Hearts Divided Read online

“That’s not your style, Clara, not when the happiness of your family’s involved. Especially Elizabeth.”

  “But I’ve made her unhappy. I wish you’d come to the party at the Orchard Inn.”

  “I was behind on the remodel for Pete and Celia.”

  “Ha!”

  “Ha?”

  “You were afraid I’d have a glass of champagne or two, and start reminiscing about Elizabeth’s Christmastime adventure and say this is the boy who saved her. This is Elizabeth’s hero.”

  Clara had made the pronouncement with fondness twenty-seven years ago. There was more fondness now.

  “I was behind on the remodel,” Nick repeated, smiling. “I’m not afraid of your introducing me as that boy. I just don’t want you to.”

  “I know, Nick. And I won’t. I do wish you’d been at the party, though.”

  “I don’t know Elizabeth, Clara. There’s no way I would’ve been able to tell if she and Matthew were right for each other.”

  “You’d have been able to tell. You’d have been able to see…” Clara sighed again.

  “See what?”

  “That Matthew’s not in love with my granddaughter. There,” she continued without a pause. “I’ve said what I could never say to Elizabeth. But it’s what I believe, Nick. And it scares me for her.”

  Nick hadn’t had a chance to reflect upon, much less dispute, Clara’s assertion that he’d be able to see—or even sense—the presence or absence of love. But he heard himself say something astonishing. “It scares me for her, too.”

  Four

  In what should have been the final hour of Elizabeth’s seven-and-a-half-hour journey to Sarah’s Orchard, the drive became treacherous. The two-lane road from Medford was somewhat perilous in broad daylight when the pavement was dry. But in darkness, when rain fell…

  Eight hours and forty-five minutes after she’d pulled away from the curb in San Francisco, Elizabeth reached the crest of a driveway down which—or so she’d been told—she’d scampered on a long-ago winter night.

  It was almost ten. Would Gram be awake?

  The glowing house lights told her yes.

  The lights were blurry. The rain was drenching. The downpour was not, however, the only reason for the watery blur.

  Since her glimpse into Matthew’s bedroom, Elizabeth had kept her emotions as tightly sequestered as a deliberating jury in a high-profile trial. But as she neared the safe haven of her grandmother’s home, those emotions escaped in a flood of tears.

  “Now who could that be?” Clara wondered when the doorbell rang.

  “No one you want to see,” Nick replied. “Not at this hour.”

  Nick had personally installed the farmhouse’s burglar alarm. It was state-of-the-art—every window, all the doors, panic buttons at various locations throughout the home. He had an uneasy feeling that Clara hadn’t turned it on since Charles’s death.

  Now, at 10:00 p.m., she had no qualms about opening the door to whoever happened by on what had become a soggy night.

  “You’ve come over this late.”

  “Not without a warning call.”

  “This is Sarah’s Orchard, Nick.” She stood up from the kitchen table and gave Nick, who was washing dishes, a gentle pat. “I’ll scream if it’s anyone sinister.”

  Nick wiped his soapy hands and followed. He stopped short of the door and off to the side, invisible to the visitor, but a step away from intervening if Clara needed him.

  “Elizabeth!”

  “Hi, Gram.”

  “Come in, darling girl.” The hand that had patted Nick’s arm went to her granddaughter’s cheek. “Tears.”

  “And rain.” Elizabeth lifted the rain-spattered box she’d taken from the trunk before dashing to the covered porch. “Lots of rain. Not that it matters if these get soaked.”

  “What are they?” Clara asked as Elizabeth walked inside.

  “My wedding invitations. I thought we could build a fire with them.”

  “The design didn’t work out as well as you’d hoped?”

  “The design’s fine. It’s the wedding that’s not so good.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth.”

  “How did you know, Gram? About Matthew?”

  “What happened?”

  “He was supposed to be in New York, on the business trip he told you about last weekend. I went to his house, to leave one of the invitations for him. He wasn’t in New York. And he wasn’t alone. He was with the woman he’d been involved with before he and I got together.”

  “Is he still alive?” Nick stepped into her line of sight as he spoke.

  “Oh!” You. Whoever you are.

  She’d seen him twice, briefly—but memorably. The first time had been eighteen months ago, in the neurology ward at the Keeling Clinic, the day Granddad was admitted with his stroke. He’d been standing at the periphery of the crowded waiting room of friends who’d remained at the medical center until Clara’s family arrived. He’d disappeared shortly thereafter. But in the few moments before he’d vanished, and even though her focus had been on rushing to Gram’s side, she’d been acutely aware of him.

  It felt as if he, too, was at Clara’s side. Despite how far away he stood. At Gram’s side, protecting her—and Granddad. Guarding them with his life.

  The second time she’d seen him had been seven months ago, in late November, at Granddad’s funeral. He’d stood a distance away then, as well.

  Now he was here. Whoever he was. And he was asking if Matthew Blaine had survived his faithlessness.

  “I’m Nicholas Lawton.”

  This—he—was Nicholas Lawton? Elizabeth knew of him, of course. Three years ago, he’d been the talk, and worry, of the MacKenzie clan. Granddad had been wanting to remodel Gram’s kitchen. Her “small” business, The Apple Butter Ladies, was becoming a force to be reckoned with.

  Clara and her friend and business partner, Eve, needed more space not only for the batches of apple butter the marketplace was beginning to demand, but for the support staff that processed orders, packaged the jars, unloaded the crates of apples delivered from nearby orchards, and shipped off the cartons of apple butter.

  Granddad knew what the new kitchen needed to be. His years as owner and manager of MacKenzie’s Market had made him a wizard at designing flow patterns conducive to happy shoppers. And workers. His sketches for Clara’s new kitchen were based on sitting in the midst of the Apple Butter Ladies’ operation during its busiest time of year—from harvest through the holidays. He’d observed the near-collisions, the conversations that took place over shoulders, not face-to-face, and other obstacles to what should have been as enjoyable and productive as a quilting bee.

  The changes were major. Walls would have to be moved. The bids he’d gotten had been pricier than he’d imagined. But the cost hadn’t been the primary sticking point. The contractors didn’t “get” his vision. They’d suggested modifications Charles had known wouldn’t work. The idea of spending hard-earned money for the privilege of arguing over the placement of every cupboard and countertop wasn’t something Charles was eager to do.

  He would, though, if he had to. For Clara.

  He was on the verge of accepting a bid when, out of the blue, a man named Nicholas Lawton arrived in town. A “handyman,” Charles reported to his family. Who, he assured his concerned children—and grandchildren—was fully capable of handling the entire renovation. “Nick can do anything,” Clara cheerfully added…which alarmed the family all the more. Who was this stranger who’d bewitched Gram and Granddad so completely?

  Two of Elizabeth’s six cousins, all of whom were male, made an immediate surprise visit to the farmhouse. No one was going to take advantage of their grandparents.

  But they’d liked Nick. Proclaimed him to be a “great guy.” The assessment was affirmed within months by two additional cousins and, over time, by the entire family. Not that everyone met Nick. But they saw Gram’s kitchen and, after Granddad’s stroke, the railings Nick installed.
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  They heard, too, the affection for Nick in their grandparents’ voices. Gram’s fondness was easy and familiar. Her emotions were always effortlessly conveyed. With the exception of his family, however, Granddad had been reserved. But there was emotion in Charles’s voice when he talked about Nick. It was different from what one heard for his sons and grandsons. But no less important, or impassioned.

  Like the rest of her family, Elizabeth spoke highly of Nicholas Lawton, and was grateful for Nicholas Lawton, although—as it happened—every time she was in town, he was involved with projects elsewhere and unable to drop by.

  She’d be meeting him this summer, Gram had said. At the farmhouse. Assuming, of course, that Nick hadn’t finished the painting he planned to do before Elizabeth’s visit in late July.

  Elizabeth knew very little about painting houses. But she felt certain she and Nick would meet. Ten years ago, when then-mayor Clara MacKenzie decided the “mayorly” thing to do in honor of Sarah’s Orchard’s centennial celebration would be to return James and Sarah Keeling’s farmhouse to its original teal and white, the painters Granddad hired were at it for three months.

  There’d been a team of painters then, not a solitary one. And their task, to cover cream with teal, had to be far easier than what Nick would face when he did the reverse, restoring Charles and Clara’s farmhouse to the colors it had been ever since it had served as a beacon to welcome a soldier home.

  “You’re going to paint the house.”

  “I am.”

  “Inside and out,” Clara said.

  “Inside, too?”

  “Why not?” Nick asked.

  “It needs to be spiffed up, Nick says, all except the kitchen. We’ve been discussing color schemes,” Clara murmured, “Nick has all sorts of options and he wants me to decide. He says he’s showing up at dawn tomorrow with a zillion paint chips. I can’t make such decisions. Now that you’re here, Elizabeth, I won’t have to.”

  “You don’t want me choosing colors!”

  “Of course I do. But—and here’s what I was going to do—just agree with whatever Nick thinks will look best. He’s the artist.”

  “Hardly,” Nick said. “I look forward to your input, Elizabeth.” He untied the daisy-print apron he wore. “Now, I think I’ll leave you ladies alone.”

  “Why don’t you take my car?” Clara asked. “It’s pouring.”

  Nick didn’t glance outside. “I’m fine.” He looked at Elizabeth. “What time’s good for you tomorrow?”

  “Anytime. Including dawn. Wasn’t that what you and Gram had planned?”

  “Only,” Clara said, “because Nick knows I’m an early riser when I don’t have my granddaughter to chat with through the night. We should be up by noon, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’d say so,” Elizabeth replied. “I’d also say I’ve never slept past eight in my life, Gram, and neither have you. So if you’d like to come by earlier, Nick…”

  “Noon’s good,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

  The downpour was a suitable companion for Nick’s thoughts.

  As he left the farmhouse, he headed away from Center Street, not toward it. He needed to walk for a while. Run for a while.

  And think—for a while.

  Clara and Charles hadn’t forgotten the boy who’d rescued their granddaughter. And Elizabeth’s vanishing act in pursuit of brightly lit apple trees was a cautionary tale remembered by every MacKenzie old enough to recall the terror of that evening.

  All MacKenzies knew that a nameless youngster had carried their girl to safety. But Charles and Clara alone had been waiting for his return. They’d seemed to know he would return, and even when, since the kitchen Charles had designed for Clara was ready for Nick to build.

  Nick had always known that the rescued girl would have no memory of her Yuletide misadventure. Much less of him.

  Nick wouldn’t have recognized Elizabeth, either, if he hadn’t seen photographs of her in her grandparents’ home. Despite that, the Elizabeth who rushed into the Keeling Clinic on the evening of Charles’s stroke had been a surprise.

  The camera had captured her elegant bones and wholesome allure. But it had failed to capture her. She didn’t have a freeze-frame sort of face. Or a freeze-frame sort of life. She was beauty in motion, as vibrant as the bright colors she chased. As bold as the emotions it wouldn’t occur to her to hide.

  Until that evening at the clinic, Nick figured it was just a matter of time before he and Elizabeth were introduced. The well-bred heiress would offer a gracious hello, while the granddaughter-turned-prosecutor searched for proof that he meant no harm to the grandparents she loved.

  He’d pass inspection, and that would be that. From her standpoint, anyway.

  Nick had known, even before seeing her, that the protectiveness he felt toward Charles and Clara would extend to their only granddaughter.

  It did, but with a twist.

  Elizabeth needed his protection, all right. Protection from him.

  The attraction he’d felt for her was immediate. And powerful.

  But as powerful as the physical desire was, it paled in comparison to a longing that was entirely new. He wanted to be with her. Simply be. For better, for worse. In sickness and in health. Forsaking all others.

  Forever.

  Nick dealt with his longing in a way that was best for Elizabeth, most protective of her. He kept his distance, avoiding any and all opportunity for the two of them to even meet. And, on a sunny day in early May, Clara told him Elizabeth was engaged.

  He ached at the revelation. And, at the same time, he felt relieved. Elizabeth had found the kind of man she should marry.

  And now…

  Now.

  Nick could run all night in the storm. Until his every shattered bone screamed for mercy.

  But Nicholas Lawton couldn’t outrun, could never outrun, his feelings for Elizabeth.

  They were part of who he was.

  The best part.

  Five

  Gram insisted that her rain-soaked granddaughter change into slumber-party attire before they convened in the kitchen for hot chocolate and a chat.

  “I will if you will,” Elizabeth had said.

  They’d gone to their separate bedrooms, the one where Clara and Charles had slept for more than sixty years—and where Charles had died in his sleep—and the guest room down the hall that had always been Elizabeth’s.

  Her farm clothes were there, the wardrobe from the final teenage summer she’d spent at Sarah’s Orchard. The wardrobe had been baggy even then. She’d liked wearing loose clothing over her plumpish frame.

  The plumpness had gone the way of carefree summers. The jeans and T-shirts would be baggier now.

  When Gram, in robe and slippers, emerged from her bedroom, Elizabeth, similarly dressed, emerged from hers.

  “He wasn’t what I expected,” Elizabeth said as they walked down the stairs.

  Gram’s hand slid along the satin-smooth railing Nick had made. “You only dated him for four months before getting engaged.”

  “I meant Nick.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not that my expectations mean very much. Witness Matthew.”

  “Matthew’s history.”

  “That’s definitive.”

  “Well, isn’t he?”

  Elizabeth’s mind’s eye viewed again the image she’d glimpsed through his bedroom window. “Yes. He is.”

  “Good. Let’s talk about Nick. In what way wasn’t he what you expected?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I thought he wouldn’t be so…”

  “Handsome?”

  “Gram.”

  “Gorgeous?”

  “Gram.”

  “What then?”

  “Solemn.” Intense.

  “Nick is solemn. He reminds me of Granddad in that way. In many ways, come to think of it.”

  Granddad? Solemn? And like Nick in many ways?

  Elizabeth might have pursued the
inquiry. They’d reached the kitchen, where, on one of the many countertops Granddad knew the Apple Butter Ladies needed and which Nick had built, sat the hatboxes she’d painted twenty-one years ago.

  “Granddad’s letters,” she murmured.

  “Yes. Please feel free to read them.”

  To discover, Elizabeth mused, what true love really is. “I couldn’t.”

  “I want you to. In fact, I’m hoping all our children and grandchildren will. They’re a little mushy, I suppose, but there’s nothing too private for you to read.”

  “Then I’ll read them, Gram. We all will. If that’s what you want.”

  “It’s the reason I brought them down from the attic. I’d like to make copies, a complete set for each of you—and Nick, of course.”

  Nick, of course? “That would be wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “We could even have them bound into books.”

  “We could?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Clara touched a glossy box. “That would be nice. There’s a bit of organizing to do. The letters are in chronological order, but I carried some of them with me all the time. I’m not sure I tucked them into their correct bundles when I received word that Charles was on his way home.”

  “That sounds easy,” Elizabeth said. So easy she wouldn’t have mentioned it if not for Gram’s frown. “Gram?”

  “Would you be willing to put them in order for me?”

  “I’d be delighted to. But wouldn’t you like to do that yourself? And read them again while you’re at it?”

  “I’m not ready to read them yet. So if you wouldn’t mind…”

  “As I said, I’d be delighted. Gram? Is there something else?”

  “I’m afraid they may not photocopy very well. The paper was thin to begin with, and he wrote on both sides.”

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “It won’t?”

  “Nope. You’d be amazed at the smudged, machine-washed, written-on-both-sides bits of paper I’ve been able to present to juries in all their legible glory, thanks to the magic of computers. That’s what we should do, Gram. Scan the letters directly into your computer. We can tinker with contrast, resolution and so on at the scanning stage, and make additional improvements once we’ve scanned them in.”