Proposing to Preston: The Winslow Brothers #2 (The Blueberry Lane Series Book 8) (5 page)

“What about your studies?” she asked, clasping the book to her chest like a treasure.

“They’ll keep until tonight.”

“You’ll be up late,” she worried.

“It’ll be worth it,” he said softly, putting his hand on the small of her back as he helped her into the back of the cab.

***

Two hours later, Preston lay with his head on the blanket beside her lap, the cover of
Ethan Frome
shielding his eyes from the late-day sun as Elise started reading chapter six aloud.

Her reading voice was warm and low, and she did a wonderful job bringing the characters to life. Preston had never read the novella before, and now he was rapt with attention, imagining himself Ethan, who longed so terribly for his sick wife’s young cousin, Mattie, while trapped in a loveless marriage.

“
Ethan did not know why he was so irrationally happy, for nothing was changed in his life or hers. He had not even touched the tip of her fingers or looked her full in the eyes. But their evening together had given him a vision of what life at her side might be, and he was glad now that he had done nothing to trouble the sweetness of the picture
,” read Elise, her musical voice softer and softer until it trailed off into silence.

A moment went by, then another and another until Preston rolled his head to the side, squinting to look up at her face, which was staring at the book, but not reading.

“Elise?”

“It’s so sad, isn’t it? For him to want her so terribly?”

“It’s only sad if he can’t have her,” said Preston.

“Of course he can’t,” she said, laying the book on her lap with a sigh. “He’s married to someone else. It’s…impossible.”

“I’m quite certain they had divorce in 1911.”

“They lived in a tiny New England village. It just wasn’t done.”

“Then he didn’t love her enough. Mattie, I mean.”

Elise gasped. “How can you say that? You
know
he loves her.”

“Well, I haven’t read the rest of the book, but if I was Ethan and I loved Mattie like he says he does, I wouldn’t let her go. I’d fight for her. I’d…well, I’d figure it out.”

“Just like that,” said Elise, her lips wobbling as she looked down at him.

“Hell, yes, just like that. What do
you
think?”

She stared down at his face, her eyes soft and gentle. “I don’t think it’s that easy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Life throws curveballs. It’s inconvenient and unpredictable…and loving with your whole heart might not be enough. Plus…” she paused, dropping his eyes, “it’s risky.”

“There’s no other way to love.” Preston flipped over onto his stomach, nudging her leg as he looked up at her. “Hey. Did someone hurt you? Were you—”

“Me?” asked Elise, shaking her head. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Quite.” She nodded. “I’ve never been in love.”

This surprised him. No.
Shocked
him. She was so lovely, so innocent and honest, he couldn’t imagine why some guy hadn’t claimed her yet. But then he thought about her insistence on saying goodbye last night, the fear he had—at almost every moment with her—that she’d suddenly bolt and he’d never see her again. Perhaps she kept everyone at arm’s length…which made this afternoon together all the more precious to him, because she was allowing him to get close to her.

“Then what? Why risky?”

“In every play or book I’ve ever read, the person who loves the most deeply ends up the most hurt.”

“I don’t think it’s always like that.”

“They wouldn’t write about it if it wasn’t
like that
a good portion of the time.”

“So it scares you?” he asked, searching her face. “Love scares you. Being in love.”

She nodded once, an almost imperceptible movement. “Very much.”

He held her eyes so long that she blinked, looking away from him, and he panicked that she might jump up and run home, too discomfited by his attention to stay with him any longer.

“Okay,” he said softly, knowing that he was about to lie to her, but having no better recourse. “Then I won’t ever fall in love with you, so you’ll never have to fear me.”

She stared at him, unspeaking, and then suddenly her lips slid into that sweet grin that Preston liked so well. She giggled softly, her face brightening as she shook her head back and forth. “How do you keep doing that?”

“What?” he asked, thinking whatever it was, he’d keep doing it forever if it made her this happy.

“Saying the perfect thing. To make me say yes…or make me feel better…or make me feel…” She shook her head, reaching out to run her fingers through his hair, then cupping his cheek with her palm.

He reached up, covering her hand with his. Gently sliding her hand down his cheek he twisted his neck until his lips touched her palm and he closed his eyes, savoring every second of contact before letting go of her hand, which she drew slowly away.

“It’s late,” she whispered.

“It’s not so late,” he countered.

“You have to study, and I need…I need to finish reading this and then read it again. And I should find a copy of the script and run some lines.” Her face was stricken and he watched her wince as she swallowed. “Preston, I can’t…do this.”

“This?”

“You,” she clarified, “and me. The timing’s—”

“—shit.” He looked down at the blanket, pushing at a few crumbs before sitting up. “We could figure it out,” he said, using the same words he’d used about Ethan and Mattie.

Elise shrugged, closing the book and pulling her backpack from the corner of the blanket. She shifted to her knees and pulled the pack onto her back. “I don’t see how. Life’s just too busy—for both of us—right now. We don’t need this distraction.”

“I like you,” said Preston, reaching out to cup her cheeks with his warm, strong hands. “I like you more than I’ve liked anyone, in…in forever. I don’t want to say goodbye to you.”

***

“I like you, too,” she whispered, unable to stop herself, mesmerized by the clarity of his bright green eyes staring deeply into hers.

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips before claiming her eyes again, and she knew that it was her cue to get up and walk home, but she couldn’t. He was about to kiss her, and she wanted him to.

Leaning forward, he dropped his lips to hers, and her eyes closed as her heart fluttered madly behind the prison of her ribs. He cupped her cheeks gently, pulling her closer as his lips caught hers. As though he knew that rubbing his coarse scruff across her skin would burn, he was careful with her, his lips strong, yet soft, insistently taking hers, loving them before giving them back and then taking them once again.

One of his hands slid into her hair, his fingers fanning out in the soft tresses as he cupped the back of her head. His other hand feathered slowly down her neck, tracing her shoulder and skating down her arm before winding around her waist to draw her up against his chest.

Lifting his mouth from hers, he tilted his head, then dropped his lips again, sealing them over hers as she tangled her arms around his neck, arching her body into his.

And he kissed her.

Oh God, he kissed her.

Elise had been kissing men on the stage since she was sixteen years old, and many times the touch of someone else’s lips on hers had stirred a feeling within her, whether she actually liked her co-star or not. But never—not with her meager list of ex-boyfriends, or with any man she’d ever kissed under the hot lights of the theater—had she experienced the sort of chemistry she now shared with Preston Winslow.

His tongue, hot and velvet, slid against the length of hers, and she moaned softly from the back of her throat, a hum of pleasure as his fingers curled into a fist on her lower back, pushing her body closer to his. His hair, soft as silk through her spreading fingers, teased her skin as his lips continued their gentle invasion.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Preston rested his forehead against hers, his sigh hot and sweet against her lips as his chest pushed forcefully into hers with every deep breath he took.

Just another second
, her heart whispered.
Keep your eyes closed and memorize this. This. Him. Now.

“Elise,” he murmured, and she heard the question in the sound of her name—the plea, the supplication, the permission to keep going, to take more.

For years, she lived her life for one reason: to be a successful stage actress. She’d sacrificed, suffered and labored toward that goal single-minded, poor, and lonely, but always grounded in the belief that if she let nothing get in her way, she would eventually make her dreams come true.

Now? Here? With Preston Winslow’s arm around her, his breath warming her skin, his fingers wound in her hair, the low sound of his voice like precious music to her ears, she began to understand the magnitude of the threat he posed to her ambition. She’d sensed it the first night she met him, as his eyes dove into her very soul, that Preston Winslow unchecked in her life could become an addiction. And here she was, limp and languid against him, her heart begging for one more perfect moment before the brutal ache that would start when she walked away from him yet again.

Before she lost every shred of strength she possessed, she pushed at his chest, leaning away from him. He dropped his hand from her hair and unfurled the fingers that had been resting in a tight knot against her lower back.

“Elise?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.

“I have to go,” she said, standing up quickly before she lost her will.

“No,” he said, kneeling on the blanket, looking up her. “Come on. Stay for a few more minutes. I won’t kiss you again.”

“I can’t,” she said firmly. “And… I can’t see you again.”

Her eyes burned, and she blinked them to ward off tears. She’d done it a million times on stage—brought herself to the brink of tears, then held them back for effect. But that was only acting. This was one hundred times harder.

“Today was perfect.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

He sat back on his heels, looking down and nodding. “Well, I tried.”

“You did,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer, just looked away from her, out over Sheep’s Meadow toward the setting sun.

“I shouldn’t keep this,” she said, amazed that her voice didn’t break as she held the book out to him.

He finally looked at her, and though it would have been easier if he was angry with her, he wasn’t. Instead, he smiled, his beautiful lips tilting up just enough to soften his face and break her heart a little more.

“Yeah, you should. I got it for you. For luck.”

She straightened, clasping the book tenderly against her chest. It was time to go; another moment and she would either burst into tears or fall back into his arms.

“Preston—”

“Good luck on Tuesday, Elise,” he said, his voice still managing to be warm, though his eyes were profoundly sad. “You’re going to be great.”

“Thank you,” she somehow managed, raising her hand in farewell.

He nodded once, then turned his face toward the sunset again.

And though she looked back at his solitary figure several times as she took steps—one after the other—farther and farther away from him, it hurt more than she ever could have guessed that he never once looked back to watch her go.

Elise had been to many auditions in her twenty-four years.

In the small town of Lowville, New York, where she grew up, she’d auditioned for every church play and high school show, even driving her father’s beaten pickup truck an hour each way to Utica every day one summer to be in a larger, more professional show. 

At Tisch, she tried out for every part she was remotely qualified for, and since graduating from college, she went to every open audition she could find. She’d sat for hours at the Actor’s Equity building in Manhattan, her number in hand, waiting to be called, only to be dismissed after a five-second look. More than anything else, she likened the New York stage audition process to a meat market, and if you weren’t the cut they were looking for? You were out.

Today she finally understood there was a whole other world when it came to auditioning. Never having been to an agent submission audition like today’s, she couldn’t help but draw comparisons. At an open call audition, better known as a “cattle call” to those who, like Elise, were one of hundreds who showed up to audition, there was no guarantee you’d be seen and the chance of getting a callback was about two percent. Here? At Lincoln Center? She arrived early and gave her name to a receptionist in a neat, quiet, air-conditioned office. She had a place to sit while she did her breathing exercises and ran Mattie’s lines in her head, and when it was her turn to audition, she was escorted to a small practice stage where she personally met the director, casting director (not Mr. Durran, but his associate) and several other people attached to the production.

“Elise Klassan,” said the director, squinting at her from a long table in the second row of the small theater. He looked down at the table where she noticed her black and white headshot in front of him.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly, offering his bent head a small smile, such that she imagined Mattie Silver would employ.

“Donny raved about this one,” said Max Schofield, Mr. Durran’s partner, and a Casting Director just as respected as Mr. Durran.

“Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” The director looked up again. “I’m Harold Fischer, the Director. That’s Mr. Schofield, our Casting Director. Heidi Lyons, our Stage Manager, Steve Smith, our Assistant Stage Manager, and Frank Coletti, one of our three Producers. Welcome. Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you, sir,” she answered, channeling Mattie Silver with every cell in her body.

She’d worn a long white skirt—gauzy and prairie-style—not unlike the skirts she’d worn to church on Sundays at home. She’d found it at a street fair last summer on sale for five dollars, and she liked the familiar, traditional, feminine lines of it. On top, she wore a gray cotton peasant blouse, rutched around the collar and short-sleeved. She hoped to convey a country girl look; with limited resources, it was the best she could do.

“Let’s get right into it, shall we? Steve, can you get up there and read for Ethan?” Mr. Fischer turned to Elise. “Garrett’s in L.A. He’ll be here for rehearsals the last two weeks in May.”

“Ah,” said Elise, nodding in understanding, but feeling far out of her depth when Hollywood actors were referred to by their first names.

Steve, the Assistant Stage Manager hopped onto the stage and pulled a folded copy of the script from his back pocket.

“Assuming you know the lines?” asked Mr. Fischer, a slight challenge in his voice. “We only have a month to workshop this.”

She’d only had two days to learn them, but damn if she didn’t memorize them as fast as she could. Being off-book for this audition had been imperative for her.

“Yes, sir.”

“Huh,” he chuffed, obviously impressed. “Someone who actually came prepared. That’s refreshing.”

“Donny knows his stuff,” commented Mr. Schofield.

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Fischer, turning back to Elise. “I want the scene toward the end. Ethan is driving Mattie to the train at Zeena’s request. They’re both heartbroken, but they’re also trapped. I want to feel your frustration, Miss Klassan. I want to feel Mattie’s desperation
. Here
.” He thumped once on his chest, over his heart, for effect.

“I understand.”

“Steve, we’ll start with Ethan’s line, ‘Matt, what do you mean to do?’ and go from there. Got it?”

Steve nodded at Mr. Fischer, then turned to Elise. He had kind brown eyes and winked at her, offering her an encouraging smile before asking, “Ready?”

She took a deep breath. This was it—the biggest audition of her life. Was she ready?

“Yes.”

Steve waggled his head from side to side, loosening up as he opened his script to a dog-eared page, and looked at Elise.

“Matt,” he asked. “What do you mean to do? ”

Elise swallowed, hearing the twang of a New England Mainer accent in her head and focusing on it before answering softly, infusing her voice with heartache, “I'll try to get a place in a store.”

“You know you can’t do it. The bad air and the standing all day nearly killed you before.”

“I'm a lot stronger than I was before I came to Starkfield,” she insisted.

“And now you’re going to throw away all the good it’s done you!” exclaimed Ethan.

Elise looked up at him, surprised that he no longer looked like Steve, the Assistant Stage Manager, but like Preston Winslow, dressed in a homespun, band collar shirt, his thick black hair hidden under a wool-felt brimmed farmer’s hat. Her heart leapt, making her pulse race as she dropped his eyes.

“Isn’t there any of your father’s folks could help you?” asked Ethan.

She shrugged. “There isn’t any of ‘em I'd ask.”

“You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you if I could.”

Her heart caught, and her voice broke just a little. “I know there isn’t.”

“But I can’t. Oh, Matt,” he broke out, his green eyes desperate as he reached for her, then pulled away, just short of touching her, “if I could ha’ gone with you now I’d ha’ done it—”

“Ethan,” she said, pulling a paper from the warm skin between her breasts and unfolding it slowly, her eyes beseeching his. “I found this.”

Ethan knew what it was: a letter he’d started writing to his wife, to tell her that he was leaving with Mattie. And Mattie knew why he’d never sent it—because Ethan was too good and too honorable to leave his invalid wife behind.

“Matt,” he cried, “if I could ha’ done it, would you?”

“Oh Ethan, Ethan,” she sobbed, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Whats the use?”

“Tell me, Matt! Tell me!”

She gulped, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

“I used to think of it sometimes, summer nights, when the moon was so bright I couldn’t sleep.”

“As long ago as that?” asked Ethan, his face hopeful, his green eyes thick and glassy with longing.

“The first time was at Shadow Pond.”

“Was that why you gave me my coffee before the others?”

She giggled softly, recognizing the sad, foreign sound as her own sorry voice. “I don’t know. Did I? I was dreadfully put out when you wouldn’t go to the picnic with me; and then, when I saw you coming down the road, I thought maybe you’d gone home that way o’ purpose; and that made me glad.”

He reached for her hand, clutching it in the warm strength of his. Her hand molded perfectly to his just like she knew it would—like they were made for each other.

“I’m tied hand and foot, Matt. There isn’t a thing I can do.”

She pulled her hand away, because his touch didn’t belong to her, and it burned her skin. “You must write to me sometimes, Ethan.”

“Oh, what good’ll writing do? I want to put my hand out and touch you. I want to do for you and care for you. I want to be there when you’re sick and when you’re lonesome.”

Her heart clutched, but she mustered her strength to reassure him. “You mustn’t think but what I’ll do all right.”

“You won’t need me, you mean? I suppose you’ll marry!”

She gasped, the terribleness of another man but Ethan ever touching her almost making her sick. She belonged to
him
. She was
his
. “Oh, Ethan!”

“I don’t know how it is you make me feel, Matt. I’d a’most rather have you dead than that!”

Face to face with losing the sweetness of him in her cold, bleak life, she wondered if death would be better than any life that didn’t include Ethan. With sudden clarity, she knew it was true.

“Oh, I wish I was, I wish I was!” she sobbed, watching his face turn away to look out over a meadow, toward the dying light of the setting sun.

“Don’t let’s talk that way,” he finally whispered, reaching for her arm.

Her voice was low and destroyed, a sob and moan and keening desperation rolled into broken words. “Why shouldn’t we, when it’s true? I’ve been wishing it every minute of the day.”

“Matt! You be quiet! Don’t you say it.”

“There’s never anybody been good to me but you,” she murmured, feeling lost, feeling bereft.

“Don’t say that either, when I can’t lift a hand for you!”

She looked up into his bright green eyes, longing to run her fingers through his black, silky hair all over again.

“Yes,” she sobbed in a whisper, her decimated heart breaking into a million pieces behind the prison of her ribs. “But it’s true just the same.”

“And, cut!”

Elise started, blinking madly at Ethan—no, Preston—no…it was Steve, the Assistant Stage Manager, who stared back at her, his mouth parted open, his eyes wide.

“Wow,” he murmured, nodding with respect and admiration in his kind brown eyes.

Elise took a deep breath and swallowed, feeling Mattie Silver let go of her and start to fade away, back into the vapor of hot lights, seeping into musty velvet stage curtains until Elise needed to call her back again. She turned to look at Mr. Fischer and the other production folks, still seated at the long table, staring at the stage in silence.

Mr. Fischer’s eyes were wide and thoughtful, before raising his elbows to the table, and breaking into slow and deliberate applause.

***

Most evenings, Preston liked the New York Public Library.

No, he more than liked it. He
loved
it.

There was an austerity to the exterior of the building—a European-style grandness that he respected, and inside, it was both beautiful and functional. He loved the white marble lions that guarded the front doors, the sturdy wooden tables and chairs with brass reading lights and murals of the sky of the ceiling of the Main Rose Reading Room. He loved the smell of books, the hushed shuffling of feet on burgundy-tiled floors, and the whisper of pages being turned. His favorite place to study was the Map Division, a smaller room on the first floor that housed several globes and stacks of maps on the perimeter of a gilt-ceilinged room with arched windows and plenty of light. Once upon a time, it had been his father’s favorite place to study too, and Preston often imagined him here—imagined that he was sitting in the same chair his father had used, studying at the same table, looking out at the same view.

He usually found peace here.

But not yesterday. And not today.

He sighed, looking out the window before him, distracted from his studies. The sun was starting to set. It would be dark soon. And he’d barely gotten anything done.

All day, he’d wondered about Elise, hoping that she’d nailed her audition with the same deep well of sensitivity and authentic emotion that he’d witnessed in her portrayal of Matilda. After she’d left him on Sunday, he’d packed up the picnic basket and blanket with a heavy heart, gone home and purchased the ebook of
Ethan Frome
for his Kindle, only to go to bed beyond depressed because it was, quite possibly, the saddest, most hopeless story he’d ever read. Everyone ended up suffering, unfulfilled and unhappy, and his heavy heart felt heavier still.

Picking up his cellphone from the table, he briefly considered calling Beth and asking if she wanted to grab a drink. He’d smile and say he was sorry, and she’d accept his apology and invite him over. They’d have decent, but predictable, sex, and then he’d head home, but something inside of him knew that fucking Beth wouldn’t exorcize Elise. He just wished he knew what would.

He’d thought—more times than he cared to admit—about showing up at her apartment or the theater, but after she’d rejected him not once, but twice, stalking her was too high on the Creepy Meter for Preston to consider. He needed to respect her wishes, no matter how much it hurt or frustrated him.

He placed his phone back down on the table and conceded defeat. Tonight would just be another wasted evening of no studying as he stared out the window, trying to figure out another angle toward winning more time with Elise Klassan…but he’d be damned if it wasn’t the last. He packed up his books and slung his leather bag over his shoulder. He’d walk home, change into sweats and head to the park for a long, hard sunset jog. And hopefully, once he’d sweated for an hour or so, he’d be in a better place to knuckle down and get some work done.

He left the Map Division and headed down the white marble stairs toward the exit, pausing to admire the brass chandelier above his head. Maybe he’d pick up some sushi, too. There was a decent place around the corner from his apartment. And after tonight, he’d put the Kibosh on further thoughts of the elusive Ms. Klassan. Three days was long enough to mourn a beautiful, interesting woman and one soul-bending kiss, wasn’t it?