Page 133 of Even After This
“I’m sorry.” I hiccup through a sob. “I’m so sorry.” I’m only beginning to understand all the things I’m sorry for, and it’s more than I can take in, standing in his arms in the hallway of a hospital. It takes great effort to suck in my next intake of oxygen.
“You were right, Meredith.” He whispers his words against my lips.
I close my eyes, terrified of what he thinks I was right about.
He lifts his head to press a kiss to my forehead. “Even after all of this. There’s still love.”
My body melts into his as we share oxygen between us. But when the elevator dings, I peel myself away.
His comment is so final, I know he won’t ask me to stay.
Which is why I turn around and step onto the elevator. And when the doors close, I stumble to the back wall so it can hold my weight while I sob. My tears again are for my loss. Only this time, the fault lies on my shoulders alone.
33
“Are you still madat me, Prissy?” Leaning against her SUV, I stare at Twelve Bluebells Ranch. Two weeks since I lost the property, and my realtor has been curt with me at best. “Don’t be mad at me. You know I couldn’t come.”
“I understand you needed to be with Harlan. Lee reports Alex is back to her lovely self. Thank goodness.” Prissy sighs, her gaze not leaving the house. “Besides, I don’t get upset with clients. They’re the ones who have to live with their choices.”
“You love me.” I bump my elbow to hers and flash my most endearing smile. “I know you love me. Who else would bring me out to the country for one last look around on casual Tuesday?”
I can’t be sure, but I think she’s wearing a three-thousand-dollar Dolce & Gabbana pantsuit as she strolls through the cow-patty-filled countryside.
“I can’t decide if you’re sentimental or some kind of masochist for wanting to come back one more time after you lost the sale on this property. I’ve not had a client make this request before.”
I feel a smile curve at my lips. I wondered last fall if I was some kind of masochist widow for going back to the Broadmoor. Butsometimes closure means different things to different people. Sometimes closure means you’re grasping the hope that came from the past and letting it tether you to the possibilities in the future.
The faint smell of manure reminds me of the welcome cow I almost purchased with the house. “Where’s Isabel?”
Prissy passes me and climbs the porch steps. She turns, staring at me with an ambiguous expression. “She probably couldn’t bear to say goodbye.”
I love my realtor for many reasons. She obtained permission from the new owner for me to take pictures. This house and land gave me space to dream. I want to pin these photos to a board and figure out how to emulate the warmth and hope in this property, especially the boarding lodge. Meandering through the upstairs, I fight back tears. I pause and run my hand over the smooth front of a bedroom door.
When I arrive back downstairs, Prissy strides across the room, drawing my focus to her. She stops in front of me, presses a hand to my arm, and says softly, “Did you get what you need?”
I stare at her for two beats. “I’ll still open a halfway house for women who have aged out of the foster care system. It just won’t be here.” I open my arms and circle 360 degrees. “Maybe Twelve Bluebells was never supposed to be mine. It was just supposed to put me on a path.”
Prissy says nothing.
On our way out, the weathered wooden sign above the door catches my eye. “Alba.” Dawn. This property will be someone else’s new beginning.
Once outside, I glance at the neighboring Holcombe farm. “Just give me a minute, Prissy.”
I traipse over to the fence, prop my foot on the lower rung, and rest my forearms on the top one. The view of the chapel is beautiful, even on this cloudy day.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I climb over the fence andstart walking. My legs work as if I’m on autopilot. Harlan told me the building is rarely used. He’ll be at work. And it’s so far from the ranch proper, I can’t imagine anyone would see me.
When I step inside, the musty smell hits my nose and I sneeze. Touching each pew as I advance down the aisle, I head toward a seat at the front. The tears that I thought had dried out start to fall, and I bury my face in my hands.
One last release. Then I’ll walk away.
As I wipe my face with my sleeve, a noise in the back of the room startles me. I turn around.
Harlan.
I shoot to my feet. “I’m so sorry, Harlan. I—you—you aren’t supposed to be home.” My words blurt out in stuttered beats.
Breathe,Meredith.
