LITMIR.BIZ

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this news had taken her completely by surprise. She pulled herself together and looked back at the letter.

       His funeral service will be held Saturday, November 13, at 3:00 p.m., witha family/friends supper afterward at the First Baptist Church.

      “That’s tomorrow. Pretty obvious I’m not wanted if they waited this long to let me know,” Haley muttered, then took a deep, shuddering breath, tossed the letter down on the counter and walked away. Her heart was racing, her thoughts tumbling from one scenario to another.

      Why now—after all these years—would her mother even bother? Assuming it even was her mother who’d sent the impersonally typed and unsigned letter.

      After her first year in Dallas, Haley had been the one to wave the white flag by sending her parents a quick note, telling them where she was and what she was doing. She stuffed it into an envelope and mailed it at the same time she mailed her weekly letter to Mack. He never answered, but for a while she’d thought her mother might. She waited for a reply for almost a month, then accepted the fact that no one cared and never wrote again. A year later she gave in to the inevitable and stopped writing to Mack, too.

      A few minutes later Haley returned to the kitchen. The letter was still on the cabinet—like a bomb, waiting to detonate. If she went back, what wounds would she open? She’d spent years building a wall around her heart. She didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to hope—didn’t want to care—like that ever again.

      “I’ll sleep on it,” she said aloud, then fixed herself some supper, did some chores, paid a few bills and finally did an hour of Pilates just because she was afraid to go to bed and close her eyes. She didn’t want to remember.

      But maybe this would be the way to end the bitterness she still lived with. Maybe going back would be what she needed to move forward with her life, rather than the imposed lockdown in which she’d been existing.

      It was after 10:00 p.m. when she finally went to bed, and, as usual, Mack Brolin came calling in her sleep.

      Haley was standing beside an immense body of water. When she turned to get her bearings, she saw a large weeping willow, with low-hanging limbs that swept the ground. The place looked familiar, but it took her a few moments to realize it was where she and Mack used to go to make love.

      As she watched, the branches parted and Mack stepped out, waving for her to come closer. She tried to move, but her legs wouldn’t work. He kept urging her—begging her to come—but she couldn’t seem to move. And then Mack’s image began to fade, which increased her anxiety even more. Just before he disappeared from sight, she heard him call out, “Go home.”

      And then he was gone.

      Haley woke up with a start, her heart pounding, her body bathed in sweat, even though the room was cool. She threw back the covers, then glanced at the clock as she sat up. Just before midnight. The dream had been weird, but it solidified her next move.

      “What the hell could it hurt?” she asked herself, then got up, pausing in the hallway long enough to turn up the heat before heading for the kitchen.

      Her steps were long, her stride purposeful—almost angry. She didn’t want this, but it was here just the same. She started the coffeepot, then headed to the extra bedroom, got a suitcase from the closet and returned to her room.

      By the time the apartment was warm enough to be comfortable, she was already dressed and packed. She emailed her employer that she was going home for her father’s funeral, and to please reschedule her patients’ appointments or give them to someone else.

      She filled her to-go cup with hot, black coffee, then made herself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, stuffed it into a Baggie and dropped it into her purse. If she didn’t dawdle, she just might get back to Stars Crossing in time to see her father buried. It wasn’t what she wanted to do—but there were lots of things in life that were unpleasant and still had to be done. This came under that heading.

      Within minutes she was out the door and in the elevator. The night guard was asleep at the reception desk as she passed by. She didn’t bother to speak and just kept on walking. Thirty minutes later, she was on the crosstown expressway, pushing past the speed limit with a lump in her throat and a knot in her belly. She wasn’t sure if she was going back for the funeral or from a subconscious hope she would see Mack. Either way, the outcome was unlikely to be good.

      Saturday dawned in Stars Crossing with a raw wind and a threat of rain. Not a good day for a funeral, although weather didn’t really mean much on such occasions. There was never a good day for a funeral.

      Lena Shore stared at herself in the mirror, practicing expressions. Once she’d been a pretty girl, but disappointments and grief had taken that away. Now her expression was most often either dissatisfied or grim. The frown lines between her eyebrows and at the corners of her eyes had long ago become permanent and deep.

      While she’d been bound to Judd Shore by their marriage and her lies, that part of her life was finally over, and she wasn’t going to pretend to herself that she was sad. Still, there was a certain cachet to being a widow, and she intended to use it to her best advantage. She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress, giving herself a mental pat on the back for giving in to impulse and buying this dress a couple of months ago. With Judd’s bad heart, this day had always been a possibility. She would never have admitted to herself that she was planning for his funeral, but when the opportunity had presented itself last week, she had done nothing to stop Judd’s fate.

      She gave her hair a quick spray to hold the style in place. Although it was still thick and wavy, it was entirely gray now, and she’d chosen to pull it loosely away from her face and fasten it in a thick fall at the back of her neck. Sedate and somber was the mood of the day.

      “That should do it,” she said, then put down the hair spray, gave herself one last look in the full-length mirror and headed for the living room to get her coat.

      Across town, Mack Brolin was pacing the living room floor of his childhood home, wondering if he was setting himself up for another heartbreak. His father had been dead ten years—dying from anaphylactic shock after being stung by a swarm of bees only days after Mack got out of the hospital. Mack was still wearing the cast from his wreck and dealing with the pain of losing Haley when they’d had to bury his father. At the time, it had felt as if he would never be happy again. With the passing of time, he’d come to accept what was. And then last month his mother had passed away in her sleep, and with that, except for his two older sisters, his last link with his childhood was over.

      After the funeral, and at his sisters’ request, he’d stayed on at the family home to ready the house for sale. He had been a successful building contractor for several years now, so the job had naturally fallen to him. Walls needed painting, carpet and appliances needed replacing, and as the days had passed, he’d found one thing after another that needed some TLC before the house would be fit to put on the market.

      He’d called in a team from his company to do the rough work—replacing kitchen cabinets, countertops and the like—but he was doing the painting himself.

      It was during the renovation that he’d found the letters from Haley in his mother’s things, tied in a bundle with a faded yellow ribbon—unopened.

      Everything from shock to disbelief had gone through his mind as he tore into the first one with shaking hands. By the time he had finished, he was crying. The last one, postmarked almost eight years ago, had ended on a sad, disappointed note. At that point Mack was so angry he couldn’t think. All these years he’d been led to believe that she’d walked out—angry with him because Stewart had died and, after learning his athletic career was over, unwilling to tie herself to a loser.

      After reading the letters, his first instinct had been to find her, but there was no way of knowing if she was still in Dallas, the city of the last postmark. Eight years was a long time. She could be anywhere—most likely married, with children, and happily living her life.

      He felt sad and cheated, but didn’t know what his next move should be. He could hardly confront

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