A Walk Along the Beach by Debbie Macomber Page 0,91
I had to accept that this wasn’t the right moment.
Depressed and at a loss for how best to make matters right, I drove home. Bandit walked into the living room, looked around, and sat down on his haunches by the front door. It was as if he wanted to say that if I was leaving again, he was finished with me.
“Okay, point taken.”
With a sense of purpose and resolve, I unpacked my bags and started a load of wash. My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all day. The refrigerator was shockingly empty unless I was interested in a mustard-and-ketchup sandwich.
On the bottom of my list of things I wanted to do was go grocery shopping. However, my stomach wasn’t the only one I needed to feed. Not thirty minutes after I arrived home, I was in my car again, Bandit curled up and asleep in the backseat.
* * *
—
The following morning, I went in search of Willa a second time. Bandit didn’t look pleased when I left the house. Can’t say I blamed him. Seemed every time I walked away it was for a good long while. Not something I’d recommend in relationship-building, both with my rescue dog and with my girl.
I connected with Pastor McDonald at the parsonage and met his wife, the woman who’d answered the door.
“You’re Willa’s young man,” he said, remembering our brief meeting.
“Yes. I returned from a business trip in Chicago yesterday. How’s Willa holding up?”
He didn’t hesitate, his eyes holding mine. “She’s taken the death of her sister hard.”
“Do you think I should seek her out?” I asked, needing guidance. “Or would it be best to wait?” I called myself a coward, afraid of what Willa might say or do when she saw me. I was afraid she didn’t want me in her life any longer, and I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, accept that.
“She’s at the church now,” he said.
That didn’t answer my question. “Then I should go to her? Will that help?”
“Can’t hurt.” He didn’t seem to have strong feelings one way or the other, which wasn’t encouraging.
“Thank you,” I said, and left to walk over to the church.
Stepping into the dim interior of the church, I found Willa sitting in the front pew, staring at the altar. Silently, I slid into the row and sat next to her, leaving a small amount of space between us.
She glanced up when I sat down, paused, and then looked away.
We sat in silence for several minutes. I reached for her hand and gave it a soft squeeze before she dragged it away as though she didn’t want or need my touch.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
Willa shook her head.
“What about for your family?”
Again, she declined. “There’s nothing anyone can do. Thanks for asking.”
Although she didn’t say it, I noticed the tension in her seemed to increase the longer I sat by her side. Her back stiffened and she bowed her head as if willing me to leave.
The last thing I wanted to do was walk away. And yet I felt like an intruder, unwanted, a nuisance. I reasoned it was guilt weighting me down. Reluctantly, I stood, wanting her to stop me. She didn’t.
“I’m here if you need me.”
Willa emitted a soft snicker. “You’re a little late for that.”
I longed to defend myself. I wasn’t a mind reader. If she’d told me, if I’d known how close to death Harper had been, I would have taken the next flight out of Chicago. Screw the project; Willa needed me. Only she wasn’t answering my calls, had ignored both my texts and voicemails. Knowing how badly she was hurting, I swallowed down the need to defend myself.
Moving to the end of the pew, I turned back. Willa hadn’t budged; she continued to stare straight ahead, as if I’d already left the church. I found it impossible to leave matters as they were.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me,” I told her.
Silence.
“Can you forgive me?” My heart raced as I waited for her answer.
Then and only then did she turn to look at me, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “Of course.”
I should have been relieved, but the indifference in her response had the opposite effect.
“I’m serious, Willa. Words can’t express how bad I feel about all this. I should have been with you, should have been the one you could lean on for support to see you through those last days with your sister.”