Page 64 of Romantic

“Brandon . . . you need to take your medicine.”

He mumbles something.

“What was that?” I ask.

More steady breathing.

“He can be a really sound sleeper,” says Pepper.

“I see that.” I turn on the bedside table lamp. “Can you turn off the overhead light?” I ask Pepper.

“Sure thing.” We both watch Brandon sleeping.

“Do you think you’re going to marry my dad?” she asks softly.

“Your dad has made it clear he has no interest in remarrying.”

“But you’d marry him?”

“Brandon is the best man I know. I can’t imagine that he’d ever want to marry me.”

As I say this, I know in my heart that I would absolutely marry Brandon. Meeting him wasn’t the lightning bolt I expected. No, this is the slow steady love of spending many ordinary hours together. It’s more like the gradual change in the woods each spring. At first, you don’t even notice the new buds on the branches—and then suddenly everything is covered in flowers.

I asked Lady Whimple for clarity, but now it’s clear that what I needed most was patience. How silly to expect to know everything all at once; as a gardener I know full well that some of the best things in life take time.

“But if he asked?” She looks up me at so eagerly that I’m compelled to answer honestly.

“I don’t dare imagine anything so wonderful.” She nods, then smiles her big Pepper smile.

“Lucky for you, I can imagine it. And I have another notebook.”

Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever? —Sense and Sensibility

20

Annie

Pepper and I set up her air mattress next to my bed, using an old patchwork quilt and faded floral sheets that were on my twin bed when I was about her age. I also unbox some of my favorite stuffed animals to keep company with Pepper’s favorite stuffie, Bruce the Attack Bunny.

She asks me to read Little Women to her. She’s been reading it on her own, and she’s near the end when Jo publishes her book.

“That’s what I want to do, someday,” she says dreamily. “Write books.”

“I bet you will. You are always writing.” I don’t bother to tell her that I used to have the same dream. I see no point in discouraging her. I really think Pepper will be a great writer someday. She certainly spends enough time writing in her notebook.

I think that might be my problem. I like flowers more than writing. Whenever I’m stressed, I go to my garden. Brandon often tells me he thinks I could do something more with my passion for flowers. And I’m beginning to think he might be right.

All my life I’ve said I’d never marry a widower. I hated the idea of being second in anyone’s heart. But I don’t know . . . watching how Brandon loves and cares for Pepper, I am not too worried about being second in his heart, or even third; I just want the chance to be with him.

I lie in bed, the pain in my ankle now subdued to a low ache, and think of Brandon—his steadfast devotion and his little quirks and habits. He has this face he makes when he thinks my plan is totally ridiculous, but he’s going to go along with it anyway. . . . I’d take Brandon climbing up Lady Whimple over all of Jack’s fine words any day. Once again, I can’t believe how blind I have been. My only defense is that I was unsure of Brandon’s feelings. To tell the truth, I’m still not sure. That kiss may have simply been a lapse in judgment that he now regrets. Maybe he’s going to recover and tell me that he’s still not ready to date. Eventually, despite the chaos in my head, I drift off to sleep.

When I wake, I find Pepper has climbed into my bed. She looks so young, hugging her bunny, with her hair splayed out on her pillow. I want to be her stepmom so badly—not just because she’s Brandon’s daughter, but because I love her. I just want the right to take care of Pepper. I’m keenly aware of all the ways I’ve let her down. I vow to do better. I kiss my hand, then gently pat it on her hair. I climb out of bed and tiptoe down the hall, which is literally impossible to do with my clunky cast. I meant to check on Brandon without waking him, but the clunk, clunk of my approach disturbs his sleep.

“Annie?” he says in a sleepy voice.

“How are you?”

“Not good.” He’s adorably disheveled, but I hate to see him this sick.