Counting Stars (32 page)

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Peter sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the texts for his crash course in wedding education 101. Stacked to his right lay
Modern Bride, Martha Stewart Weddings, Cosmopolitan Bride,
and
Weddings in Style,
demanding to be read. He’d already spent over two hours going through
Town and Country Weddings, Elegant Bride,
and
Relationships for Dummies.
The latter had been insulting, though not as insulting as the note he’d just read inside the book that lay open in front of him. Caroline’s handwriting was sprawled across the title page of
The Idiot’s Guide to Romance
.

Yes, Peter. You are an idiot! Read this and learn what you need to do to fix things with my sister—soon.

Caroline

“Ouch,” Pete said as he flipped to the table of contents.
She didn’t chastise me enough when she was here?
He scanned the chapter titles, not really focusing, instead thinking more about Jane, a stone’s throw away literally but miles away in the progression of their relationship. Caroline had left a couple hours ago, but not before making it clear what she thought of him.

Reliving the evening from Jane’s point of view, he
was
an idiot.

But he wasn’t certain what reading all of these books and magazines would accomplish. In less than a month, he’d be thousands of miles away—so what were the chances he could mend his relationship with Jane between now and then? What would it take to bring them back to the point where they were on the beach a few weeks ago?

Pete rose from the table and walked to the sliding glass door. Opening it, he walked outside, wandering in the yard, careful to stay on his side of the swing set. He looked up at Jane’s window. Like the rest of the house, it was dark. He thought about tossing pebbles at it. She’d come to the window and he’d kneel and profess his love for her. Better yet, he could sing. His favorite band had a great song titled “Jane.” Half serious, Pete mulled the thought over in his mind. It didn’t take long to conclude that it was going to take much more than a song at a window to change her mind about him. He had to convince her that he wanted to marry her because he loved her. Because he couldn’t live without her.

And there, he realized, was the crux of the matter. He hadn’t really wanted Jane to know all of that before he left. He’d used the word
like
on purpose tonight. You could like someone and still recover from it if something happened. But when you loved someone—like his mother had loved his father—that could be fatal.

Pete shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away from Jane’s window. Somehow he’d wanted to marry Jane yet spare her the depth of emotion that was supposed to come with the wedding vow. Or had he really been hoping to spare himself? Insurance for her and the twins had been a paltry offer, and the moonlit boat that he’d billed as so romantic now seemed cruel. And for Jane, finding his old letter to Tamara must have been like the final nail in the coffin of their relationship.

He returned to the house and sat at the table again, willing to flay himself with bridal magazines all night and forever if the answer to this mess lay hidden in the pages. He glanced at the covers then reached for the last item in the bag Caroline had thrown at him. Taking it out, he saw that it wasn’t another magazine or book, but a flat box with a thin, white ribbon tied around it. Someone had scripted in fancy letters, “My temple time capsule” across the top of the box. Peter swallowed uncomfortably, suddenly knowing that someone was Jane.

For a long moment he stared at it, feeling he was invading her privacy by just holding the box in his hands, but then he remembered Caroline was the one who’d given it to him, and curiosity won out. He untied the delicate ribbon and lifted the lid. A pair of white lace slippers lay on top, and beneath them was a postcard of a rather fancy-looking church—a temple, he assumed. Beneath the picture was a lined paper with writing on it. Peter set the other items aside and picked up the paper, looking at the date—June 29, 1986. Eighteen years ago—to the day, almost. Jane would have been twelve.

His eyes moved farther down the paper. It was a list. Only five items were numbered below the underlined title. Peter read them twice, fascinated by the thought of twelve-year-old Jane writing them and thinking about marriage at such a young age.

The kind of man I want to marry.

1. Worthy to take me to the temple and bless our family and home.

2. He loves me with his whole heart.

3. Funny. He makes me laugh.

4. Kind. He doesn’t yell or do bad stuff.

5. He’s handsome (or at least I think so). It’s nice when we kiss.

Peter read the list a third time, realizing that there was no number six—makes lots of money and has a good insurance plan. He lowered his head to his hands, thinking again of how badly he’d messed things up. He turned away, unable to bear looking at the evidence of his failure any longer. But the bridal magazines were on his other side, mocking him.

Through bleary eyes he stared at their covers and saw women in beautiful gowns, scads of flowers, a horse-drawn carriage, an ivy-covered church, hands interlaced, gold bands sparkling.

How . . . obvious.
The clock in the living room chimed midnight—it had taken him three hours to figure this out. He
was
an idiot. For the first time all night, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

Mentally, he began assembling his list. Diamond ring, beautiful gown, church, horse-drawn carriage, castle. The last two would be a bit trickier than the others, but he had a few ideas already. He could still fix this. He could give Jane all that she wanted—well, almost all. He’d learned enough about the Mormon Church to realize he couldn’t take Jane to the temple . . . Her number-one requirement.

For a long moment, Peter leaned back in his chair, thinking. He
liked
her religion—a lot, actually. But liking something and really believing it were two entirely different things. And he still couldn’t get past the Joseph Smith thing. Which was really too bad, Peter thought, because he was enjoying the Book of Mormon. He liked what he read there, and he had no trouble accepting that God would provide scripture for all people on the earth. It was
how
he provided the record that Peter was hung up on. Why would a fourteen-year-old farm boy be the one chosen to restore something so important?

It didn’t make any sense.

Peter pushed his conflicted feelings aside and returned to the dilemma of winning Jane back. The temple wedding definitely wasn’t an option, but Caroline said that Jane loved him enough she was willing to give that up. Guilt nagged at the back of his mind. He pushed it forcefully away. He’d make it up to her. He’d be numbers two through five on her list and so much more. And he’d start it all with the wedding of her dreams.

Pete went to the counter and took his phone book from the shelf beneath. Not caring about the time, he flipped to the number for Caroline’s cell. He dialed, mind racing with plans as he waited for someone to answer. If he was going to pull this off, he would need some help.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Jay held his guitar case in front of him and made his way down the Jetway into Seattle Tacoma International Airport. After six hours in the air, he was grateful to stretch his legs.

Walking past the gates and into the terminal toward baggage claim, he saw people greeting each other everywhere.
How would it be?
he thought, watching as a young couple shared a lingering kiss. Would he ever have the luxury of someone to greet him, someone who’d miss him while he was gone?

Arriving at the carousel, Jay tried to focus his attention on the bags going around instead of the people hugging, kissing, and chatting beside him. Loneliness had been his companion for as long as he could remember, so he didn’t understand why it bothered him so much right now.

Maybe it was being back home. More likely it was because Jane was close. Two months and three days and he could see her again—his crummy luck it had been a leap year and he’d had to wait an extra day. Until then, Jay promised himself, he wouldn’t so much as call her on the phone. Every morning he’d go to his internship at the courthouse, and he’d come straight home each night. Though, Jay mused, if he happened to see Jane and she
didn’t
see him, would that be breaking his promise?

Grabbing his suitcase from the carousel, Jay strode over to the rental-car booth. He’d planned to call a friend when he arrived but decided suddenly that, seeing how it had been ten months since he’d been home, the least he could do was take the ferry out to Bainbridge and drive around the island.

* * *

Tara brought a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun as she looked up at the most likely buyer she’d had for Jane’s cottage. He descended the ladder.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked.

“It’ll do.” He dusted his hands off and strode past her toward the front of the house. Tara lagged behind, admiring his backside, wishing it were her he was attracted to instead of the cottage. He reached the front gate and his car. With a long, lustful sigh, Tara hurried after him.

He unrolled his sleeves and buttoned the cuffs. “What’s the balance on the mortgage?”

“The asking price is $249,900.” Tara pulled a flyer from the box attached to the sign.

“No way.” He shook his head. “It’s only what—eleven hundred square feet? Not to mention that the entire house needs to be completely rewired. You’ve let what was probably a gorgeous yard become completely overgrown, and the walls—what walls there are in that mess—are painted
fuchsia
and
turquoise.”
He opened the passenger door of the car and retrieved his suit coat.

“Yes, but look at the view,” Tara protested. “On a clear night you can climb up and see the entire Seattle skyline.”

“If you don’t fall through the roof doing it.” He looked pointedly at her. “I’m on a very limited time frame here. And this is going to take much more work than I’d planned, so either tell me the balance of the mortgage, or I’ll look elsewhere.”

In a last feeble attempt, Tara reached over the gate, lifting a section of the white picket fence. “The owner installed these herself just last year. They were much more costly than your regular old fence. Each eight-foot section is easily removed for planting and mowing.”

He rolled his eyes. “Apparently the
renter
forgot that part—about the mowing. I imagine the owner would be particularly sad if she knew what her yard looked like now—or the inside of her house for that matter.”

Tara pursed her lips. He knew he had her. “Oh, all right,” she said at last. “Jane still owes about a hundred and fifty-four thousand.”

“You marked it up almost a hundred thousand?” he asked, incredulous.

“What?” Tara whined. “First I’m too high, and now you don’t believe me? Jane had an inheritance from her grandmother so she made a large down payment, plus she’s put oodles into this yard.”

He looked at the cottage again and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s still too much for this dump, but I guess that’s more like it. I’ll have a check for you in forty-eight hours. Get the paperwork ready.”

“A check?” Tara’s mouth hung open. “You’re going to buy it outright?”

“Yes. And remember, I don’t want Jane to know.” He walked around to the front of his car.

“But—but she might want to be there at signing, and—”

“Let her sign first. Tell her the buyer is from out of town and you have to fax him the papers.” He flashed her a smile. “I’m sure a smart, attractive woman like yourself will think of something.”

“Well, okay.” Blushing, Tara looked down at the flyer still in her hand. “Hey, wait a second,” she called, stopping him just before he shut the car door. Heels clicking, she ran around to the driver’s side. “If I sell it to you for the balance owed, then what’s in it for me?”

He pulled the door shut, turned the ignition, and hit the power button for the window to go down. “Aside from the near-free rent you’ve enjoyed the past nine months . . .” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll have a warm, fuzzy feeling that you’ve done the right thing.”

Chapter Sixty

Peter lifted his hand to knock on the door again just as Jane opened it. He studied her face for any trace of sadness or anger. They hadn’t spoken in four days—since he’d majorly botched the marriage proposal. Every time he’d come over to see the twins, she had left. And only today, at Caroline’s coaxing, had Jane reluctantly agreed to go with him to her family’s monthly dinner and Fourth of July celebration. Hopefully it wasn’t to torch him with a firework, though after last week he couldn’t blame her.

“You ready?”

She nodded. “Will you help me with the twins?”

“Of course.” Peter followed her into the family room.

“If you’ll take Mark and the diaper bag, I’ll get Maddie and be right there.”

Pete reached down and plucked Mark from the floor. Swinging him high in the air, he turned around, then brought him close, kissing his chin. “Hey, buddy.”

Mark giggled and leaned his head back.

“Like that, do you?” Pete asked, then kissed him twice more.

“Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind—” Jane stood in the doorway, holding a wiggling Maddie on her hip. “Could you please get their bottles out of the fridge?”

“Sure thing,” Pete said, wishing Jane would quit being so formal and—nice. He much preferred the way she used to treat him—ordering him around, scolding and teasing when he did things wrong. Taking the bottles from the fridge, he followed her out to the car, knowing that he’d travel to the ends of the earth to melt her defenses and prove his feelings were for her and her alone.

* * *

Pete set a stack of glasses on the counter beside the sink. “I thought we were off the hook for dishes for a full six months.”

“The rotation got mixed up. You don’t have to help.” Jane’s voice was muffled as she searched under the sink for her mother’s gloves.

“I want to,” Pete said. “We’re a team, remember. Joint custody of the twins
and
the chores.”

Jane shrugged as she turned on the faucet.

Pete reached from behind her and shut it off. Placing one hand on either side of her on the counter, he leaned forward and whispered in her hair. “We need to talk.” He felt her stiffen.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, trying to get her to face him.

“Don’t,” she said, shrugging out of his grasp.

He sighed. “I know you found out about Tamara—and don’t be mad at Caroline for telling me. In fact, if it makes you feel any better, she decked me good on the side of my face. You can still see the bruise a little.”

“I’ll have to thank her.” Jane reached for the faucet handle again. Pete’s hand over hers stopped her.

“There never seemed to be a good time to tell you. And Wednesday night, when I wanted to talk about
us
getting married, was certainly no exception.”

Jane drummed the fingers of her free hand on the edge of the sink. “I can easily think of half a dozen times that would have been appropriate—
including
Wednesday night.” She wrenched her hand away, turned on the water, and began scrubbing plates.

Pete held his hand out to catch the first one she’d finished. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “So will you let me tell you now?”

“No thanks.” Jane slapped another dish into his hands.

“I insist,” Pete said.

“I’ve lost interest.”

“Prove it.” He took her shoulders and turned her to him before she could protest. Water dripped on the floor between them. Pulling her close, he bent to kiss her.

“I bit a guy’s tongue nearly in half once,” Jane threatened, her lips mere millimeters from his. “I bet
that
wasn’t in my file.”

Pete’s eyebrows rose. “It wasn’t, but I’ll take my chances.” He pressed his lips to hers, praying she’d respond, praying the rest of her crazy family would stay outside awhile longer, leaving him and Jane alone to work things out.

Her eyes welled with tears. “Stop it, Peter,” she mumbled against his mouth as she pushed him away, the soapy gloves leaving prints on his shirt.

He released her. “Don’t cry. I didn’t want to make you cry again.”

“As if—I have a choice.” Jane choked out the words. “If Tamara really didn’t matter anymore—if you were over her—then you would have told me.”

“You’re wrong. Listen to me, Jane.” He grabbed her gloved hands and pulled her over to the kitchen table. Sliding a chair out, he waited until she’d sat down before he sat in the chair across from her and began to speak.

“I’ll tell you all about it—about Tamara and me—right now.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.”

“Really?” He searched Jane’s face.

She shrugged and, glancing at the clock, began removing her gloves. “Go ahead, then.”

It was his turn for the deep breath. “Tamara and I got engaged at Christmastime. We planned to get married on Valentine’s Day, but we both decided it was too soon. The following September, when 9/11 happened, we still hadn’t set a date for our wedding.
Both
of us kept coming up with one excuse or another. My last—and best one—was the surge of indignant patriotism I felt after watching the Twin Towers fall. I told Tamara I’d decided to reenlist and go to Afghanistan to root out terrorists.”

Jane looked down at the table as she picked at the chipped Formica with her nail. “Go on.”

“Tamara asked me to stay, and I didn’t. Honestly, I didn’t think twice about leaving.” Pete looked at Jane, remembering their conversation at the beach. “Maybe it was part of me—something from my dad or in my blood—but whatever it was, I didn’t feel all that bad about leaving Tamara. She was the first girl I ever really loved, but by that time, the love—or infatuation—we’d felt was fading, and we both knew it.” Pete paused, wishing Jane would say something or at least look at him. When she didn’t, he continued.

“Only I wasn’t man enough to admit things were over, and when, less than two months later, she called to tell me that she and Paul were getting married, I lost my temper. I felt betrayed by both of them, and I went to some pretty ridiculous lengths to win her back—including my drunken scene at their wedding.”

Jane looked up at him. “I appreciate you telling me.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. She rose from the table. “I’d better get the dishes finished so we have enough spoons and bowls for the ice cream.”

Pete reached out, his hand on her arm. “I
want
to marry you, Jane.” He stood and faced her, taking both of her hands in his. “And it has nothing to do with the twins or insurance. Richard promised he’d keep them on my plan before I even asked you.”

He watched helplessly as her eyes filled with tears again. “But this is exactly what I
didn’t
want—you crying, your heart broken if something goes wrong in Iraq—so I thought that if we married as more of friends I might spare you some heartache if the unthinkable happened.”

Jane pulled her hands from his. Walking away, she tore a paper towel from the roll on the counter. She wiped her face. “So you make me kiss you to prove I don’t care?”

“No—yes. I don’t know, Jane.” He ran his fingers through his hair again. “All I know is that we should get married. There’s no one else for me, alive or dead. It’s you I want to spend my life with.”

Jane blinked to clear her eyes. Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter. “Yes, then. Let’s get married.” She didn’t sound too excited.

“Great,” Pete said, his voice also lacking enthusiasm. “Could you look at me?”

She shook her head. “I need a few minutes alone. I’ll finish up. Why don’t you go out back and feed the twins some watermelon. Make sure they wear bibs.”

“Sure,” Pete said, nonplussed. Jane had just agreed to marry him—but he didn’t feel their conversation had been entirely successful. But at least, he consoled himself, she was ordering him around again. He left the kitchen, nearly running into Caroline, who’d been eavesdropping on the other side of the wall.

“How’d I do?” he whispered.

“I feel like punching you again.” Caroline grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the living room. “If that was better, then I shudder thinking of your first proposal. Come on. We have a
lot
of work to do.”