Preston's Honor(43)

When I’d heard it was a motorcycle accident, the driver riding some small rusted thing that didn’t stand a chance against the truck that came up too quickly on its right side, my blood had frozen solid in my veins and I’d known.

Cole.

I pulled myself from the past, from that terrible, gut-wrenching day, stepping from my car parked in the Sawyers’ driveway and walking slowly up the two stairs to their front porch. You can come out on Sunday morning, he’d said. Nine o’clock. So here I was.

I raised my hand to knock on the farmhouse door for the second time in the space of two days, my heart racing with nerves and anticipation just as it had the last time. Then, Mrs. Sawyer had answered. Her expression had hardened, and her hand fluttered to her chest as if she’d opened the door to find a demon returned from the dead and back to haunt her—which was probably pretty accurate as far as what she was thinking. This time, the door opened to reveal Preston, and I let out a controlled breath, pulling myself straighter. “Good morning.”

He nodded, his expression blank, and opened the door wider, moving back so I could enter.

I stepped through the wide doorway, glancing around as Preston shut the door behind me. Everything looked the same as it had the day I left. It made me ache because I loved this house. I loved the high ceilings and the wide-planked pine flooring. I loved the curved staircase and the view of something lovely through each window. I loved the sounds the old house made as it settled around me at night—the tiny creaks and the soft groans as if it was telling the tales of all those who had lived and loved here before.

Once, I’d walked slowly through every room of this house, my eyes finding each beautiful detail and taking it all inside: the pretty glass doorknobs, the elegant chair rails, the charming built-ins. The quiet grace of the old house had spoken to my soul and I had hardly been able to believe it was my home.

My belly had been slightly rounded with early pregnancy, and I’d still had dreams in my heart. I’d still had hope that things would be okay.

I’d stood in front of the gallery of family photos in the upstairs hallway and was drawn to each one, intrigued by the people, what they were wearing, the stories their expressions told, how the farm had changed from one generation to the next.

The Sawyers were solid, stoic-looking people who wore practical clothes and even more practical expressions. Camille Sawyer, whose picture graced a spot near the bannister, was the exception. She brought glamour to the wall with her coiffed, golden hair, red pouty lips, and seductive eyes. And though her boys were both tall and strong, and at least one of them looked into the lens with the dispassionate Sawyer stare his ancestors had perfected, their mother had bestowed upon them a level of physical beauty the generations before them didn’t possess.

Looking at the photos told me that the hardy, tenacious-looking Sawyer men of the past had worked the land, but this house spoke to me of the women who had loved them—women who themselves were sturdy but also graceful, with strong backbones and gentle hearts. I wanted to be one of those women. For Preston. For the life that grew in my womb, tiny butterfly wings of promise.

Sadness threatened to overcome me and I moved my mind quickly from that time. That was before. This was now and it was reality—not fanciful hopes, not wishes or dreams of happiness that had never materialized. Just contempt.

I turned around to face Preston and his eyes widened slightly as if I’d caught him unaware. For one heartbeat, I thought I saw pain in his eyes, but then the shutters came down and I wondered if I’d only imagined it. Or maybe it was simply my own pain reflected back at me.

I clasped my hands in front of my body, waiting for him to instruct me on what to do.

He paused, his brow furrowing momentarily before he raised his hand, gesturing to the family room on the right. “Do you want to wait in there for a minute? I’ll go get him.”

I nodded, my heart squeezing at his formal, stilted demeanor. It was as if I was some door-to-door salesperson and he was leaving me for a moment to fetch his checkbook, rather than our son. Our son. Still, I knew it would be better if I let Preston make the calls here. “Sure.”

I walked into the family room and heard his feet on the wooden stairs as he went up to Hudson’s nursery. I sat down on the couch and put my hands between my knees. The temperature in the house was comfortable, but I was cold with nerves.

I heard Preston moving around upstairs, heard quiet murmurings as if he was waking Hudson from a nap. I wondered if his nursery still looked the same, wondered if he’d kept the gray and white décor I’d done the room in as I waited for the baby to arrive, not knowing if I’d accent it with blue or pink. Flashes of that time filled me with a heavy anguish, not just because of the memory of my own deep loneliness, but of the helplessness of seeing deep grief in Preston’s eyes, day after day after day, and not knowing how to ease it for him, knowing that if anything, the very sight of me compounded his stress.

I shook myself slightly. I couldn’t do this now. Not now. The sound of footsteps descending the stairs snapped me completely from the painful thoughts, and I held my breath as Preston came into view, holding our son. My breath released in a loud whoosh of sound and I stood, unable to keep myself from going to him.

Preston had only taken a couple of steps into the room, and he stopped as I approached them, my eyes homed in on the little boy in his arms. My breath caught and I swallowed down the lump in my throat, my heart simultaneously squeezing in pain at how much he’d grown and soaring with joy at seeing him again. How I’d missed him. I smiled and it felt shaky, and though I didn’t want to cry in front of the baby and possibly scare him, I couldn’t manage to stop my lips from quivering.