And I loved Gideon. His silent brooding. His big, beating heart. His strength. His kindness.
He was the man I would spend my life with, and that was just the way things were going to be. I was done making myself smaller because I was afraid of taking up space.
Gideon had told me—and shown me—that my vaginismus wasn’t even close to a dealbreaker for him. I realized, as I loaded my machine into the back of my car, that the only person it had been a dealbreaker for wasme. I’d used it as a shield to keep him at arm’s length.
Not anymore.
If I wanted Gideon to trust that I would stay here for him, with him, then I had to trust him too. Trust that he would stay with me even if my vaginismus never got better. Even if I got sick someday in a more serious way. If I decided to change careers. If I got pregnant.
The only way this relationship would work was if we each took one big step toward each other, over the swirling abyss of the unknown.
I was ready. The question was… was he?
With trembling hands, I texted Gideon to ask him where he was. I even sent the dreaded, “We need to talk,” and I didn’t even feel bad about it.
Then I slipped my phone back in my pocket and re-entered Life’s a Stitch. The last thing I had to pack up was Lola’s dress. I carefully folded the muslin draft and set it in a bag with the pink silk. I pinned Lola’s measurements to the side of the fabricbag, then took one last look around the room to make sure I had everything I needed.
The door opened behind me, bringing in a gust of cold air. I straightened, heart thumping, and took a moment to prepare myself for the conversation that would change the course of my life. Gideon was here.
I turned.
Frowned.
Froze.
Because it wasn’t Gideon standing silhouetted in the doorway. It took me a few seconds to recognize him, even though my body’s primal reaction was instant. Cold fear iced my spine. The back of my neck prickled. My legs tensed, ready to run.
With a gun clutched in his right hand, wearing old jeans, a dirty hoodie, and a blue baseball cap, and his beard grown out to a scraggly, graying mess, Henry looked like a stranger.
I blinked—and looked at his hat again. I recognized that hat. I’d seen it at The Pier during my very first week in town.
Horror and fear shocked me into inaction. Henry had been here the whole time.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, giving me an awful smile. His eyes were fevered, and his hands trembled as he gestured toward me with the gun, then used it to point at the door. “It’s time for you to come home.”
TWENTY-NINE
GIDEON
Sadie’s ring waited for me on the bedside table at the cottage. She was gone.
After filling the home—and my life—with love and laughter and light, she’d taken everything and left. Just like I knew she would.
Well, not everything. When I pulled open the closet, I found a garment bag hanging on its own. With a tug, I unzipped it and let her wedding dress spill out over my fingers. A sound stuck halfway between a grunt and a whine escaped my throat as pain slashed across my chest.
It was as if she’d wanted to leave all the evidence of our marriage behind. Pretend it had never happened.
What had I expected? I slid the mirrored closet door closed and was confronted with my reflection. Ugly, scarred, disfigured reflection. It was just like Ivan Popov had said: It made no sense for someone like me to end up with someone like her. The old man had simply been saying the quiet part out loud.
Disgusted, I turned away, grateful when my phone chimed. I needed any distraction I could get.
But it was her. Sadie’s name illuminated my screen, her text message saying she wanted to talk. What the hell did we have to talk about? Why couldn’t she just leave? We’d both be better off when she was gone. I could focus on my company, and Sadie could find someone else. Someone better.
I stalked back out of the bedroom, ignoring the message.
Anger was a helpful buffer against the pain of my heartbreak. I used it as I grabbed the throw pillows she’d made and tossed them in the trash.
My phone rang, and I ignored it. I kept prowling around the cottage, remembering the way Sadie had looked when she sat and sewed, or how she’d laughed at one of my jokes when she lay on the couch just there, or how I’d kissed her in the kitchen against that cabinet, or how she’d moaned when I’d made her come in the shower and the vanity and the bed.
