knees, the wind knocked out of him for the second time in the same day. What had he been thinking? He’d been in a dark, unhappy place ever since Arlene’s death. He winced, realizing he might have wished to join her a time or two. But he’d been wrong. So wrong.
His late wife had given her life to bring their son into the world. The son he’d all but ignored for ten months. How could he have practically thrown her gift away? It was up to him to honor her memory by being a father—a real dad—for their child. He only hoped he wasn’t too late. So far, he’d shied away from the baby, but starting today, he’d change. He’d forge a relationship with the boy.
After all, LJ was the only child he’d ever have. He might not know where he was headed or what he was going to do with the rest of his life, but he did know that much.
With Gold trailing behind him, he set off toward the ranch. It was just as well he was out of cell phone reach, he told himself. He had some thinking to do, and out here with the sun beating down mercilessly on his back was just the place to do it.
* * *
“THANKS FOR VISITING. If you have any trouble with those new strings, bring your fiddle in, and I’ll adjust them for you. Free of charge.”
Lisa handed the paper bag to the young man who’d wandered into the shop just as she was sitting down to lunch. Though he’d strummed every instrument on her shelves and taken her best mandolin into the soundproofed room for a tryout, he’d purchased only a single package of new strings. She smiled as widely as if he’d spent a small fortune. A customer was still a customer. And if this one didn’t reach down deep for a new top-of-the-line instrument today, he’d come back when he was ready. At least, that was the theory.
She swept a critical eye over the tidy little storefront as the bell over the door chimed with the departure of the afternoon’s lone visitor. The shelves gleamed with a fresh coat of linseed oil. She had dusted and tuned every instrument until they looked and sounded their best. Books and sheet music stood in neat rows on racks. Guitar straps hung from pegs. Beyond her windows, traffic moved in fits and starts, regulated by out-of-sync traffic lights at either end of the street. A steady stream of pedestrians hurried past. From the bulging white bags they carried when they passed by her window again, she knew they’d visited the bakery.
But none of them ducked into her shop. With nothing to do but kill time before the jam and her first practice with Garrett, she grabbed the lunch she’d stashed in the fridge in the back room. She’d just taken her first bite of her sandwich when the bell over the door jingled again. She glanced up from her perch behind the cash register. Her spine stiffened as a round man in a tight-fitting suit tugged a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He mopped his forehead with it.
What was her lawyer doing here?
She swallowed drily and lowered the sandwich to her plate, her appetite evaporating. “Clyde.” She nodded, standing. Her paper bag rustled as she shoved the rest of her lunch beneath the counter. “Good to see you. What brings you all the way to Okeechobee? Business with another client?”
She could only hope. Whatever had forced the attorney to make the two-hour drive inland from Fort Pierce had to be important. And probably bad news.
Clyde’s head bobbed as he spoke. “I figured, with your connections, you’d wind up in Nashville. This looks nice. Real nice.”
The attorney hadn’t shown up today just to congratulate her on a new business venture. Not when a phone call would have accomplished the same thing. Cutting her ties with friends she’d shared with her ex had been part of the reason she’d chosen this small south Florida town.
She sighed. Brad must have thrown another monkey wrench into their divorce proceedings. So far, he’d been dragging his feet at every juncture.
“If Brad wants more money...” Lisa deliberately steered her gaze away from the practically empty till. She was pretty sure Clyde knew her net worth down to the last penny. As part of the divorce process, he’d combed through her books and accounts before splitting everything right down the middle. According to Florida law, that was the norm in so-called amicable divorces. In her case, though, it meant she had given Brad half her savings while he gave her half his debts.
The sleeves of Clyde’s three-piece suit clung to his upper arms when he held up his hands. “No, no. That’s not it at all. Mr. Rose is perfectly happy with the financial end of things.”
“He ought to be,” she muttered. For the rest of her life, Brad would get his share of the royalties on the songs she’d written while they were married, even though he hadn’t contributed so much as a line or a chord to their creation. “What does he want?”
“Surprisingly, nothing. He’s signed his copy of the settlement decree. In fact, he’s asked the courts to move up the final hearing. He wants the divorce over and done with as soon as possible. That’s why I’m here—to get your signature so we can put an end to this and you can move forward with your life.”
“Now? Now he’s in a hurry?” Lisa tugged on the end of her braid. For the last six months, Brad had treated the divorce proceedings with his usual smug indifference and insisted she’d eventually come back to him. She should be happy he’d finally thrown in the towel, but she had to know why. “What’s the rush?”
“I heard he and Jessie have set a date,” Clyde answered without meeting her eyes. “Two weeks from Friday.”
So Brad and the backup singer had decided to tie the knot. Lisa stared out the window at the people who sped past, anxious to get out of the heat. She waited, but the expected rush of disappointment and pain never materialized. She supposed she’d known their marriage was doomed from the moment Brad had denied her pleas for another round of in vitro fertilization. Finding him in bed with Jessie had only brought things to a head. That still didn’t explain why, after dragging his feet for so long, her ex had decided to move forward. Lisa sifted through possible reasons until she stumbled on one that made her ill. She tilted her head. “Clyde, what do you know?”
“Nothing for certain,” the lawyer protested, though the red that crept up his neck and onto his face said he did.
“She’s pregnant?” Despite her efforts, Lisa’s voice rose.
On the other side of counter, Clyde’s color deepened to crimson. The man studied his toes. “Four months, according to Jessie’s Facebook page.”
Lisa’s stomach churned, and she swallowed bile. Her attorney had warned her away from social media until the divorce was final. Apparently Brad and Jessie hadn’t received the same message. She clutched the display case, her fingers leaving damp, sweaty prints on the glass. “Pregnant,” she whispered.
“Unexplained infertility” was the best diagnosis the doctors could offer her to explain five long years of trying, and failing, to get pregnant. When they suggested stress might be the culprit, she’d come off the road, spent a year writing songs and living a quiet life, but that hadn’t worked any better than the vile herbal tonics her sister, the health nut, had suggested. IVF had been her last hope. They’d tried one round. But in reality she was the only one trying by that point. Brad had given up months earlier, complaining that no child was worth the hell the hormones put her body through. Or the outrageous expense, though he hadn’t contributed one dime toward the cost. Tens of thousands of dollars later, all she’d had to show for her efforts were a busted marriage and a bucket of tears. Through it all, she’d clung to the faint hope that her body wasn’t to blame. That some day, some way, she’d be able to conceive.
But
