Proposing to Preston (The Winslow Brothers, #2)(69)
She sniffled against his shoulder, trying to catch her breath. “My-My…” She whimpered softly before continuing. “My mother d-died this m-morning.”
Once the words were said, a fresh deluge of tears spilled from her eyes, drenching Preston’s shirt. His arms tightened around her.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It was a-a s-stroke,” she managed, trying to take a deep breath and failing.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he coached her, rubbing her back gently.
“She’s d-dead, Pres. My m-mother. She’s go-o-o-ne”
“I know. I’m so, so sorry.”
She whimpered again, closing her burning eyes and finally managing to take a breath that filled her diaphragm. Taking another, she held it for a moment, breathing in the smell of Preston’s starched cotton shirt and familiar after-shave. Suddenly she realized how profoundly inappropriate it was for her to be crying all over him.
“I’m sorry.” Stepping away, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, blinking up at him. “I have to go.”
He leaned down and picked up her phone, wiping it on his pants before handing it to her, his eyes soft and concerned. “Okay.”
Her gaze drifted to the wet splotch on his shirt. “Sorry for that.”
“I don’t mind.”
She nodded, then shook her head back and forth as more tears sprang into her eyes. Her mother had been so disapproving of her career, her move to New York, Tisch, Broadway. Stay here with me, Liebling. Don’t go.
“Elise.”
Preston’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she realized she was still standing on his lawn, weeping soundlessly, clutching her phone to her chest, atrophied in the midst of her grief. She looked up at him. My mother is dead. My mother is gone. Help. Please, help.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home,” she said. “L-Lowville.”
He took a deep breath, releasing it on an “ahhh” sound as he nodded, his face somehow managing to be determined and uncertain at the same time. “I’m going with you.”
“What?”
“I’ll drive you.”
Her face crumpled again, and she shook her head back and forth, staring at her bare feet on the grass. “N-no. You d-don’t—”
He pulled her back into his arms and she sagged against him, so grateful for his strength and kindness and the way she didn’t feel alone for the first time in two years.
“Yes, I do. For now, you’re still my wife and—”
“Pres,” she sobbed.
He sighed deeply. “I can’t let you go alone.”
Surrendering to everything good that was her husband’s arms around her, she rested her cheek on his shoulder, taking the comfort he offered. She thanked God that she wouldn’t be alone over the next three terrible days and promised every angel in heaven, including the very newest named Sarah, that if she was given another chance with him, she would never, ever run away from him again.
Chapter 17
Be Honest
Preston had walked Elise back to Chateau Nouvelle, his arm around her trembling shoulders, and left her at the front door, instructing her to pack a bag.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he said. “And we’ll go.”
“B-But…your plans.”
“I’ll cancel them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was just dinner with Jess. She’ll understand.” He’d reached for Elise’s face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Listen to me. I know you’re in shock, but I need you to walk upstairs and pack a bag. I’m going to go next door and do the same.”
“We won’t get there until after midnight.”
“That’s fine. You’ll be there with your father and sisters in the morning.”
She had started crying again, head bent, shoulders shaking, and Preston had pulled her into his arms again, clenching his jaw, wishing that he could absorb her grief, eliminate it, take it away. It didn’t matter what had happened between them. He loved her. He couldn’t bear to see her in this much pain.
Pressing his lips to her hair, he spoke softly. “Walk upstairs. Pack a bag. I’ll be waiting.”
Then he’d slowly lowered his arms and stepped away from her.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
Because I love you. It’s as simple as that.
“We’ll talk on the drive,” he said, turning around and heading down the steps to walk back to Westerly.
Thankfully, Preston always kept a couple of suits, some jeans, and a few T-shirts in his room at Westerly, and unsure of the dress code at a Mennonite funeral, he packed a little of everything. Heading back downstairs to his car, he’d called Jessica.
“Pres, I’m running late. Can we make it 6:30?”
“I have to cancel, Jess.”
“What? Come on! I’m already on the way to Westerly!”
“Sorry, it’s…” How in the world could he explain this? My wife of two years just walked back into my life, her mother died this morning, and I’m heading to upstate New York to attend the funeral with her. Umm…no.
“It’s what? More important than dinner with your only sister?”