The Husband She Can't Forget. Patricia Forsythe

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      Luke glanced around, seeming to notice the gardens for the first time, along with the loaded bed of the pickup. His attention lingered on the greenhouses, then on the rows of carrots and beets in the small field. “This is beautiful, Carly. Prosperous. Do you have any help?”

      “Some. Mostly high school kids who may or may not be dependable. If I need to, I can manage on my own.”

      Eager to be finished with this awkward encounter, she reached out, ready to pull the trunk toward her, but Luke put a restraining hand on her arm. She jerked away then blushed when she caught the dismay in his face.

      “Sorry,” he said. “But it’s heavy, so I’d better get it. Omi left a bunch of things in there for you. I didn’t look at the contents, thought it was none of my business.”

      “I can do it.” Carly flexed her biceps. “I do manual labor all day long. I can help you with this trunk.”

      Luke looked at her arm then at her determined face. “Yes, I guess you can. Do you have a hand truck? That would make it easier for both of us.”

      “Sure. Be right back.” She took a few steps and then turned. “Don’t do it yourself. Wait for me.”

      Once inside the equipment shed, Carly glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was doing as she said, then grasped the handle of the hand truck, tilted it back on its wheels and rolled it out of the shed, her movements automatic.

      She wished Luke had called first so she would have had time to prepare herself, to be the in-charge woman she had worked so hard to become for more than a decade. He didn’t have her phone number, but he could have asked Tom or Frances for it. His uncle and aunt knew everyone in the county. In fact, they were hosting the Memorial Day barbecue.

      She paused, glancing at Luke. Of course. That’s why he was here. He was going to the barbecue, although he’d never attended before. Well, at least she knew. It wouldn’t be another surprise. She only wished there wouldn’t be so many people there who knew about their past—they’d be watching to see how she and Luke reacted to each other. Her two best friends, Gemma Whitmire and Lisa Thomas, would be at the barbecue, as well. They would help her avoid him if necessary.

      “Here we go,” she said, all business as she wheeled the hand truck to the back of his pickup. “I want to put the trunk in the house.”

      Luke jumped into the truck bed and pushed the trunk while Carly pulled. When it was far enough to tilt over the tailgate, he leaped down and helped her lower it to the ground, then onto the hand truck. Together, they rolled it to the house, lifted it up the three shallow steps to the front porch and then through the door into the living room.

      Carly moved the coffee table away from the sofa and said, “Here is where I want it.”

      They moved it into place then stood together, catching their breath.

      “I had a couple of guys help me get it into my truck, but we probably should have unpacked it before we moved it.” Luke flexed his shoulders. “I don’t know what Omi put in there, but it feels like gold bricks.”

      “Whatever it is, I’ll treasure it.”

      He glanced around the living room, his gaze skimming over the 1940s-style sofa and chair she had reupholstered, the tables and bookcases she had refinished, and the paintings she had unearthed at estate sales and junk shops. She’d painted some of the pictures, too—abstract designs where she’d been playing with color, trying to recreate the feel of a sunset or the exact shade of a field of bluebonnets.

      “Yes,” he finally said. “I can see that you will. This is very different than what your parents had in here. How are they, by the way?”

      “They’re doing well now, but slowing down. They took everything with them when my dad got sick and they moved to Tulsa, so I’ve made the house my own.”

      “It reminds me of you.” The corner of his mouth edged up. “It’s cozy. What you always wanted.”

      And nothing at all like the mansion where he’d been raised in an upscale section of Dallas, and probably nothing like whatever penthouse apartment he now inhabited.

      She folded her hands at her waist. “It’s the home I wanted to create for myself.” Silently she added, for us, but those were words she would never speak out loud.

      “The place looks great, Carly.” Luke started for the door. “You’ve achieved what your parents tried to do with their organic garden. You’ve worked hard.”

      “Thank you.” From nowhere a blast of regret and nostalgia swept over her. “I needed to keep busy after we...”

      “Yes, of course.” Luke opened the door and stepped out. He held it open so she could follow him if she wanted to, but she didn’t.

      Her only desire was to go huddle in her chair, to settle into calmness. She couldn’t do that, though. She had an order to deliver and a party to attend. She’d been looking forward to that, but now even the thought of the get-together filled her with dread.

      “Thank you for delivering the trunk, Luke. I’ll take good care of it, and of whatever Wendolin left inside.”

      “I know you will.” He descended the steps then turned back. “Organic gardening? Is that very labor intensive?”

      “Of course, but it’s worth it because I can honestly say the produce is as fresh, good, and clean as I can make it.”

      He nodded, as he looked out at her fields again. “I see.” He paused again, before he said, “Maybe I’ll see you later.” With a wave, he strode to his truck, climbed in and drove away.

      Grateful the awkward encounter was finished, Carly leaned against the door frame and watched the Oklahoma red dust rise behind his tires then dissipate into the breeze.

      Tears sprang into her eyes and she blinked hard to fight them back. Turning, she looked at her legacy from Luke’s German-born grandmother, the one who had taught her the importance of cherishing her family, the one who had comforted her when the family she and Luke had tried to create had disappeared in a miscarriage and the cold, silent recriminations that ended their brief marriage.

      It all seemed so long ago, and she wouldn’t have thought it could still hurt so much. She thought she’d dealt with it, put it behind her, forgiven herself. And him. But maybe facing hurtful memories and being able to forgive were skills that needed to be practiced.

      Sitting on the sofa, she ran her fingers over the design of flowers and birds carved into the top of the trunk. This wasn’t a piece she would refinish. That would be a travesty. It had come to America with the Bayer family when they fled Nazi Germany eighty years ago, but she didn’t know how old it was. The faded paint held only a hint of the beautiful colors that had once decorated the piece and the nicks and scratches spoke of years of everyday use. This had been treasured by Wendolin and her family, and Carly would continue that tradition.

      She was tempted to lift the lid to see what was inside, to examine the precious items that had made it so heavy, but a glance at the clock reminded her she should have left ten minutes ago.

      She patted the trunk lid. “I’ll be back,” she promised.

      Hurrying to her СКАЧАТЬ