My shoulders slumped. “They’ve had their chance to be young by now, but they haven’t returned.”
Gregor’s hand tightened on mine. “That’s real fear they’re facing now. You grew up while they did, and I don’t think they know how to come home to a stranger.”
There were no words for the emotions that churned in my gut, the uncertainty, the anger, and the confusion. In many ways, I’d learned to cope with my past by loving my uncle and his home too much. I’d planted my soul here, and then I’d met Heathcliff’s shoes. The young man wearing them was making me search deeper within myself than I wanted to. He was making me care about him, care about something other than this house and the sweet Southern air beyond the windows.
“Let yourself bloom, Hawthorne,” my uncle whispered. “Open yourself up.”
Taking a deep, chest-expanding breath, I breathed, “And if I’m making a mistake? If I’m making the wrong choice?”
Uncle Gregor patted my hand. “Choices aren’t always mistakes, but they are always defining.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“If you did, you wouldn’t be young.”
Tugging my hand away from his, I stood and stepped away from the table, my back to him. “Do you believe in love?”
His chair scraped the floor. “I do, but ask me why I do.”
Turning to face him, I mumbled, “Why?”
“Because I believe in you. Because no matter how many times your heart is broken in life, your love will always be worth it.”
His words warmed my heart, but they also filled me with fear. “You think my heart will be broken?”
“I think your heart will learn. The heart can’t be broken if you don’t let it break. Let it, Hawthorne. People are so afraid of being broken that they don’t allow themselves to learn from the pain. The heart can’t be taught if you don’t give it something to learn.”
My chest felt funny, heavy and uncomfortable. “He plans to leave one day.”
Uncle Gregor stood and stepped toward me, his gaze full of warmth. “Then let him, but give him a reason to wish he’d stayed. You won’t understand this now, and I don’t expect you to, but know this: sometimes love isn’t forever. Sometimes it’s just moments in your life that teach you. If it’s the forever after kind of love, it’ll find you again. If it isn’t, don’t let a broken heart break you. Let it make you love harder. Love is a mistake worth making.”
There was passion in his voice, strong and sure, and I found myself smiling. “You know, you’re kind of wise, Uncle.”
He snorted. “No, I’m old. Now what’s for supper?”
I laughed, my gaze scanning his face, my eyes tracing the lines around his lips. Gregor was only forty-six years old. No matter how old that seemed to me right now, it was still too young to die.
Swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, I gasped, my question broken when I asked, “Are you afraid?”
“Afraid?”
A tear slid down my cheek. “Of dying?”
“Oh, Hawthorne.” Closing the distance between us, he pulled me into his embrace and tucked my head under his chin. He smelled of chicory and menthol. “I’m not dying. Not really.”
My sobs shook me, my nose and eyes leaking into his linen shirt, staining it. “I don’t know if I can make it without you.”
Gently, Gregor pulled me away from him, his eyes capturing mine. “You can do anything, Hawthorne. I won’t be leaving. Not really. People don’t die, we pass into memory. I’ll live through you, through your heart and your mind. That’s the wonderful thing about life. Our bodies die, but memory allows us to live in those we love.”
My sobs shook me. “I’m so scared. I want to pretend I’m not, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
Uncle Gregor gripped me. “Shhh …” he soothed, “I’d be more worried if you weren’t.”
We were doing a lot of hugging lately, my uncle and me, as if we needed every possible moment we had to say good-bye.
“You know,” I gasped, my voice shaking, “you’re supposed to be all against my having a relationship with someone. The whole protective I’ve got a gun bit.”
Uncle Gregor chuckled, the vibration a welcome comfort against my ear. “Is that so? I’m afraid I’m going to fail you there. The last time I held a gun, I managed to shoot up my grandma’s prized roses rather than the target.”
It was the first time I’d heard this story, and I smiled. “That’s not so bad.”
“It is when the target was on the other side of a creek opposite the house.”
“Oh,” I laughed, “that’s pretty bad.”
“It was considered safer that I didn’t have anything with a trigger after that.”
My chuckle mingled with his.
“Tell me your stories, Uncle. All of them,” I urged.
He grew still. “Some of them involve your parents, Hawthorne.”
There was silence, and then, “You said people don’t die, they pass into memory. I want you there in mine, the hard moments and the good,” I whispered.