Love Will Find a Way (7 page)

That's why she needed to find another reason to leave, and love was the best reason. Especially love with a sophisticated world traveler like Antonio. She liked him, so why not fall in love with him? Why not have him fall in love with her? They could both do a lot worse. It could all happen the way she wanted it to, if she could get this big oaf out of her way.

"Just move, Travis," she said with determination in her voice.

"I don't think so, not until I know what's in that pie."

"It's an apple pie. You can see that."

"Yes, but what kind of apples?"

"What are you doing here anyway?" she asked in frustration. "I thought you were working on the wine-tasting room next door."

"I'm redoing some of the hardwood floors. That pie has one of those magic apples in it, doesn't it?"

She shook her head at the knowing gleam in his eye. "Don't be silly. That tree never blooms."

"And you never bake. So tell me another one."

"I'm coming in. I'll see for myself if Antonio is here."

"Fine, but take your shoes off. I just did the floors, and those heels aren't going anywhere near that finish."

She debated whether she should just forget the whole thing. What was she going to do, stalk around Antonio's private home in her bare feet with an apple pie in her hands? Somehow, she had a feeling that would make her look desperate. It was one thing to be desperate; it was another to show it. "Never mind. I'll come back later."

"I'm sure you will," Travis said, leaning against the doorjamb.

"What is your problem anyway?" she asked, wishing the words back almost as soon as they had left her mouth.

"I don't have a problem. It's none of my business if you want to chase after some guy who will never settle down with a small-town girl like you."

"I'm not always going to be a small-town girl. In fact, I intend to get out of this town as soon as possible."

"And go where?"

"I don't know yet." She hated the smug look in his eyes. "But I know that someday I will be someone."

"You already are someone. You're Carly Wood, beautiful, crazy, impulsive -- did I say crazy?"

"Did you say beautiful?" she asked, somewhat shocked to hear that word cross his lips. She might have a good body, but her face was nothing special.

"You heard me. If I say it again, your head will get even bigger. I just don't understand what you think you can do somewhere else that you can't do here."

"A million things -- go to the theater, go shopping at Neiman Marcus, have dinner in a four-star restaurant that doesn't serve chili."

"The city is an hour away. What's stopping you from going in on the weekends?"

"I have responsibilities here, not to mention very little cash."

"How about I take you to dinner tomorrow night in San Francisco? We can drive down early in the afternoon and go to the wharf. I hear they have a bunch of sea lions there."

She stared at him in amazement. "You want to take me to the city for dinner?"

"Is that a yes?"

"No. Maybe…" She hated her uncertainty. She'd set her sights on Antonio. She couldn't go to San Francisco with Travis. That would be only a short-term solution, not a long-term one. What was it Rachel always said? Stay focused? Yes, that was it. She had to stay focused. "I can't, I have other plans."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do. And why would I want to go anywhere with you? We don't even like each other."

"Sure we do." He gave her a slow, wicked smile that for some reason made her heart jump in her chest. This was Travis, clumsy, irritating, practical-joker Travis. She could not possibly be attracted to him.

"I don't think so," she said sharply. "If you see Antonio, ask him to give me a call."

"I'll do that."

She didn't believe him for a second, but at the moment it seemed more prudent to let it go and leave. Her body was having a strange reaction to a man who had seen her go through just about every awkward, embarrassing moment in her life.

"Carly," Travis said as she turned to leave.

"What?"

"Someday."

"It's not going to happen, Travis. I'm not interested in you. I'm sorry. But that's the way it is."

"That might have been the way it was, but not the way it's going to be," he said as he shut the door in her face.

"We'll see about that," she muttered. She looked down at her apple pie. After all, she still had her secret weapon. As soon as Antonio ate one of her magic apples, she wouldn't have to worry about Travis Barker anymore. Not even he could fight a legend.

* * *

"When do you want to get started?" Rachel asked Dylan as she let him in the front door of her house.

That was a good question. When did he want to start? He'd thrown an overnight bag into the car, thinking he might check into a local hotel for a night or two. But if he was going to finish her house, he'd definitely be staying longer than a night.

"Maybe you've had second thoughts," Rachel said. "It's okay if you have. I understand. The house doesn't need to be finished right now anyway. We have a roof over our heads, a very nice roof."

The large two-story house was warm and inviting. It was a family home, the living room filled with big, comfortable couches and chairs perfect for a man to kick his feet up on. But there were also colorful throw pillows, fresh flowers and dozens of family photographs adding a feminine touch to the room.

"Dylan," Rachel prodded.

He realized he hadn't answered her, but the answer was clear in his head. "I haven't had second thoughts. I'll finish the house that Gary started. It's what he would have wanted."

"Maybe," she conceded, not sounding so sure.

Before he could press her, an older woman came into the living room, accompanied by a very excited and chattering Wesley. It was Marge Wood, Rachel's grandmother. Dylan remembered meeting her a few times before.

Marge didn't look anything like Rachel. Her hair was a frosty gray, her eyes a bright and clear light blue. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet. Gary had once called her a pocket-sized dynamo, said she had more energy than ten people and a bigger heart he had yet to find.

"Hello," Marge said, giving Dylan a warm smile. "How are you? It's nice to see you again."

"I'm fine, and it's nice to see you, too."

"Wesley has been talking so fast, I can't make heads or tails of what he's saying," Marge continued. "Something about finishing the house?"

Dylan looked over at Rachel, who slowly nodded and said, "Yes, Dylan is going to finish the house."

"That's a lovely idea. It tears my heart apart every time I see it standing there looking so lonely. A house should be finished. Then it becomes a home."

A home that Gary would never see or live in with his wife and child.
Dylan noticed the tension in Rachel's face. Maybe he'd been wrong to offer. Would it be too difficult for her to live there? But then again, they couldn't just leave it as it was, a skeletal reminder of a future that would never be. That would be painful, too.

"Dylan, would you like to stay for dinner?" Marge asked. "Please say yes. John will enjoy having another man to speak to. With Gary gone, John has been feeling a bit like a rooster in a henhouse."

"If you're sure it's no trouble," he replied.

"No trouble at all. And there's always plenty of food, especially since Rachel eats like a bird these days. Wesley, do you want to help me set the table?"

"Sure, Grandma."

Marge took Wesley's hand and led him out of the room, leaving Dylan and Rachel alone.

As the silence enveloped them like an intimate blanket, Dylan became more and more uncomfortable. He shouldn't be here, not in this house. This was Gary's house. This was Gary's life, not his life,
never
his life.

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked, a curious but wary look in her eyes.

"Fine," he lied. "If you'd rather I didn't stay to dinner, I can make up an excuse and leave."

"Dinner is the least of my worries. Do you want to sit down?"

"Sure, why not?" He forced himself to breathe as he sat down on the couch. He'd been here before. It wasn't like he'd never stepped foot in the house. Of course, the last time he'd been in this room was right after Gary's funeral. The breath left his chest again as he remembered the crowd of people dressed in black, their voices hushed as they whispered about what a tragedy it had been, their eyes filled with pity whenever Rachel or Wesley had come into the room.

"Dylan?"

"What?"

"You're a million miles away."

"Actually I was right here – remembering the last time I was in this room."

"Oh." She sat down in the armchair across from him and laced her fingers together. "It must be difficult for you to be here."

"It feels strange."

"Well, you were pretty much a stranger the last nine years." She put her hand up to stop him from interrupting. "I don't want to talk about the past." She drew in a long breath and slowly let it out. "I want to know why you really drove all the way up here, Dylan. I assume it wasn't just about the house. Was there another reason?"

"I packed up some of Gary's things. The boxes are in my car. My assistant is having a mover pick up the furniture. They'll ship it to you early next week."

"Did you find anything?"

He knew what she was asking, and he could see the worry in her eyes. He wasn't sure who he was protecting -- Gary or Rachel -- but some
instinct made him shake
his head and say, "No, I didn't find anything important."

"That's a relief. However, it doesn't get us any closer to figuring out what Gary was doing in Lake Tahoe."

"What did he tell you?"

"He said it was a last-hurrah bachelor party weekend for one of the guys he worked with."

"Another architect?" Dylan mentally ran down the guys in Gary's office. He couldn't recall any of them being engaged or having a bachelor party. And what had Gary told him? He racked his brain, trying to remember that last conversation.

"I don't know who it was," Rachel continued. "I don't think Gary told me the name, or if he did, I've forgotten it. Didn't Gary tell you who was getting married? In fact, I'm surprised you weren't going along."

"I have no idea who was getting married or if that was why Gary went to Tahoe."

"But you knew about the weekend?"

"Gary said something about going away. To be honest, I don't remember if he told me why. I was busy that day, and you know how much he talked. I didn't always pay attention. Damn!" He got to his feet, too annoyed with himself to sit. He should have asked Gary questions. Why hadn't he?

"Stop kicking yourself," Rachel said. "It doesn't help. I should know. I've got the bruises to prove it."

She was trying to make him feel better, and he appreciated the effort, but it didn't do anything to lessen his guilt. It had been bad enough when he'd thought Gary had died in an accident; now it was worse, doubts flooding his mind along with an odd certainty that something had gone wrong in Gary's life, and he should have seen that his friend was in trouble.

"I'm going to check on dinner, see if my grandmother needs any help," Rachel said as she stood up. "Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thanks." Dylan was relieved when she left the room. It was easier to breathe, easier to think, easier to just be. He didn't understand why this one woman had such a strong effect on him, but she did. He had a sudden desire to get the hell out of Dodge, but as he turned toward the door a small voice stopped him.

"You're not leaving, are you?" Wesley asked. "You promised to build my house."

"And I will," he said quickly.

"Are you sure you won't have to go on a trip like Daddy always does?"

Dylan shook his head, seeing the worry in his eyes. "I'm sure."

"He's coming back," Wesley
added,
a defiant note in his young voice that dared Dylan to tell him otherwise.

"I miss him, too," Dylan said quietly.

Wesley's bottom lip trembled. He fought the good fight, and then a sob tore through his throat. He ran toward the stairs, the slamming of his bedroom door punctuating the shocked look on Rachel's face as she came into the living room. "What did you say to Wesley?"

"Nothing," he replied in confusion.

"You must have said something."

"I just said I missed his dad."

"Oh, Dylan." Rachel looked at him, then toward the stairs. "I better talk to him."

"Let me," Dylan said impulsively.

"He doesn't even know you."

Rachel was right. She was Wesley's mother; she should do the comforting. But he hated to have anyone else clean up his mess. "Maybe it's about time he did," he said, heading for the stairs before she could offer another protest.

He paused on the landing, figuring that the one closed door had to lead to Wesley's room. He tapped lightly,
then
turned the knob. Wesley had flung himself on his bed, his head buried under his pillow.

"Hey, Wesley," Dylan said, feeling somewhat awkward. He wasn't used to children. He hadn't spent much time with any since he'd been one himself.

Wesley didn't reply, but he also didn't seem to be crying anymore. Dylan sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to think of what to say. While he was thinking, he glanced around the room. It was a perfect boy's room, dark wood furniture,
toys
littering the floor, clothes hanging out of drawers. It reminded him of another room, one from a long time ago, one he had shared with his little brother, Jesse, only their room had been filled with airplanes.

Jesse had loved planes, probably because he'd spent so much time in a wheelchair. The thought of flying free had been his fantasy. When he was too ill to make model airplanes, Dylan had become an expert at making paper airplanes to amuse him during the hard times. And there had been a lot of hard times.

Leaning over now, Dylan picked up a blank piece of paper from the top of Wesley's desk and began to fold it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made a plane, but his fingers remembered, quickly turning the notebook paper into a sophisticated flier. The crinkling of the paper finally aroused Wesley's attention. He moved his head out from under the pillow and sent Dylan a curious look.