His Best Friend's Wife

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_294ac24b-cbec-5458-a5ad-db26479dd590)

TEN MINUTES LATER, Paul was behind the wheel of his car and heading out of town along River Road. The drive from town to the country brought back a lot of memories, most of them bittersweet.

As kids, he and Jack and Eric had ridden their bikes out here during summer holidays. That had been before they knew about Finnegan Farm or the oldest Finnegan girl, who’d been destined to earn the love of not one but two good men. In those days, they’d been more interested in doing what boys do best when there was no adult supervision—competing to see who could ride the farthest without touching the handlebars, who could spit the farthest when they were munching on sunflower seeds and who could string together the longest series of swear words. Fortunately for the women of the world, boys eventually grew into men.

Jack had been the first to get his driver’s license, and that summer had been a blur of illicit parties. By then, Jack was dating a girl named Belinda and Eric was dating Annie, leaving Paul on the sidelines. The girls he ended up being paired with were friends of either Annie’s or Belinda’s. Sometimes there was the occasional girl he’d mustered the courage to ask out himself. None of them had turned into girlfriends, though. He’d been preoccupied with Annie and his futile hope that she would realize he was a far better catch than Eric.

She hadn’t, of course. But that was then and this was now. He knew better than to think she could miraculously stop grieving the loss of her husband and realize Paul was the second love of her life. But now that she was single and he was home, he intended to rekindle their long-time friendship. After seeing her so upset at the clinic yesterday, he could tell she was struggling a little—maybe more than a little. He would be there for her. His might even be the shoulder she leaned on when the going got rough.

Just ahead he spotted the white gazebo on the riverbank. Situated on the narrow strip of public land that ran between River Road and the Mississippi, it had been built by Annie’s grandfather. There was a small parking area where anyone passing by could stop and enjoy the view. The landmark would always be known to locals as Finnegan’s gazebo. To Paul, it would always be the place where Eric had proposed to Annie, and where Annie had said yes.

Paul signaled, slowed and swung into the driveway then drove up the sloping, fence-lined gravel drive that separated two paddocks, one of which had a series of jumps set up in it. At the house, he parked in the roundabout next to a large white van and in front of a painted wooden sign, both embellished with the Finnegan Farm Bed & Breakfast name and logo.

The two-and-a-half-story farmhouse had been built at least a hundred years ago. As a teenager, Paul had spent a fair bit of time here. After Eric had married Annie and moved in, he hadn’t set foot in the place.

The clapboard exterior was still a crisp white and the trim was barn-red, just as he remembered. The wraparound screened porch was furnished with wicker and painted wood furniture. The white lace curtains in the windows, the old yellow dog sleeping on the welcome mat at the front door—it was as if time had stood still. Even the wheelchair ramp adjacent to the front steps had been there for as long as Paul had been coming here. Everyone in Riverton knew about Thomas Finnegan’s acts of heroism during Desert Storm and about the lives he had saved while almost giving up his own. Soon after he’d come home to his family in a wheelchair, his wife had abandoned him and his daughters. Annie, the oldest of the three, had taken on the role of caregiver and Paul knew she continued to fulfill it. The big question for Paul had always been...who took care of Annie?

* * *

ANNIE LOVED WEEKEND mornings. Every Saturday, her sisters gathered around the big kitchen island for coffee and muffins and sisterly conversation. The three of them had always been close, but after Eric died, she had valued these get-togethers more than ever. This morning she was anticipating another visitor, a little too eagerly, perhaps. She was sliding a pan of lemon-cranberry muffins into the oven when she heard the knock at the front door.

Paul! She hastily set the timer and made her way to the door. She opened it and felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Paul.”

“Good morning, Annie. I hope I’m not too early. When you invited me, I might have forgotten to mention that my shift at the clinic starts at ten o’clock.”

“Not a problem, and it’s definitely not too early. Come in, please.”

He stepped inside, seemed to hesitate before he opened his arms. She stepped into the awkward hug and instantly felt the same zing of awareness she’d had yesterday. CJ’s insistence that this was a date rushed through her mind.

Paul leaned down and planted a kiss on top of her head.

Definitely not a date, she reminded herself.

“Come to the kitchen. There’s fresh coffee, and I just put a second batch of muffins in the oven.”

“Wow,” he said as he followed her. “Eric wasn’t exaggerating. You really have made some big changes in here.”

“We renovated about five years ago, after I decided to open the B and B. The old kitchen was quaint but it sure wasn’t functional. We kept the original cabinets, but we painted them, and we kept these old farmhouse-style door and drawer pulls.”

“Those are original? They look as though they could have been installed yesterday.”

“You know what they say—everything old is new again.” She often congratulated herself on that decision. Now, when she checked out design magazines, she could see they were once again in vogue. The same could be said for Great-Grandmother Finnegan’s metal canisters, still lined up along the counter, their red lids with the paint chipped from years of use, the cherry-cluster decoration on the fronts faded but still cheery. Their contents still matched the stenciled labels—flour, sugar, coffee, tea.

“I wanted modern conveniences without sacrificing family tradition,” she said. The cabinet drawers were filled with fresh linens and towels and all the modern gadgets she used every day to prepare the meals she served to her family and guests. Nestled among them, though, were the old wooden rolling pin her grandmother had used to roll countless pie crusts and strudels, and the old hand-crank eggbeater that Annie and her sisters had been allowed to use before they could be trusted with an electric appliance. She indicated the upper cabinets. “We added these glass doors because I wanted to display this vintage crockery and glassware. They’ve been in the family for generations.”

“I’m impressed. I remember Eric’s emails about the work you were doing. It was hard to imagine him in a tool belt, though, wielding a hammer.”

“Eric was...helpful,” Annie said, giving a weak laugh. “Although I’m not sure the contractor would have agreed with that statement.”

Paul laughed, too. “That sounds like Eric, all right. How’s Isaac this morning?” he asked, taking a seat at the island.

“He’s fine.” She took a mug out of the cupboard, filled it with coffee and passed it to Paul. Her hand grazed his and gave her a little jolt.

“Thanks.” His smile had the same effect on her heart.

“After we came home yesterday, I tried putting an ice pack on his shoulder like you suggested, but he wouldn’t sit still long enough for it to do any good.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“It is. I’m sorry I was such a basket case yesterday, but I was so worried.”

“Annie, don’t apologize. Your reaction was completely understandable.”

“He’s already down at the stable with CJ. They’re saddling the horses for the kids who come every Saturday morning for riding therapy.”

“And your father?”

“He’s down there, too. He often rides with them.”

“Impressive. I’d like to come and watch sometime.”

“We can go down and check out the class this morning if you’d like.”

“Thanks. Maybe another time. I’m good right here for today.”

She was oddly pleased that he had opted to stay in the kitchen with her. “How’s your father doing?” she asked.

Paul sighed. “As sharp-tongued as ever. Now he just can’t remember why. Although, come to think of it, I’m not sure he ever had a good reason.”

“I’m sorry. I know a lot of people in town were surprised to hear that he was retiring, but everyone was shocked to hear he has Alzheimer’s. He seems too young for that.”

“Most people think of it as a geriatric condition but the truth is that as many as five percent of patients are afflicted before they turn sixty-five.”

“I had no idea,” Annie said. “That’s so sad.”

The timer pinged. She pulled the pan from the oven, dumped the muffins into a cloth-lined basket. She set out side plates and knives, butter and a small pot of her homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam, and placed the basket on the island. “Help yourself,” she said. “Lemon-cranberry, fresh from the oven, obviously, but they’ll cool quickly.”

“You won’t have to twist my arm,” Paul said. “They smell amazing, but I’ll only have one if you pour yourself a cup of coffee and sit with me.”

“Of course.” She wasn’t accustomed to sitting still in her own kitchen, but she refilled her mug and settled onto a stool, careful to leave an empty one between her and Paul.

“These taste as wonderful as they smell,” he said, after his first bite of the piping hot muffin he had sliced in half and generously slathered with butter and jam.

“I’m glad you like them. I bake muffins every Saturday morning. My sisters and I have a coffee date after CJ’s riding class is over, and I freeze the leftovers for family and guests who come to stay.”

“How’s that going?” he asked. “The bed-and-breakfast? It sounds like a lot of work.”