Making Faces (26 page)

“Maybe everyone represents a piece of the
puzzle. We all fit together to create this experience we call life.
None of us can see the part we play or the way it all turns out.
Maybe the miracles that we see are just the tip of the iceberg. And
maybe we just don't recognize the blessings that come as a result
of terrible things.”

“You're kind of a strange girl, Fern Taylor,”
Ambrose said softly, his eyes on hers, his right eye sightless, his
left eye trying to see beneath the surface. “I've seen those books
you read. The ones with the girls on the front with their boobs
falling out and the guys with the torn shirts. You read smutty
romance novels and quote scripture. I'm not quite sure I have you
figured out.”

“Scripture comforts me, and romance novels
give me hope.”

“Oh, yeah? Hope for what?”

“Hope that I'll be doing more than quoting
scripture with Ambrose Young in the very near future.” Fern blushed
furiously and looked at her hands.

Ambrose didn't know what to say. After a
tense silence, Fern put the car into drive and eased it back onto
the wet road.

Ambrose thought about what Bailey had said,
how Fern had Ugly-Girl Syndrome. UGS. Maybe Fern was only hitting
on him because he was ugly and she thought, because of her UGS,
that he was the best she could do. Maybe he had developed Ugly Guy
Syndrome and was willing to peck up any crumbs a pretty girl tossed
his way. But Fern hadn't tossed him a crumb. She'd tossed him an
entire cookie and was waiting for him to take a bite.

“Why?” he whispered, his eyes locked straight
ahead.

“Why what?” her voice was light, but he
sensed a little embarrassment. She obviously wasn't used to tossing
cookies to men, ugly or otherwise.

“Why do you act like I'm the old Ambrose? You
act like you want me to kiss you. Like nothing's changed since high
school.”

“Some things haven't changed,” Fern said
quietly.

“News flash, Fern Taylor!” Ambrose barked,
slamming his hand against the dashboard, making Fern jump.
“Everything has changed! You are beautiful, I am hideous, you don't
need me anymore, but I sure as hell need you!”

“You act like beauty is the only thing that
makes us worthy of love,” Fern snapped. “I didn't just l-love you
because you were beautiful!” She'd said the L word, right out loud,
though she'd tripped over it.

She swung the car in front of Ambrose’s house
and slammed it into park before it had come to a complete stop,
making the car jerk and sputter.

Ambrose shook his head like he didn't believe
her. He searched for the door handle and Fern's temper broke, the
rush of anger obviously giving her the courage to reveal the things
she would otherwise never say. She grabbed Ambrose's arm and
demanded that he meet her gaze.

“I've been in love with you since you helped
me bury that spider in my garden, and you sang with me like we were
singing “Amazing Grace” instead of “The Itsy, Bitsy Spider.” I've
loved you since you quoted Hamlet like you understood him, since
you said you loved ferris wheels more than roller coasters because
life shouldn't be lived at full speed, but in anticipation and
appreciation. I read and re-read your letters to Rita because I
felt like you'd opened up a little window into your soul, and the
light was pouring out with every word. They weren't even for me,
but it didn't matter. I loved every word, every thought, and I
loved you . . . so much.”

Ambrose had been holding his breath, and he
released it in a hiss, his eyes locked on Fern's. She continued,
her voice dropping to a whisper.

“When we heard the news . . . about the IED
in Iraq . . . did you know they called my dad first? He went with
the officers to inform the families.”

Ambrose shook his head. He hadn't known. He'd
never let himself think about that day, the day the families had
heard the news.

“All I could think about was you.” Fern was
holding back tears and her sorrow made the grief well up inside his
own chest. “I was heartbroken for the others . . . especially
Paulie. But all I could think about was you. We didn't know
immediately what had happened to you. I promised myself that if you
came home I wouldn't be afraid to tell you how I felt. But I'm
still afraid. Because I can't make you love me back.”

Ambrose reached for her then and pulled her
into his arms. The embrace was awkward, the gear shift sticking up
between them, but Fern laid her head on his shoulder and Ambrose
smoothed her hair, amazed at how much better if felt to give
comfort than receive it. He'd been on the receiving end of care and
comfort from Elliott and his mother, as well as his hospital staff
for many long months. But since the attack, he had never given
comfort, never offered a shoulder to cry on, never burdened the
weight of someone else's grief.

After a while, Fern pulled away, wiping her
eyes. Ambrose hadn't spoken, hadn't revealed his own feelings or
responded to her professions of love. He hoped she didn't expect
it. He had no idea how he felt. Right now, he was tied up in a
million knots, and he couldn't say things he didn't mean, just to
make the moment easier. But he marveled at her courage to speak,
and beneath his confusion and despair, he believed her. He believed
she did love him. And that humbled him. Maybe someday, as the knots
became unraveled, this moment would wrap around him, tying him to
her. Or maybe her love would simply loosen the strings, freeing him
to walk away.

Strangely, with Fern's confession, a new
peace settled between them. Ambrose didn't constantly try to hide
his face or cower in the kitchen. He smiled more. He laughed. And
Fern found that he was a bit of a tease. There were even some
nights, after the store closed, when he would seek her out. One
night he found her still at her register, immersed in a love
scene.

Fern had been reading romances since she was
thirteen years old. She had fallen in love with Gilbert Blythe from
Anne of Green Gables
and was hungry to fall in love like
that over and over again. And then she discovered Harlequin. Her
mother would have croaked face first into her herbal mint tea if
she’d known how many forbidden romances Fern consumed the summer
before eighth grade, and Fern had had a million book boyfriends
since then.

Ambrose grabbed Fern's book from her hands
and immediately opened it to where Fern was reading. She grabbed at
him, mortification flooding her, not wanting him to see what had so
captured her attention. He just held the book up in front of his
face and wrapped one arm around her, effectively pinning her as if
she were five years old. He was like a big ox, immovable and
brawny, and all Fern's squirming to free her arms and retrieve the
book was entirely useless. Fern gave up and hung her head in
dejection. The heat from her cheeks radiated out around her face
and she held her breath, waiting for him to howl in laughter.
Ambrose read in silence for several minutes

“Huh.” Ambrose sounded a little flummoxed.
“So . . . that was interesting.” His arm loosened slightly, and
Fern ducked out beneath it, tucking a stray curl behind her ear and
busily looking at everything except Ambrose.

“What's interesting?” she asked breezily, as
if she hadn't been wracked with embarrassment only seconds
before.

“Do you read a lot of this kind of thing?”
Ambrose countered with a question of his own.

“Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it!”
Fern said meekly and shrugged as if she wasn't dying inside.

“But that's just it.” Ambrose poked Fern in
the side with one long finger. She squirmed again and slapped at
his hand. “You haven't tried it, any of it . . . have you?”

Fern's eyes shot to his and her lips parted
on a gasp.

“Have you?” Ambrose asked, his eyes locked on
hers.

“Tried what?” Fern's voice was a shocked
hiss.

“Well, let me see.” Ambrose thumbed through a
couple of pages. “How about this?” He started reading slowly, his
deep voice rumbling in his chest, the sound making Fern's heart
pound like a frantic drummer.

“. . . he pushed her back against the
pillows, and ran his hands along her bare skin, his eyes following
where his hands had been. Her breasts rose in fevered anticipation
. . .”

Fern swatted at the book desperately and
managed to dislodge it this time, sending the book careening across
several registers and landing in the back of a shopping cart.

“You've tried that?” Ambrose's expression was
deadly serious, the corners of his mouth flattened in
consternation. But his good eye gleamed, and Fern knew he was
silently laughing at her.

“Yes!” Fern blustered, “I have! Many times,
actually. It's . . . it's wonderful! I love it!” She grabbed a
spray bottle and a rag from beneath the counter by her register and
immediately started squirting and scrubbing away at her already
pristine workspace.

Ambrose drew close and whispered in her ear,
making the tendrils that had escaped from her ponytail tickle her
cheeks as he spoke. “With who?”

Fern stopped scrubbing and looked up
furiously, her face only inches from his.

“Stop it, Ambrose! You're embarrassing
me.”

“I know, Fern.” Ambrose chuckled, revealing
his endearingly lopsided grin. “And I can't help it. You're just so
damn cute.”

The moment the words left his lips, Ambrose
straightened as if his flirtatious comment had surprised him, and
he turned away, suddenly embarrassed, too. The canned music
overhead morphed into something by Barry Manilow and Fern instantly
wished she hadn't reprimanded Ambrose. She should have just let him
tease her. For a moment, he'd been so light-hearted, so young, and
now he was rigid again, his back to her, hiding his face once more.
Without another word, he started moving back toward the bakery.

“Don't go, Ambrose,” Fern called out. “I'm
sorry. You're right. I haven't tried any of those things. You're
the only guy who's ever kissed me. And you were kind of drunk, so
you can tease me all you want.”

Ambrose paused and turned slightly. He
pondered what she had said for several seconds and then asked, “How
does a girl like you . . . a girl who loves romance novels and
writes amazing love letters,” Fern's heart ceased beating, “how
does a girl like you manage to sneak through high school without
ever being kissed?”

Fern swallowed and her heart resumed its
cadence with a lurch. Ambrose watched her, obviously waiting for a
response.

“It's easy when you have flaming red hair,
you're not much bigger than a twelve-year-old, and you wear glasses
and braces until senior year,” Fern said wryly, confessing the
truth easily, as long as it took the look of desolation from his
eyes. He smiled again, and his posture eased slightly.

“So that kiss up at the lake, that was your
first?” Ambrose asked hesitantly.

“Yep. I got my first kiss from the one and
only Ambrose Young.” Fern grinned and waggled her eyebrows.

But Ambrose didn't laugh. He didn't smile.
His eyes searched Fern's face for a long moment.

“Are you mocking me, Fern?”

Fern shook her head desperately, wondering
why she couldn't seem to ever say the right thing. “No! I was just
. . . being . . . silly. I just wanted you to laugh again!”

“I guess it is pretty funny,” Ambrose said.
“The one and only Ambrose Young . . . yeah. Wouldn't that be
something to brag about? A kiss from an ugly son of a bitch that
half the town can't stand to look at.” Ambrose turned and walked
into the bakery without a backward glance. Barry Manilow cried for
a girl named Mandy and Fern felt like crying along with him.