Kristin Hannah's Family Matters 4-Book Bundle: Angel Falls, Between Sisters, The Things We Do for Love, Magic Hour (32 page)

It was better than the truth: that he’d loved her, married her, watched her leave him, and moved on. That his love for her had been a fleeting emotion.

Or worse, that there was a hole in his soul that could never be filled, that real love was beyond him.

Someone clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Juli, I’ve been looking all over town for you. Are you
bowling
?”

Julian didn’t smile. “You know me, Val. I love a sport where you wear other people’s shoes.”

Val grinned and sat down. “What’s next, steer roping?”

Julian turned to him. “Val, do you ever think about what happens to guys like us when we get old?”

“My personal role model is Sean Connery. Sixty-eight years old and the babes still go for me. You can be Jack or Warren, but the God—Connery—he’s mine.”

Julian stared into his beer. “I think we end up alone, sitting in some expensive chair in an expensive house, looking through photo albums of who we used to be, what we used to have. I think we lose our hair and our looks and no one comes to visit us.”

Val raised his hand. “Bring me a Scotch, will you?” he yelled to Lou, then he turned back to Julian. “You’re as much fun as detox.”

How could he make Val understand? Julian had always craved the glitz and glamour of Hollywood; he’d thought he’d die if he didn’t become someone who
mattered
, and he’d gotten his wish. But the years had strung together like broken Christmas lights, and not until now—in Last Bend—had he realized what he’d given up for fame. He could see clearly how he would end up—an aging, arrogant movie star who showed up at every party, drinking too much, smoking too much, screwing any woman who got close enough. Looking, he’d always be looking …

Until one day he’d realize that he’d given up on finding what he was looking for, and that the ache in his heart was permanent.

Kayla had loved him, and in loving him so deeply, she’d seen the empty place in his heart. She had known that a true and lasting love couldn’t grow in such shallow, rocky soil. No doubt, she’d hoped that
he would come for her, a changed and better man, but deep down, she must have known. That’s why she’d never told Jacey the truth about him. Why spin romantic tales about a man you’d never see again?

Lou set a glass of Scotch in front of Val. “There ye’ be. Anything for you, Julian?”

“No, thanks, Lou,” Julian answered.

“You’re
thanking
someone? Jesus, Juli, what the hell’s going on?”

Julian turned to his friend. “Kayla’s made me … see my life, Val, and it isn’t much.”

Val looked thoughtful. “You’re like one of those teenage girls who see the supermodels in the magazines and think they really look like that. You and me, we know about the airbrushing and the bingeing and the drug use and the Auschwitz rib cages. You’re thinking that maybe you want a different life, filled with lawn mowers and block parties and Little League. But that’s not who you are. Don’t you know that all those real guys out there working seven-to-seven to support their snot-nosed kids and heavy-duty wives would kill to have your life for one day?”

“They can have it.”

Val’s eyes held an abiding sadness. “Julian, she’s married.”

“I know,” he answered. “But what if I love her?”

The falling apart of a man’s life should make noise. It should startle passersby with its Sturm und Drang. It ought to sound like the Parthenon crashing down. Not this ordinary, everyday kind of quiet.

His wife was in love with another man. There was simply no way around that; no matter how often he tried to push the thought away, it came creeping back.

Liam lay back in bed, staring up at the gauzy mosquito netting that canopied their bed. It was almost midnight, but he couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t forget the images he’d seen on television tonight, or the quippy headlines that accompanied them.

True Love, after all these years
.

Sleeping Beauty awakens to Prince Charming’s kiss
.

Every program had had photographs of Kayla, all of them showing a young, vibrant woman who was clearly in love.

It was a woman he’d never seen. Until today—this second—he’d had this hope that he would catch a glimpse, however fleeting, of his wife. But all he’d seen was image after image of
Kayla
.

Now she was neither Kayla nor Mikaela. Without memories, she was a leaf, caught up in the swirling current of a dream, but soon she would land on earth. She would remember the fifteen years they’d spent together. He had to believe that.

But what then?

She would reach out for something solid, and the thing that would steady her, her anchor, would be her love for her children. That love was the cornerstone of her soul, and nothing—not even Julian—could separate her from Jacey and Bret.

When she came back to herself, Mike would put her
kids’ needs first. She always had. She’d left Julian because of Jacey and she’d married Liam because of Bret.

In the end, she would stay married to Liam. Of this, he was certain. When push came to shove, she would again sacrifice her passion for her children’s welfare.

The realization brought no solace; instead it weighed him down.

Julian wasn’t a threat to their marriage; Liam knew that. It was Mikaela’s love for Julian that threatened everything. Before, Liam had been able to tell himself that she loved him enough. But now that he’d seen the way she looked at Julian …

He closed his eyes.

And still it was quiet, this falling apart of his life, as silent as the last beat of an old man’s heart. A quiet, echoing thud, and then … nothing.

Mikaela dreamt she was in the big log house.

She could hear the child crying again, and this time she was more afraid. She climbed the stairs and crossed the empty porch. Beside her, a rocking chair squeaked and moved, pushed by unseen hands.

She grabbed the doorknob and twisted, swinging the door open so hard, it cracked against the interior wall.

“Hello?” Her voice was a reedy whisper, beaten by the heaviness of her breathing.

The crying came again, louder this time.

She felt along the wall; this time she knew there was a light switch there, and when her fingers brushed it, she cried out in relief. The lights came on—an overhead chandelier crafted of deer antlers that threw a soft, golden net across a deserted dining room table. She had a quick, flashing image of herself sitting at that table, at a certain chair; she heard a voice saying,
So, kids, tell me about your day …

But there was no one there, just a trio of ghostly images, the sound of forks on china, the thump of a glass hitting the planked table.

“Where are you?” she called out.

The crying came again. She felt her way past the table, up the long, wide staircase made of split logs. It felt as if there were people behind her, a crowd whispering among themselves, pushing her deeper and deeper into the darkness above, but every time she spun around, she was alone. Only her own shadow snaked out behind her as she reached the second floor.

“Mo … mmmy … Mo … mmmy …”

“Where are you?” she screamed.

Only silence.

She started to run, but this time there were no doors, no windows … just the child’s cry.

She ran and ran, until the hallway ended in a blank wall.

“Where are you?”

She spun around. There was no hallway behind her anymore. When she looked down, she saw that she was standing on a tiny patch of carpet.

A door appeared in front of her.

Her hand was shaking as she reached for the brass knob. It turned easily. Inch by inch, she pushed the door open. Behind it lay a box of perfect blackness.

And the quiet sound of a child crying.

She touched the rough-hewn wall and a light came on.

The child was tucked in the corner, his skinny white
legs bent at an awkward angle. He was wearing flannel boxers
—like Daddy’s—
and a Seattle Super-Sonics T-shirt.

He looked up at her, his pale face streaked with tears, his blue eyes magnified into pools of watery pain.

The boy from the hospital
.

“Mommy?” he said.

“Bret,” she cried out, falling to her knees and taking him into her arms.

Then she woke up. Memories washed over and through and around her.

She said that one simple name over and over again.

Bret. Bret. Bret. The child she’d turned away from, said nothing to when he leaned down and kissed her forehead with all the gentleness of a butterfly’s landing.

Her baby boy
.

She reached for the phone, but before she dialed a number, she noticed the wall clock. It was three o’clock in the morning.

She couldn’t call yet. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the pillows, letting the memories come again.

Mikaela woke with a start. She glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty.

“Damn it.” The kids were already at school.

She saw the tray of food by her bed. It looked disgusting. She couldn’t imagine how anyone was supposed to actually recuperate if they ate this garbage.

With a sigh, she pushed the tray away.

She closed her eyes and thought of all the things she’d remembered last night.

Bret. Jacey. Her precious children. She couldn’t remember every single thing, but she remembered most of it.

Julian. She remembered all the days and nights she’d waited by the phone for his call, the countless times she’d cried herself to sleep, waiting. Waiting …

And Liam. She remembered the hows and whys of her love for him … and how it had never been enough for her.

She’d spent years waiting for Julian to come back to her, but at some point, she’d had to go on with her life. She’d enrolled in school and become a nurse, and taken a job in this very building.

She’d first met Liam in his father’s hospital room. She’d been so lonely then, so lost. She’d read about Julian’s new marriage and it had broken her spirit. When Liam finally asked her out, she’d said yes.

She’d known that Liam fell in love with her almost instantly, and though she hadn’t felt the same, she’d needed someone to love her, someone to care about her. Day by day, Liam had shown her how it felt to be truly wanted.

Still, when she found out she was pregnant, she’d felt trapped. She could remember every nuance of the day she’d told him.

They’d been out at Angel Falls, their favorite spot, stretched out on a blanket. When she told him about
the baby, he stifled a laugh of joy, and then, quietly, asked her to marry him.

She’d told him some of her past. She’d said,
I’ve been married before. I loved him with all my heart and soul. I’m afraid I’ll love him until I die
.

I see
, he’d said. But she was the one who could see. She was breaking his heart, this gentle, caring man who loved her the way she loved Julian. She’d wanted to believe that they could be happy. And in many ways they had been. She had grown to love Liam, but never had she fallen head over heels in love. In truth, she’d never allowed herself to; she saw that now.

She’d always been secretly waiting for Julian. Down deep, in that place reserved for true love, she’d kept a single candle burning for his return. Because of that, her love for Liam had been thin and brittle, a layer of ice on a bottomless blue lake. How could it be more when Julian was already there, taking up too much space in her heart?

She didn’t know if she’d regretted it then—that was something she couldn’t seem to remember—or if she’d ever let herself look closely enough to see it. But she regretted it now, regretted it with a ferocity that was nearly desperation.

Her past felt like a huge and tangled fishing net, filled with debris, and she wondered if she could ever untangle it enough to find the pearls that had to be hidden in the mess.

Now, whenever she closed her eyes—and sometimes even when she didn’t—she saw the flickering
reel of her whole life. It was everywhere, in the dozens of floral arrangements and green plants that filled this tiny room, in the accordion of get-well cards that lined her windowsill, in the pad of phone messages that the nurses brought in to her each day.

In Last Bend, she’d found a place where she
belonged
. And the saddest part was, she was certain that she hadn’t recognized that. For years, she’d thought that she was an outsider here. Even as she’d volunteered for a dozen different charitable events and organized the Bits-n-Spurs 4-H club, as she’d sat down to dinner at friends’ houses and sipped punch with people after church, she’d always believed that she didn’t belong. It was, she realized, an ugly bit of baggage that she’d carried here from her youth, and she’d been so damned busy hanging on to it that she’d failed to notice that the bags were empty.

She was so deep in thought, she didn’t hear the knock at the door.

Rosa stood in the doorway. She looked old and tired, and for once, her white hair wasn’t held hostage in a tight braid. She wore a pair of crisply creased black pants and a red turtleneck sweater. In her arms, she held a big, square book.

Mikaela maneuvered herself to a sit.
“Recuerdo mi vida, Mama,”
she said softly, not even bothering with hello.