Page 26 of Their Stormy Reunion

“Fallon, tell me you know that.”

“Can we not do this?” I said, my voice tight. “I know where I stand. I know you and Dad always wanted a boy.”

“Where did you ever get that idea?” Her voice cracked. “I was thrilled to bring a daughter home from the hospital. Don’t you remember baking together? Or how about reading Little Women for Mrs. Oxley’s class? You wouldn’t have passed without us tackling that together.”

“I hated that book,” I said, lips twitching. “Even Jo seemed wimpy.”

Mom laughed again, a softer sound this time. “I should’ve known you’d grow up to be a big-deal businesswoman.”

“Yeah, but I liked Mrs. March. She was kickass, keeping everything together.”

Her face fell, the laughter vanishing as quickly as it had come. “Your grandmother was like her. She made every one of us feel like we were her favorite.”

“Do you regret moving from Connecticut?” I asked quietly.

She sighed, her gaze turning distant. “I’d have followed your dad to the ends of the earth. But yes, I wish I’d been closer to my family. I wish I’d been with Mom when she died.”

I pulled off my gardening glove and laid a hand on her wrist. “She knew you loved her.”

She nodded but didn’t speak. Then, with a deep breath, she asked, “Why did you call off the wedding?”

The air seemed to still, the gentle rustling of leaves falling silent. “Why are you asking now?”

“I should’ve asked you then. Instead, I let your father’s anger carry me along. But I knew better. You didn’t want to be a big-shot career woman. You wanted to be Michael’s wife. You wanted to have his children.”

The words cut deep, because they were true.

Once.

“What happened, Fallon? What made you leave?”

I swallowed hard, the memories swirling, heavy and dark. “Why didn’t you ask me then?” I really wanted to know.

Her face crumpled. “Your father was so angry. How could you have left? How could you have embarrassed us like that? He was furious.”

“I tried calling the next week.”

“He wouldn’t take your calls.”

“I called when he was at work, Mom. You didn’t take my calls.”

She stared at the dirt between her knees, her silence louder than any words.

“I made a mistake,” she said finally, her voice hoarse.

Tears stung my eyes as I stood, brushing the dirt from my knees. Her face—so much like mine—was streaked with tears she didn’t bother to wipe away.

“You have to admit, you made a mistake, too,” she said, almost pleading.

I nodded, my throat tight. “You’re right. I made mistakes. But I was twenty-two, and I reached out. But you? You never reached back. I bet your mom would have.”

More tears fell as I turned and walked away.

Chapter Eight

“Hi, Dad,” I said, shifting my truck into reverse. “Mom still making chicken and dumplings on Sunday?”

“She sure is,” he replied, his tone carrying the warmth of a ritual we’d both come to count on.