Laurel’s name appear in my inbox.

  I read the email quickly, then I read it again to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. The apology was expected, as was the suggestion that we both needed to accept responsibility for the roles we’d played in the breakdown of our marriage. But the information about her sonogram appointment, and the request for me to be there, split me open. It tore me apart to think that she wasn’t absolutely certain I’d be there for the baby.

  I exited the email app and stared at the phone until my sandwich went stale. Then, I finally made the call.

  “Hello?” she was breathless, as if she’d been running before she answered the call. “Jack?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I got your email.”

  We were both silent for a while. I didn’t know what she was thinking, but I knew Laurel enough to know what she was doing. When I used to travel a lot, in the first couple of years after I started Halo, she used to ask me to call her so we could put each other on speakerphone as we went about our day. It put her at ease and made her feel close to me. It was often the only way she could get to sleep when I was gone. That was how I knew that she wasn’t waiting for me to speak. She was just listening.

  “I’ll pick you up and take you to the ultrasound appointment,” I finally said.

  “Oh,” she replied, then took a long pause, probably reading too much into the fact that I said I’d pick her up, which implied we wouldn’t be back together by then. “Okay. Are you sure? I don’t mind driving myself.”

  “Laurel—”

  “I mean, I know you’re busy with the new business and… everything. I really don’t mind driving.”

  “Laurel, I’m not going to let you drive there. I remember what you were like during Junior’s first ultrasound.”

  She let out a congested laugh. “I had to pee so bad.”

  I smiled as I remembered how worried she was that she was going to pee all over the examination table. “The last thing we need is for some asshole to cut you off in traffic and literally scare the piss out of you. That would be really bad for the Tesla.”

  She gasped. “Really bad for the Tesla?”

  “Take it easy, pixie. I’m only teasing you.”

  We were both silent as I thought about how easily the word “pixie” had rolled off my tongue. How natural it was to tease her. How much I loved her reactions to being teased.

  Dr. Lopez was right. The reasons I had for falling out of love with Laurel were shaky. But my heart didn’t care about reason. My heart considered getting back together with Laurel a risk that needed to be weighed carefully. But right now, all I wanted was to keep teasing her so I could hear that stunning laugh.

  We chatted a bit longer. It was almost midnight when I reluctantly decided I needed to put an end to the conversation, before either of us began to get our hopes up.

  “You need to get your sleep,” I said, wondering if I should end the call with a promise to pick her up in a couple of weeks, for her next prenatal appointment. It sounded cold to end a perfectly good conversation with a promise not to speak again for half a month.

  “Yeah, I’m usually asleep by now,” she replied. “I’ve been pretty tired.”

  I wanted to offer to help her out with the app she was worki
ng on, but I had to keep my distance until I figured out what I was going to do. It just came so easily, the idea that I had to help her in whatever she did.

  She was my partner in everything. My fucking best friend. And here I was wondering if I could even offer to help her. This whole situation was so fucked.

  “Goodnight, Laurel.”

  She let out a soft whimper. “I’m sorry. I was really trying not to cry. I just… I miss you so much.”

  I let out a heavy sigh. “I know.”

  “And when you call me Laurel it… it actually hurts. It feels like I’m talking to a stranger, but we’re the furthest from strangers two people can get. You know me, Jack. You know me better than anyone. I would never hurt you intentionally. Please tell me you know that.”

  I shook my head as I gripped the arm of the dining chair to keep from grabbing my beer bottle and hurling it across the room. “Of course I fucking know that, which is why it hurts so much. You lied to me. Do you know what that’s like? It’s like finding out the person you love most in the world is a fucking stranger.”

  “Jack, please—”

  “I have to go. I don’t want to upset you. Goodnight.”

  “Wait, Jack.”

  “What?” I shot back, much harsher than I intended. “I’m sorry. What is it?”

  She was quiet for a long while, then she let out a deep sigh. “Nothing. Goodnight.”

  Chapter 8

  Isaac

  Thanksgiving used to be my favorite holiday. Dane and I once pulled a pretty fantastic identical twin prank on my mom. First thing Thanksgiving morning, eleven-year-old Dane told my mom he felt sick to his stomach. Claimed he couldn’t eat anything. On top of all the other food my mom was cooking, she also took the time to make him some chicken soup, which he left on his nightstand untouched.