Hawthorne & Heathcliff Page 21

  Rebecca’s sing-song voice followed us as we walked away.

  “None of you like soap operas, do you?” she was asking.

  My mouth twitched as I stepped back behind the counter. Nodding at the table, I said, “Please feel free to sit. I was just working on something new.”

  Heathcliff’s gaze wandered the room, pausing on the new stoves, the door to the walk-in freezer, and the cooling racks. “Wow, you’d think it would look smaller with all of the additions, but it doesn’t.”

  “Odd, right?” I answered.

  Chris grinned. “It smells good in here, but then again, it always does.”

  I shot him a look. “Not looking for handouts are we?”

  He chuckled. “We should have come out sooner. It looks really nice, Hawthorne. You’ve done good work.”

  I shrugged. “Mostly thanks to Rebecca’s investment.” My gaze passed between the brothers. “But that’s not why you’re here.”

  “No,” Chris admitted. “It’s not.” He shifted awkwardly. “Hawthorne, Mams passed away this morning.”

  The rolling pin I’d just picked up clattered to the counter. “What?”

  Chris swallowed hard, his reddening eyes flicking from Heathcliff to me. Heathcliff was stoic, his face calm. There was a maelstrom of emotions in his gaze, but his face didn’t reveal them.

  “The thing is—” Chris began.

  “She wants you to be a part of the ceremony,” Heathcliff interrupted.

  I stared, silence stretching. “Was it quick and painless?” I finally whispered.

  Chris looked away, but Heathcliff’s gaze met mine. “As peaceful as your uncle’s.” His hands slipped into his blue jean pockets, the gesture an old one. “She’s always wanted to be cremated. Like Paps.”

  “She always used to say, ‘I don’t want to be tied down to no wooden box,’” Chris added on a chuckle. “She wanted us to spread her ashes in different places around town. There’s still a lot to do, a ceremony and paperwork, but when the time comes …”

  Chris paused, and Heathcliff stepped forward. “She wants you to spread a few of her ashes on your uncle Gregor’s grave. She talked to us about it yesterday before … before her mind went. It’s so she can keep an eye on him, she said, for Hawthorne.”

  There are moments in life when tears just happen, even when you have no idea they’re coming. My throat never closed up, my face never heated, but I felt the tear that slid down my cheek. It was a single tear, for Mams.

  “Can I do anything for any of you?” I asked.

  Chris glanced at the kitchen. “We thought maybe you could cater a reception after the ceremony. Something simple, and we’d talk about pa—”

  “On me, of course,” I said. “I won’t let you pay me for that.”

  He nodded. “Thank you.” His gaze flicked to Heathcliff. “We’ll let you get back to work now. We just felt maybe this was something we should tell you in person.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Chris inclined his head, threw one more glance at the kitchen, and then left. Heathcliff remained.

  To fill the silence, I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Heathcliff’s gaze went to the floor. “We knew it was coming.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier.”

  He glanced up at me. “No, I guess it doesn’t.” He started to step toward me, and then stopped.

  Where he hesitated, I didn’t, my feet carrying me to him. Without a second thought, I embraced him, the hug quick but firm.

  It wasn’t until I stepped back that I saw Ginger standing in the doorway.

  She smiled, but the gesture didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “I think everyone is ready,” she said.

  Rebecca stepped up next her, her brows raised as she brushed past the blonde. “Well, tour went well,” she said brightly, her concerned gaze swinging to Heathcliff. Mams had been a big part of our town.

  “It’s a quaint place,” Ginger added.

  Heathcliff moved toward the door, and I followed him, Rebecca behind me. I was just about to pass Ginger when her hand found my wrist, stopping me.

  “He’s going to leave. You know that, right?” she asked.

  My gaze met hers. “I didn’t ask him to stay.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t, would you?” She laughed. “You really think letting the man make his own decision is going to work in your favor?”

  I frowned. “Maybe not, but at least I’ll know it was his choice.”

  “I want him, too, you know,” she said suddenly. “You aren’t the only one he’s shared a bed with.”

  “Ginger!” Heathcliff’s harsh voice called.

  Her head shot up, her eyes widening. I didn’t hate Ginger. If anything, I pitied her. I pitied her because I knew what it was like to love Heathcliff. I also knew what it was like to lose him, and by the look in her eyes, she did, too.

  That was another thing about loving Heathcliff. He’d loved people after me, and it was something I was going to have to accept.

  “You should pull each other’s hair,” Rebecca said suddenly, watching us intently. “It’s not a cat fight until someone’s lost some hair.”

  Without acknowledging anyone, I walked into the foyer, giving Chris and his wife a final sympathetic hug before they left. Heathcliff was the last to leave. He paused at the door, his hand falling to rest next to mine, his fingers reaching for my fingers, something cold and metallic slipping into my palm.

  I gripped it before it could fall, my knuckles clenched as I watched them drive away. Dust was flying in their wake when I finally opened my hand. There, in my palm, was the key to Heathcliff’s building in the woods.

  Chapter 32

  Later that night, I stood in front of Paps’ old building. The padlock dangled from the door, the window dark, but that didn’t deter me.

  My hand gripped the key Heathcliff had given me, my feet carrying me toward the cement block we’d always used as a step. My heart pounded as my hand rose. Opening the lock felt ritualistic, as if there should have been candles and music or a group of heralding trumpets.

  Rebecca’s dramatic flair was rubbing off on me.

  The door swung open to reveal a dark, cavernous mouth. Reaching inside, I switched on the light and was rewarded with a yellow glow, my gaze falling over the contents within; the old couch, Heathcliff’s guitar, and his stack of pieced together machinery. There was little dust, and I knew by the faint smell of disinfectant that someone had been inside recently to clean it. The thought made me think of Mams, and my face heated. She wasn’t my grandmother, but she’d become a big influence in my life.

  “I miss her already,” Heathcliff’s voice said from behind me.

  Startled, I whirled to find him standing just inside the door, the darkening night framing him. He was in a dark cutoff shirt, the tattoos and muscles in his arms moving with him as he gripped the door frame. Outside, crickets sang, the frogs joining in.

  “I’ve seen some really terrible things the past few years,” Heathcliff added suddenly, his face falling. “Somehow, I’ve managed not to cry.” He stared at me. “I should have cried when your uncle died, Hawthorne.”

  My hand touched my chest, just over my heart. “It was your strength that helped me through.”

  He shook his head. “I should have cried, and I’m sorry I didn’t.”

  There was something strange about his voice, as if he needed my forgiveness, and I took a step toward him. “It’s … okay.”

  He released the frame, his shoulders sagging, and I suddenly realized what he needed, suddenly realized why he’d given me the key.

  Closing the distance between us, I grabbed his hand and tugged him into the room. Sitting on the couch, I brought him down next to me.

  “You don’t need me to tell you it’s okay to cry, Heathcliff. I’ve done enough of that for both of us the last five years.” My fingers found his chin. “Let it go.”

  The first tear that fell from his eyes
broke me, the ones that followed rebuilt me. His head fell, his hands gripping my shoulders as he leaned into me. His height made it difficult, but I held him, his tears soaking into my shirt.

  He’d needed me for this. He’d needed me. Sometimes that’s more powerful than love. My tears joined his, leaving trails down my cheeks, my fingers sliding through his hair.

  “I don’t cry, Hawthorne,” he choked.

  My fingers tightened on his head. “Maybe you should. My uncle once told me that tears are like miniature rain storms. That they spring up when your body is so full of emotions it can’t contain them anymore, your eyes the clouds. The rain falls, hard and fast, until it leaves the world, your body new again. Ready for re-growth.”

  His body shook, but he didn’t sob, as if crying in silence was vindication enough.

  I cradled him. “You can’t be strong,” I whispered, “if you don’t allow yourself to be weak.”

  The tears he was shedding weren’t just tears for Mams. These were more, these were years of heartache all rolled into one. Heathcliff was a dam, and his wall had been breached. Lucky for him, I was one damn good swimmer.

  For a long time, we simply sat there, his body shaking, the sound of the crickets and frogs beyond a strange sort of orchestra.

  When the tears finally ended, Heathcliff sat up, his face turned away. I started to reach for him, but he avoided my touch.

  “Do you think I see you differently now?” I asked him. “After the tears, I mean?” He didn’t say anything, and I leaned forward. “Because I do. You, in this moment when you were willing to share with me all of the pain you were feeling, just became a true hero.”

  Standing, I started to walk away, but his hand shot out, his fingers circling my wrist.

  “Don’t go,” he said.

  It was a déjà vu moment. I was suddenly thrown back in time to my uncle’s death when I’d begged Heathcliff to stay. And in that moment, I told him the same thing he’d told me.

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter 33

  For the first time in five years, I spent the night with Heathcliff in the old building in the woods. He did some work on the parts stacked against the wall, and I pulled out the couch, putting new sheets on the thin mattress. It wasn’t a comfortable bed, but that didn’t matter.

  Grease and disinfectant. The odor wasn’t necessarily a brilliant one, but it would always remind me of Heathcliff, of the dark streaks of oil on his hands, of the sound of him working.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, I watched him.

  “You don’t have to stay up,” he said after a while.

  “I like watching,” I answered.

  He glanced at me, dark circles marring his eyes. “You always did.” He threw me a smile despite his weariness. “I don’t think I ever told you how much that meant. That you came.”

  “You did,” I replied. “You may not remember, but you told me.” My gaze fell to his guitar. “Do you still play?” I asked.

  His gaze followed mine. “Some. It used to pass a lot of time overseas.”

  “I still have the song you left me,” I admitted.

  “Really?” he asked. “I’m not sure if I should cringe or be impressed.”

  Smiling, I replied, “Impressed. Definitely impressed.”

  Setting a part he’d been fiddling with down on the floor, Heathcliff stood, made his way to the sink on the side of the room, and washed his hands. The citrus scent of the soap mingled with the grease, and I watched his back, my gaze roaming down his muscled arms, the way they flexed as he moved. For some reason, it moved me. It was sexy, too, but I think the reason why Heathcliff’s build really affected me was because he’d earned it. Every muscle, every mark, every blemish, every callous, and every scar had been “built” over time.

  A laugh escaped me, and Heathcliff turned, leaning his hip against the counter as he dried his hands on a small towel.

  “What?” he asked. Even though he had no idea what had tickled me, his lips twitched at my amusement.

  My head shook. “I’m sorry. It’s silly, but,” I smiled, “your body reminds me of a house.”

  He glanced down at himself, his brows arching. “A house?”

  “I told you it was silly.”

  He stared at me, an odd look crossing his features. “No, tell me why,” he said. “I never know what’s going to come out of your head, Hawthorne, and it fascinates me.”

  My gaze passed over his face before dropping to his chest, his waist, and then his feet. “You’re like the plantation. Like a foundation that’s been built from the inside out. Each layer something different, unique, and beautiful, but in a way that makes you wonder if the house is haunted. Like there’s too much there, too many renovations. Sometimes when I’m sitting in the kitchen, I find myself staring at the walls with this odd feeling … like the house is just going to get up one day and walk away.”

  Heathcliff stared, letting my words sink in, his gaze roaming over me. “I don’t think people take the time to really look at each other enough,” he said suddenly. “I had a buddy in the military. His grandmother was from Russia, and she’d given him this set of Matryoshka dolls. They’re painted wooden dolls varying in size that fit one inside the other. We gave him such hell over those dolls.” He chuckled. “They represented his family, I think. The outer doll was a woman, a different gender and person revealed as you went through them. The center doll was a baby.” His gaze caught mine, boring into it. “Sometimes, I’d watch him holding that doll, and I’d find myself thinking of you. I’d picture your face on the outer doll, and on the inside there’d be the rest of us.”

  My breath caught, my heart beating entirely too loud. “You make me feel bigger than my skin when you talk like that,” I breathed. “Like I’m not just sitting here. I’m everywhere.”

  “Because you are,” he replied.

  My lungs exhaled, emptying me, and leaving me speechless. For a long moment, we simply stared at each other, the connection finally broken when he moved to the couch bed.

  Tugging his shirt over his head, he gazed down at me. “Scoot over,” he ordered gently.

  I moved, making room for him. He unfastened his jeans and removed them, leaving his boxers, before climbing onto the mattress with me. The bed was too small for him, and his feet hung over the end, but he didn’t seem to care. Rolling onto his side, he pulled me against him, his chin resting on the top of my head.

  “You remind me of Mams,” Heathcliff said. “Always saying things that I feel like it would be wrong to forget.”

  “She was very special,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” he exhaled, his breath ruffling my hair, “she saw me more than anyone else in this family. Well, not really saw me. They all did I guess. She just understood me.”

  “She saw a lot of your Paps in you,” I said suddenly.

  Heathcliff’s head rose. “What?”

  I looked up at him. “I was visiting one summer, and she told me you reminded her of him. That you had a wanderer’s soul, like he did. Like your mind and body was trapped on the earth, but your soul was somewhere else entirely.” I found myself smiling, remembering her words. “She said being in love with your Paps was like being in love with a shooting star. There isn’t a way you can catch one, but you can hold on to it and keep making wishes.”

  Heathcliff’s forehead creased, his eyes on mine. “And are you?” he asked.

  “Am I what?”

  He blinked. “Are you holding on and making wishes?”

  I froze, my pulse an erratic beat in my neck. “I don’t think anyone ever quits making wishes.”

  He sighed, tucking me back into his side, his heart against my ear. We didn’t speak. We just laid there. The crickets, the frogs, the droning sound of the window unit air conditioner, and the sound of his heartbeat had almost lulled me to sleep when Heathcliff’s voice rumbled over me.

  “Just don’t,” he insisted. “Don’t quit making wishes.”

  There was no
thing but sleep after that, his words sending me into a spiral of dreams about shooting stars. In it, I was holding onto one, tears pouring down my cheek as I struggled not to let go. Star light, Star bright, my dream self called out, First star I see tonight …

  Chapter 34

  It’s odd really, looking back. I felt like I was caught up in three separate love stories that had somehow coalesced into one.

  The first love story was my relationship with my uncle, with the man who’d given up everything to make sure I had a healthy childhood. He’d given up his own love story to make mine come true, his relationship with the man he’d loved.

  The second love story was my relationship with Heathcliff. It was a strange romance. We shared a peculiar kind of commitment, as if we couldn’t escape each other, and yet it hadn’t been enough to keep him with me.

  The third love story was Paps and Mams, an old story I didn’t really know, but that somehow felt like it mattered anyway, as if Heathcliff was a broken off piece of his grandfather, and I was a younger version of Mams.

  It was three different love stories, and yet they were all the same.

  The morning after our night in the building, I left Heathcliff standing in dew-covered grass, a hazy sun hanging over the trees. The air smelled like honeysuckle and dreams, as if the fog that weaved along the ground meant to keep the memory a fantasy rather than a reality.

  Driving away felt wrong, like I was saying good-bye. Maybe I was. Not to what I’d shared with Heathcliff, but to adolescent expectations.

  My hand gripped the steering wheel of my catering van, a tear rolling down my cheek, and I suddenly broke. My foot hit the brakes, throwing me against the seatbelt as I pulled the van into park. Unclicking my belt, I threw open the door, and jumped into the dirt road, my gaze flying to the shed.

  Heathcliff was leaving, his hands in his pockets, his feet carrying him toward the trees. Dew, fog, and green foliage surrounded us. Cobwebs hung from the trees and along the ground, the kind of webs that always seemed to be there when you woke up in the morning but were gone by noon.