Author: Kristan Higgins

But I wouldn’t say anything. No. I’d just bite my tongue on this one. “So you and your ex-wife…Jane, you said?” Ah, my iron resolve. Nick nodded, and there was a little smile around his mouth, which I felt like a poison dart to the throat. “You and Jane get together, go to Izzy’s concerts, have Sunday brunch, stuff like that?”

“Yep,” he answered.

There was nothing but the sound of rain. The windows had fogged up, isolating us from the outside world. I traced the path of a melted hailstone on the dashboard with one finger. “So Nick,” I said eventually.

“Yes, Harper?” He must’ve sensed something in my tone, because he shifted to look at me more closely.

I put my hands on the wheel, ten and two, and looked straight ahead. “I guess I’m wondering about something.”

“And what is that?”

“Your father was a rotten parent, but you take care of him, keep him near you, visit him even though he never gave you the time of day.” I glanced over at him. His earlier smile was gone. “Your idiot stepbrother did everything in his power to make your life miserable, but you shook his hand and treated him nicely at the wedding.”

Another glance revealed that he was frowning now.

“You and Jane grew apart,” I continued softly, “by which I’m guessing she fell for someone else and quite possibly had an affair.” I paused, returning my gaze to the middle distance. The silence from Nick confirmed my suspicion. “But you’re still friends, still see her, still love her daughter.”

“What’s your point, Harper?” he asked tightly.

I swallowed. When I spoke, my voice was very, very quiet. “I guess I’m wondering why you can forgive everyone except me.”

The rain gentled, the pitch of it softening to a whisper. I looked at Nick. His eyes were lowered to Coco, his hand still on her back. The current that thrummed between us intensified and seemed to wrap itself around my heart and pull. Please, Nick, I thought. Tell me.

He didn’t look up. “I don’t know, Harper,” he said in a low voice, and I knew he was lying. My throat tightened abruptly.

Sometimes the past was too far distant to revisit. And some things were better left untouched. I knew that. I did.

Suddenly desperate for something to do, I turned the key—the battery still worked, even if the engine didn’t—and switched on the defrost. The windows cleared. The rain tapered off, and a golden bar of sunlight sliced through the clouds. Coco raised her head and yawned. “Guess I should check the car,” Nick said.

“Guess you should,” I said, my voice normal once more. “Not that you know anything.”

Nick flashed me a grin and got out, and I followed.

The air was pure and sweet after the thunderstorm, and if there’d been any antelope gore stuck to the side of the car, it had mercifully been washed away. I walked over to Nick’s side, where he was now lying on the ground, looking under the car. Coco licked his knee.

“See anything?” I asked.”

“Metal. Tires. A hose dripping stuff. Oh, and here. A souvenir.” He worked something loose and stuck out his arm, and I leaped back and shrieked.

“Nick! That’s nasty!” It was the poor dead antelope’s horn.

“You don’t want it?” he asked, standing up with a grin.

“No! And Coco, you can’t have it, either. Yuck.” Nick tossed it to the side of the road. “Here,” I said, rummaging in my purse. “Purell. Use a lot.” He obeyed, looking at me steadily. Making me nervous.

“So,” I said, “Car death by goring?”

“Looks like it. Too bad you failed to see the large mammal lying in the road, horns up.”

“Nope. I was too busy being shocked over your little bombshell. Your adorable stepchild.”

“Jealous?”

I faked a smile. “Not really. Dennis and I plan to have kids. Strapping, brave, black-haired children, six or eight of them.”

“Name one after me.” He grinned, knowing I was lying on some front. Jerk. Couldn’t he act jealous, just a little bit? Huh? I narrowed my eyes and didn’t respond. What was the point? Nick and I bugged each other. We bickered, scrapped, fought, resented and blamed. Mad skills, all, especially where the two of us were concerned. Whatever moment had happened back in the car a few minutes ago, whatever I’d hoped to hear, what he might’ve said…it was best left alone.

That being said, I didn’t fail to recognize that we were in East Bumfuck, Nowheresville. No cars, no trucks, no living antelope to ride to civilization. Nick reached into the backseat of the car, rummaged in the cooler and emerged with two Snapples. He handed one to me.

“Should we ration these?” I asked, only half kidding.

“Nah. Someone will come.”

“Really, Nick? Because I haven’t seen a car in an eon or two.”

At that very moment, we heard a motor. Nick gave me a smug look, then stood in the middle of the road, ready to flag down our rescuer.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“SURE, WE GOT A MECHANIC, you betcha. Lars Fredricksen. He’ll get you set up, don’tcha worry ’bout a thing.”

Coco and I were sitting in the truck between Nick and Deacon McCabe, our rescuer. His words were balm to my battered soul. With a sigh of relief, I felt my shoulders relax. Deacon seemed about as nice as a guy could be, full of folksy phrases and the rounded vowels of the region. The truck was old and smelled pleasantly of oil. A crucifix swung gently from the rearview mirror, and Deacon himself smelled like hay and tobacco, a very pleasant combination.

The fact that I was squished against Nick…well, that felt pretty damn good, too. He had his arm around me—well, not technically. Technically, his arm was resting on the back of the seat, but it was…cozy. The air had turned quite chilly. Unfortunately, my sweater was packed in my little red suitcase, which currently resided in the back of the pickup. Nick, however, was nice and warm. And he smelled good. And he seemed irritatingly unaffected by my presence for a man who loved and hated me.

The plan was for us to go into town (Harold, North Dakota, population 627) and get a tow for the poor Mustang, then have the mechanic assess the trouble.

“You folks’ll stay with us tonight,” Deacon said. “Our town doesn’t have a motel, don’tcha know, but you’re real welcome with me and the missus. We don’t get many folks coming through, no sir. And tonight just happens to be our very own Harvest Festival, so you’ll have to do us the honor. Real Americana. Where’d you say you folks were from again?”

“Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts,” I answered. “We’re headed to the airport in Bismarck. Is that far?”

“Oh, gosh no, not at all. Couple hours, three tops.”

“Great!” I said. If Nick’s car wasn’t fixed by then, maybe I could pay someone to drive me to the capital. By this time tomorrow, the odds were excellent that I’d be in the air, headed for home, back where I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t wait.

“So what’s it like in Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts?” Deacon asked, and I happily told him about Menemsha and the fishing fleet, the wind and the pines, the rain, the ocean, the cheerful pastel Victorians of Oak Bluffs, the tidy streets of Edgartown.

“Sounds like you folks have a real nice life out there,” Deacon commented.

Nick said nothing, just looked at me, his eyes unreadable.

“Yes,” I finally said after a minute. “Coco likes it, don’t you, honey?” She wagged her tail agreeably, then resumed trying to hypnotize Deacon into becoming her love slave.

Thinking about home reminded me that I needed to call Dad. Should check in on Tommy. See what I could do for BeverLee. Make sure Willa had enough money. Court next Tuesday. My bimonthly lunch with Father Bruce. It was different from here, where the endless fields were punctuated with huge spools of hay, the flatness of the landscape nearly unbroken by trees. My home seemed so safe by comparison, the ragged coastline and snug little towns, the solid stone walls and whispering pines. No exposure, no relentless sun. No Nick.

A COUPLE OF HOURS later, I was the queen of the Harvest Ball. Well, maybe not queen. But I was holding court, at least in the judicial sense of the word. Six women had me cornered at a picnic table as we ate a tasty yet unidentifiable casserole called “hot dish” by my hosts. Coco, well fed on the same, snoozed at my feet, her leash tied to one leg of the picnic table.

“So if I move out, he could get the house? Gosh, that doesn’t seem right,” Darlene said. She was twenty-six, married for seven years, two kids. Husband was a trucker who enjoyed a side of hooker with his rest stop all-you-can-eat buffet, apparently.

“It’d be better if you stayed put, especially with the kids,” I answered, taking a sip of my Coke—strike that. A sip of my soda pop. Sounded much nicer that way.

“Okeydokey,” she said. “Stay put, you betcha. Think I should change the locks?”

“Well, that would certainly send a message,” I concurred.

Darlene nodded, and my next consultation approached. “Hi, there, Harper hon, didja see that rain before? I’m Nancy Michaelson, so nice to meetcha.”

“Hi, Nancy,” I said, taking another bite of hot dish. One could only imagine the cholesterol count, as the primary ingredient seemed to be mayonnaise, but man, it was good! “What can I help you with?”

She sat. “You’re a regular doll, answering all our questions, don’tcha know. So, okay, my mother, bless her heart, she just married some old geezer from the nursing home over in Beulah. At first, we thought he was, y’ know, not so bad, but turns out, he’s taking money out of her savings account! What can we do? I think she should divorce his scrawny old carcass, but Mom, well, she’s saying she’s in love! At her age, can you imagine!”

I squashed a smile. “Well, if you’ve got power of attorney, you can stop that. But if she’s competent—”

“Whatja mean, competent?”

“In her right mind? You know…sane?”

Nancy sighed. “Well, I think she’s crazy, having a romance at her age and all, but I guess I don’t get a vote. Thanks, hon.”

“Okay, okay, let’s give our guest a little breathing room, what do you say, girls?” Margie Schultz bustled over, my new best friend/bodyguard. She seemed to be in charge of the event; after Deacon had introduced Nick and me to her, she’d towed us around, introducing us to dozens of people, all of whom had seemed ridiculously happy that misfortune had led us here. Midwestern hospitality at its finest, putting us Yankees to shame.

The Harvest Festival was pretty much what you’d expect—the lot behind the Lutheran church strung with lights, a few booths and mouthwatering smells as hot dogs, hamburgers and bratwurst cooked on a grill. A giant table held dozens of casseroles, Jell-O molds and plates of cake and cookies. Soda pop and milk…no beer. A small band was setting up…just a guitarist, a bass player and a fiddler. This year’s real Harvest Queen, a sturdy and beautiful lass decked out in a pink prom gown, work boots and a John Deere cap, collected money for the school’s football program. Kids ran around with sparklers in the fading light, and the whole scene could’ve been taken from a Ron Howard movie.

“So is the Harvest Festival always on a Monday night?” I asked. Hard to believe it was only Monday—I felt as though I’d been in the car with Nick for years, but Monday evening it was.

“Oh, gosh no,” Margie said. “It was supposed to be Saturday, but oh, we had quite a storm blow through! And here there was that cloudburst today, I nearly wet myself, Harper, I did, thinking we were gonna have to reschedule again! But the Lord must’ve heard my prayers, because it just turned out fine, didn’t it?”