Patricia Forsythe - The Husband She Can't Forget

“Hello, Carly,” he said, shutting the pickup’s door behind him and walking over to stand in front of her.

His voice was deeper, she thought, but maybe that was because she hadn’t heard it in so many years. For some crazy reason, her pounding heart had bounced into her throat.

“Hello, Lu-Luke,” she stammered, pausing and trying to get a grip on her emotions. This was the first time she’d spoken to him in twelve years. “This is a surprise.”

“I should have called, but it seemed easier to drop by.” He nodded toward his truck. “I’ve got something for you. I thought if you weren’t here, I could leave it on the porch with a note.”

“Something for me?” She lifted her hands, palm out, as she shook her head. “After all these years, Luke, I can’t imagine...”

“It’s from Wendolin.”

“Your grandmother? But she’s—”

“She left you this in her will. Left it to both of us, actually, but it’s not something I’d be interested in, so it’s all yours.”

“What is it?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.” He walked to the back of the pickup, opened the tailgate and untied the ropes firmly holding a tarp in place around a big, rectangular object.

Although her knees felt a little shaky, Carly followed him. When he flipped the tarp to one side, she gasped.

“Wendolin’s hope chest,” she breathed, tears filling her eyes. Reaching out a shaky hand, she ran her fingers over the ornately carved flat top of the trunk. “This is the one that was in her bedroom, isn’t it? At the foot of her bed.”

“Yes.” Luke’s throat worked and he cleared it before he went on. “She designated years ago that you were to have it. She said you would appreciate it more than anyone else because you love things with a history.”

“That’s true. I...I do appreciate it. And she left this to me? I never expected her to do such a thing.”

“She always loved you. Your visits to her these past few years meant a lot.”

“They meant a lot to me, too, but certainly didn’t mean she had to leave me a family heirloom.” Tears stung her eyes and Carly blinked them back.

“It did to her...and to me.”

Carly couldn’t form an answer around the knot of sorrow, longing and regret that clogged her throat. Wendolin Bayer had been a wonderful, loving woman, a steadfast friend when Carly had needed one the most.

“My dad...”

“What about him?” Carly choked out. Turning away, she used the sleeve of her T-shirt to dab at her eyes. Robert Sanderson was the last person in the world she wanted to talk about, or even think about, right now.

“He said he saw you at Omi’s funeral,” he said.

“Along with about six hundred other people. Between her church work and her community work, many people loved her. It was the most crowded funeral I’ve ever seen.” Carly faced him again, her eyes still bright with tears.

“I didn’t see you.”

“Were you looking for me?” She didn’t know what point he was trying to make, and maybe he didn’t, either. She had seen him at the funeral, from a distance, but had avoided him. She couldn’t face talking to him, and she definitely hadn’t wanted to talk to his father. She had made it a point to slip in as the service started and sit in the back, one of the few seats left, and grieve on her own.

When Luke didn’t respond, she went on. “I only stayed for the service then I came home. I had produce to pick and deliver.”

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.