It Had to Be You (Christiansen Family) (37 page)

I’d really love to see you.

I’d really love to see you.
That didn’t speak of a man easily wooed into rendezvousing with her sister.

But maybe she’d simply seen the John Christiansen she drew in her dreams instead of the man he kept claiming to be.

She should pay attention.

Behind her rose the smells of the open kitchen, sausage frying with fresh eggs, the whine of hungry dogs rising, the early morning attention of a rooster.

She missed the soft lap of the lake on the fir-padded shore.

“Ingrid, you okay?”

She looked up to see Phil, dressed in a pair of cutoff green Army pants, a Hawaiian shirt, and Birkenstocks, leaning over her, his shadow blocking the sun. He wore a tan and a gentle smile, the sun bleaching his blond hair.

He reminded her a lot of Nathan, John’s best friend. Quiet. Understanding.

She looked at him, tried a smile, and he plunked down next to her. Pointed to the letter. “News from home?”

She folded it in half. “My sister. Telling me about the summer vacation in Deep Haven. My family goes every year, and this year, well . . .”

“Bummer. I know you wanted to leave, but with the rains
 
—”

“It’s fine. Worst was, I couldn’t get word out until it was too late and . . .” She lifted a shoulder. “It’s no big deal.”

“You could go home for Christmas. With the road rebuilt, they’ll have another team of recruits ready to replace us.”

She nodded. Sighed.

“You miss home.”

“I miss . . . Deep Haven.”

“Or someone in Deep Haven.”

She glanced at him, and he lifted his own shoulder. “You talk about him every time you get a letter. John had surgery. John made it off his crutches. John made varsity. John, John, John
 
—”

“I’m sorry.”

“I get it. Or did, until I see that look on your face.”

She bit her lip, turned away. “I guess I just thought we were . . . we were meant to be. I’ve loved him since I was thirteen
 
—”

“Loved?”

His question settled between them, and she rolled it around in her head. It sank into her like the heat of the sun.

Yes, loved. Maybe an adolescent crush at first, but over the past year, she’d seen a different side of John. Fragile. Searching. Hopeful. Courageous.

The man she knew he’d become if she gave him time.

The man who’d been worth the wait. At least for Kari.

She nodded. “Loved. But maybe that’s over.” She tucked the letter into her shirt pocket. “I’m thinking of staying.”

“Re-up for another year?” A new warmth rose in Phil’s coffee-brown eyes. His voice softened. “I’d like that.”

Then he reached over and wove his fingers with hers. Sweet
 
—the kind of intimacy that didn’t scare her, didn’t flood over her, didn’t bring with it a breathlessness that made her ache for more, despite the warnings in her head.

But maybe sometime it would.

“Can I show you something?”

She nodded, and he helped her up, then held her hand as he led her away from camp, toward a path that wove up a hill, through the forest. They walked in silence, their feet whispering on the worn path. They reached the apex of the hill, and he directed her across the top, pointing out roots and fallen bamboo, parting leaves bigger than her face. They finally emerged into a tiny, worn clearing.

“Look down, over there.”

She followed his gesture, and there, through the trees, dropping two
hundred feet down and spilling into the dawn with jeweled spray, a waterfall. The fresh breath from the fall of water rose into the air and brushed her skin with moisture, soft and cool.

Her skin prickled.

“The locals call this Angel Falls. You stand here and close your eyes, and you feel like the angels are breathing on you.”

She closed her eyes.

The mist feathered over her, Phil’s hand wove into hers, not letting go, and Ingrid wished she felt angels instead of the weeping of her heart.

1981

This should be the happiest day of her life. With the sun cascading through the trees, jeweled fingers of light reaching out to embrace her, the smell of marshmallows roasting over a campfire, the chorus of the lake, the north shore wind in the trees . . . yes, she should be over the moon.

After all, not every day did the man of her dreams propose to her. Okay, so he might not have officially proposed yet, but Ingrid could read through Phil’s flimsy attempts to hide the fact he’d chased her father down alone yesterday. After nine months of dating, she could figure out why.

Besides, they’d talked about it so many times, it felt like the next logical step in their relationship.

Yes, she should be celebrating. Not casting glances over to the lodge, seeing if she could spy John’s motorcycle in the dirt lot. Not wishing for a glimpse of him over the week they’d spent here; probably her last. Not hating herself for the shards of disappointment that pierced the blanket of joy that should be hers.

She should hate John Christiansen for skulking around her heart. And he hadn’t picked up the hint in real life, either. Despite the obvious cooling in her letters and then her eventual silent treatment, he continued to write. As if he hadn’t betrayed her, hadn’t broken her heart.

And she could blame herself, yes, just a little, for not telling him how his actions with Kari eviscerated her. But she had no claim on him, not really, so what would she say?

“Are you okay, darling?” Phil handed her a golden-to-perfection marshmallow, swelling between two crisp graham crackers, a slice of Hershey’s chocolate dissolving into the mess. “You seem far away.”

She found a smile for him. He’d cut his hair since Ecuador, something his substitute teaching position at the elementary school in suburban Minneapolis demanded, and looked preppy in his oxford shirt and khakis, even if he still wore his trademark Birkenstocks.

“Yum, thank you.” She took the s’more, tried to maneuver it into her mouth. Marshmallow goo landed on her chin, and she laughed as she tried to lick it off.

“Phil tells me you’re thinking of applying to college, maybe getting a degree in education,” her father said. He wore a strange, enigmatic look. The kind that said he knew her, wasn’t buying her false cheer.

Which made it only worse because no, it wasn’t false.

Phil was the right man. Her brain told her that after watching him embrace his classroom of fourth graders, after he’d spent Christmas with her family, playing monopoly and attending Christmas Eve service. After encouraging her to apply to college to get her degree. Phil hadn’t an unfaithful bone in his body, wanted a family, a home. Might even consider moving to Deep Haven someday.

“I have the application but I haven’t filled it out yet.”

Phil glanced at her. “But she will.”

“Why don’t you two kiddos head down to town for the street dance?” her mother said, adding another marshmallow to her stick.

Oh, Mom. And then what? Fight another slough of memories? Joining her parents for their annual vacation now seemed a colossally bad decision.

“A street dance? Sounds fun,” Phil said, a gleam in his eye.

Oh no. He wouldn’t propose during . . . She took a breath. “I wouldn’t mind staying here.”

“No, let’s go,” Phil said, standing.

She couldn’t help it
 
—she glanced at the lodge again. But John hadn’t shown up all week; she should stop kidding herself. He wouldn’t suddenly appear on the sidewalk, see her dancing with Phil.

And what if he did?

Oh, see, her heart had decided to simply draw a wall around her feelings for John, let them simmer, while every other part of her fell in love with Phil.

She hoped it was enough. It had to be enough. Because John Christiansen didn’t belong in her heart, not anymore.

Ingrid changed into jeans, flip-flops, a white sleeveless shirt, grabbing a
jean jacket before climbing into Phil’s VW Beetle. From the highway leading down the hill, Deep Haven spread out before her, lights twinkling like a Christmas package, the lake dark and mysterious. She gathered her long hair in her hand, trapping it to keep the wind from blowing it into tangles.

“Such a beautiful little town,” Phil said. “I can see why you vacation here every summer. So many childhood memories.”

She smiled, nodded. Looked out the window. Remembered the feel of the wind on her face as she’d wrapped her arms around John. Shook the memory away and reached for Phil’s hand. He gave it a squeeze right before he downshifted.

They parked at the new ice cream parlor, Licks and Stuff, then got out and wandered toward the music. The band played “Endless Love,” and Phil roped his arm around her, pulled her to his side. His body radiated warmth against the cool evening, and she leaned against him as they stopped next to a streetlamp, watching the crowd.

Sawdust littered the street from the annual chain saw competition
 
—she didn’t want to consider who won this year. At the harbor, children skipped stones across the water, counting the sound of splashes until they faded.

She spotted Nathan in a short-sleeved oxford, dancing with a slender blonde sporting the smile Ingrid should be wearing.

Phil nestled his arms around her, pulling her against his chest, her back to him. “I’m not sure it has the magic of Angel Falls, but I can see the charm.” He pressed a kiss to her head. “Want some cotton candy?”

She looked up at him and nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

“I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into the crowd, her man, fetching her a treat.

The song changed
 
—Air Supply’s “The One That You Love”
 
—and she wrapped her arms around her waist, began to sway. Hum.

A voice behind her filled in the words. “‘Hold me in your arms for just another day.’”

She stilled, the tenor strumming through her body. Oh . . .

No. She turned, and her mouth opened at the sight of John standing behind her, grinning like a man proud of himself, holding a secret.

“What are you doing here?” She didn’t mean for it to emerge quite like that, quick and sharp, and his smile faded a little.

“I skipped practice and drove five hours to get here. It’s our Saturday night.” His blue eyes clouded. “I thought . . . I miss you, Ingrid. And I hoped you’d be here. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

A fist had grabbed her chest, started to squeeze, yet despite the suffocating loss of breath, she couldn’t stop herself from nodding.

Oh yes, she was painfully, terribly, ecstatically glad to see him.

Shoot.

He smiled then, and her world dropped from around her. Such blue eyes, they simmered under the glow of the lights. He wore faded jeans, a hooded sweatshirt under a jean jacket, his dark hair shorter, thinning almost, but it only gave his gaze that much more power to undo her. And Kari didn’t lie about his linebacker build.

Ingrid tightened her jaw against the sudden burn in her chest, her eyes, at the memory of Kari’s words. No, no
 
—she turned away, not wanting him to see her stupid reaction to the memory of his betrayal.

“Ingrid, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m
 
—yeah, I’m glad to see you.” She ran her fingers over her eyes. Silly girl
 
—he should not have this much power over her. Especially since she was practically engaged to another man.

She searched the crowd for Phil but didn’t see him. Then it didn’t matter because John stepped in front of her. “Ingrid, please help me understand what’s going on here. I don’t understand why you stopped writing me. Or why you suddenly . . . I don’t know. I’m not a very emotional guy, but it felt as if . . . Are you angry with me?”

She closed her eyes. Opened them and looked away, toward the harbor, where a thousand stars fell into the water. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does matter
 
—to me. I . . . I came here last year, looking for you
 
—”

“And found Kari, I know.” Sarcasm. Anger. She heard it in her tone, the feelings as fresh as they’d been last year.

“Yeah. I saw her, too. But I realized something. I didn’t care about Kari. I . . . Gee, Ingrid. I missed you. Your smile. Your laughter. I wanted to see you.”

“Funny. Did you figure that out before or after you two had your fling?”

He just stood there, not moving, and she finally looked up at him. He seemed stricken, shaken by her words. And a cold, brutal realization stole through her as he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I barely spoke two words to Kari last year.”

Oh no.

The hand in her chest returned, pressing against her sternum.

“Clearly we have to talk.” He curled his hand around her arm, and she let him lead her away, off the street, to a nearby alley.

She didn’t have a thought to resist him.

Kari had lied to her. All this time . . .

Ingrid couldn’t breathe. He released her when they reached the shadows of the alley, and she turned, braced one hand against the brick wall, her other hand over her eyes.

“Are you okay?” His voice fell so achingly tender over her. And away from the smells of the festival, she could smell the scent of soap, the remnant of his afternoon practice on his skin.

She couldn’t look at him, or she’d be undone. “Kari wrote me a letter and told me that you two . . .” She couldn’t say it. “She said
 
—”

“I can figure it out,” he growled. “And you believed her?”

It was the hurt in his voice that made Ingrid look at him. The raw emotion on his face nearly stole her words. “I remember . . . You’ve always had a thing for her, and Kari is awfully hard to ignore.”

“I haven’t thought of Kari in years,” he said quietly, his hand reaching up to touch her face. It lay large and warm on her skin, and when he brushed his thumb across her cheek, she thought she might cry. “You’re the one I can’t forget.”

John. This couldn’t be happening. Not now.

And what about Phil? He’d be looking for her. She had to get back to him, just simply walk away from John. Now.

She put her hand to his, intending to pull it away, but he misinterpreted her meaning. Or maybe not because he cupped her face with his other hand and searched her eyes, and she didn’t move away.

How could she when he looked at her with a hunger, a need that stripped the moisture from her mouth.

She opened her mouth to protest but didn’t even try to stop him when he leaned down to kiss her.

He delivered the kind of kiss she’d dreamed about for too many years. Not the arrogant, sloppy kiss of his youth, but purposed, deliberate. The kind of kiss that spoke of patience and longing.

The kind of kiss worth waiting for. He tasted of salt, as if he’d eaten french fries on the road, and the brisk tang of Coke, and as his mouth moved against hers, the world blurred around her.

John.

He made a sound in the back of his throat, something deep, as if he’d had a tight fist over his emotions and they’d begun to spill out. Or maybe that was her sound because he lifted his head, and in the silence she could hear her heart pounding, filling her ears.

Then, in a whisper, “I love you, Ingrid. It scares me a little how much I love you.”

Her eyes widened, but she had no words as he bent his head and kissed
her again, this time wrapping one arm around her waist. He braced his other arm on the building behind her, pulling her up against the solid, hard planes of his football physique.

And despite the warning screaming in the back of her head, her arms went around his neck, and she simply surrendered. Surrendered to the rub of his five o’clock shadow against her skin, the softness of his mouth as he nudged her lips open, the rhythm of his heart against hers . . .

John. Finally John.

He shouldn’t have panicked. Shouldn’t have let what-ifs stir in his brain until he skipped practice and jumped on his motorcycle, driving like a man on the verge of losing his last chance.

Or maybe he did exactly the right thing, because holding Ingrid in his arms as she molded her body to his, every doubt, every hour reading and rereading her letters trying to decipher why she’d turned cold to him, simply slipped away.