Make You Feel My Love Page 3

  “Iced tea would be lovely. And after you pour us each a glass, you can sit down and we’ll have a nice chat. There’s a great deal of catching up for us to do.”

  Chelsea felt a twinge of guilt as she walked to the kitchen. She should have come to visit her great-aunt long before this. Long before her help was needed. She should have come to see Aunt Rosemary the moment she’d been free of her father’s control.

  As she took the pitcher of tea from the refrigerator, she wondered—not for the first time—how much Grandpa John had told his sister. She also wondered if he’d arranged Chelsea’s stay for Aunt Rosemary’s sake or if his main goal had been to help Chelsea get away from an untenable situation.

  From the living room, Aunt Rosemary said, “By my recollection, it’s been at least a decade since I saw you.”

  “Eleven years,” Chelsea answered in a raised voice. “I’d just graduated from high school.”

  “And you’d won a scholarship to college. I remember that.”

  Her chest tightened at the reminder. She’d been so excited when informed about the scholarship, but the excitement hadn’t lasted long. Her dad had refused to let her go to college. He’d already been against high school, believing education was wasted on a girl. Her job was to stay home and help her mother with the younger kids until a man came along who wanted to marry her. And nobody in Hadley Station, the tiny northern Idaho town named for her father, ever went against Hadley Spencer’s wishes. Nobody. Certainly not his children. Her dad hadn’t been one to spoil the child by sparing the rod—or, in his case, the belt and buckle.

  She pressed the palms of her hands onto the counter and closed her eyes, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths. She thought she’d come to terms with memories of her father, but her troubled relationship with her ex-boyfriend, Tom Goodson, had shattered the fragile peace she’d found and reopened old wounds. A shudder ran through her.

  Jesus, take away these memories. Please.

  “Did you find everything you need?” Aunt Rosemary called.

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes. “Thanks. I’ve got it.” She filled the tall glasses, set them on a tray beside two long-handled spoons, sliced lemons on a saucer, and the sugar bowl. Then she carried it all to the living room where she set the tray on a side table next to her great-aunt’s chair.

  “Oh, my. That looks good.”

  “Didn’t they have iced tea at the rehab center?”

  “Tea, yes. But not anything that looked this pretty and inviting.”

  “Presentation matters.” Chelsea settled onto a nearby sofa. “It’s something you taught me.”

  “I taught you that?”

  “The summer I stayed with you.”

  Aunt Rosemary reached out a hand and pressed it against Chelsea’s cheek. “And you’ve remembered all these years.”

  You were the only one who ever tried to teach me about pretty things. She might have said the words aloud if not for the enormous lump in her throat.

  Aunt Rosemary added both sugar and lemon to her tea, then stirred, the spoon making soft clinking sounds as it hit the sides of the glass.

  Chelsea left her tea untouched.

  “Well, tell me how you are,” her great-aunt said as she placed the spoon back onto the tray.

  She drew in a deep breath and released it. “I’m fine.”

  Aunt Rosemary sent her a look that said she expected much more than that.

  Chelsea had never been one to talk about herself. As a child, that was because there hadn’t been others, outside of her own family, to talk to. And her family already knew everything there was to know. Later, staying silent had been the prudent and safer thing to do. Silence was a hard habit to break.

  “Tell me about your mother, then.”

  “Mom’s okay. She’s been seeing a man she met where she works. I wasn’t sure she would ever do that after . . . after Dad died. She was so . . . worn down.”

  “And what about you, dear?”

  Chelsea stared into the glass of iced tea in her hands. “How much did Grandpa tell you?”

  “About that man? What’s his name? Tom?”

  She nodded.

  “Enough to know you’re better off here with me than staying in Spokane where he can bother you.”

  Chelsea offered a tight smile. “Anyone would be better off here with you, Aunt Rosemary.”

  “I love that you think so, dear.” Aunt Rosemary leaned forward and reached out to touch the back of Chelsea’s hand. “But now, tell me truly, how are you?”

  “I’m better,” she answered after a short silence. “It’s been hard, the whole experience. Dad. Tom. So much confusion. But God’s taught me a lot through it all. About myself. About Him.”

  This time, Aunt Rosemary smiled. “Tell me about that. Tell me how you came to know Jesus.”

  Some of the tension drained from Chelsea’s shoulders. “I wasn’t looking for God. I had my fill of religion because of Dad. Dad and his rules. Seemed to me religion just messed up the whole world. So I don’t know how Jesus found His way into my heart. But one day, He did.”

  “I believe it happened because so many people were praying for you and your family.”

  “Yes.” Chelsea smiled through unshed tears. “I’m sure that’s the reason. I was prayed into the kingdom.” She drew a deep breath. “Once I knew the Lord, once I understood His love for me, once I knew I was important enough for Him to die on a cross for my salvation, it changed me. It gave me the courage to do what I couldn’t do before.”

  “Oh, you precious thing,” Aunt Rosemary whispered.

  Chelsea blinked back the tears. “Finding His love was worth everything else. Truly, it was.”

  “If you’ve learned that lesson while still young in your faith walk, you’re already far ahead of many of us.” Aunt Rosemary sipped her tea, allowing silence to fall over the room.

  Chelsea looked out the window. She didn’t feel especially far along in her faith walk—or in any other area of her life, for that matter—but her great-aunt’s words were encouraging.

  “I’m thankful you came to stay with me, Chelsea.”

  “And I’m thankful you wanted me to come, Aunt Rosemary.”

  “God is good.”

  “Yes,” she whispered in response. “He is good.”

  * * *

  Liam ran a brush through Chipper’s coat, muttering when he found another knot on the dog’s haunches. “I should’ve got a short-haired dog.”

  As if understanding, Chipper turned his head and licked Liam’s face. A good swipe right across the lips.

  Liam drew back, laughing. “Okay. I give up. I’m going to find a groomer. Surely there’s somebody who does that in these hills.” He tossed aside the brush.

  The dog understood the grooming session was over and shot off the deck. He raced around the circular driveway, the way he always did after a bath and brushing.

  Liam stood and moved to the deck railing, his thoughts going back to when the dog had been a pup. Out for a walk in the Boise neighborhood one late afternoon, needing a breath of air before returning to watch his brother try to hide his illness, Liam had come across a family giving away puppies. The young mother was a black-and-white border collie. The family didn’t know about the male that sired the litter. Only that puppies weren’t supposed to happen before they got their female spayed.

  Chipper—twelve weeks old at the time and solid black except for one completely white ear and a white tip on his tail—scampered over to where Liam stood, sat with his rump rolled to one side, and whimpered up at him, as if to say, “Take me home.” Liam almost cried, right where he stood, surrounded by strangers. And he wasn’t the kind of man who cried easily. He told himself he was taking the puppy to show to Jacob and hopefully make his brother smile. But in truth, Liam had needed Chipper for himself. He’d needed the love and comfort the little guy gave him, especially through the dark days that were still to come.

  Everyone, including Jacob, knew by th
en that the cancer was terminal, but Liam kept insisting his brother would make a comeback, that a miracle would happen and he would beat the disease, once and for all. It hadn’t happened that way. Jacob had fought as hard as his failing body would allow. Maybe too hard. He’d suffered for many months before the end came at last.

  The sound of a vehicle drew Liam’s gaze away from the dog and toward the road. Through the trees, he saw a light-blue sedan make the turn into his driveway. He wondered if the driver was lost. Not many cars came out this direction, and most of the locals favored trucks, Jeeps, or SUVs.

  “Chipper, come.” He moved toward the top of his steps and waited.

  The dog glanced toward the approaching vehicle, then did as his master commanded, joining Liam on the deck and sitting at his left side.

  Sunlight glinted off the windshield as the car came to a stop, and Liam shaded his eyes with a hand against the brightness. Dust rolled on ahead of the car, the cloud drifting into the trees where the driveway curved away.

  Liam frowned. Just as he was losing patience, waiting to see who was in the vehicle, the door opened. The driver’s shoes touched the ground. Large, shiny black shoes, stirring up more dust. Then the driver stood.

  “Kurt?” Liam blinked, not believing his eyes.

  “Glad you still recognize me,” his agent said, a wry grin pulling the corners of his mouth.

  Kurt Knight was a giant of a man, over six feet four with broad shoulders and a gravelly, baritone voice. There was something about his appearance that made him look more like a laidback country singer than a cutthroat Hollywood agent. But looks were deceiving. Kurt was a man at the top of his game, and his many years in the business proved his staying power.

  Liam came down the steps. “What’re you doing here?”

  “What do you think? I came to talk some sense into you.”

  The two men shook hands and clasped upper arms in greeting. Then Liam motioned for Kurt to follow him onto the deck. Stopping beside some chairs in the shade, he asked, “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Got anything about eighty proof?”

  “No. Your choice is Diet Coke or sparkling water in lime, lemon, or watermelon.”

  “Watermelon?” Kurt wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  Liam shrugged.

  “Not even a light beer?”

  “What can I say? I don’t keep liquor in the house. Not my thing.”

  It wasn’t necessary to tell Kurt that he didn’t drink alcohol or keep it around. Kurt knew. Kurt knew just about everything there was to know about Liam Chandler, both public and private. He might know more about Liam than Liam knew about himself.

  “Okay,” Kurt said in a begrudging tone. “I’ll go with the sparkling water. But not the watermelon. Thanks.” He looked behind him, took a step back, and sank onto the chair.

  Liam gave his head a shake as he headed into the house. In the kitchen, he got two large plastic tumblers, added ice, then poured lime-flavored water into each of them. By the time he returned, a glass in each hand, he discovered Chipper making friends with their guest.

  Kurt looked up. “A dog, huh?”

  “Yeah.” He set the drinks on the table between the two chairs.

  “Too lonely up here?”

  “Got him while I was still in Boise.”

  The look in Kurt’s eyes softened. “Ah.”

  Liam sat on the nearby chair, picked up one of the tumblers again, and took a drink before setting the glass down a second time.

  Kurt looked around the acres of tall pines while continuing to scratch Chipper behind one ear. “Sure is quiet here.”

  “I know. Sometimes the chipmunks start chattering, and the blue jays can get noisy.” He stared up at the closest tree. “Had a persistent woodpecker last week that I considered shooting.” He pointed to the spot on the tree where he’d last seen the bird. “But mostly, it’s quiet and all I hear is the breeze in the pines.”

  “And it hasn’t driven you crazy yet.”

  “No.” He looked at Kurt. “It hasn’t driven me crazy.”

  Silence stretched between them for a lengthy spell, and Liam was content to leave it that way.

  Finally, Kurt cleared his throat. “Liam, directors and producers are still asking when you’ll be ready to make another movie. What can I tell them?”

  “That I’m not ready yet.” Maybe I’ll never be ready, he added silently.

  “They won’t ask forever, you know. Eventually they’ll find another guy for those same parts. If you let it go too long, you’ll be an also-ran instead of a new leading man.”

  “I understand.” Liam leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “But I’m not ready to go back to work. Or to Los Angeles. This is where I need to be.”

  “I know it’s been rough. I understand you’ve got to get through the grief. But you could—”

  “Sorry, Kurt,” Liam interrupted. “This is how it’s got to be for now.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Kurt picked up his glass and drank some of the water. “All right. I won’t pressure you. Now, how about you give me a tour of this place. I had to pass on your invitation when you were coming up to hunt a few years back.”

  “I remember.” Liam stood. “Come on in, and I’ll show you around. I’ve got a guest room all ready if you can stay.”

  “I was hoping you’d ask. It’ll give me more time to try to change your mind.”

  “So much for not pressuring me.”

  Kurt laughed as he put down his glass and got up from the chair. “Guilty as charged.”

  Oddly enough, Liam didn’t mind.

  Cora

  May 1895

  The farcical musical performed on the stage that night would not have met with her mother’s approval, but Cora adored it. She laughed along with the rest of the audience throughout the production. It was the first evening she’d spent with Duncan since the announcement of their engagement that hadn’t bored her to tears.

  “Would you like to meet a few of the performers?” Duncan offered his arm, the final applause having faded and a loud buzz of conversations now filling the theater.

  “Could we?”

  Like her mother, her father would heartily disapprove of the idea, which made the prospect all the more enticing.

  Duncan guided her from their private box and toward a back staircase. A tall man, dressed more like a dockworker than a gentleman out for a night on Broadway, held the door open for them. Cora didn’t know if she should be alarmed or excited by the dark staircase leading them to a place unknown, especially with that coarse-looking man following right behind her. She supposed she was a little of both.

  They descended the stairs into the bowels of the theater. Down there, it was a beehive of activity. Women—some rather scantily dressed—sat before mirrors removing makeup or fixing their hair. Men of all ages and sizes carried equipment and props and even pieces of scenery, some going one way, some another.

  Duncan leaned close to her ear. “This was the troupe’s last night in New York. They’re leaving for Chicago in a couple of days, taking the show on the road.”

  Cora nodded to indicate she’d heard him.

  “This way.” He tugged on her arm. “I want to introduce you to the producer of the show.”

  Charles Bowen was a squat man with a balding pate and pale eyes that stared at Cora from behind a pair of round spectacles. He looked to be about her father’s age.

  “Good heavens,” he said as he bowed over her hand. “If you aren’t a vision of loveliness.” His gaze shot to Duncan. “However did you get her to agree to marry you?”

  I agreed because my father demands it, Cora answered in her head. Duncan proposed for the money.

  Some of her pleasure with the evening vanished.

  Ignoring Mr. Bowen’s question, Duncan asked one of his own. “Is Bridgette still here? I’m sure Miss Anderson
would like to meet her too.”

  Bridgette? Cora glanced around, beginning to understand. This wasn’t Duncan’s first visit to this theater or to this busy basement. He knew the pretty actress who’d sung a number of risqué songs throughout the production. He knew her by her first name. And even with his fiancée on his arm, he didn’t want to leave without speaking to her.

  Cora waited to feel upset. She didn’t. Not truly. Her heart was no more invested in Duncan Abernathy than his was in her. After they were married, they would likely keep separate bedrooms and mostly separate lives. He would trouble her little, especially after she gave birth to a son. Other children might follow, but giving him an heir was of paramount importance. After that, what she did and how she kept herself busy wouldn’t concern him.

  Cora understood more about the nature of reproduction than her mother would like. Not that she’d had any experience with men beyond the perfunctory kisses she’d exchanged with Duncan. But she had a habit of listening as the servants talked, and between what she’d overheard and a glance through some medical books in a friend’s father’s library, she’d pieced together enough to know what a married relationship held in store. She was not impressed with the mechanics, especially with a man like Duncan.

  “Oooh, Mr. Abernathy. You came to see our little show.” Bridgette Chevrolet approached, clad in a satin robe. Her lush brown hair tumbled free over one shoulder. “Mr. Bowen said you might come tonight.”

  Cora didn’t believe her French accent was real, not even for a moment. Nor was her surprise at seeing Duncan below stage.

  “Yes.” Duncan cleared his throat. “May I introduce Miss Anderson?”

  “But of course. Your fiancée. What a pleasure it is to meet you, Miss Anderson.”

  “And you, Miss Chevrolet,” Cora replied. “You have a lovely singing voice.”

  “Oooh, you liked it. Thank you so very much.” A small frown pinched the space between her brows. “You are ever so much prettier.”

  Prettier than what? Cora wondered. She glanced at Duncan. His attention remained locked on Bridgette Chevrolet. Cora’s instincts told her that he’d talked about her with the actress on more than one occasion, and his words hadn’t been complimentary of the woman he planned to marry.