He crossed the threshold. She’d put the cinnamon rolls on plates and added napkins, knives, and forks to each place. Two mugs waited beside a small coffeemaker.
“Where do you want me?”
“Either spot is fine.” She moved to the coffeemaker and poured them each a cup. “Sugar or cream?”
“Black.”
She set his mug on the table, added a healthy dose of cream and a teaspoon of sugar to hers, and joined him. “Where did you put Button?”
“In the garage. I’ll bury him in the backyard tomorrow morning.”
She stirred her coffee. “Do you think Molly should see him first—or be there for the . . . burial?”
“Do you?”
Her brow pinched. “Sometimes that makes it more real. But she’s already been through her Nana’s death. That’s fresh enough in her mind and should give her the gist of what happened without the ritual. Seeing where he’s buried may be sufficient.”
“I was thinking along those same lines.” He took a tentative sip of his coffee. Not a bad brew for a tea drinker.
As if she’d read his mind, the corners of her mouth tweaked again. “I know how to make coffee. My dad loved his java, and even though I always preferred tea, he insisted I learn how to brew a decent cup.”
“My thanks to your dad.”
He waited, letting her set the pace, giving her a chance to organize her thoughts and tell him her story in the way that was most comfortable for her.
She broke off a bite of cinnamon roll with her fork but didn’t eat it. “My comment about how seeing a body makes death more real is based on personal experience. I didn’t have that opportunity. It was just a memorial service.”
Again, he wanted to reach out and touch her. Instead, he held on to his mug to keep his hands where they belonged. “Who did you lose, Jeannette?”
She drew a shaky breath. “Everyone.”
She’d said that before, but it wasn’t computing.
How could a person lose everyone they loved in one fell swoop?
Even with the Shabos, three had survived the horrendous act of terrorism that had decimated their family.
“What do you mean by everyone?”
“I mean everyone. My entire family. Mother, father, brother, sister-in-law, niece—even my brother’s d-dog.” Her voice rasped, and she picked up her mug with both hands. Took a sip as her eyes began to shimmer.
Logan’s stomach bottomed out as he tried to digest that bombshell.
The kind of loss she’d sustained was almost incomprehensible.
Yet she’d endured.
Meaning the slender woman sitting across from him had tremendous emotional stamina—perhaps more than she realized.
He remained silent while she composed herself. Hoping she’d continue the story without more questions from him—and he had plenty.
A few seconds later, she did.
“It was a plane crash. My dad was the pilot—but it wasn’t his fault. The investigators from the FAA and National Transportation Safety Board found a mechanical defect in the aircraft Dad had rented. It was a new plane, but this was a factory error. The plane caught fire after the crash, and there . . . there wasn’t much left to find by the time the emergency crews put it out.” Her throat worked as she swallowed.
As Logan tried to process the horror of that scenario, she hit him with a second bombshell.
“I was supposed to be on the plane too.” She swiped up a glob of icing that had dripped onto her plate. Wiped it off her finger with a napkin. “It was a thirty-fifth anniversary trip for my mom and dad. We were all going to Hilton Head. But the flu was decimating the staff at my school, and they asked me to delay my trip two days while they rounded up subs.”
As the truth slammed home, his pulse stuttered.
If Jeannette hadn’t agreed to stay behind, she would have died too.
He gripped his mug to steady his fingers. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through.”
“Don’t try. It’s not a place you want to go.” Her voice hitched, and she motioned to his roll. “That’s g-getting cold.”
“I can nuke it again.” But he wouldn’t. His appetite had vanished. “You told me a couple of weeks ago that you moved here because you needed a change of scene—now I can understand why.”
“Most people back in Cincinnati didn’t—but there was nothing left for me there except memories that made me sad. And I had the financial resources to start over somewhere else. I was the beneficiary of several insurance policies and wills, and those funds—along with the settlement money from the plane manufacturer—gave me the seed money for this place. Literally. Plus a fair amount to spare. Financial stability is one problem I never have to worry about.” She took a tiny sip of coffee. “So now you know my story.”
Yeah, he did.
And more—including the reason she shied away from relationships.
If you didn’t care for people, you couldn’t get hurt. Letting anyone—or anything—get too close could lead to loss . . . and pain.
As Button’s demise today had affirmed.
Could the timing of that have been any worse?
If there had been any softening in Jeannette’s resolve to keep her distance from others, the kitten casualty would convince her to shore it up—unless he did some fast talking and offered a compelling argument for a different course.
“After hearing your story, I can understand why you want no involvements.” He watched her as he spoke.
She met his gaze straight on. “I hoped you would. That’s why I shared it with you. And please don’t try to convince me to change my mind. The life I’ve created works for me.”
“Does it make you happy?” He kept his manner conversational. Nonjudgmental.
“I’m . . . content.”
“In every way?”
She gave him a wary look. “What do you mean?”
“I can see why keeping people at arm’s length is safer for your heart—but it’s kind of like that old saying about boats. While they’re safe in harbors, that’s not what they’re built for. I think that’s true of the heart too. It can’t fully be alive without love.”
Her chin rose a fraction. “It can’t be broken, either.”
“But like a ship that never sails, a heart that’s never used isn’t living up to its potential. Especially one as caring and giving and loving as yours.”
Several beats passed, and when she spoke at last her tone was sad—but firm. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Logan. And I’m flattered. But I’ve thought this through long and hard—and I still choose loneliness over the risk of loss.”
He had no comeback for that.
With time—and tenacity—it was possible he could convince her to change her mind and give love another chance.
But perhaps that was selfish. Who was he to tell Jeannette how to live her life? After all she’d been through, after all the deliberation she’d given this, it was possible her choice was the best one for her.
Even if his instincts weren’t buying that.
“Can I say I’m disappointed?” He tried for a smile but only half succeeded.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”