The Welcome Home Garden Club Page 9

  “No, no.” The look he sent her said, That is, unless you want me to ask you out. “You’re a good friend, Caitlyn. One of the few people in this town I can converse with on an intellectual level.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Crockett, but this victory garden project eats up all my spare time.”

  “Yeah, okay, I get it, you’re a busy woman.” He shrugged and widened his grin. “But if you change your mind, just let me know. We could have a really good time.”

  If he’d asked before the unsettling switchblade incident with Bowie, before Gideon had come back to town, she just might have said yes, but not now, not ever. “Thank you for asking.”

  Danny came zooming up, rescuing her from more conversation.

  “Well, I’ve got to get Danny home.”

  Crockett’s smile hung like faded clothes on a wash line. She could almost feel his disequilibrium. But what did she expect? He’d just buried his father today. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his designer slacks, restlessly jangled his keys. His shoulders pulled downward in a lonely slump. She wondered why he stayed in Twilight. He seemed so out of place here. Was it the same reason she’d stayed? His roots ran too deep to pull them up.

  She had an urge to touch Crockett’s arm, to tell him everything was going to be okay, but she didn’t want to lead him on.

  Because Gideon was back, and even though things were strange and strained between them, the one thing she knew for certain was that her feelings for him had not changed.

  She wanted him just as much now as she had eight years ago. Maybe even more so. To think they’d lost so much time together and her father was to blame.

  The anger she’d struggled to keep under control made her nose burn. She’d put it off for too long. The time had come to confront her father about his unconscionable actions. She could no longer allow him to get away with what he had done. It was time he paid for his sins.

  Sunday morning after J. Foster’s Saturday funeral, Richard Blackthorne sat in his usual pew near the front of the First Presbyterian Church of Twilight. He’d been attending the church for thirty-four years. Caitlyn had stopped coming here after she’d moved out and married Marsh. She’d turned Baptist on him, going to Marsh’s church on the other side of town. To avoid him, he knew. Today’s service was on transgressions, and he couldn’t help thinking of Caitlyn.

  Richard had just stood up with the rest of the congregation, hymnal in hand, ready to sing “The Old Rugged Cross,” when he felt soft fingers clamp down on his shoulder from behind and smelled the light lavender scent of his daughter’s perfume.

  “I need to see you,” Caitlyn whispered in his ear.

  An undertow of panic caught him low in the gut, snatched at him, ripped. He kept singing, pretending he didn’t hear her.

  Her fingers tightened. “Now.”

  Sweat dampened his collar, but the room wasn’t hot. He was alarmed to realize his hands were trembling.

  “I’ll be waiting for you on the front steps,” she said, and then took her hand from his shoulder.

  A second passed. He turned his head and saw his daughter disappearing out the back door.

  For a moment, he thought about not going, but Richard wasn’t a coward. He put his hymnal into the slot behind the pew in front of him, then apologized and excused himself to the end of the aisle. He arrived out in the bright morning sunlight to see Caitlyn pacing back and forth at the top of the steps.

  He frowned, acting affronted to hide his fear. “Why have you dragged me from my worship service?”

  She stopped pacing and stared at him, her mouth grim, her lips so pale they were almost white, as if she’d been biting them hard and long enough to drain away the color.

  “I always knew you were a hard man, but this, this . . .” She swept her arm, clearly at a loss for words.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

  “Even for you. Low. So low.”

  He felt his internal boxing gloves go up, desperate to defend himself and the things he’d done. Aggressive now that his secret manipulations were coming out. He knew. The minute he’d seen Gideon Garza pull up on that motorcycle, Richard knew he’d lost all hope of redemption.

  Eight years ago, he’d crossed a very big line. He’d lost control of his own righteous indignation. He’d forced Garza into the army. Tried to force Caitlyn into a home for unwed mothers who were giving their babies up for adoption. It had all been for her own good. That had been his justification and he’d stuck to it.

  “You paid that PI to lie, to forge documents so that I’d believe Gideon had died.”

  “He was badly wounded in a bombing. He had amnesia. No one thought he would live,” he admitted.

  “You were counting on him not getting his memory back. You were sure you were going to get away with your deception.”

  He had been at that.

  Caitlyn snorted, shook her head. “And when he wrote to me, you sent his letters back to him, making him think I didn’t care. How could you have been so cruel?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, “the end justifies the means.”

  Her face flushed red and she sank her hands on her hips. “You’re a hypocrite. You’re always talking about what’s right and doing the right thing and not compromising your principles, and look, just look what you’ve done. You’ve violated everything you stand for.”

  She was right. Every word out of her mouth was the truth.

  “I just . . . I just . . .” He couldn’t speak, couldn’t push air through his vocal cords.

  Caitlyn razored him with a hard-edged glare. “You just what, Father? Realized that for all your condemning of others, you are no better than anyone else? Full of faults and flaws.”

  Agony fisted his chest. He was bad, defective, broken. He wanted so badly to be good, to be an example for the community, to do everything the right way. He was an abject failure, as a father and as a man. But he couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud. Couldn’t ask her to forgive him. To do so would mean utter annihilation of who he was at his core. An upright man. A pillar of the community. A model citizen.

  “An apology would be nice,” she said. “But I can see that’s too damn much to hope for. You don’t even care that you cheated Gideon and Danny and me out of a life together.”

  “I just wanted to stop you from ruining your life.” Why couldn’t she see that? Why couldn’t she understand his position?

  “What’s wrong with the life I have? I have a job I love. A healthy son. Friends and neighbors I can count on. What’s so bad about that?”

  “You could have had—could have been—so much more, Caitlyn. I—”

  “No.” She raised her palm. “You know what? You don’t get to pass judgment on my life. Not anymore. I’m done fretting about what you think of me. You’ve made your bed, Judge. I hope you’re happy with your life.”

  Then she turned and left Richard standing there feeling more lonely and ashamed than he’d ever felt in his life.

  Gideon took a room at the Merry Cherub, a popular bed-and-breakfast not far from the lake. He’d enjoyed sleeping on soft clean sheets again, eating down-home cooking. Both were a far cry from what he was accustomed to. It felt odd, being back in the States, but nice in a way he hadn’t expected.

  On Sunday, he’d rented a boat and spent the entire day on the river, trying to reorient himself to his surroundings, make sense of his feelings for Caitlyn, and prep himself for the reading of J. Foster’s will.

  “Mornin’, Gideon!” Patsy Cross called out to him as he walked past her store, the Teal Peacock, on Monday morning.

  That took him aback. When he was a teenager, she’d reported him to the sheriff for having too loud a muffler on his motorcycle, now she was all smiles.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Cross.”

  “It’s so nice to have you home.”

  “Thank you.”

  He’d walked only a few steps when another shop owner wa
rmly welcomed him home and then another and another. People clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand, told him how much they appreciated his sacrifice for their freedom.

  It felt odd to be “in” with the folks of Twilight, instead of on the outs as before. He probably should have expected the accolades. People loved a wounded war hero, but he hadn’t been prepared for how their admiration would make him feel.

  In the past, he’d felt like a foreigner in his hometown, the kid from the wrong side of the tracks, the one who didn’t fit. He’d dreamed of someday doing something impressive to earn the respect of those who’d turned up their noses, turned their backs.

  Now that he was something of a celebrity, everyone wanted to snag his attention, sing his praises. Embarrassment settled on him as on a scolded dog. He didn’t like the spotlight. He was being thanked for doing dark things and it felt wrong.

  Once he hit the town square, he was surprised at the number of tourists crowding the streets and then he remembered it was spring break in Texas. In country, too busy worrying about staying alive, a solider forgot about the way things were back home.

  Home.

  The smell of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls curled under his nose. He could almost taste the sweet, spice-infused yeast dough. The cool breeze sighed past his ears, sending the wind chimes in the chinaberry tree on the courthouse lawn singing. Colorful flowers bloomed in window boxes and baskets hanging from lampposts. Hummingbirds whirled and bickered over honeyed blossoms.

  On the corner sat Marsh’s Flower Shop; he had to walk by it to get to the courthouse. He pulled in a deep breath and ambled past the window. He really hadn’t intended on turning his head, peering in, but a force he couldn’t control compelled him to peer inside past the display of roses and lilies and chrysanthemums.

  There she was sitting on a small wrought-iron bistro table, arranging flowers in a vase. Beside her sat a woman about Caitlyn’s own age. Caitlyn raised her head and their eyes met, pinning Gideon’s boots to the sidewalk.

  She had on a purple top that clung to the curve of her breasts. Bedazzled, he stood there with his mouth half open.

  Eight years had only added fuel to the fire. He wanted her even more than he’d wanted her back then, and that was saying something monumental. The heat of Caitlyn’s gaze had him standing taller, thrusting out his chest, posturing like a damn peacock.

  He couldn’t wrap his head around the notion that he’d made it back to Twilight, that she hadn’t rejected him as he’d imagined. That she’d thought he was dead. But how could he just slip back into a quiet life in a quiet town? He’d been on dangerous missions, had walked among the enemy, had learned their language, become enmeshed in a culture so foreign to this one that there was no way he could even express the differences.

  Hope filled him. Hope and longing and greedy need.

  The morning sun filtered into Caitlyn’s shop, lighting up the flowers surrounding her, bathing her in a rosy romantic glow. She rocked his world with thoughts of what-if.

  Her gaze burned into his, her eyes as searing as lasers. Hell if she didn’t look as hot and bothered as he felt. Impulse, the thing that had gotten him into so much trouble as a young man, had him aching to stalk right into that flower shop, pull her into his arms, and kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

  Gideon’s head reeled. His gut clenched. And a certain part of his anatomy heated up in a thoroughly enjoyable way.

  But he’d learned a lot in eight years, primarily self-control. He no longer acted on impulse. He’d been schooled in how to wait patiently and weigh all the pros and cons before taking action. The lessons had saved his life on more than one occasion. Yet the impulses still lingered, still welled up to fill him with so much longing he had to do an epic battle with himself to merely give her a smile and a mocking salute.

  And then Caitlyn did the damnedest thing.

  She raised her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss.

  “Caitlyn?” Sarah Collier’s voice broke through the trance that had settled over her after she’d seen Gideon on the street outside her window and blown him a kiss. She had no idea why she’d done it. She wasn’t given to frivolous impulse.

  Caitlyn blinked at her friend. “Uh-huh?”

  “I think I’ve found the perfect flowers for my wedding,” Sarah said, tapping the floral catalogue spread out on the bistro table in front of them.

  Caitlyn studied the picture, shook her head. “No, not aconite. Not for a wedding.”

  “But I love the hooded shape of the petals, and my wedding colors are purple and white.”

  “Aconite stands for misanthropy and poisonous words.”

  Sarah wrinkled her brow. “Isn’t that a bit superstitious?”

  “Do you want to take a chance on your wedding day?”

  Sarah gave that some thought. “No, you’re right.”

  “How about orchids instead? They’re classic.”

  “What’s the meaning of orchids?”

  “Magnificent love.”

  “Well, I guess that settles it then. How did you ever learn so much about flowers?”

  Caitlyn shrugged. “I’ve always been fascinated by them.”

  “Was that part of what attracted you to Kevin? Your shared interest in flowers?”

  She had to admit that it was, and the fact that Kevin had first offered her a job and a place to stay and then later offered to marry her and become a surrogate father to her son. She’d needed a safe haven, and Kevin had needed someone to nurture.

  “Hey,” Sarah said. “You stopped wearing your wedding ring.”

  Caitlyn’s thumb went to the bare ring finger on her left hand. She’d taken it off after Gideon had come back to town.

  “Does this have anything to do with the devastating, good-looking stranger who had you fainting at J. Foster’s funeral?” Sarah hadn’t lived in Twilight when Caitlyn and Gideon had been an item.

  “What have you heard?”

  “The gossip is flying,” Sarah admitted. “Gideon is your first love and you thought he was dead?”

  Caitlyn nodded.

  Sarah admired her own engagement ring and sighed softly. “I have to say it’s been my experience that there’s no other love like that first one.”

  “This town is founded on that supposition,” Caitlyn murmured.

  “So what’s holding you back from a heartfelt reunion?”

  “Eight long years. A war between us. He’s changed a lot. And I have a son to raise.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to find your way back to each other?” Sarah asked.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Both of us are so different now.”

  “You’re afraid to get your hopes up, huh?”

  “Yes,” Caitlyn admitted.

  “He hurt you once and you’re afraid he’ll do it again.”

  “Something like that.”

  “It was touch and go with Travis and me for a while there,” Sarah said. “The past can complicate things if you let it, and I know from Travis that things aren’t so cut-and-dried when you have a child to consider.”

  “That’s true,” Caitlyn agreed. She still hadn’t figured out the best way to break the news about Danny to Gideon, and he was coming to dinner tonight.

  Sarah reached across the table and laid her hand on Caitlyn’s. “Well, whether it’s with Gideon or someone else, I hope you get your happily-ever-after. You’ve been through so much. You deserve it.”

  Caitlyn smiled, touched by Sarah’s heartfelt statement, but not wanting to dwell on it. Sarah was right, she was afraid to hope for happily-ever-after. “So are you ready for me to order those orchids?”

  Chapter Seven

  Traditional meaning of mimosa—sensitivity.

  Lester LaVon’s office was located in the Twilight courthouse. The last time Gideon had been in this building, he’d been in handcuffs, brought up before Judge Blackthorne on charges of burning down his father’s barn.

  It smelled the same. Musty
as the old white stone walls. The hardwood floors creaked beneath his feet, the sound echoing in his ears full of ugly memories. He could still remember how fast and hard his heart had pounded. How the metal handcuffs had bitten into his skin.

  Oddly, his phantom limb ached. Funny, how his wrist still hurt even years after it was gone. Pain. It was an odd thing all around. Unpleasant, miserable, but at least when you were hurting you knew you were alive. He thought of those dark days after the bombing, when he’d lain writhing in the dark. Then the horrifying realization that his left hand was gone.

  He suppressed the shudder that passed through him, kept his face impassive, his head high, shoulders straight in proud military bearing. He was Green Beret. Yes, he was out of the service now, but that identity was the only thing that had saved him from himself, and he leaned on it in times of stress.

  The office at the end of the corridor had “Lester LaVon, Attorney at Law” stenciled on it in gold lettering. Gideon paused at the door, his hand on the knob, preparing himself for what was going to happen next. He’d be facing Bowie and Crockett Goodnight.

  His half brothers.

  When he was a kid, he’d badly wanted siblings. He’d often beg his mother to get married, have more children. She would just laugh and kiss the top of his head and tell him if she had more kids it would take away from the love she could give to him. His heart would light up when she’d say that and he wouldn’t broach the subject again for weeks. Finally, he’d stopped asking. But he’d never stopped wanting brothers and sisters.

  Then, after his mother died and he’d discovered he had brothers, he’d been momentarily joyous.

  But they hadn’t accepted him. Just as J. Foster had denied Gideon was his son, Bowie and Crockett denied they were his brothers. He didn’t expect that anything had changed in that regard.

  Except that on his deathbed, J. Foster had sent his lawyer to Afghanistan to find him. He’d apparently decided to finally recognize Gideon and mention him in his will.

  Gideon wasn’t expecting much and he didn’t want anything from J. Foster except the public admission that Gideon was indeed his son.