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When he was gone, Cate sighed and sat down on the bed. This had been “her” bedroom growing up. Becca’s was the one on the other side of the bathroom. Sleeping in this cozy spot with the thick quilt and down pillows had produced a feeling of safety and contentment that hadn’t been replicated before or since.
Not that she wanted to be a kid again. She didn’t. But sometimes it would be nice to go back in time, even if only for a few days.
She unpacked her things, listening all the while for sounds of Harry’s presence down the hall. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it quietly.
Because she was too unsettled to sleep, she changed into shorts and a sports bra, twisted her hair on top of her head, and slipped downstairs. At the last moment, she remembered she had left the key on top of her dresser.
It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going far. Leaving the door unlocked was no biggie.
Outside, the air felt fresh and sweet. It was dark now, but in the west, a hint of pink lingered, leftover from sunset. She started out walking, but soon, she felt the urge for speed. Maybe she was trying to run away from her problems or even her uncomfortable thoughts.
Either way, it felt good to push herself. Instead of venturing far afield, she simply circled a three-block section of the neighborhood. Occasionally she waved when she saw people enjoying the evening on their porches.
This idyllic existence had been her world for the first twelve years of her life. Even now, the memories stirred a restless longing in her heart. Not that she wanted to live here. Did she? Atlanta was home now, right? The fact that she wasn’t sure made her antsy.
But this was what marrying Jason had represented to her. A chance to put down roots, to build a family, to carve out a place and build traditions of their own. He’d moved away at a young age also, but since his family had the lake house to come back to, he was equally in tune with Blossom Branch.
She realized suddenly that her thoughts of Jason hadn’t curled her stomach in a painful knot. Despite what he had done, she still loved him. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she and Jason had been more like friends with benefits than passionate lovers.
To be fair, Cate wasn’t sure the passionate love found in books and movies existed. And if she were being excruciatingly honest, who wanted that? It seemed dangerous at best.
Look at her. Losing Jason was the most painful experience of her life.
If she had been madly, desperately in love with him, this whole wedding fiasco would have been even more devastating.
Nine
At last, sweaty and exhausted, she headed for the house.
Only when she tried to open the door did she remember that it sometimes locked automatically. That was why her grandparents had hidden the key in the first place. The tiny mechanism on the knob was finicky.
No problem. She dialed Harry’s number. This was embarrassing, but hardly at the top of the list.
He didn’t answer. Not even when she tried a second time and a third.
Several possibilities presented themselves. He could be asleep already or in the shower. Worst of all, he might have silenced his phone for the night.
And he had no clue Cate was outside.
Damn.
She debated her options. None were ideal. Though she hadn’t set the alarm when she left, she knew all the downstairs windows were locked tight. Grandpa would have done that before leaving on vacation.
And then she remembered. When she and Harry had first gone upstairs tonight, Cate had raised both windows at the ends of the hallway to get air flowing while they waited for the AC to lower the temperature.
She remembered pulling both windows back down later, but she didn’t remember turning the locks. Oh, please. Let that be true. She might have secured them automatically without thinking about it.
On the end of the house where she was sleeping, there wasn’t so much as a bush to aid a burglar. But near Harry’s bedroom, a sturdy trellis supported her Grammy’s prized American Beauty climbing roses.
When she was ten, Cate had scrambled halfway up that trellis on a dare from a friend in the neighborhood. Young Cate had chickened out and scuttled back down. Current Cate was fifteen years older and a lot heavier.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost eleven. As her daddy would say, it was time to fish or cut bait.
Carefully, she put one sneaker-clad foot on the bottom rung of the wooden trellis. It seemed solid enough. The crossbars were spaced twelve inches apart. Cate reached up with her right hand and moved her left foot to the next perch, all the while trying to avoid large thorns.
It was an impossible task. Not the climbing. That was going reasonably well. But her attempt not to crush her grandmother’s rose blossoms and at the same time protect her fingers and arms and lower legs was hopeless.
Doggedly, she moved higher. One thorn caught the top of her knuckle and dug in painfully. “Ouch, damn it,” she muttered, clinging with one hand while she sucked the deep gouge.
