Always on My Mind (12 page)

She’d nearly reached out, wrapped a finger around one of those curls as she listened
 
—no, watched
 
—him read Thor’s letter.
“In my defense, I did what every husband would do to keep his family safe.”

Thor’s words on Casper’s lips strummed through her, and she pressed her fingers to her eyes, hating that after a month, the pain could still sear through her, as fresh as the moment she surrendered Layla. She’d done what she had to in order to give her daughter a good life, a real life. To keep her safe. She believed that down to her bones.

Then why did the doubt haunt her, right there on her shoulder every moment?

The teakettle whistled and she picked it up, poured the water into the hot cocoa mug. Stirred it into a frothy darkness. She tied the fuzzy oversize bathrobe around her, still wearing her jeans and turtleneck under it, and headed out to the quiet family room. Light glowed from the Tiffany lamp onto the denim sofa, and a fire crackled in the hearth.

Outside, the wind whistled off the lake, hammering the windows. The thermometer outside listed twelve below, and just the trip from her car, at the curb, to the house had nearly frozen her lips off.

Maybe she should change her mind, turn Monte down
whenever he called to set up their date. It wasn’t like she would fall in love with him.

And Casper had looked
 
—what, hurt?
 
—when she told him she had a date on Valentine’s Day. She hated the lie, but she couldn’t think of anything else.

No. She refused to keep thinking about Casper. Or her daughter. Only,
not
her daughter. Not anymore. This week, finally, she’d managed to get through the day without breaking down in tears, successfully keeping the howling tucked in the back of her mind.

At least until the quiet hours of the evening, when emptiness roared to life.

Someday it would fall silent, right?

Curling up on the sofa, she pulled a knit afghan over her and picked up her book. Stared at the pages. They blurred. She put her cocoa down on a coaster and leaned back into the pillows. Propped the book on her knees.

Her eyes dropped twice before she laid her head back, just to rest for a moment.

The voices came from every direction, and it dawned on Raina slowly that she stood in the middle of a room, surrounded by a crowd. The men wore suits, the women cherry-red dresses. And they all held babies.

A cry rose from one of them, bounced through the room
 
—a plain room without color, gray walls rising to a gray ceiling.

And the cry. High-pitched, angry, afraid. It tugged at Raina, and she turned, running to the nearest man. She tore open the blanket in his arms, but it fell to the ground, empty. She turned to the next, found that blanket empty.

The cry grew louder, shrill, clawing at her. She ran to the source, tore the baby from a woman’s arms.

The blanket crumpled in her embrace.

Then a thousand cries, from the armada of faceless infants in the arms of slate-faced caretakers. And every blanket Raina grabbed fell in on itself, leaving her clutching air.

She woke with a start, her heart pounding, the wailing still in her ears. She cleared the nightmare, but the sound tightened, shrilled from the kitchen.

The teakettle. She must have put it back on a hot burner.

The steam had turned the room sweaty. She shut off the stove, then grabbed the handle. Jerked back, her hand stinging. Hot pad. She found one, then moved the kettle off the burner and ran her hand under cold water. A hot red burn crossed her palm, but it hadn’t raised skin.

Still, the experience left her shaking.

Faceless, crying babies. She’d had enough of these nightmares. At some point, her subconscious would have to catch up with her decisions.

But clearly the romance she was reading needed a bit more excitement if she hoped to stay awake. Unless . . .

She walked over to her satchel and pulled out the diary of Aggie Wilder. What was the hurt in reading it before she donated it to the historical society?

She pulled the afghan over her again and opened the book. Every page was filled, and it seemed the years spanned from 1929 to the midseventies, although she spied big gaps, years without entry.

Still, fifty years of a person’s life. Of Aggie’s life. Raina had never thought of keeping a journal. Why, really? Just so she could look back and reread her mistakes?

Maybe Aggie had nothing to regret.

Raina found where she’d left off and read the next entry.

M
ARCH
1930

Four times Father’s man, Duncan, has surprised me, waiting for me in the parlor, his hat in hand, to inquire after my well-being. Supposedly for Father, although I had begun to suspect he had ulterior motives. And tonight confirmed it. I admit, I didn’t know what to expect when he asked permission from Mrs. Etheridge to take me to the symphony tonight. She agreed, despite her reservations, I’m sure believing it a request from my father, as did I. But when Duncan escorted me to the box on his arm, I realized Father most likely had no inkling of Duncan’s attentions. And how could he, a thousand miles away?

Duncan makes me feel wonderful. Dark, wavy hair, those starlight brown eyes that seem to devour me. I’ve never experienced such a feeling as the one when he looks at me. Yet he is a gentleman, despite his reputation, one I am loath to believe after the way he squired me around town in Father’s Rolls. I feel safe with him, as if he could protect me, give me the world. After the show, he took me to a club, fed me oysters, then repaired me home just as the sun rose over Lake Michigan.

The most perfect evening of my life. After Jean-Philippe, I never believed I could fall in love again.

But perhaps that wasn’t love. Perhaps it was simply an infatuation with a boy hoping to win my father’s fortune. Duncan is a man in no need of a fortune.

If I were to ever truly fall in love, it might be with a man like Duncan Rothe.

Raina closed the diary. Clearly Casper’s description of Duncan didn’t quite match up with how Aggie saw him.

Like her feelings for Casper. Her head said to run away; her heart couldn’t seem to push him from her mind. But like Aggie, perhaps what she felt for Casper was only an infatuation ignited by the summer breezes, the sense of loneliness.

Maybe it had never truly been love.

The fire flickered against the glass. Which meant that someday she might find someone who made her feel like Duncan made Aggie feel. Safe.

M
ONTE WAS GOING TO CANCEL
their date. And frankly, she didn’t blame him.

Raina stood at the window, peering through the frosty glass to the outside thermometer. Sixteen below zero.
Sixteen.
Even indoors, the chill pervaded her bones, despite the house pumping out heat full blast just to keep the place above sixty-five. Outside, the wind scraped up snow, hurled it into the air, and it hung there as if afraid to move.

Everything should be afraid to move in weather like this.

She glanced again at her cell phone, just in case she missed his call.

Nothing. Not even a message, which might mean that he still planned on picking her up at seven, taking her out for that burger he’d promised when he called two days ago.

Conveniently it just happened to fall on Valentine’s Day, fulfilling the lie she’d spoken to Casper.

It didn’t lessen her guilt, despite the wisdom of dodging any interaction with him.

Now she stared out into the night, wondering if fate might be playing at revenge.

Please, don’t let Monte’s car be lying upside down in a ditch. He’d called before the storm of the season hit, turning the roads into a sheer plate of ice. Every plow in town mustered up, frantically salting to keep the destination open for the flood of tourists planning to escape for a romantic weekend to the frozen
 
—yet breathtaking
 
—north shore.

Yes, Monte could easily be bleeding in the ditch or still trying to navigate his way here and
 
—

Breathe, Raina.

She pressed her hands to her chest, let her worry sift out. It wasn’t as if her future hung on this date. Or that she even liked Monte that much. He was handsome, yes, and solicitous
 
—he’d called twice to check on her progress at the estate and listened without interrupting as she told him about the collection of
Life
magazines she’d found in the cabinets in the family room. And the milk glass perfume bottles in the bathroom. And the newspapers of major historical events
 
—Kennedy’s assassination, the lunar landing, the announcement of D-day
 
—tucked into the china cabinet.

Every day seemed to unearth a new adventure. And every night she read a little deeper into Aggie’s romance with Duncan, who really had known how to woo her, taking her to nightclubs and out to dinner and even for a walk along Lake Michigan. The perfect gentleman, despite their age gap.

She glanced again at her phone, then headed to her room to find a sweater. She wore her hair down, and she’d picked out a red dress, added leggings to ward off the cold, but mostly because her dress pants didn’t quite fit yet. She’d stood in front of the mirror today and tried to close them around her remaining baby bulge.

No, just bulge. She refused to allow the word
baby
into her vocabulary.

For now. Maybe someday.

Her cell rang and she ran to pick it up, expecting Monte. Instead, she saw Grace’s name. “Hello?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, friend! How are you?”

Raina sat on the arm of the sofa. “I’m good . . . real good.” Yeah, actually, for the first time in weeks, she wasn’t lying. Completely. “How was Hawaii?”

“Warm.”

“Are you married?”

Grace laughed. “Not yet. He golfed, I caught up with friends, we cooked
 
—and decided that we’d probably set a date over the summer.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Tennessee. Max and I are here for a game against the Predators. He didn’t want me to be alone for Valentine’s Day. I think we’re going to a private concert tonight
 
—Brad Paisley.”

Grace lived a life that Raina couldn’t yet comprehend. How had her friend gone from schlepping pizza at Pierre’s to private parties with country stars?

She’d found the right man. Or the right life. Or realized that she couldn’t stay stuck in one place anymore.

See, going out with Monte tonight? Good idea.

“I’m jealous. It’s sixteen below here.”

“Sixteen.” Grace’s voice betrayed the right amount of sympathy. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it’s about twenty degrees here. I can admit I wish I were sitting on a beach right now. Maybe I should follow Casper down to Roatán.”

Raina swallowed.

“Oh, Raina. Sorry. My mouth takes over sometimes and
 
—”

“No, it’s okay. Like I told you, I’m over Casper. But for your information, he’s here.”

“Here? As in Deep Haven?”

“Your family needs to communicate better. Yeah, Casper’s here. Working at the historical society.”

Silence. Then, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Raina got up, stared in the mirror. Smiled. She’d made an effort tonight for Monte, adding golden-brown shadow around her eyes, dark lipstick. She didn’t at all resemble a woman trying to piece her life back together.

“I’m more than okay. In fact, don’t worry, I’m not going to freak out every time you mention Casper’s name. I know he’s your brother. We had a summer romance, but that’s all it was. I’m moving on. I even talked to him a few days ago.”

Grace’s voice came through low. “You did? How was it?”

“It was fine. And I have a date tonight.”

“With
Casper
?”

“No, Grace. With Monte Riggs. His grandfather runs the antique store
 
—I’m working for him.”

“Monte. Yeah, I think I know him. He was a year or two behind me in school. Thin, scrawny blond kid.”

“He’s not thin or scrawny anymore, believe me.”

“Really.” Grace laughed on the other end. “So a hot date for Valentine’s Day . . .”

“It’s not a hot date. We’ll probably talk about business. I’m cataloging this estate for them.”

“It’s a hot date, and I’ll bet you look fabulous.”

Raina’s smile dimmed. How she wanted to share in Grace’s sweet enthusiasm. “It’s hard to look fabulous when you’re dressed in fifty layers.”

“If anyone can, you can. Where are you going?”

“Just out for burgers.”

“Oh, then he’s taking you to the VFW. Yum. Now I’m hungry. Gotta run
 
—have a great time on your hot date.”

“It’s not a hot . . .”

But Grace had already hung up.

Raina was tucking her phone into her purse when the doorbell rang. Through the glass she spied Monte, dressed in a long wool overcoat, gloves, a gray scarf, and a black stocking hat, stomping his feet on her porch.

Silly man was wearing dress shoes. She opened the door. “Get inside right now.”

His eyes widened, but he stepped in. She closed the door behind him.

He whistled, raising an eyebrow at her attire. “Wow.”

She smiled, an unfamiliar warmth syruping through her. Especially when he met her eyes, nothing of business in them.

So maybe it was a hot date after all.

Except she wasn’t quite ready for that, was she?

“Where are we going?” She picked up her coat, and he reached for it, holding it open. Chivalrous.

“To the best burger place in town. The VFW. Sorry, but it’s just the truth.”

“That’s perfect.” She added a scarf and gloves, then stepped into her mukluks. “I’m not brave enough for dress shoes.”

“Trust me, you chose wisely. I came from a meeting with a Realtor. He keeps me in the know about local estates that need attention. And he’s always trying to get me to sell the store.”

“Really? You’re thinking of selling?”

“We haven’t made a dime on that place in years. It’s my grandfather’s hobby, at best. I opened the store in Duluth three years ago, and it’s thriving. But this place . . . I’m thinking it’s time to cut our losses.” He reached for the door. “Ready?”

She gripped the collar of her coat, braced herself, and nodded.

The cold could peel the skin off her face. She hustled out to Monte’s truck, and the gallant man opened her door, touched her elbow as she climbed in. Then closed the door behind her and ran to his side.

The cab held on to the slightest hint of warmth from his drive over. Still, she was shivering by the time they arrived at the VFW, only three blocks away. Cars jammed the parking lot and Monte pulled up to the door. “I’ll let you off here so you don’t have to walk.”

Again, chivalrous. He helped her down and held the door open for her. She waited by the door, listening to the music from the band onstage.

In her memory, she always pegged the local VFW as the place the rummies hung out. But not here. Pictures of servicemen lined the walls near the door along with a plaque with the engraved names of those who served. Patrons crowded every table, digging into baskets of fries and chicken fingers or burgers, and a few lumberjacks sat at the horseshoe bar. Neon bar lights, shaped in the names of breweries, lit an alcove where a group of enthusiasts jockeyed around a pool table.

At the front, the band sang a Creedence cover. She recognized a couple of the band members
 
—oh, wait:
all
of them.

Claire and Jensen, Kyle and Emma. Her boat mates from last summer’s dragon boat festival.

Shoot. Casper had mentioned the band was playing. He just neglected to mention where. She should probably leave
 
—

“Wow, it’s cold. I had to park two blocks away.” Monte came in, his cheeks red, a gust of frigid air in his wake. He surveyed the room. “Are there any open tables?”

“I . . . I don’t see any.”

“I’m sure we can find one.” He winked, then led the way into the room. She followed him, keeping her head down. Maybe, with luck, she could sneak in. Or better, maybe Casper had decided to hibernate.

Monte found them a table next to the pinball machine and held out her chair as if they were at a five-star restaurant. He helped her off with her coat, then gestured to the menu, tucked in the condiment holder, before he took her coat to the rack by the door.

She might have lost her appetite. Instead, she focused on the band. Noticed that Claire looked pregnant. Of course.

Monte returned in a moment and sat across from her. “It really is worth it, I promise!” he said above the song.

She smiled, nodded, hoping.

Over his shoulder, she noticed others she recognized. Annalise and Nathan Decker sat with Noelle and Eli Hueston. Tucker Newman, the snowboarder, laughed with a group of friends at another table.

She’d forgotten how small this town could be. Yeah, she’d definitely lost her appetite.

“Hey, Monte, when did you get back?” Their server, a shapely blonde in her midtwenties, set down two glasses of water, a hint of intimacy in her smile.

“Signe. Hi.” He shifted in his chair. “Just today.” He turned to Raina. “Raina, this is Signe Netterlund. Her family runs the local waste control
 
—”

“The dump, honey. We run the dump.” She winked at Raina. “Monte’s just being unusually tactful.”

His mouth tightened around the edges. “Well, we junk collectors need to stick together.”

Signe laughed, dropped a possessive hand on his shoulder. “What’ll ya have tonight? We have a spare rib special going on.”

“Burgers. Two of them.” He glanced at Raina for confirmation. “Or . . . cheeseburgers?”

“A burger is perfect. Medium rare.”

“And a basket of fries to share?”

“Comin’ right up.”

As Signe headed off through the masses, Raina made the mistake of watching her go.

Because the woman’s next stop was Casper Christiansen, sitting with a buddy, nursing a Coke, his head bobbing to the band. She put a hand on his arm, flirted with her smile, her posture, then laughed as she nodded and walked away.

It would help if he didn’t look good. The embodiment of all Raina’s memories, wearing a red flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. Sprawled back in his chair, casual. He held a straw between his fingers, playing with it as he listened to the music. Comfortable.

And not giving her one second of thought.

When the Blue Monkeys finished their set, she watched as Casper clapped, then got up as if to leave.

“Raina?”

Monte turned to follow her gaze.

Oops. “Great band, huh?”

He turned back, still frowning, then took a sip of his water.

She would not allow Casper’s memory to haunt her date. A hum of conversation settled over the room as the band exited the stage. “I finished the dining room and packed up all the china. I think there is a couple grand, at least, there. And today I found a collection of Hummels
 
—just a few of them, but I know they’ll fetch a great price.”

Monte played with his glass. Looked again over his shoulder. Back at her. “Who were you looking at?”

Oh. Uh. “Casper Christiansen. He . . . I saw him at the historical society. He . . .” She scrambled for something. “We found a letter tucked into this book of poetry that I delivered to the society. Remember, you told me to box up everything
 
—”

“Right.” He leaned back. “So what did the letter say?”

“It was from Thor, to his wife. Something he probably wrote on his deathbed. The usual
 
—apologizing for mistakes, etc. But he mentioned a guy named Duncan, and Casper told me this story about a bootlegger
 
—”