Prince Charming Can Wait (Ever After) (2 page)

He reached the edge of the cliff and ran alongside it, drawing it out for as long as he could. Five minutes. Eight minutes. Over rocks. His lungs burning. Firing behind him as he ran. Seventy feet below him, the river ran hard, churning violently over rocks.

A bullet bit into his shoulder and he stumbled, hitting the ground.

Dirt kicked up all around him, and he knew it was time to bail. Not even bothering to get up, he rolled to his left, straight over the edge of the cliff.

He twisted in the air as he plummeted, as bullets whizzed by him. He just managed to get himself perpendicular as he hit the surface of the water. The impact was brutal, but he immediately kicked back to the surface, fighting for air among the violent rapids. He had just gotten his head above the surface when he hit a rock, his skull cracking against the hard surface.

Pain rang through him even as he grabbed a log careening past. He locked it under his arms and hung on, fighting with all his draining strength to stay afloat. His mind quickly assessed his options as he was tossed ruthlessly, as the jungle flashed past in a blur. A wave swamped him, ripping him off the log, and he was dragged under, filthy water pouring into his mouth.

He kicked off a rock, and launched himself to the surface. His injured shoulder slammed into another rock, and then he was thrust again into the middle of the river.

With a roar of fury, Harlan fought for the shore, losing half his progress with each yard he gained. It felt like hours, days, years, but finally, he was almost there. His feet hit solid ground and he threw himself onto the mud. He landed face down and didn't move, gasping for breath, his muscles spent beyond exhaustion, his shoulder throbbing.

There was no sound of an approaching helicopter coming to pick him up. He'd gone miles past where they'd be looking for him. The only sound was the roar of the river, overwhelming all other noise.

As he lay there, a grim awareness began to dawn on him, his mind filling with a memory that had been triggered by the woman huddling protectively with her son, like his stepmother had done with him so many times. An image flashed into his mind, a memory of the night so many years ago when he'd gone out into the woods behind his house, trying to find the family dog that had gone missing. How he'd come across his father, face down. Dead. His leg was broken, and he'd been unable to walk for help. So he'd lain there in those woods until he'd died.

He'd been dead for weeks, and no one had gone looking for him, not even Harlan.

No one had wanted to look for him. No one in the whole damn town had wanted to find him. Not even his own son. But the sight of that old man crumpled in the woods, forgotten in death, had been brutal.

His father had lived for sixty-one years, and he'd died a nothing. No one had cared.

As Harlan lay there, sucked into the grisly reminders of his past, he became grimly aware that if he died here, on the bank of this river, no one would know. No one would care. He'd never turned in a next of kin form, so the small-time private outfit he worked for had no one to call if he didn't come home from work today.

Even his sister wouldn't know. He barely knew Astrid, though they lived in the same town now. Even she would have no idea what happened to him, and probably wouldn't even notice for a long time that he was missing.

Just like his father.

Son of a bitch.

He would not die forgotten like that scum had.

He would not.

With a growl of pain, Harlan shoved himself to his feet, staggering with weakness. Gritting his jaw against exhaustion and pain, he began to head up the river. He was going to make it home, and when he did, he was going to tell Astrid what he did all those times when he was out of town.

Someone had to know.

Someone had to know enough to notice when he died.

"Congratulations!"

Emma Larson blinked in surprise as she walked in the front door of the charming lakeside home of her friend Astrid Munroe...now Astrid Sarantos. Astrid had called her over at the last minute to babysit her infant Rosie, but instead of a baby, Emma was greeted with dozens of helium balloons, streamers, and the grinning faces of her two best friends, Clare Friesé and Astrid. She stopped in confusion. "What is this?"

Astrid's outrageous auburn hair was tucked up in a colorful scarf, and she held up a champagne bottle. "Girl power, sweetie. You survived!"

Emma was still confused. The dark wood beams had glittering stars hanging from them, and the huge stone fireplace was draped with a rainbow-colored "Congratulations" banner. "Survived what?"

Clare held out two champagne glasses as Astrid popped the cork. It careened across the living room and smashed into the ceiling. "Getting divorced, of course!"

"Getting divorced?" Emma echoed as Astrid poured the champagne into the glasses. She'd just received the final paperwork from the court in the mail that afternoon, but she hadn't even told her friends that she'd received it. She'd been back in Birch Crossing for more than two years, but the divorce had dragged out for a long time. Now that it was over, celebration was not what she'd had on her mind. It still felt too weird, not exactly celebratory. Yes, her ex-husband was not a good man, but to have the final nail in the coffin of your dreams was a strange, desolate feeling. "How did you know?"

"I told them," announced a voice from the kitchen.

Emma started to smile. She knew that voice. Everyone in the small Maine town of Birch Crossing knew that voice. "Eppie?"

"Of course it's me," the gravelly old voice called out. "Who else would it be? I wouldn't miss a party with my girls!"

A feeling of warmth began to seep through Emma's sadness over the divorce as Astrid handed her a glass of champagne. She hadn't thought of calling her friends, but now that she was with them, it felt good. Right. "And how did you know, Eppie?"

"Oh, I was at the post office today chatting with Rick, our oh-so-handsome postman. He had to run down the street for a moment, so I filled in at the counter for a few minutes. I happened to be putting your mail away and saw the return address, and I knew exactly what it was." In from the kitchen strode Eppie Orlowe, the seventy-something gossipmonger who ruled Birch Crossing. She tapped the side of her head, her fuchsia and violet beret sliding dangerously to the side on her gray hair. "Just because I'm old doesn't mean I can't figure things out."

Emma started to laugh at the sight of Eppie and her outrageous hat. There was no privacy in Birch Crossing if Eppie was around. "Well, that explains why the envelope had been re-taped shut."

Eppie gave her an innocent blink. "What? You're accusing me of opening your mail? You youngsters are so impertinent." She set a tray of brownies topped with chocolate-dipped strawberries on the dining table, which Emma noticed had been set with a beautiful lace table cloth and the new china that she'd helped Astrid pick out for her wedding six months ago. "I laced all of these with generous amounts of my finest rum. Chocolate and alcohol are important for days like this. It's not every day a woman gets liberated to go forth and live the rest of her life the way she sees fit."

"Here you go." Astrid handed a glass of champagne to Clare, and then gave a glass to Eppie. "Happy Liberation Day, Emma."

"Happy Liberation Day," Clare and Eppie repeated, raising their glasses.

As Emma looked around at her dear friends, suddenly being divorced didn't seem so lonely anymore. With her friends around her, she could get through anything, right? For the first time since she'd received the envelope officially freeing her from Preston Hayes, she smiled. "Thank you, my darlings," she teased as she raised her glass. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather celebrate a failed marriage with than you guys. Cheers!"

"Cheers!"

The champagne was dry and bubbly, absolutely perfect, and Emma grinned as the girls led her to the table, where a few gift bags were set out. "You guys didn't have to do this," she protested as Astrid held out the chair for her.

"Of course we did." Astrid sat down next to her, her brown eyes suddenly serious. "Both Clare and I know what it's like to become single after you thought you'd never be single again."

"As do I," Eppie chimed in as she wedged her bottom into the chair at the head of the table. "I thought George would outlast me, but the poor dear couldn't keep up with me in the end. It's tough to be as much of a hot ticket as I am, I'll tell you that right now."

Emma smiled, knowing full well that Eppie had been dearly in love with her husband, despite the fact she had adjusted remarkably well to becoming single in her sixties.

"Hey." Astrid touched her hand, drawing her attention back. "My point is that even when the guy isn't the right guy and you're better off without him, it's still pretty terrifying to be on your own when you thought you were set for life."

Emma's throat tightened at Astrid's empathy. "It's fine—"

"No, it's not." Clare smiled, her eyes soft with understanding. "You don't ever have to admit it to us, but we've both been there, so we know. Anytime you're feeling down, just say you need a hug, and we'll be there for you. We'll know what it's about."

Emma blinked hard several times, not quite able to say the words she wanted to say through the tightness in her throat. So she simply nodded.

Astrid put her arm around Emma and squeezed gently. "And just remember, men come and go, but girls are forever."

"Men come way too fast actually," Eppie said. "Most of them need to learn to slow it down a bit, you know?"

Emma burst out laughing at Eppie's outrageous comment. "Eppie!"

"What? You think I haven't been around?" Eppie picked up her champagne glass and waggled it at them. "I know you girls talk about sex when I'm not around, and I want in. I can't go around having proper conversations all the time, you know." Then she leaned forward, her eyes piercing as she turned serious. "You listen to me, Emma. You married a bad man, but all men aren't like that. You've been like a damn nun since you moved back to town, and it's time for that to end, or you're going to shrivel up and die like an old raisin."

Emma stiffened. "I'm not a raisin, Eppie."

"No, not yet. But you've got that look in your eye that says you'd rather get old and wrinkly than ever let another man near you. It's not healthy. Women need men. It's the way we're built."

"Okay, okay." Astrid held up her hand to cool Eppie down. "Let's give Emma a break, shall we? Today is about celebrating liberation, and that's what we're going to do." She handed Emma a package wrapped in gold and silver polka dots. "Open this first."

Grateful for the distraction, Emma tore open the package. Inside were ten tubes of paint. The most expensive, most beautiful paint she'd ever used. She had only three tubes of it, and she rationed it carefully. The tubes were resting on seven canvas boards that she could already tell were of the highest quality, far beyond what she ever bought for herself. A package of paintbrushes was tied in a pretty red ribbon. Not just any paintbrushes. The best that money could buy. Stunned, she looked at her friend. "It's an incredible gift. I don't even know how to thank you."

Astrid beamed at her. "Painting is your salvation, so I figured you should do it in style."

Emma ran her hand over the art supplies, still amazed by Astrid's thoughtfulness. Her day job was a museum curator in Portland, but her first love was painting. "Thank you." She cocked her head. "Are you sure? It's so expensive."

"Of course. What's the point of falling madly in love with a rich guy if you don't spend his money on your best friends?" Astrid patted her hand. "Enjoy."

Emma grinned at Astrid's generosity. After watching Astrid struggle financially for so long, it was great to see her being able to afford the things that mattered to her.

Clare set a gift bag in front of her. "You'll like this."

Emma opened it, then grimaced when she saw it was an array of decadent lace underwear and bras. She held up a light pink nightie that was pure silken elegance...and sex. "I thought we agreed I didn't have to start dating—"

"It's not for men." Clare grinned. "It's for you. A girl doesn't need a man to feel sexy."

How long had it been since she'd worn anything sexy? Years. Since before her marriage ended. Would she dare wear it now? Even for herself? Temptation called to her, but fear was stronger. She managed a smile. "They're beautiful."

"No man is going to jump you just because you're secretly wearing a pair of sexy underwear under your jeans," Clare said. "Try it. You'll like it."

Emma laughed then, and gave up the pretense of pretending she wasn't terrified at the mere idea of doing anything that could attract a man's attention. "How do you know me so well?"

"Because we've been friends for twenty years. You can't hide from me," Clare said, holding up a pair of the lace undies and flipping them toward Emma. "I know you don't feel like it now, but someday you'll be happy to have some sexy lingerie to show off to the right guy."

A cold chill rippled over Emma, and she shook her head. "No way. I'm done."

Empathy flickered in Clare's eyes, and Emma had to look away. She didn't want her friends looking at her in pity, or seeing her as a lonely spinster. She was fine being single. It was so much safer than dating, so much safer than putting her trust in another man, and in her own judgment. She remembered it hadn't been that long ago when both her friends were claiming single life as well. Now that they had met the loves of their lives, they seemed to have forgotten that being single could be a great gift.

"And mine." Eppie pointed to another bag, this one covered in huge red cartoon lips on a gold background. "This is for you."

Ignoring the silent exchange between Astrid and Clare, which Emma knew was about her ongoing refusal to consider dating again, Emma unwrapped the hot pink tissue from Eppie's present. It was a six-inch, framed watercolor of two hummingbirds drinking from the same pink petunia, their green, yellow and blue bodies vibrant against the white background. Exquisitely painted, it was elegant in its simplicity. It brought to life the nature that abounded in Birch Crossing, the same nature that gave Emma so much solace when she was struggling emotionally. It was as if someone had painted serenity itself onto the canvas and captured it just for her. "It's beautiful," she whispered in awe.