Where Love Finds You (The Unspoken Series) (10 page)

“Yes. The whimsical dream land of Ella.” She smiled. “That would be nice, but really, what are the chances?”

“I named my cafe Chances for a reason.”

“Yes. Yes, you certainly did.”

“You never told me what’s bothering you if it isn’t mystery man.”

“We’ll talk about it later. It’s too much for me to think about it.”

Later that night I got comfortable in bed and picked up
Sense and Sensibility
. One paragraph into the second chapter and I heard a whimper. Quiet, I listened a few minutes as the gentle humming of the central air conditioner filled the air, but no whimper. A few sentences later, I heard it again. Sounded like someone outside of my window.

I walked to the window, opened it, and looked around. Nothing. No sad people. Only the rushing cars and sounds of a busy city that never sleeps. 

I went back to my bed, got comfortable, and continued reading.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

A soft cry interrupted Jane Austen.

Again, I rose from bed and walked into the hallway. 

Sarah. 

I inched toward her door and tapped. “You okay, Sarah?”

She sniffed. The mattress creaked. “I’m okay. We’ll talk later.”

I knew better. If Sarah didn’t want to talk about something she really didn’t want to talk about something. If someone asked me I would respond the same way, except I’d really want them to pry it out of me. For some odd reason. “Leave me alone” in my world really means “beg me to tell you.”

Not Sarah. I knew her long enough to know she would tell me when she’s ready. Can’t say I liked that about her. I have this need-to-know personality. If someone is hurting, especially someone close to me, I feel like I need to know the details and my brain will create five-thousand scenarios much worse than reality as I wait for them to tell me what’s going on.

Mom always told me to be a writer. She said I had a writer’s way of looking at life. I analyze people constantly. And everything in my mind is always a little better or worse than the way others see it. I also have a weird habit of imagining my funeral and picturing the most horrible things, like cutting an orange only to trip and send the knife through my chest.

Morbid. Mom always called me morbid. I have no idea why my brain conjured these images, but I could never be a writer. Music is my passion and I have absolutely no talent when it comes to writing. I feel like every talent is a gift. Sometimes the gift needs a lot of practice before we realize that it’s a talent we possess, for others it comes naturally from birth, but either way it’s a gift we’re either born with or not. Music is that gift for me, not writing.

Although, I devour books like you wouldn’t believe.

Cuddling under my covers, I opened
Sense and Sensibility
and tried to ignore the cries echoing from my best friend’s room. All I could think is her new love interest abused her. She didn’t act this way often, and it seemed to be triggered from his entrance into her life.

I tried to focus on the words in the book again, but I ended up with the pages sprawled on my stomach and my eyes on the speckles of moonlight dancing on the ceiling. Sarah, my sensible sister. And me, the sense-filled dreamer. I’ve read this book a thousand times over. I don’t know why. The ending didn’t appeal to me, I have to admit. Of course I cry every time Edward comes back for Elinor, but did Willoughby really have to choose himself over love? Did Marianne really have to marry Colonel Brandon?

Will that be the story of my life? Or will I find a Willoughby willing to sacrifice himself for true love? Willing to change and let go of his personal desires?

I skipped to the end of the book and read.

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims.

Perhaps, I wondered, I needed to be the one to change.

 I showed up at Heidi’s house with three gallons of golden honey paint. She opened the door and smiled. Faded jeans, over-sized t-shirt hanging off her bare shoulder, and hair framing her face in messy waves. 

She sighed and blew at her hair. “Sorry. I seem to take forever when you knock on the door.”

“Everything okay?”

She motioned for me to walk in, then closed the door as I stepped beside her. “I’m okay. Just a little bit of a procrastinator. Wanted to get the room ready for you like you asked.”

“No problem. You’ve got a lot on your plate.” I set the paint down in her living room. “Hey, I gotta run out and get my ladder and some other things.”

“Need some help?”

I looked at her stomach. “Can you carry things with a baby?”

She laughed. “I’ll be okay. I can help carry something light.”

We walked out together with only the sound of crickets around us. I handed her some plastic sheets, paint trays, and rollers. Paint brushes already in my pockets, I picked up the ladder and we made our way back to the house.

“Do you mind if I paint, too?” she said.

“Well, I would normally never let a client do that for many reasons, especially a pregnant one, but since you chose VOC-free paint and you have special circumstances . . . yes, I’d be glad to have your help.”

Took me twenty minutes to prepare the room when Heidi came in with her iPod hooked up to a small stereo. 

“What kind of music do you like?” She pressed a few buttons.

“All kinds.” I poured some paint into a tray. “Surprise me.”

“How about I surprise myself too and do an iPod shuffle with all the songs?”

“Sounds good to me. You can pick up that roller there and we’ll get this wall painted, just don’t expect it to be perfect since you’re helping.” 

She raised her eyebrows, trying to hold back a smile, but failing. Matchbox 20
I’ll Believe You When
drummed its way into our conversation.

“Love this song.” I soaked my roller with paint and brushed it along the wall in front of me.

“Really? A lot of guys I know don’t admit they like Matchbox 20.” 

“What’s wrong with ‘em? I mean, some of their stuff is a little on the fluffy side, but they’ve got some great songs. Especially the
Exile on Mainstream
album.”

“I love that you call them albums still.”

Her hair fell into her face as she dipped a roller into the paint. I tried not to notice, telling myself I couldn’t like this woman, this pregnant widowed woman.

She looked up, eyes peeking through strands of hair. “What do I do?”

If the situation were different I might’ve been tempted to take her hand and show her. Who am I kidding? I was tempted and it really bothered me. 

In her mind, I reminded myself, she’s taken. Last thing I wanted to do is take her from him. I always told myself I’d never be that guy, whether the other guy is alive or not.

“You okay?” she said, arm still holding the doused roller.

“It’s pretty easy. I know you aren’t expecting perfection here, so just put it on there and start rolling. You’ll find a natural rhythm. Here”—I added another layer of honey over the white wall—”watch what I do and follow me.”

She rolled along with me. Obviously she had never painted before in her life. Awkward strokes, stiff arm, beautiful face.

Stop, Matt, I told myself. Again. She’s taken. And vulnerable. And you’re being ridiculous.

“Who’s being ridiculous?” She stopped painting.

“Oh, um, I was just saying . . . um, it might be ridiculous, but if you try to paint along to the music you’ll kinda go with the flow. It’ll feel more natural that way. I always paint to music, unless I’m in a weird mood.”

“What constitutes a weird mood?”

“Oh, you know, depressed or overly analytical.”

“You are so funny. I don’t think I’ve met a guy like you before.”

“Kind of like there’s only one Jim Carey in the world and he doesn’t go down in the books as most wanted for a nice romantic date, now does he?”

She laughed and found her rhythm to the next song. We painted and listened, enjoying the music as her living room walls turned from bright white hospital walls to honey-dipped ice cream cones.

“You know”—she saturated her roller again—“I chose this color for this room because it was the color of my bedroom when I first met Andy.”

I looked at her as I moved on to the next wall.

“I lived with my parents until we got married. One night, I think it was after our third or fourth date, I asked him to come in for a second to listen to a tape I recorded. The song was written to my future husband. I wanted to play it for him, because even on our fourth date I knew I’d marry him.”

“Wow.” I tried not to notice her glassy eyes.

“So, when I started to play the tape he turned it off and said, ‘I want to hear you play it, right now.’ My stomach tied up in a zillion knots. I never played live for anyone. Only sang and strummed for a dinky recording thing plugged into my outdated stereo.”

Smiling, I pictured the exact scene. I probably owned the same dinky recorder. “So, did you play for him?”

“Of course. How could I resist his charming smile?” She touched her lips. “He sat on the floor, crossed his legs. I got my guitar and sat on my bed so I wouldn’t be directly across from him on the floor. I was so, so embarrassed. For the life of me, I couldn’t play. He laughed and told me to turn around and face the opposite wall, so I did.”

She paused, held back tears.

I stopped painting and waited for her to continue.

“Sorry, it’s so hard to think of him knowing I’ll never kiss him again.”

I reached for her shoulder, then stopped. My empty hand dangled next to her empty hand.

“So, I played for him. I ended up so into it that my eyes were closed and when I opened them he was on his knees in front of me. We spent our first few dates mesmerized with each other in that giddy way, but this time he looked at me with such seriousness on his face. I’m sure I blushed. All I know is I felt more comfortable than ever before, but couldn’t put words to it until he said, ‘Heidi, my love, I’m finally home.’ We kissed, soft and sweet, but more romantic than our first kiss. When we stopped kissing he looked at the wall to the left of us and said, ‘I want to paint our living room this color so we always remember what it felt like when we found our true home.’”

A tear tripped off her nose and fell to her top lip. She licked it off and wiped her cheeks with her forearm, then looked up at me. “I feel so crazy talking to you like this. My painter. I hope I don’t scare you off. It means a lot to me that you’re willing to help me do this. It means more than you’ll ever know.”

“Sounds like he was a pretty amazing man.”

“He was the most amazing.” She held up her left hand. “This ring will never leave my finger. I’ll never find someone who is worth taking this ring off.”

My mind darted words around like arrows missing their marks.

“On that note,” she said, “let’s get painting.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Sure. I’m not one to hide things, as you can tell.” 

“How do you find a love like that?” I looked away, focused on my paint roller again. “See, I have this problem with feeling like there is only one person for me in this world. Just one woman in a world of millions. The only problem is I don’t know if I’ll ever find her.”

“I think you will.”

“But how do you know when you have found the one?”

She paused
Tiny Dancer
. “Sorry, can’t think when that song is on. Makes me want to sing every time.”

I nodded.

“Well, I don’t know how to answer that. Maybe it’s different for everyone. For us, we just knew immediately. I don’t think that’s the case for everyone. My brother fell in love with a girl he went to high school with. They sat next to each other during their entire senior year and barely talked, unless it had to do with school work. Neither of them were attracted to each other at first. Just two completely different people. He was a jock, she was nowhere near a cheerleader. Five years later they accidentally ran into each other, literally, at the grocery store and they’ve been together since.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“All of this sounds romantic, but where’s the reality?”

“You mean the fights and disagreements?”

“Yeah. Tell me that exists, because I can’t imagine ever having one of these fairy tale romances.”

She smiled. “It exists. Andy and I disagreed about what to spend our money on when we first moved here. We disagreed on baby names. Many things. But I guess when you love someone more than you love yourself you will sacrifice your desires for them. You end up wanting them to be happy even at the cost of your own desires. Actually, your happiness becomes making them happy.”