"You know what"s even more scary?" she asked. "It"s that I almost lost you, Cody. But I think we"re going to be okay." She realized that she"d almost lost Sam because she hadn"t trusted herself with him. What she should have done was fling herself into the relationship the way she had flung herself into painting. Because it wasn"t just the painting that came back to her after its long sleep in the frozen tundra, but life. And Sam had awakened her to that.
She thought about the transplant. Fear and love were sometimes the same thing, both necessary, unavoidable. Now she understood that it was okay to bleed if you know how to heal.
"So we"ll call Sam, right?" Cody said. "He"ll give me another chance, won"t he?"
She put her hands on his shoulders. Lord, but it felt good to hold him again. She had never felt closer to her son. At sixteen, Cody was learning what she wished she had known long ago-that you have to love even though it hurts, even though there are no guarantees. You have to spend it all even though you never know what you"ll get in return.
"Oh, Cody." She wanted to rea.s.sure him that of course Sam would forgive him. But how did she know that? She"d had sixteen years to love and understand Cody, to learn who he was. Without all that groundwork, Sam"s forgiveness would have to be a leap of faith.
Chapter 52.
It snowed later that day. An oppressive quiet shrouded the land, and flying snowflakes pocked the colorless sky. Mich.e.l.le rode beside Cody in the Range Rover with headlights shining in the bleak day. The heartbeat rhythm of the windshield wipers, batting at the snow, punctuated the silence.
This was nuts, she thought. This was asking for heartache. When Cody had phoned Lonepine, he"d spoken to Edward Bliss, and the news was not good. Sam had taken his mother to detox, then brought her back to the house for a day or two while she found her footing. No, Edward wasn"t any too sure they wanted company. And yet here she was, driving her son over to Lonepine, just as they had that first day-Lord, was it only three weeks ago?-before Sam and Cody had any idea they were father and son.
Why did she ever think this was a good idea? Barging back into Sam"s life, hoping and praying he would let her back in.
Self-doubt and sheer terror pounded in her gut. In the past, the fear would have stopped her from taking this step. She would have chosen emptiness over pain and joy. Now she knew better. For a short and glorious time she had found the essence of all she desired in the arms of Sam McPhee. It was something she wouldn"t get another chance at, something most people didn"t even experience in a lifetime.
Parking at Lonepine, she stared out the window at the white-quilted landscape that was starving for spring to come again. Tammi Lee stood out on the porch wearing a big jacket with the collar up and smoking a cigarette.
"You want me to come with you?" Mich.e.l.le asked Cody.
"Nope. I"m on my own."
He got out of the car and walked toward the house. She realized he didn"t need her to prop him up as she had so often in the past, even when it would have been better to leave him be.
Tammi Lee tossed out her cigarette and sat very still, waiting for Cody to come to her. She felt drained, wrung out, as if she had just run a marathon. She hated having her grandson see her like this, but this was who she was-someone who had flown high and crashed-landed more times than she could count. She hovered in a low gully, wondering if she"d rise or fall this time.
"Can I talk to you?" Cody asked. His face looked pale and tight, hands jammed hard into his pockets.
"Sure," she said, her breath freezing in the air. She could listen. Yeah, she could do that.
"It"s about... what happened with the shop and stuff." He stepped up onto the porch. "That night I borrowed your car, something happened."
Tammi Lee"s head began to buzz, craving her meds. She focused sharply on the nervous young boy. He was so good-looking. And right now, he looked as wrung out as she felt.
"It"s my fault the money in the cash register went missing," he blurted out. "I didn"t know-I-it"s my fault."
Tammi Lee sat very still. She was so used to getting kicked in the teeth that she braced herself.
"The cash disappeared when I went into the shop after hours," he said. "It"s all my fault."
"Did you take the money?" she asked quietly.
His hands dug even deeper into his pockets. "That doesn"t matter. I was responsible. And I blew it. I went to see Mrs. Jacobs today, and I explained it all to her, paid her what was missing. She feels real bad, and she"s going to ask you to come back to work. That is, if you want to." He scuffed his foot at a frozen lump of snow on the edge of the porch. "I"m real sorry," he added. "I"ll do whatever I have to do to make it right. I just-I"d like to have a second chance."
Tammi Lee felt herself rising a little, hovering above the abyss. Her head pounded, but the pain meant nothing. This was it, she realized. She could forgive this boy and go on from here, or she could let anger and resentment drag her down.
When she looked into his eyes, she saw Sam"s eyes. Sam, who"d given her more second chances than anyone had a right to expect. Sam, who deserved a chance of his own. There was really no choice to be made. She stood up and opened her arms. A tentative smile started in Cody"s eyes as he hugged her. Over his shoulder she saw Mich.e.l.le Turner standing by her car, watching them, one hand pressed to her mouth.
"I think we"re going to be all right," Tammi Lee whispered, and she started to soar, lifted by hope. "I think we"re going to be just fine."
Sam came out of the main barn and started walking toward Mich.e.l.le. Her knees felt liquid, threatening to buckle. She was aware of the bruising cold, the snow coming over the tops of her boots, her incision aching.
She used to think healing meant st.i.tching up, scarring over, turning a mess to neatness. Now she understood that she had to let things melt down, unravel, and then come back together in the way they were meant to be.
She had to quit looking for a reason that things happened. This was life, it was messy, and now she knew better than to expect a guarantee. Her heart pounded, she had never felt more alive. She had no idea what the expression on her face was, but she didn"t care. When she looked up at Sam, she saw everything she wanted her future to be.
And no matter what that was, it was bigger and brighter than her dreams had ever been.
Hope and fear were locked, unspoken, in her throat. She and Sam walked to the edge of the snow-covered driveway and stood beneath the twisted skeleton of a crabapple tree.
"Cody blames himself for everything that happened," she said at last. "He wants to make things right with you and your mother."
He looked over at the house, where Cody and Tammi Lee stood very close, talking. "I guess I"m glad to see that."
"Can he?" she forced herself to ask. "Can he make things right? Can we?" She twisted her gloved fingers into knots.
"I"ve been asking myself the same thing."
"Last night, we were both still hiding things. You didn"t tell me about your mother, and-" she swallowed hard "-I didn"t explain to you that Cody had run away." She forced herself to meet his disbelieving gaze. "He took the bus to Seattle. I wanted to tell you, Sam, but I didn"t know how. My father brought him back this morning."
"I guess I"ll just let Cody do the explaining, then." Sam held her gaze for an endless moment. "We"ll give it our best shot, honey. Okay?"
She managed to choke out his name, and the dam inside her broke like the thawing mountain streams. The sobs of relief came from the deepest part of her, a part she couldn"t discipline or control. Sam was a wall of warmth, silent and steady as he absorbed the brunt of her tears. She found a sanctuary, not a threat, in loving him.
"I was so afraid." Her hands clutched at his jacket. "I was so afraid you"d decided Cody and I were too much for you."
His arms slid around her. "Ah, Mich.e.l.le. Everything"s not going to be perfect all the time. But we can survive the mistakes. You know that. You know."
"Sometimes I think I"m just not good enough at this," she whispered.
He held her away from him, and dear G.o.d, he had the most magnificent face, so full of hardness and soul, weathered by life"s joys and sorrows. Snowflakes landed and disappeared on his cheeks, his shoulders. "We"ll work it out. You and me and our son."
"Our son. It sounds just right." There was a catch in her throat, and she swallowed hard. "I love you, Sam." It was time to say it, long past time. It was so easy. It had turned from impossible to effortless. "I always have, and I always will."
He pulled her against him, pressed his lips to her hair. In that moment, the last of her doubts slid away, and Sam said, "I know, honey. I know."
"You do?"
"Oh yeah."
Mich.e.l.le closed her eyes as joy settled over them, as silently powerful as new-fallen snow. And like the snow over a stubbled field, it covered everything else-all the flaws and ruts and bruises of the past-with its perfection and purity.
A Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, Packed in the box with the original ma.n.u.script were the following pages-apparently written in Mich.e.l.le"s own hand and taken from her personal journal. We knew these pages were wonderful, yet so intimate we weren"t sure just what to do with them. Well, after discussing it with Susan Wiggs we decided to include the journal pages here, exclusively in the eBook edition. In these pages Mich.e.l.le has returned home for the first time and is flooded with memories of her first meeting with Sam. They are private and beautiful but now that you"ve read their story we think you will especially appreciate hearing this particular moment in Mich.e.l.le"s own words... .
Floodlights cast a bluish glow over the parking lot and fairgrounds, desolate in a cloak of winter white. Street lamps line the river road as it curves around Spring Side Mountain. I can"t see its jagged hulk in the dark, but I know the legendary peak is there; I feel its presence. Once, long ago, I even climbed to the top of it.
There, at the bottom of a slope below the arena is a place I know too well. Stupid, I tell myself as I head toward it. It"s incredibly stupid to come here. Salt in a wound. Yet I"m drawn inexorably to the river, unable to resist.
There is no cold quite so piercing as the cold of a Montana winter night, yet I keep walking, the way illuminated by the street lamps. The new snow is powdery and light beneath my boots. The Swan River is almost frozen over. Only a trickle down the middle remains, though in spring it will surely transform itself into a roaring gush of white water.
Sam and I used to walk along the bank, delirious with the wonder of first love. Each sunset burned brighter, more beautiful than the last. Each moonrise glowed with a promise we were certain was meant for us, only for us. We were so naively young back then. We thought we were invincible. We thought our love was like the river, ever flowing, never ceasing; nothing and no one could stop it-not even rock itself. I used to tell him my wildest dreams, and he would confess his deepest secrets. We were so open with each other, so trusting. I"ve never been like that with any other person, not even Brad.
I keep trying not to look to the right, because I don"t want to see the most shattering reminder of all. But I do look, of course; how can I not? The boathouse where Sam and I used to make love on summer nights, where I found magic and dreamy fulfillment in his arms. Where I thought I"d stay all the rest of my life.
Like a sleepwalker I amble toward the snow-covered structure. Just go and face it, I tell myself. If you can survive that, you can survive anything.
The place is dilapidated, sagging down to the water, the bench outside dusted with snow. I stand looking at it for a long time, waiting for the world to crumble or come apart at the seams.
When it doesn"t, I feel absurdly pleased with myself. There. I stepped close to the inferno of memory, and I haven"t been burned.
But as I turn away from the boathouse, just when I"m congratulating myself for putting the past behind me, I spy the rowboat under the eaves. It"s the same one. I can tell because I"m the one who whimsically painted bared shark"s teeth across the bow.
I feel myself being sucked back into the past, to a time I don"t want to remember. I try to resist, but it"s too late. I stop walking, and stand still, my breath freezing in the night air, my heart compelled to listen to the voices pounding in my head.
I had been busy painting the first time I met Sam.
"Nice teeth," said a voice behind me. "But I have to ask why."
I froze, paintbrush in hand, at the sound of the voice. It was nice, a baritone, but youthful too.
"Why what?" I asked, turning. And it was him, just as I"d suspected-hoped, prayed-it would be. The boy from my father"s ranch. I"d spotted him the very first day I arrived. My first glimpse of him had been from a distance.
He"d been working with a mare on a lunge rope. I"d sat on the porch and watched. He wore boots and blue jeans, a plaid shirt and battered cap with the Big Sky feed company logo on it. He was tall and rangey like Gavin"s favorite trail horse. I knew, to the very depths of my eighteen-year-old soul, that no one in the entire universe had ever looked so good in a pair of Levi"s.
Up close, I noticed that he had sandy brown hair, a lean, suntanned face and eyes the color of my birthstone.
"Why are you painting teeth on the boat?"
I shrugged. "Just felt like it, I guess. I like to paint." I straightened, suddenly self-conscious in my cutoffs and cropped T-shirt. "I"m Mich.e.l.le."
"I know. I"ve seen you around with your sketch book."
He"d noticed. Hallelujah, he"d noticed.
Montana had seemed so huge and limitless that I got into the habit of drawing constantly just to try to make some sort of sense of the place, to feel a measure of control over something so vast and wild it was overwhelming. I drew everything-the placid bovine face of a cow. The line of trees along the creek with the stars coming out behind them. The silhouette of a mare and her foal on the slope behind the paddock. A common loon nesting in a marsh.
"I never go anywhere without my sketchbook," I said.
He grinned, and my heart began to melt. If I looked down, I"d see it in a puddle at my feet.
"I"m Sam. Sam McPhee. I work for your dad."
"I know." I grinned back, hoping my neck didn"t go all splotchy the way it usually did when I blushed.
"So you"re an artist?" he asked. Not with the hefty skepticism a lot of people had when I told them my ambition, but with genuine interest.
"I want to be." I gestured at the boat. "This is just for fun. I want to paint for real."
"You mean like on an easel with brushes and a palette and a beret and stuff?"
I laughed. "Exactly. Well, maybe not the beret."
"So do it."
"Do what?"
"Paint for real. Don"t just say you"re going to. You can"t be an artist if you don"t paint, right?"
"Guess not."
He flipped through my book, admiring the dozens of swift sketches I"d made of the horses. "These are good," he said. "Do you ride?"
"Not as well as I"d like to."
"Maybe I could take you riding sometime, up the river trail."
"I"d love that. It"s the best offer I"ve had all summer."
"There"s a lot more where that came from," he promised.
I dropped my brush. Klutz, I thought. Both Sam and I reached for it, our hands touching.
He gave an easy laugh, keeping my hand in his.
The sound of Sam McPhee, laughing. The feel of his hands, touching me. These were the first things about him that I had loved. In the years that ensued, they were things I remembered more vividly and more frequently than I wanted to.
But it"s winter now, as the blade-like wind off the river reminds me. Turning away, I trudge up the hill and return to the arena.
Reading Group Guide.