The Last Letter (Page 24)

His eyes lost their warmth, his expression turning distant, almost cold, and unlike any expression I’d seen from him. Was Maggie the exception, or was I?

“No, that’s the sheriff’s department.”

His tone was curt, almost unrecognizable from the way he spoke to me and the kids.

“Private sector, huh?”

“Yes.”

One-word answer. Maybe Hailey was right—she’d simply seen something I hadn’t, because he hadn’t shown it around me.

“Ooh, the special kind of search and rescue,” she said, taking the step that did put her between us. “The ones who get contracted out for the dangerous calls.” Her voice lowered, and I stepped back to avoid asphyxiating on her perfume.

“I guess,” Beckett answered.

“You know that company is actually funded by a conglomerate of the owners of the ski resort and the hotels in the village, right? They wanted something immediately available, knowing how busy the sheriff’s office gets.”

“Is that so?” Beckett stepped back, but Maggie followed. His jaw flexed and the save-me look he shot my way was anything but funny. He really was that uncomfortable.

It was definitely time to intervene.

“She’s right,” I said as Colt took my hand. “Her husband owns one of the hotels, right, Maggie?”

She openly glared at me, but her face turned sweet when she looked back at Beckett, well, appraised was a better word. Openly ogled was another way to say it. “He does, which I guess means, in a way, you work for me.”

His eyes turned glacial. “I’m an independent contractor, which means I work for myself.”

I moved to stand next to Beckett, and he relaxed just enough for the change to be visible. “It’s always good to see you, Maggie, but I think these guys are getting hungry, right?” I asked Beckett.

He nodded. “It’s always nice to meet other parents in Colt and Maisie’s class.”

The words were the right ones, but they were forced, like he’d practiced them in his head before saying them aloud.

Maggie’s shoulders fell, but she quickly recovered. “Of course. I guess I’d better get back to Drake. Are you joining us?”

I looked down at Colt, who was luckily occupied with Havoc. He had to be getting hungry, and we were wasting lunch time out here.

“Actually, I was going to ask my Ella here if she wanted to grab some lunch with me.” The words came out of him just like every other time we’d talked by ourselves. Easy. Natural.

Maggie noticed.

Point. Set. Match.

Whether or not it was true, I could have kissed him in gratitude. Not that I was going to kiss him, or touch him in any way that indicated anything more than friendship, if that’s even what we had. What were we, anyway? Guilt-contracted neighbors?

Maggie nodded and spun on her heel, nearly taking me out. Beckett reached around, steadying my shoulder as she passed. Who cared about the truth? Not me!

After today’s meeting and Maggie attack, I felt a sense of rebellion well in my stomach and spread outward. “Colton MacKenzie.”

“Mom?”

“Wanna ditch the rest of the day with me? With us?” I glanced up at Beckett.

“Yes!”

“What do you want to do?” Beckett asked, crouching down.

Colt’s mouth and nose wiggled back and forth as he thought. “I want to picnic with Maisie. If she feels well enough.”

I’d so lucked out getting this kid.

“Picnic it is.”

As we walked out to our cars, I brushed Beckett’s arm, stopping him as Colt and Havoc walked ahead a few feet.

“You’re not a big people person, are you?”

“That obvious?”

“Absolutely.” But oddly endearing, too, realizing that he was different with me. “I just didn’t see it until now.”

“Yeah, well…I guess I’m just comfortable around you.”

That simple admission felt like the best compliment, and I felt my cheeks warm.

“You realize what you did, right?” I needed him to understand the commitment he’d made, how precious the trust of a child was.

“With lunch?”

“Soccer, Beckett. That’s three practices a week and games on the weekend. That means on the days I’m at the doctor with Maisie—”

“I’m at the field with Colt. I’m not going to let you down, Ella. Or him.”

My teeth sank into my lower lip as I fought the urge to believe him, to trust that he’d be where he said he would be.

“Trust me, please.”

“I know you have the best of intentions, but in my experience, guys…don’t always show up.” I spoke the last bit at the concrete between my feet. To be exact, they lied and said they would, then never did. Maybe their reasons varied, but the end result never did.

He tipped my chin up gently with his finger, and I found the courage bit by bit to meet his gaze.

“I will show up for you. For Colt. For Maisie. I will not walk away. I will not abandon you. I will not die.” His words hit me smack in my heart with the force of a ton of bricks. “I will show up, and if you don’t believe me now, that’s okay. I’ll earn it.”

“I have no right to expect that of you.” We weren’t together, or anything else that would even imply he had any such obligation. I had to trust that his sense of duty to my brother was strong enough to hold him here, and trust wasn’t one of my strong points.

“You have the right because I give it to you.”

We stood like that, locked on each other, his hand beneath my chin, warring silently until I sighed and let my eyes close. “Okay. But don’t let him down.”

“I’m not going to. The sooner you believe that, the sooner I can pick up a little of that burden you’re so hell-bent on carrying solo. Have a little faith in me.”

I sucked in an unsteady breath and tried it out, the faith thing. “Soccer.”

He grinned. “Soccer.”

Chapter Twelve

Beckett

Letter #18

Chaos,

I ran into Jeff’s parents at the grocery store about an hour ago. It doesn’t happen often, maybe once or twice a year when they’re up to vacation, but it always slices me to the quick when it happens.

Why is that? After seven years, you’d think I’d be immune to seeing them, but I’m not.

There I was, standing in the drink aisle, staring at every flavor of Gatorade known to man, debating which flavor Maisie might not throw up. She’s been so nauseated lately, but I know she has to stay hydrated because of these new meds and the potential for renal failure. Anyway, I’m thinking sour apple, right? Because at least it’s green, so when she inevitably throws it up, at least I don’t panic that it looks like blood. And when I was pregnant with the twins, sour stuff was the only thing that kept the nausea at bay. So I fill the cart, and when I get to the end of the aisle, there are Jeff’s parents, picking out their turkey for Thanksgiving.

It’s not like I don’t know that it’s Thanksgiving, or that people need turkeys. But I’m standing there, trying to figure out what to buy to keep my daughter alive, and they’re debating the merits of a sixteen-pound over an eighteen-pound turkey.

Just like Jeff, they’ve never seen either of the kids. I wrote them off the minute his dad showed up with a big check, divorce papers, and a request to terminate my pregnancy.

Then, two weeks ago, I swallowed my pride and asked his dad to add Maisie to Jeff’s insurance—since Jeff works for him. He threw me out and told me that the kids were none of their concern. I guess Jeff’s dating a senator’s daughter, which makes my kids a liability. Maisie’s dying, and they’re more concerned with Jeff’s image.

So, yeah. We don’t speak.

But today, for some reason, it hit me harder than usual. Maybe it’s because Maisie’s so sick. Because when I think about Jeff, and the twins’ questions about him that I can’t avoid for much longer, I always think that the kids can seek him out when they’re old enough. That’s on him. And now, I realize Maisie might never get that chance. And though I don’t want anything to do with him, I would never stop them from seeking those answers. But time might stop her.

And yet, I’m not asking her if she wants to meet him. I want all of the time she has. I don’t want to share her with Jeff, and I honestly don’t think he’d bring her anything but heartache.

The first thing I did after I got some of that Gatorade down Maisie was grab a pen and write to you. Because for the life of me, I can’t figure out if that makes me a bad person, a selfish person. And worse, if it does, there’s an overwhelming part of me that just doesn’t care. Isn’t that worse?

~ Ella

…

“Are you ready now?” I asked as Colt raced across the hallway of his mom’s house, into the mudroom. The kid had been practicing for three weeks, and today was finally the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend—game day.

The twins would graduate kindergarten—whatever the hell that meant—on Monday. Why they needed tiny caps and gowns was beyond me, but they’d sure looked cute for the little photo shoot Ella had done out by the lake.

“Cleats!” he shouted.

“In your bag.” I lifted the small Adidas bag in the air as he skidded to a stop in his socks in front of me.

“You have them?”

“Yep, and your shin guards, and the sunscreen for your noggin. Now, are you ready to play, or what?” We had twenty minutes until we were expected at the field for warm-ups.

“Yes!” He jumped into the air, both hands stretched toward the ceiling.

“Okay, save a little of that energy for the game, okay? We’re playing a team from Montrose, and they’re going to be tough.”

His forehead puckered. “They’re six. Just like me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re tough, too. Now get your play shoes on, and let’s go.”

Colt scurried back to the mudroom, and I went in search of Ella, finding her in the office with Maisie stretched out on the love seat across from her desk, book in hand. “Hey, Maisie. Ella, you ready?”