Up at Butternut Lake: A Novel (39 page)

She stood up and walked over to him, with the wild idea that she could help him somehow. Comfort him. Reassure him. Never mind the fact that she wasn’t doing very well herself. She was trembling all over. And the tears she’d been trying to hold back were streaming down her face.

But as she approached him, Jeremy held up a hand.

“No, Jax. Don’t,” he said. “Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. I’m just going to throw some things into a suitcase and go. I won’t drive. I’ll call a friend to pick me up. Someone, hopefully, who’ll let me sleep on their couch until I can find something more . . . permanent.” He tripped a little over the word
permanent
.

But Jax heard it, just the same. And it sent an ice-cold jolt of fear through her whole body. But then, as it had in the past, the fear brought a new clarity with it, and with that clarity came a decision. She couldn’t undo her past mistakes. But at least she could make the present a little easier for him. After all, he’d done nothing wrong. He had loved her, and Joy, despite knowing that Joy was Bobby’s child. Why should he be punished? She was the one who’d gotten them to where they were now. She was the one who should leave.

“I’ll leave, Jeremy,” she said, a surreal sense of calm settling over her. “You stay here with the girls. They love you. They need you.”

“Jax, I can’t take care of Jenna,” he said, in disbelief. “
And
three more children.
And
run a business.”

“No, I’ll take Jenna with me,” Jax explained. “The girls will be starting school on Tuesday. And after school, Joy can be in charge. You’d be amazed at how responsible she’s become this summer. She can help with homework, and dinner, and bedtime.”

Jax thought about everything she would miss, the routine things she’d always taken so much pleasure in, and she had to choke back another sob. She felt fresh anguish knowing that her lies, her omissions, had, and would, cause the people she loved the most to suffer. And although she believed she was the one who should leave, the realization of what she was about to lose was almost too painful to contemplate.

Jeremy looked skeptical. “And where will you and Jenna go?” he asked.

We’ll go to the only person I know who’d take in a mother and her two-week-old infant,
Jax thought. “We’ll go to Caroline’s,” she said. “And the girls can come visit me there every day after school.” She willed herself, again, to be calm. She owed that much to Jeremy. She’d leave quickly and quietly. Without making a scene. Without any self-serving speeches, pleas for forgiveness, or ugly hysterics.

She stood and walked, mechanically, up the stairs to their bedroom. She took down a suitcase from the top shelf in the closet, put it on her bed, and started dumping her clothes into it. Then she carried the suitcase into Jenna’s room and threw some of her stuff into it, too. It wasn’t a great packing job. She’d have to come back some time, when Jeremy wasn’t home. But she remembered the most important things for Jenna for the short run—diapers, wipes, and a dozen or so cotton onesies.

When she was done, she zippered the suitcase shut, carried it down to her pickup, and tossed it onto the front passenger seat. Then she unbuckled Jenna’s car seat from the backseat and carried it upstairs. As she lifted her out of her crib and placed her gently into it, Jenna stirred, but she didn’t wake up. Jax strapped her in and carried her downstairs. Jeremy was still sitting in the living room when she passed him on her way to the front door. He didn’t look up.

Tears momentarily blurred her eyes as she fastened Jenna’s car seat into the backseat. But she held them back as she drove the short distance to Pearl’s, parked on the street in front of the coffee shop, and, lugging Jenna’s car seat and her suitcase with her, rang the doorbell to Caroline’s apartment.

“Jax?” Caroline said in surprise when she opened the door. In one quick glance, she took it all in. The baby. The suitcase. And the shell-shocked expression on Jax’s face. “What is it, honey? What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” Jax whispered. “Everything’s wrong.”

“Oh, honey,” Caroline said, sadly, taking the suitcase from Jax and leading her inside. “Come on in. You can tell me all about it upstairs.”

And Jax did tell her all about it. From the beginning. And then she told her that the one thing she’d always been afraid would happen, had happened. She’d lost Jeremy. Probably forever.

CHAPTER 29

I
t’s showtime,” Walker murmured, as he looked through the glass door of the Pine Cone Gallery and scanned the room, impatiently, for Allie. She was there, in the back right corner, standing in front of a painting, deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman. A customer, obviously, Walker thought, and he felt a fleeting jealousy of this person for being able to command Allie’s undivided attention.

But when he pushed open the door and Allie heard the jangle of little bells attached to it, she glanced over at him. For a moment, anticipating another customer, the expression on her face was one of polite curiosity. But when she realized it was Walker, her pretty, smooth forehead creased in a frown, and she folded her arms grimly across her chest, angling her body away from the front of the gallery and Walker.

So she was just going to ignore him, Walker realized. Again. That was the pattern they’d fallen into since their talk in her kitchen that afternoon. She ignored him. And he let her ignore him.

Well, not today,
Walker vowed. Today that was going to change. Because he wasn’t here as a jilted boyfriend. He was here as a customer. And, if she was as professional as he suspected she was, she was going to have to acknowledge him. Even if it took her all day to do it.

Fifteen minutes later, he was beginning to think it
would
take her all day to do it. She was still standing with the same woman, still examining the same painting. Walker, pretending to study a ceramic vase nearby, was eavesdropping on them. The woman loved the watercolor they were looking at, or claimed to, anyway, but she was worried about whether or not it would match the new slipcover on her sofa.
Ridiculous,
Walker thought. Who bought art to match their couch? And how could Allie tolerate people like this all day, anyway? It was an affront to her dignity, he decided. And while
she
might have to put up with it,
he
didn’t have to.

So he wandered over to them, feigning casualness, until he was in front of the same painting as they were. It was a watercolor. A view of a lake’s shoreline. A lake that looked remarkably like Butternut Lake. Walker liked it. And at five hundred dollars, it seemed reasonably priced to him.

“Nice painting,” he said, edging closer. “Is that Butternut Lake?”

The woman with the new slipcover looked at him, a little nervously. She was obviously waiting for Allie to say something to him. But Allie pointedly ignored him.

He edged closer still. He was less than an arm’s-length distance, now, from both of them. The woman took a step back and looked at Allie. “Do you want to help this customer?” she asked, frowning.

Allie’s jaw clenched. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Mr. Ford can see I’m busy right now,” she said, to the customer, not to Walker. “He can come back another time.”

“Actually, he can’t,” Walker said, stubbornly. “He needs to talk to you now.”

“But I’m busy now,” Allie said, still pretending to study the painting. “I would think even Mr. Ford could see that.”

“I can see that,” Walker said. “But I’m not leaving until you talk to me. Or at least agree to a time and a place to talk to me.”

The customer, surprised, took another step back. She looked from Walker to Allie, waiting to see what would happen next.

Allie finally looked at Walker. “You have one minute,” she said, in a clipped tone. She gestured for him to follow her to another corner of the gallery.

“
What are you doing here?
” she hissed at him, when they got there.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked, leveling his gaze at her. “I’m here to see you.”

“But this isn’t the time,” she said, coloring. “Or the place. I’m working.” Walker tried to focus on her words, but he felt an unaccountable confusion descending over him. It was strange how she had that effect on him. No one else ever had.

Still, it was understandable. Today, for example, she looked particularly fetching. She was dressed in a tailored blouse, a pencil skirt, and low-heeled pumps, and her hair was pulled back and knotted loosely at the back of her neck. A pair of earrings dangled from her earlobes, and the faintest hint of perfume—jasmine?—clung to the air around her.

He’d never seen this side of her before. The working side. He wondered, briefly, if he found it more appealing than the side of her he already knew. The tank top, denim shorts, flip-flop side of her. But he decided he didn’t. When it came to Allie, both sides of her were equally lovely. And equally irresistible.

“Walker?” she said now, her impatience growing. “I
said
I’m working.”

“Look, I know that,” he said, trying to focus. “And I tried to wait, but that woman is never going to make up her mind. I mean, it’s a five-hundred-dollar painting. Why is she treating it like the most important decision she’s ever made?”

Judging from the expression on Allie’s face, though, he’d said the wrong thing. “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money,” she snapped. “For
some
people, anyway.”

“Okay, you’re right. I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t. I just can’t help but feel that that woman is wasting your time.”

“As opposed to you, for instance?” Allie asked, raising her eyebrows.

Ouch,
Walker thought. But he refused to be discouraged. “Look, I’ll leave now, if you agree to meet me later.”

“And if I don’t?” Allie asked.

Walker hadn’t considered this possibility. “Well, then, I’m staying,” he said simply.

“You can’t be serious?”

“What choice do I have, Allie? When I call you, it goes to voice mail. And when I see you, in public, you practically break your neck trying to get away from me.” She didn’t disagree.

“Look, just give me fifteen minutes. That’s all I’ll ask for. If you’ll just hear me out, I promise you’ll never have to speak to me again. Unless, of course, you want to.” He gave her what he hoped was his most winning smile. But she didn’t smile back. Then again, she didn’t say no, either.

“Fine,” she said, after thinking it over. “I’ll talk to you as soon as that woman leaves. And you’ll have exactly fifteen minutes.”

But before he could answer her, he realized the woman who’d been looking at the painting was heading for the front door. Allie noticed it, too.

“I’m sorry,” Allie said, leaving Walker and approaching her. “I needed to speak to Mr. Ford. Do you have any more questions about the painting?”

The woman shook her head. “I don’t think I’m ready to commit to it yet,” she said, a little reproachfully. She didn’t like the fact that Allie had abandoned her, Walker saw. “Maybe I’ll come back the next time I’m in Butternut.”

“We’d love to see you then,” Allie said, smoothly. “In the meantime, would you like me to get you some information on the artist?”

“Sure,” the woman said, pausing at the front door. She glanced warily at Walker. It didn’t take a genius to see she’d heard at least part of his heated conversation with Allie.

While Allie was retrieving the artist’s bio from behind the gallery’s counter, Walker had an epiphany. He whipped out his wallet.

“Ms . . . um, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” he said, approaching the woman.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” she said, frowning.

“Oh, that’s right,” Walker said, flashing a smile at her. “We weren’t introduced, were we?”

“No,” she said. She was a little standoffish. But she was also a little intrigued. “My name is Anne Sanford.”

“Well, Anne Sanford,” Walker said, sliding his credit card out of his wallet. “This is your lucky day. Because I’m going to buy that painting. But not for me. I’m going to buy it for you.”

“Why . . . why would you do that?” she stammered.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Walker asked, smiling at her again and hoping that he still had a little of his old charm left. Apparently, he did, because she blushed and smiled, a little uncertainly, back at him.

Allie walked over to them now, simultaneously handing Anne Sanford a glossy brochure and glaring at Walker. “Mr. Ford,” she said, coolly, “it’s a nice gesture, really. But it’s not necessary. If Ms. Sanford decides she’d like the painting, she can always come back and buy it for herself.”

“But Ms. Sanford won’t have to do that,” Walker said breezily, pressing his credit card into Allie’s hand. “Because Ms. Sanford—Anne—is leaving with the painting today. Isn’t that right, Anne?” he asked, smiling at her again.

“I . . . I guess so,” she said, smiling at Walker. Her reserve had completely melted. She looked like a schoolgirl who’d just been asked to a dance.

“Well, you heard her,” Walker said to Allie, with a wink.

She gave him a withering look and went to ring up the painting.