She felt her blood chill. “Is that so bad?”
John stopped pacing, his face blank. “Is that what you want?”
She swallowed hard. She hadn’t anticipated the conversation going in this direction. Wasn’t prepared. She stumbled through her answer. “I… I don’t not want it. I mean, not right now. But someday, sure. Isn’t that where we’re headed?”
He looked like a deer in the headlights.
“John?” she said.
“Linnea, I’ve never lied to you. I told you, before you left South Carolina, that I wasn’t ready for marriage. I might never be.”
She stiffened. “I’m not asking you to marry me.”
“No, I know that. But… it feels like we are married. We’re setting up a life together.”
“That’s called living together.”
He scratched his scalp, a sure sign he was in discomfort. “I don’t know, Linnea.…”
She did. The whole scene was too domestic for him. “You told me to come to California with you,” she said accusingly.
John went very still. “I cared for you. I wanted you to be happy. You were trapped out there and I wanted to offer you a place to stay while you started your new job.”
“Not as a roommate!” she shouted back at him, angry now. He was twisting things around. “That wasn’t the deal.” Her voice broke. “You told me you loved me.”
“I did. I do.” His voice was so low she barely heard him.
She stared at him, arms limp at her sides. All the things she wanted to tell him, all her fears and worries, her dreams and hopes, froze in her throat. From the start this arrangement had been fraught with uncertainty. He’d been honest with her. He’d told her he wasn’t ready to commit. And she’d accepted that. For two years she’d been careful to give him his space, never complaining when he went out with his friends, leaving her at home. She’d tried to be cavalier and went out with her girlfriends too. She never pressed him to declare his love, though he was always affectionate and generous. Yet all their intentions not to crowd each other, not to be under any obligation or commitment, not to make declarations of love, had left them in a limbo of discontent. Linnea having lost her job, becoming a dependent, had forced them out of complacency.
She searched his face for some sign, some signal of his feelings. “John, if you love me, what’s the problem?”
John shook his head. “The problem is… like I said, it feels like we’re married.”
“And you don’t like that.” It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know. I feel a little suffocated, ya know? My shoulders hurt like hell from the stress.”
She took a minute to steady her breath as fear sent her heart pounding. “These are just bad days. Financially,” she hastened to add.
He didn’t respond.
“Come on, John. Talk to me.”
“I’m just not ready to go to the next level. Okay? I said it.”
“Will you ever be ready?”
John looked away.
She closed her eyes tight for a moment, but saw all clearly. “You had no problem living together when things were good. But,” she added with a bitter laugh, “when one bad thing happens, when I lose my job, suddenly the thought of taking care of me, of assuming any responsibility for me, is too much for you to handle?” She snorted. “You’re a real jerk.”
He didn’t reply.
She felt herself crumble inside and took a deep breath. “I followed you to California, even though my family thought it was a terrible idea! That awful fight with my father? He thought it was crazy for us to move in together. But I told him I knew you and I could make it, because I believed in us.”
“It’s not that I’ve stopped believing,” John said. He raked his hair with his fingers. “I don’t know. Maybe… we just need a break. Take some time to get our heads together.”
“A break?”
“Some time apart. To see how we really feel.”
She huffed in disbelief. “Where would I go?”
“Home?” he offered.
She looked at him, standing wide-legged in jeans with his fingers tucked into his pockets, his button-down shirt wrinkled and hanging out, his dark hair disheveled. A final snapshot. With that one word, Linnea knew it was over.
* * *
LINNEA SHOOK THE memory away, looked at the note, and felt anger surge. Oh, hell no!
She crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the garbage bin, missing it. The paper ball rolled to the corner. Linnea rested her face in her palms. “Shit, shit, shit…” Once again John Peterson was sending her into a tailspin. She’d thought she’d gotten over him. She’d ignored his texts and e-mails for a year. Refused his phone calls. Not a word had passed between them. And now he was back living next door and her foolish heart was betraying her.
She straightened and went to retrieve the crumpled paper. Smoothing it out, she read his words again. Can we talk?
She brought the wrinkled paper to her nose and breathed in. There was no scent.
Words… she thought, crumpling the paper again. John was good at words. This time, when she tossed the ball it went into the trash.
Linnea put the frozen food and milk in the fridge, leaving the rest of the groceries on the counter for later. She hurried out of the house and furtively looked up at the window. John was not in sight.
She crossed the driveway with a determined gait, passed through the white picket gate into Emmi’s garden. If she turned right, she’d head to the carriage house. Turn left, she’d head toward Emmi’s kitchen door. It was a path that young Rutledge girls had traveled for generations.
Big pots overflowing with purple and yellow pansies greeted her on either side of the brightly painted blue door. John’s mother, Emmaline Baker Peterson, opened the door promptly. Emmi was Cara’s lifelong friend. When she’d divorced, she moved in with Flo next door to Cara. Emmi was a force of nature, full figured with red hair too bright for natural, pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her unmade-up face broke into her signature Carly Simon grin of recognition.
“Linnea! What a surprise! Come in!”
“I’d better not,” Linnea said, taking a step back. “We’re not supposed to go into each other’s houses. Especially with Flo’s advanced age.” Her lips twitched. “And yours.”
Emmi skewered her with a faux scowl. “Oh, Lord, I keep forgetting. I haven’t got used to all that yet. You’re right, of course. I—I don’t have a mask. I meant to get one.”
“That’s okay. I don’t have one yet either. I thought I’d sew some up. I’ll make you a few. Flo, too.”
“Why, aren’t you precious. Thank you, I’d love that. Tell you what—let’s sit outside. We can keep a distance and it’s a beautiful day.”
Linnea followed Emmi into the garden. She was right—it was a beautiful day, and her large, impressive garden was abloom with azaleas taking center stage. The green shoots of perennials were peeping through the earth with the promise of beauty yet to come.
“Oh, Emmi, everything is so beautiful.”
Emmi grinned with pride. When she’d purchased the house from Florence Prescott ten years earlier, she’d completely redecorated it from the ground up in the shabby-chic style she loved. Flo had never cared about decorating or gardening back in the day when she was working. If it was clean and functional, that was good enough for her.