Anne Winston - Heart of a Hero

Never to her.

True, Wade seemed content now. But was it the familiarity of their friendship? His new fatherhood? Guilt at leaving her pregnant and alone? She feared it might be all three.

But he’s with me now. He couldn’t make love to me like that if he didn’t care for me at least a little. Could he? Stop being a pessimist.

The school day dragged. She wondered how Wade’s interview went. She checked her mobile phone for messages several times during the day, but he hadn’t called. Although she hadn’t expected him to, she worried that things hadn’t gone well.

He probably wouldn’t call her if the interview had not been successful. For all the years that she’d known him, Wade had been an intensely private man about his deepest feelings; she suspected that if he didn’t want to talk, prying any information out of him would be next to impossible.

It wasn’t until she saw the familiar outline of her little home that her spirits rose. Bridget was in there, with Angie. The sight of her daughter, the feel of that little body snuggled into her arms, was always balm to her sad moments.

Angie was sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching an afternoon soap opera, when Phoebe came through the door. “She was great today,” Angie informed her. “I laid her down for her afternoon nap about two so she shouldn’t get up again until at least four. I put the paper and the mail on the table.”

“Thank you so much,” Phoebe said. “I really appreciate you coming on short notice.”

“Not a problem.” Angie gathered her things. “Wish me luck on my psych test.”

“Luck.” Phoebe winked and smiled at her as Angie left. She set down her bag of paperwork from the day and slipped out of her shoes, then headed for the kitchen to get a drink.

As she sipped her tea, she glanced through the mail Angie had laid on the kitchen table. She set aside two bills and the grocery store flyer that had coupons in it, tossed three offers for credit cards in the trash, and laid out two envelopes of what looked like personal missives for immediate attention.

The first was a thank-you from a fellow teacher for whom she and her coworkers had thrown a bridal shower. The second bore an unfamiliar return address in California. Curious now, she slit the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper.

Dear Mr. Merriman,

Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) thanks you for your generous donation in memory of your loved one, Melanie Merriman. May we express our deepest condolences on your loss. Melanie sounds as if she was indeed a special young woman.

With your donation…

Bewildered, Phoebe picked up the envelope and looked more closely at the address. The sender had gotten Wade’s name wrong on the envelope: it read Wade Merriman and she hadn’t even noticed that it wasn’t for her. Additionally, a change of address label had been slapped over the original and she realized it had been forwarded from his father’s home in California.

She reread the letter—and suddenly it began to make sense, horrible sense, and the small, fragile bubble of hope she’d allowed herself to feel burst.

Wade had made a donation in Melanie’s memory— in his loved one’s memory —to a charitable organization known nationally for its education programs targeting drinking and driving. His loved one. Phoebe registered the hit to her heart as desolation spread through her and tears stung her eyes.

It wasn’t that she begrudged the money, or the thought. A part of her treasured the realization that her sister’s name had been so honored. But now there was no way she could pretend that their marriage would be anything more than a convenience.

Now she knew for sure that there was no way Wade was ever going to love her because he was still in love with her sister. She sank down in a chair at the table and reread the letter twice more. Then she realized that if the letter hadn’t been forwarded, she never would have known about the donation.

A sob escaped without warning. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but the truth confronting her wouldn’t be denied and her efforts to resist the tears were futile. She had known Wade didn’t love her. She shouldn’t be so upset by this.

But she was. Not just upset, but devastated.

How could she marry him? Her heart wasn’t going to be able to take that kind of beating day after day. She’d been kidding herself, believing that she could love him enough to make a marriage work. Even for the sake of her sweet baby girl sleeping upstairs, she couldn’t do it.

At that thought, another sob welled up and tears began to stream down her face. Giving in to her misery, she laid her head down on her arms and cried.

Wade let himself into the house, wondering where Phoebe was. The baby monitor on the end table was silent, so she wasn’t in Bridget’s room. Could she be napping? Doubtful. He had yet to see her sleep during the day. Maybe she had taken Bridget out in the yard.

He crossed the living room and headed into the kitchen—and stopped short as he caught sight of her. She was slumped in a chair with her arms on the table, her head buried. Fear gripped him. “Phoebe! Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” He rushed forward. Was she ill? Dear God, had something happened to Bridget? Panic nearly stopped his heart. “God, what’s wrong? Is it Bridget?”

He knelt beside her chair and put an arm around her shoulders to hug her to him—and she exploded out of the chair halfway across the kitchen.

“Don’t,” she said between sobs. “Just—don’t.” She fumbled in a drawer for a tissue then turned away, her shoulders shaking with misery. “Bridget’s fine.”

A huge wave of relief swamped him momentarily, only to rush back as he realized she hadn’t told him anything about herself. “Then what is it? Are you…” He could barely bear to utter the word. “Sick?”

She whipped back around at that, immediately grasping what he was asking. Her mother had gotten sick and died; so had his. “Oh, no, Wade. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Except that there was. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her nose pink. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose while he stood. “Then…what?” he finally managed to ask.

She tried to smile, but her lips trembled and she quickly abandoned the effort. “I can’t marry you.”

What? “Why?” It was the most obvious question and he was too confused to think of a better one.

She sighed. “I just can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Fair to whom? “What the hell are you talking about?” Heat rose. He knew his tone was too rough, too angry, but—”Dammit, you scared me half to death! I thought something happened to Bridget or you. And now you tell me you won’t marry me but you won’t tell me why?”

A brittle silence followed the furious torrent of words, but she didn’t speak, merely stood there with her eyes averted. And in her stance he read determination. He knew Phoebe and he knew that posture.

But what—? It hit him then. Stunned, he sank into the chair she’d bolted from. “It’s because of Melanie, isn’t it?”

She sucked in a sharp breath and nodded, and he saw a tear trickle down her cheek.

“Lord God above,” he said quietly. Silence reigned again as he absorbed the information. He’d wondered—no, he’d feared—for more than a year, that she blamed him for Melanie’s death. It had kept him from contacting her after the first time they’d made love, and it had cost him the first months of his child’s life.

When he’d finally decided to try to talk to her about it, she had been gone. And after he’d found her, after he’d learned about Bridget, his guilt had taken a backseat while he had adjusted to fatherhood and pretended that everything was fine and that Phoebe would love him and that they’d spend the rest of their lives together.