The Wishing Season (30 page)

As she slipped into her jacket in the foyer, Cole came down the stairs. Every nerve ending was aware of him. Of the familiar rhythm of his footfalls, of the way his keys jingled in his pocket, of the clean morning scent that wrapped around him.

His steps faltered when he saw her. He gave a tight smile, his eyes as distant as the rising sun. “Good morning.”

She hardly had time to respond as he skirted around her, heading to the back door. A moment later the door shut and then his truck started.

Her body deflated like a punctured balloon. Somehow in all her tossing and turning, she’d convinced herself that his decision had been a response to losing Lizzy. That he was tired and hurt, and that he’d change his mind once he slept on it.

But all that hope sputtered out of her body now.

She went to the early service and sat with her family, stretching a fake smile across her face. When she returned home she helped her staff ready for the brunch. The day passed with
agonizing slowness, anger building with each passing hour. She slept badly that night and spent the next day cooking up a storm of food she ended up giving away to a single mother from church.

The next days passed in a flurry of cooking and classes. Cole worked until dark and slipped into the house unseen. They were strangers again, except now she felt his absence keenly.

A week went by, then two. When the anger faded she wished for it back because pain had come to take its place.

Cole had been in a funk since Lizzy died. Even the kids had noticed. They tried to distract him with offers of basketball or Ping-Pong. He went through the motions, but he missed Lizzy so much he felt dead inside. He couldn’t remember feeling so lost since the car accident that took his family. Some nights he woke, his breathing ragged, his thoughts racing.

Then there was PJ. Everything in him longed to take the two flights of stairs, wake her with a tender kiss, and tell her he was sorry. That he was wrong.

But he wasn’t wrong. This was the right thing for her. She’d get over him eventually, move on, find someone worthy of her. Someone who could protect her, someone who wouldn’t let her down. He was doing what was best for her because that’s what you did when you loved someone. And he did. So much.

He just had to get through this.
Help me, God. Help me let her go.

While he installed windows he let his mind wander a few months into the future, making plans. If she won the house, he’d go back to Fort Wayne, get a job. The kids would be self-sufficient by then. He’d blown through his savings but he could
start over. Get more benefactors. He could do this again somewhere else someday.

And fail them, like you failed Lizzy?

He shook the thought away. If he won the house, he’d go through the applications he’d received, narrow it down. Take four kids immediately while he renovated the downstairs, made the dining room into more bedrooms. He’d need a few more sponsors, but he could speak at some of the area churches and try to rally more support.

But the thought of undoing all of PJ’s hard work, the thought of stealing her dream, felt like a blow to the solar plexus. If she lost, she’d feel like a failure in front of her family. Maybe even deep inside. It would only reinforce the things she believed about herself—things that weren’t true.

To top it off, he’d have to see her around town. He’d run into her at the grocery or at Cappy’s. Eventually she’d start dating another man, get serious, and he’d see them together, holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. He’d watch her give her heart to someone else, watch her start a life with someone else.

He could hardly bear the thought. But he didn’t know what else to do.

The answer came a couple weeks before presentation day in the middle of the night. His eyes flew open, and he knew what he had to do. Loving PJ meant letting go. Letting go of his dream, letting go of her. Completely. He’d leave her with her dream intact. This was her home, where her family lived, where she belonged. He was the outsider. He could go anywhere.

Later that day he was still working out the details when Zac barreled into the living room.

“I got the job!” he said.

Josh turned from the sink full of dishes and gave him a wet high five. “Congrats, bro.”

Cole shook Zac’s hand and pulled him in for a man hug. “Knew you could do it.” After interning at a local garage, he’d scored a full-time job as a mechanic at the local Buick dealer.

“They want me to start right after school ends.”

“Perfect.”

Josh had gotten a promotion the week before. When school ended in two weeks, he’d be the assistant manager in the produce department. After scouring the newspaper for an apartment to share, he and Zac had found a place they could afford. They were moving out the last week of May. Shaundra was moving out a few days earlier to settle in at Vincennes for the summer session.

He watched Zac grab something from the fridge, watched Josh scrubbing a pan, and took a moment to appreciate all they’d accomplished over the past eight months. They weren’t kids anymore. They were young adults, and in two weeks’ time they’d be out on their own. Moving on with their lives.

He tried to feel good about that. But thoughts of Lizzy smothered his pride before it had a chance to swell. He shook the thoughts from his head. He didn’t want to think about Lizzy.

He settled on the couch and flicked on the TV, losing himself in a Reds game. An hour later the boys had turned in for the night. He flipped off the game and leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees
.
He needed to go to bed. He had to be up early. But his bed had become a place of torture where he thought endlessly of PJ and every intimate moment they’d shared.

Even though the restaurant was closed now, delicious smells wafted upstairs. It seemed cooking was all PJ did lately, and these days she wasn’t offering any samples.

He hadn’t seen her in days, had arranged it so their paths didn’t cross. It was better that way. Better for her. Never mind that he lay in bed trying to remember the sweet flower smell of her. Trying to remember the silky texture of her hair on his fingers, the satiny softness of her skin.

Living with her was a new kind of hell. In just two weeks he’d be leaving her for good, and it would get easier. At least that’s what he told himself.

Chapter Forty

PJ
CROUCHED DOWN
,
SCANNING THE BOOKSHELVES IN HER
room for the cookbook. Where was her copy of
Gourmet
? She wanted to make coq au vin for the weekend special, and the recipe she’d just experimented with didn’t measure up.

By the time the sauce had properly thickened, the chicken was overcooked.
Gourmet
had a recipe for making the sauce, then cooking the chicken in it. She’d made it once in culinary school, and it had been a big hit. The meat was flambéed in cognac and the sauce thickened with beurre manié
.
The dish was rich and savory, and the chicken far more tender than the recipe she’d tried.

She frowned at her bookshelves. Where was it? The thought of losing all those great recipes, recipes she’d tweaked and honed, with notes jotted in the margins, made her want to cry.

She thought back, trying to remember the last time she’d used it . . . with Shaundra! And she’d asked to borrow it to make copies.

Shaundra was still at work, but the book was probably in her room. She hoped. She’d just run up and get it. Cole was surely in bed. She checked her watch. It was getting late, but she could sleep in tomorrow. Besides, it wasn’t like she’d been sleeping anyway.

She should be working on her presentation for Mrs. Simmons instead of experimenting with recipes. She had only two weeks left and hours yet to go before she was ready. But she didn’t even want to think about that tonight.

She left her room, pausing in the foyer to listen. All was quiet upstairs. No footsteps or TV or wailing guitars. The lights were out.

PJ crept up the stairs and tiptoed down the hall. In the bathroom a pool of light spilled across the sink from the night-light. The floor creaked as she passed the boys’ door. The living room was dark and quiet.

Shaundra’s door was cracked. PJ tapped quietly just in case, then eased the door open and flipped on the lamp. Her eyes swept the tidy room. Lizzy’s unused bed was still covered with the turquoise daisy blanket. Sadness swept over her, threatening to take her under.

No. She wasn’t going there tonight. Wasn’t going to think about Lizzy or Cole or how she never saw him anymore even though they lived under the same roof. It was disgraceful how many hours she could spend thinking about someone she didn’t see. Someone who didn’t want her.

She pushed the thought away, slipping into the room as she scanned it. There. On the nightstand. Whew! After grabbing the copy of
Gourmet
, she shut off the light and turned to pull the door, cringing at the squeak.

When she turned, a body blocked her path. She sucked in a breath before she recognized the shadowed form. She set her hand on her heart.

“Cole. You scared me.”

“Thought you were Shaundra.”

They spoke simultaneously.

“I was just—getting the newspaper,” he said.

PJ held up the book, her heart hammering. “My cookbook. Shaundra borrowed it. I’m making coq au vin for Friday, but my recipe isn’t right, the chicken was overcooked, and I thought I’d—”

Shut it, PJ!
She clamped her lips closed.

She felt his eyes on her in the dark, heard him draw a deep, quiet breath, as if he were breathing her in.

She stilled. Even her breath seemed to freeze in her lungs. Did he miss her? Did he regret breaking up? Did he lie awake at night too, remembering their kisses?

“Cole . . .”

“I should get to bed . . . Good night.” He took the steps to the attic, seemingly forgetting about the newspaper.

PJ’s breath escaped, his sudden departure leaving her drained and tired.

Chapter Forty-One

T
HE NEXT DAY
PJ
WAS RESTLESS
. S
HE KEPT REVIEWING THE
moment in the hallway and wondering if she’d imagined the breath he’d drawn. She must’ve. He was the one who’d broken up with her. If he missed her he wouldn’t be working all hours, hiding upstairs, and sneaking breaths of her.

She worked on her presentation most of the morning. Mrs. Simmons had sent them an e-mail explaining the information they should include and how the day would work. They would meet at the town hall and give their presentations to the board. Cole would go first, opposite of last time. Mrs. Simmons would announce the winner the next day. She’d arranged for an interview with the
Gazette
for the winner and a feature in
Southern Indiana
.

PJ’s numbers looked very promising. She had all the right things on paper. The restaurant, while slow in the winter, had picked back up. She’d gotten endorsements from several VIPs, including the mayor, and was including Maeve Daughtry’s glowing review. She also had a newspaper article on local job growth that had mentioned her restaurant.

On the B & B front she had quotes from the tourist board about the community’s need for additional lodging. She had a very compelling case, with facts and figures to back it up.

So why did she feel so down? Why did the thought of winning the house no longer excite her as it once had? Why did she still feel empty inside even though she’d done exactly what she’d set out to accomplish?

She was tired of mulling this over. She closed her laptop and set it on her nightstand.

Ten minutes later she entered her mom’s antique shop. The bell tinkled in welcome, and the familiar musty smell of Grandma’s Attic assaulted her.

Her mom slipped from her office, her face lighting up. “PJ, what a lovely surprise.”

PJ hugged her. “Hi, Mom.”

Mom returned the embrace, then ran her hands across PJ’s shoulders and down her arms. “You’re losing weight. Are you eating?”

“I’m a chef, Mom, of course I’m eating.” Just maybe not enough.

“Come to my office. I was just having lunch.”

Her mom’s office was more like a turn-of-the-century sitting room, complete with wingback chairs and fireplace. A Turkish rug cushioned the wood floor. PJ perched on the edge of the rose-colored sofa across from her mother.

Mom pushed half her chicken salad sandwich across the coffee table. “Eat.”

PJ wasn’t hungry, but she knew better than to argue. “This is tasty,” she said after taking a bite. “Grapes, almonds . . . nice flavor.” She’d add some curry and a pinch of salt. Less celery.

“It’s Deb Tackett’s recipe—she brought it to the last Rotary meeting.”

“Nice. Store been busy?”

“Not too bad. I finally sold that French armoire, the one in the front by the old telephone booth?”

“That green monstrosity?”

Mom pursed her lips. “It was just waiting for the right buyer. And I made a nice profit. How about you? How are you feeling? Is your anxiety better?”

“I haven’t had an attack in weeks. My lab work came back normal at my last checkup. Dr. Lewis said my thyroid has stabilized.”