One Good Thing Page 4

  Whoever that woman is, she’s made it clear she’s not interested in me. This morning in the kitchen she did what she needed to do as an employee and split as soon as her responsibility was filled. She doesn’t even want to know the story of how the wedding ring came to be on my hand. I prefer not to tell her, but I will if only to exonerate myself. I don’t like being accused of philandering.

  I’ll probably never get the chance though, and I’ll just have to come to terms with that.

  According to the map, I’m almost to the lake. The sky that had been sunny when I set off has been steadily turning a burnt orange as I’ve walked.

  I clear the last of the trees and step out onto the rocky sand. Tipping my chin to the sky, I fill my lungs with clean, earthy air, slowly releasing it and lowering my gaze to the water.

  Movement to the left grabs my attention. Less than twenty yards away, a woman’s head and shoulders emerge from the lake.

  And though I can’t see her features, I’m positive it’s the beautiful girl I can’t get out of my mind.

  This is bad. So, so bad. She’s going to think I was spying on her. I’d back up slowly, but any movement on my part will only draw attention. Not that it matters. There’s no way she won’t see me here.

  My muscles clench in anticipation of the inevitable verbal dressing-down from her once she spots me.

  Her arms wrap around her shoulders and she rubs them as if trying to warm herself. I’m not an expert on lake water temperature in the northwest, but my guess is that it’s not exactly warm. With a nervous glance behind herself, she walks completely out of the water.

  Wearing the tiniest bikini I’ve ever seen.

  I know I’m supposed to look away. It’s what a gentleman would do, and I consider myself to be a gentleman above most other things in my life.

  I rip my gaze from her just as she steps gingerly across the rocks. I’m trying to be as quiet as I can, shutting my eyes and hoping somehow we’ll make it through this without her spotting me.

  Suddenly she yelps and my eyes fly open. Without meaning to, without any volition of my own, my hand flies out toward the pained sound.

  The movement catches her eye, and she whips her gaze toward me. Our eyes widen, mine in apology and hers in horror.

  She wraps her arms around her chest, which confuses me. Why is she wearing a bathing suit like that if she’s embarrassed by it? She wobbles, all her weight on one foot.

  I extend my hands like I’m already begging forgiveness. “Are you okay?” I ask, remembering the pained yelp from only a few moments ago.

  She doesn’t answer, and I watch her try to take a step and wince.

  “Can I help you?” I’m pretty sure I know her answer, but I’d hate myself if I didn’t offer.

  She looks at me with a mix of irritation and something that’s hard to name. I don’t know how to describe it, but it looks like a fervent wish for me to be gone.

  “I was on a walk.” I hold up the map, and see in her eyes that she recognizes it. “I wasn’t spying on you. I’m not a creep.”

  It’s getting darker now, the sky turning into a faint purple-blue, and from this distance I can barely make out the thin line made by her pursed lips.

  After a moment of consideration, she lets out a deep growl of frustration. “I think I stepped on something sharp.”

  Keeping my hands out, as if I’m pacifying a wounded animal, I ask, “Can I come over there and help you?”

  She looks down at herself and says in a distressed voice, “I’m practically naked.”

  Her state of undress makes her feel weak. I get it.

  With tremendous strength, I keep my eyes from traveling down her body that is equally as beautiful as her face. “I’m aware,” I grit out, my eyes locked on hers.

  In all my encounters with this woman, I’ve never seen her as vulnerable. Brazen, yes. Harsh, yes. Vulnerable? No.

  But right now, the fragile look in her eyes is tugging at my heart. Part of her wants to run from me, the other knows she needs my help, and both halves dance across her face.

  Finally, she nods her head just slightly.

  “You want my help?” I ask. I need clarification of the head nod, and I want to rub her need for my help in her face, just a little. This woman, whose name I still somehow do not know, hasn’t exactly been warm and welcoming to me. A little nose-rubbing won’t hurt.

  “Yes,” she growls, an irritated look on her face. “You know what? Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

  She lifts her injured foot and teeters as she attempts to balance. Usually when people balance their arms come out to their sides to help them, but she’s still using her arms to cover herself. She tries to angle herself away, but now instead of seeing her front, I see her backside.

  And what a fine back half it is. She’s not wearing a thong, but it’s one of those that might as well be called one. Thanks to the ever-darkening sky, it’s not on full display, but from what I can see, it’s the kind of backside any red-blooded male in his right mind would have a hard time looking away from.

  She throws a dirty look at me over her shoulder. “I hope you’re enjoying the view.”

  Her momentary glance throws her off balance, and she instinctively lowers her injured foot to catch herself. Instead of yelping in pain, she whimpers and lowers her chin to her chest, defeated.

  “Now can I help you?” I call out.

  She nods in the saddest, smallest way. “Yes.”

  I take care to make my stride slow and even, not wanting to weird her out by being overeager.

  Truth be told, I am eager to be nearer to her. Despite her prickly exterior, the glimpses of vulnerability I’ve seen in the past few minutes make me curious.

  Her eyes are trained on me as I approach, but when I get within a foot of her, her gaze falls down to the rocky shore.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” I say softly.

  “Um, okay.” Sarcasm encompasses those two words. “I’m wearing a bikini meant for spring break in Europe, not a lake in Oregon. It was all I had, and it’s from years ago. I didn’t think to bring anything with me from Chicago.”

  She’s embarrassed and on the defensive. Understandable.

  Crouching down, I do my best not to stare at the perfect curve of her backside and reach for her slender ankle. She falters, using my shoulder to balance. Which means she’s no longer covering her chest. It takes all my willpower not to glance up.

  Why, oh why, is this woman reducing me to a hormone-addled teenager? Been there, done that. Teenage Lennon gave me years of embarrassing or otherwise ill-timed tightening in the front of my shorts, and damn it if it’s not starting up at this inopportune time.

  Stifling a sigh, I force my attention back to the task at hand. Shoved deep into the flesh in the center of her foot is a thick, nasty looking thorn.

  I’m just about to pull it out when I get an idea. Careful to keep my eyes on her foot, I open my mouth.

  “You’re a captive audience, so I’m going to use the next eight seconds to tell you about that ring.”

  She starts to protest but I bulldoze through her words. “That ring belonged to my grandpa. My mom gave it to me before I left Phoenix to go back to Chicago. I found it in my dresser just as I was leaving my apartment for the airport.”

  “And you wore it?”

  I open my mouth to respond, but then think better of it. I don’t want to get into why I put that ring on and kept it on. Now that I’ve said my piece, it’s time to move on from the subject.

  Making certain her foot is supported in my left hand, I wrap two fingers from my right hand around the thorn. “I’m going to pull this out on the count of three,” I warn her. Her fingers dig into my shoulder in anticipation.

  “Just do it already,” she pleads.

  Swiftly I count to three and yank the thorn free.

  She yelps softly, then chuckles. “That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”

  Without speaking, I stand, striding t
o the spot where her clothes are piled. Scooping them into my arms, I walk them back over to her.

  I look away into the darkened trees as I hand them to her. “My name is Brady Sterling, by the way.”

  “I know. I looked in the guest book my grandma keeps.” She says it simply, in a very matter-of-fact way.

  So she is connected to the owner, like I thought. It’s a family-run operation.

  I keep my gaze averted as she dresses. After a minute, she says, “My name is Addison West.”

  I look back at her and see her hand extended. We shake, and when she looks into my eyes, I notice her guard is back up, but it’s not as strong as it was before. It’s still visible in her eyes, but it’s no longer plain on her face.

  “I’m sorry it has taken me so long to introduce myself. Three run-ins is a long time to wait.”

  Addison tucks her hair behind her ears. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I gave you any real chance to tell me your name.” She starts for the trail, and I follow, falling in step alongside her. “In my head, I’ve been calling you Cabin Seven.”

  I tuck my hands in my pockets and laugh. “I’ve never been called that before.”

  Addison sneaks a glance at me. “What have you been called?”

  I think for a moment, but ultimately I’m unable to come up with anything. I shrug. “Mostly bad names, I guess. No real nickname.”

  Addison laughs, and I feel disappointed she’s not looking at me right now, because I’d really like to see her smile.

  “How do you know we’re going the right way?” I ask. She’s navigating the path as though it’s the middle of the day and not almost night.

  “Years of experience.”

  “You grew up here?”

  “I spent summers here. With my grandma.”

  “Seems like a nice place to spend time.”

  “You’re from Phoenix?”

  “Technically. I grew up in a suburb called Agua Mesa.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I’m not sure how to respond. Normally, Lennon and Finn are the only people I’d talk to about my issues, but not this time. Not when they’re the ones causing the problem.

  Addison chuckles. “So, you lose the ability to speak when I ask you why you were wearing a wedding ring that didn’t belong to you, and you can’t tell me why you’re here? Sounds like lady trouble.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I think it’s exactly like that.”

  Now I’m the one chuckling. “Maybe.” It’s not an easy story to tell, and the words themselves don’t paint the situation accurately.

  Addison doesn’t respond, and after a minute she points ahead, to a spot where light from Sweet Escape filters through the trees. “Here we are.”

  Every step closer brings Addison into better view. Her wet hair falls down around her shoulders, and from what I can tell, she’s not wearing any makeup.

  The path ends, dropping us off onto the lawn of the main house. Addison stops and looks up at me.

  “That path will take you to your cabin,” she says, pointing.

  “I remember from earlier. The coffee,” I remind her.

  She nods. “Right.”

  We stand there awkwardly.

  Addison slips her hands into her back pockets. “Okay, well, I’m going inside now.” She turns and walks a few feet, then looks back at me. “You can stop envisioning my nearly naked backside.”

  Her words make the image spring to life in my mind. “What about your nearly naked front side?”

  Her eyes squint and she gives me a mean look, but I think it’s playful.

  She turns back around, and I start for my cabin. It isn’t until I’m stepping under the hot spray of the shower that I realize I didn’t ask Addison why she came to Oregon.

  Something tells me she’s not just here to recreate the summers of her childhood.

  6

  Addison

  I have no idea how my grandma drives this Jeep. The steering wheel requires all my arm-strength to turn, and I’m certain I could beat this beast in a five second race starting from zero.

  Despite my complaints, I needed her car this morning. My oldest friend lives twenty minutes away, and I’m visiting her.

  I need a dose of reality. I need to slip into the old me, into the person I was before I settled in Chicago. I need the wild girl who ran around barefoot and slept in the same clothes she wore that day.

  And I need the person who makes me feel like that girl again.

  The Jeep cranks to a stop in front of a low-slung house. I peer out at the silver metallic house number affixed to the front of the garage, making sure I’m in the right place. I haven’t seen Charlie since her wedding three years ago. I’d gone alone, and a week later I met Warren in the produce section of Whole Foods. We were both looking for the ripest Cara Cara oranges.

  I push back the memory just as the front door opens and Charlie steps out. She waves excitedly and I return the wave, a grin pulling up both corners of my mouth, my sadness at the thought of Warren vanished. I grab my purse and hurry from the car, using a considerable amount of my strength to slam the door shut.

  “Charlie!” I call out as I round the back end of the Jeep. She’s coming down the porch steps with her arms out.

  I stop where I am, my mouth dropping open. “You’re pregnant!”

  Charlie puts her hands on her hips and turns to the side so I can see her profile.

  “Really pregnant,” I add, staring at her huge belly. Guilt blooms inside me. I haven’t been an attentive friend since I went back to Chicago. Warren took over my life, first with the headiness of being in love, then with the daily struggle of his absence. I’d called Charlie during that time, listening to her gush about the joys of married life and adding my own anecdotes about my newfound love. And, right after the accident, it was Charlie I called. But in the past eight months, I’d pulled away. For me, there was nothing happy to talk about, and I didn’t want to bring my dark storm cloud to our conversation. Charlie’s phone calls went unanswered and unreturned.

  But now, in the bright Oregon morning sun, my Chicago storm clouds have faded into a memory. Charlie beams, her hands lifting into the air. “Surprise! This little guy will be here in a few months.” Her hands come down to her stomach, rubbing it lovingly. “My belly button popped this morning.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I say cheerfully, closing the distance between us and wrapping her in a hug. It’s an off-center hug, to make room for her middle.

  I feel Charlie’s laugh in the space where our chests meet. She steps back but keeps a hand on my forearm. “It means my innie is now an outie.”

  Her hand moves off my arm only to reach down and grip my own. “Come inside.”

  She leads the way as if we’re kids again, her brown hair falling down her back like it did when we were twelve. I bet she still has a little mole on her right shoulder.

  I follow her up the steps and through the front door. The house is small but decorated beautifully. The walls are painted cream, and the couches are teal suede. A white brick mantel over a fireplace holds a large framed wedding portrait.

  Running my fingertips along the soft couch, I tell her, “I love how you chose a bright color.”

  “Thank you. The color makes me happy.” Charlie leaves the living room and motions for me to follow. I’m a few seconds behind her, and when I turn the corner she walked around a moment ago, I step right into the kitchen.

  It’s hot pink.

  I try not to gape, but it’s nearly impossible to keep my lips closed.

  Charlie looks at me and laughs. “I know, it’s awful. I did it on a whim. Merch swears he’s going to re-paint before the baby comes.”

  I examine the array of notes and magnets on the fridge, including a sonogram picture with Charlie’s full name in the corner. Charlotte Merchant. “Do you ever call your husband by his first name?”

  “Not even in the bedroom,” Charlie answers, grabb
ing an oven mitt from a drawer and shoving her hand into it.

  “Oh geez,” I groan playfully.

  Charlie pulls open the oven and grabs something from inside, then sets it on the stovetop. She turns back around and gestures to her stomach with her hands. “Well, how do you think this happened?”

  “Good point.” I peer over her shoulder at whatever she placed on the stove. “What’s that?”

  “Quiche. I was hoping you’d come hungry.”

  “I’m always hungry.”

  She eyes me. “From the looks of you, I wouldn’t say I believe you.”

  I make a face. “My weight is just fine.”

  “You’re tiny.”

  She’s right, and I know it. After Warren, I lost weight and it still hasn’t fully returned. My appetite is starting to come back now though, and that delicious looking quiche hiding behind Charlie looks like a good place to begin.

  I smile at her. “I guess I’ll just have to have two helpings to rectify that situation.”

  Charlie’s eyes soften around the edges. “Do you want to talk about Warren?”

  My fingers find the frayed hem of my jean shorts, and I tug at a string. “No,” I say in a low voice.

  “It’s not your fault, you know?”

  And there, with that one sentence, Charlie has reached in and tugged at the heart of the matter. In black and white terms, what happened is nobody’s fault. But nothing is black and white, so where in all those shades of gray does the blame lie on me?

  “Fundamentally, I know that. But sometimes it seems like the blame should lie somewhere.” My eyes fill and I use the backs of my hands to push away the moisture.

  “Sometimes sad things happen, Addison. And there doesn’t have to be clear-cut blame to place on somebody.”

  I nod my agreement, but my mind continues on to a place it knows well.

  If that guy hadn’t decided to ride his bike, then…

  If Warren had wanted dessert instead of declining, then…

  If I’d slept in our bed that night, then…

  The if’s are endless. The blame may not be clear-cut, but instead it’s broken into pieces, little shards resting on all our shoulders.