Until There Was You

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT



“DAD? ARE YOU OKAY?”

Liam looked up from the strut he was installing. “Oh. Hi, Nicole.”

His daughter didn’t come down to the garage much…certainly not since the cold war that began when he grounded her. The past two weeks had been filled with Nicole either ignoring him or whining that, seriously, he had to lift the ban on Facebook, texting, cell phone and friends, which only made him more and more tense.

His daughter gave him that baffled look she’d perfected around age twelve. “Dad, I’ve been standing here for, like, ten minutes.” Her voice echoed off the walls of the garage.

“Sorry. What do you need?”

“I just thought we could hang out.”

He looked down, not sure he wanted her to know how much he’d missed her. “That’d be great.” Why the lessening of hostilities, he had no idea, but such was the way of the teenager. The knot that had been living in his gut lately loosened. “You hungry?”

“Not for any of that crap you have in the vending machine.” She gave him a pitying look—fathers, such idiots—and took an apple out of her backpack, along with a thick red book and a notebook.

“Geometry?” he asked.

“Physics. It’s easy, though.”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Thanks, old man.” She smiled—Emma’s smile—and it caught him in the heart. When Nicole had her first fever at four months old, she would only sleep if he rocked her, and even so, only in fifteen-minute installments. On the third day, Emma had come in from school, seen them both dozing in the rocking chair and said, “That baby is holding you hostage.”

Hadn’t stopped since.

Liam had received the letter from the Tates’ lawyer this week, gone to Allan Linkletter, who assured him that the odds of him losing full-time custody of his child, who was almost old enough to be emancipated in the eyes of the law, were very small.

They just weren’t small enough. The Tates had a lot of influence in the old-boy world around here. Liam could afford a good lawyer, that wasn’t an issue, but what if the judge was an old crony of George’s? What if Liam had slept with the judge’s daughter in high school?

Just last night, Liam had bolted awake from a recurring dream…Nicole calling him from far, far away, asking if he’d come get her. In the dream, he’d jumped on the Triumph and headed toward her, only to realize he didn’t know where she was. Then the dream changed, and it was Cordelia he was supposed to pick up. But she’d been waiting a long, long time, and by the time he got there, she didn’t remember who he was.

It felt like he hadn’t smiled in a lifetime. The slow evaporation of his wife’s love, the wasting sickness and endless, bleak months that followed, Nicole’s grief, then the accident and all its consequences…and now this. Now his damn in-laws and all their drama.

That little window with Cordelia seemed impossibly bright. The idea that a couple of weeks ago, he’d had someone to kiss, someone who made him laugh, someone who fell asleep against him as they watched a movie on the couch…someone who had told him not to sell himself short…that seemed like it had happened to someone else.

Best not to think of it.

“You have a game tonight, right, Dad?” Nicole asked.

Ah, crap. “That’s right.” A game against Cordelia’s team, no less. So much for not thinking about her.

“Can I come and watch?” Nicole asked.

“Sure.”

“Daddy, you seem sad,” Nic blurted, her own eyes filling.

“Oh, no, honey. I’m fine.”

“Do you miss Mom?” Her voice sounded so small.

“You bet.” He missed her, all right. He’d been missing her for a long, long time.

“Tell me something nice about her,” Nicole said.

It was something he’d done the first year or so after Emma died. Every day, he’d tell Nicole a story about her mom. The sweet things, the funny things, the normalcy that, before marriage, Liam had only ever seen on TV—pancakes on the weekends, family movie night, dinner together, every day. No matter how mundane the story, Nicole loved hearing about her mom—the way Emma insisted that they all floss nightly. The hot-water bottle on which she’d drawn a smiley face. The way she’d leave notes under Nicole’s pillow if she had to go away on business.

Then, when the story was over and Nicole was in bed, Liam would write that story in a notebook, his hand cramping, his head aching from the effort of keeping the letters where they should be. But when the day came for Nicole to leave home, he’d give her those notebooks, and she could take a piece of her mother with her, recorded in her dad’s careful handwriting, like a shield against the world.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath and told Nicole about seeing Emma for the first time. How the light shone on her hair, how her laugh floated across the courtyard. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, that beautiful, perfect girl who seemed to glow from inside, and when she’d finally looked over at him, she smiled, and all the other sounds fell away.

Nicole’s face was glowing when he finished. “That’s so romantic, Daddy,” she said softly.

Liam didn’t answer. He’d described that meeting a hundred times, and while he’d told his daughter what he’d seen and heard, he never did tell her how it felt. Because when Emma Tate had met his eyes, it felt like every bad thing Liam had ever done—the fights and suspensions, the petty crimes that had landed him in juvie, the many girls he’d led on and slept with, the beers and the drag racing—all of that was about to be forgiven. That this perfect, radiant girl was some kind of angel about to change the soul of no one from nowhere, to see him as someone worthwhile, more than the hot guy with the bad rep, one small misstep away from being just like every other loser his family had ever produced.

But Emma didn’t change him.

Nicole was the one who’d done that.

But still, that moment—that golden moment of seeing the girl who’d become his first love—it had been…amazing. A shimmering, perfect moment.

Another memory came to him—Cordelia’s face as they sat on the blanket under the pines at the old estate. Her big, dark eyes had been soft…and trusting, too.

Nice job, idiot. She sure as hell won’t ever look at you that way again.

“Dad?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, babe?”

“You can say no, but…I just want an answer, okay?” Nicole squeezed her ring finger, her signature for nervousness. “The prom’s this Saturday.”

Ah. Hence the thaw.

“Dad, it’s okay if you say no. I screwed up, I know it. And there’ll be other proms. I just need to let Tanner know one way or the other.”

No. Don’t grow up. Stay with me. You’re all I’ve got.

“I want you home by eleven,” he said, his voice uneven. If you’re not home by eleven, I will call the police, the fire department, the National Guard and the SWAT team. I will find that boy, and if his hands are on you, I will rip off his head and drink his blood. I will bury his body where even the vultures won’t find it, and I’ll—

“Oh, Dad,” she breathed. “Really? I can go?”

“Yeah. Do your homework.”

Liam turned back to the strut and tapped it gently into place. The lump in his throat didn’t go away.





JUST BEFORE THE game on Tuesday, Posey girded her loins and went to her parents’ house.

“Oh, it’s you,” her mother said by way of greeting. “I thought you forgot where we lived, it’s been so long. Not a phone call, not a visit. I thought you were in the hospital. What’s it been, a month?”

“It’s been two weeks, Mom,” Posey said with weary patience. “And I did call. Twice.”

“Messages on that machine don’t count.”

Where was the more amenable parent? “Is Dad home?”

“He’s at Guten Tag. Come in. Are you hungry? I just made bockwurst.”

“Got any cake?”

Stacia narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Have you eaten supper?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Liar.”

Posey smiled, and her mother relented enough to step back from the door and let her in. Two minutes later, she was sitting at the kitchen table, eating apple kuchen.

“Gretchen and that horrible Italian man are back together,” Stacia announced.

“I know.”

“Well, I guess I’m the last to know everything.” She sat heavily, the cutlery rattling as her bulk hit the chair. “So. How are you?”

“I’m okay, Mom.”

“Still with that Liam?”

That Liam. Funny. “Nope, not anymore.”

Stacia frowned. “Why?”

“Oh…he’s got some issues to deal with. His daughter. Stuff like that.”

“Well, he’s an idiot if he doesn’t want you.”

Posey’s eyebrows lifted. “I thought you wanted him for Gretchen.”

“We did. I did. I don’t know. I pictured you with…someone else.”

“Who?” Posey asked.

Her mom sighed. “I don’t know. Someone perfect. A prince, maybe. A prince who also cured cancer.” She smiled reluctantly. “No one’s ever good enough for your little girl. You’ll see someday.”

Motherhood seemed far, far away. But she could picture feeling that way toward Brianna. Yes. Brianna’s future boyfriend would have to watch his back. Made her understand where Liam was coming from. But she wasn’t here to talk—or think—about Liam. She said nothing else, knowing the best way to get her mother to talk was to wait her out.

The fridge cycled on with a wheeze. A catbird sang from the clothesline. And…bingo.

“Posey, listen,” Stacia said, her pale eyes suddenly wet. “I—I have to tell you something. A couple of things, really.” Her hands twisted together, and she gave her head a little shake. “We—your father and I—we had a daughter before you. When Henry was five. She came too early, and they couldn’t save her. She only lasted an hour.”

Stacia’s face scrunched up, and without a thought, Posey got up and wrapped her arms around her mother’s solid shoulders.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” she whispered, tears slipping out of her eyes. Even though Posey had known this fact her whole life, Stacia had never spoken of it. For a long moment, she just hugged her mom, breathing in the smell of baking and Suave shampoo. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“We named her Marlene,” Stacia said thickly.

“Beautiful.”

Stacia nodded. “She was. She was beautiful, Posey. And I still think of her. Every day.” She wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Sit back down, honey. I’m not done.”

Posey obeyed.

Stacia looked at the table, her finger tracing the pattern in the painted enamel. “We adopted you two years later. And you were perfect and healthy and beautiful, too, but I was so afraid of losing you, too, in any way. I had nightmares about you drowning, or being kidnapped, or forgetting you on the ironing board.”

“The ironing board?”

Stacia shrugged. She was quiet for a long moment. “With Henry,” she said eventually, “it was different. Oh, I loved that little boy, but you know how he was. How he still is. Completely self-sufficient. Sometimes I used to think that if he fell out of a tree and cut his head, he’d just stitch himself back up and wouldn’t even mention it to me.”

“I know what you mean,” Posey murmured.

“But with you, I was so scared. All the time. Maybe it got in the way of me being a good mother, I don’t know.”

“Oh, Mom. You’re a good mother. A great mother.”

Stacia blew her nose again. “Mostly, though,” she continued, her voice rough, “I was afraid that your birth mother would show up one day and ask for you back. And she’d be so much more than I was…she’d be young and pretty and fun, and you’d want to be with her. And you’d leave me.”

The words cut Posey’s heart right in half. “Mom! I would never leave you! I love you. How could you think that?” She gripped her mom’s hand. “Since it’s true confessions time, I’ll tell you one of mine.”

“You broke Glubby’s antler, didn’t you?”

“Oh…um, yes. Sorry about that.” Posey smiled, then grew serious. “No, what I wanted to say was that I always thought… I was always afraid that every time you looked at Gretchen, you wished she was yours.”

Stacia jerked back. “Gretchen? I mean, I love her, she’s my sister’s child…”

“Well, it always seemed like she could do no wrong. The German chef, your twin sister’s daughter. The way she calls you Mutti…constantly reminding me that I’m adopted. She’s the real reason I hate to cook. Because I didn’t want to be compared to her and come up short.”

Stacia shook her head. “Oh, honey. It’s just that sometimes you love a kid just because they need it. Not because they deserve it, not because you really like them…just because they need love. And that’s Gretchen. The truth is, she drives me crazy half the time. Your father and I were so glad when she moved in with you, we got a little romantic on the couch.”

Posey grimaced. “Feel free to keep that to yourself, Mom.”

Stacia smiled, then grew serious. She squeezed Posey’s hand, her grip almost painful. “I’m sorry I never told you about that letter,” she whispered. “It was selfish of me, and that’s not what a mother is supposed to be. If you want to find her, you go right ahead. I’ll help you.” She wiped her eyes and looked at Posey, her face blotchy. “Do you?”

Posey didn’t answer right away. “Maybe. I’m not sure.” She looked into her mother’s face, that strong-boned, handsome face, and noted, maybe for the first time, the web of wrinkles under her mother’s eyes, the heaviness of the skin. “And maybe she’d be great. But she’d never be you.”

Stacia looked down at the table. Nodded. “There was something else in that letter, Posey,” she whispered.

Her heart twisted. “What? Am I a twin or something?”

Stacia managed to smile. “No. Oh, honey, I wish I’d kept it in a safer place. I’m so sorry about that.” She sighed, then looked at Posey. “You don’t know this, but your birth mother…she was the one who picked your name.”

“What? What about Great-Aunt Cordelia?”

“Who’s that?” Stacia frowned.

“Gretchen said we had an aunt…” Leave it Gretchen to tell her some idiotic story. “Never mind. My birth mother picked my name?”

Stacia nodded. “The social worker who handled the adoption told us that even though we didn’t have to keep your name, the birth mother hoped we’d think about it.” She stared at the table, lost in memories. “And we were so grateful to her for giving us her baby, that we did. We didn’t really love it, to be honest. When Henry called you Posey, it just seemed to fit better, and I have to tell you, I was relieved. Cordelia. It’s not even German.”

“Was there something about my name in the letter?” Posey asked. A sudden weight pressed on her heart, as if she knew what was about to come.

Stacia took her hand. “She said her favorite play was King Lear. By William Shakespeare.”

“I know,” Posey said. “I read it in college.”

“Well,” Stacia said, her voice now a whisper. “She said she picked it because Cordelia’s the daughter the king sends away.”

Posey swallowed and pressed her lips together.

“But,” Stacia said, her eyes filled with tears, “she’s also the daughter he misses for the rest of his life.”

Cordelia. Not a great-aunt who was blind in one eye. Not the naive girl murdered by her evil sisters.

Cordelia, the precious, beloved daughter.

What a gift to have such a name.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you,” Stacia said, her eyes streaming. “Please, honey. Please forgive me. I should’ve told you the other day. I should’ve told you when the letter came, and I didn’t, and I’m so sorry. Please tell me you still love me.”

Posey gave her head a little shake. How could Stacia have not told her this? How could… And yet, Stacia had fed her and bathed her and soothed her and read to her. She’d baked goodies every day; she had never missed a teacher conference or track meet. She’d walked her to school, driven to Boston to find clothes that fit, told her she was beautiful, smart, funny, gifted. She thought Posey was the best turnip that had ever been.

“Oh, Mom,” Posey said, slipping out of her chair and kneeling next to her mother. She put her head in the soft, familiar lap, felt Stacia’s hand on her hair. “Of course I love you. I loved you since before I could say your name. Nothing—and no one—could ever change that.” She smiled and looked up into her mother’s face. “Let’s not even talk about those dumplings you make.”





CORDELIA. THE BEST NAME EVER.

The only time she’d ever loved her name before was when Liam said it. Now, though…now everything was quite different. Cordelia Wilhelmina Osterhagen. Sounded rather regal.

Stacia had stuffed her with some cold sausage and cheese, as well as a couple of boiled potatoes, but as Posey headed for the baseball field, she felt light. She may not have gotten The Meadows, she may never weigh more than a hundred and seven pounds or really need to wear a bra. Her house might in fact be past redemption, and her hair would never behave. She seemed incapable of attracting a man who saw her as a potential wife, and her truck’s muffler needed fixing.

But her mother loved her. Both her mothers. And Max, and Henry, and Jon and Brianna and maybe even Gretchen and a whole host of other people.

She was blessed. It wasn’t a word she thought often, but today, nothing else would do.

Cordelia. What a great name.

“Hey, guys,” she said, as she got to the dugout.

“Hey, Posey,” Bruce answered, stretching out his arms.

“Today’s your day,” Jerry said.

“Well, you’re a minister, so you have to be optimistic,” Posey said, punching him fondly on the shoulder.

“Get ready for some heat,” the good reverend returned. “Lift thine eyes and watch as I smite mine enemies with my mighty curveball.”

“You go, Rev,” said Kate. She thumped Posey on the back, causing Posey to stagger forward. “You done sulking?” she asked in a lower voice.

“Yes,” Posey answered.

Jon gave her a hug. “How are you, sweetheart?” he asked.

“Looking forward to my niece,” she said.

“And the heartbreak?” His eyes were full of sympathy.

“I’m really okay,” she answered firmly.

Stubby’s Hardware began trickling into their dugout, and Posey felt Liam before she actually saw him. Her skin tingled, and heat rushed to her face. Yep. There he was, dark and beautiful, his face somber. He looked over at her, and their eyes locked, and even across the baseball diamond, she could feel that tug, that warm, almost uncomfortable pulling. Then he gave a nod and turned away. Kylie Duchamps, who had recently joined Stubby’s team, stumbled (probably faked it, Posey thought), and sure enough, Liam reached out and grabbed her elbow. Kylie gave her patented hair toss and whinnied with laughter.

It was okay, Posey thought. That empty spot in her heart would fill in. She’d get over Liam Murphy. She would.

“Batter up!” the umpire called.

A typical game, a beautiful spring afternoon. Posey glanced at the stands—there were her parents, and Stacia gave her an almost shy wave, though it had been fifteen minutes since they parted. They sat with Shirley Schmottlach, who waved merrily (she often brought a flask of peppermint schnapps to these games), and Brianna and James, whose heads were almost touching as they looked at something on James’s phone. Nicole Murphy was there as well, sitting next to Henry, who was reading, as usual.

“Hi, Posey!” the girl called. Nice, that Liam’s daughter came to see her dad play. She seemed like such a good kid. Then again, with her parents, how could it be any different?

Posey waved to her cheering section. She didn’t look at Liam. Not a lot, anyway. It was a little difficult to avoid, since she was the catcher. “Hey,” he said as he came up to the plate in the top of the first.

“Hi, Liam.” Her voice was pleasant. Hopefully, her face mask hid the blush that was burning its way up from her chest.

The first pitch came, Liam swung. Fly ball…Jon only had to open his glove to catch it. In the two games they’d played against Stubby’s, Posey had yet to see Liam pop up—his batting average was even higher than Bruce Schmottlach’s. But he was already trotting back to the dugout before Jon had even tossed the ball back to Jerry.

Liam lined out to first base out in the third inning, grounded out in the fifth, and popped out again in the eighth. First-pitch swings, all, and Posey knew it was his way of getting out of her vicinity as fast as possible.

Posey herself struck out in the second, the fifth and the seventh. Those batting lessons from Liam, while arousing, hadn’t done squat. Still, each time she went down swinging.

“You’ll get there, sweetheart,” Max said, lowering his large video camera.

“Any decade now,” Brianna called, getting a grin from James.

“Nice swing, Posey,” Nicole added. Yep. Great kid.

“Thanks, guys!” she said. There weren’t a lot of other parents here, that was for sure, and Posey grinned as she walked back to the dugout. Not many people with a .000 batting average had a fan club, but she did.

Still, her heart ached every time she caught a glimpse of Liam. She tried to ignore it.

By the bottom of the ninth inning, the score was 14-1, Stubby’s. Liam was the only one on his team who hadn’t scored. The reverend’s curveball wasn’t quite the mighty sword he’d envisioned, whereas José Rivera was pitching for Stubby’s and looking about as good as Mariano, his famous third cousin. Kate had belted a solo homer in the second, but that was Guten Tag’s only run of the night. But José was tiring, and Jon had singled and Bruce walked. Two outs, and Posey was up.

As she walked to the batter’s box, she saw Kylie packing up her gear. Indeed, most of Stubby’s assumed the game was about to end, chattering and shuffling and checking their phones. Only Liam still sat on the bench, arms folded over his chest. He glanced at her, and the corner of his mouth pulled up just a little. Then his gaze dropped to the ground.

“Come on, Posey!” called Nicole.

“You can do it, sweetheart!” said her mother.

“Swing away, Merrill!” yelled Jon and Kate.

Posey settled into her stance. Bat up, knees bent, back foot planted, just as Liam had shown her, same as she’d been doing for the past four years. The handsome yet evil Derek Jeter had what—three thousand hits? More? Surely she could get just one. She took a practice swing, tapped her cleats, and got ready, staring at José, who gave her the full power of his third-cousin stare, then brought his glove up to his face. The wind-up. The pitch.

She swung, and something went wrong, because her arms reverberated and the bat was heavier than normal, there was a loud thwack, and a roar, and Stubby’s entire team turned away from her.

To watch the ball fly over the outfield fence.

Her mouth hung open, the bat dangling from her buzzing hands.

“Posey, run!” Jon shouted as he came down the third-base line.

And so she did, trotting in a daze to first base…and then second, where Emily Rudeker slapped her butt, and then to third, and her team was cheering and jumping up and down as she came home.

A home run. Her first hit, ever, was a three-run homer.

She was slapped and pounded and generally roughed up as her teammates whooped and hollered. In the stands, her fan club, as well as Nicole, were on their feet, Stacia crying, Henry grinning and accepting high fives (not that he’d been actually watching, Posey guessed), her father jumping up and down, the camera still in his hand. She grinned up at them, realized she was laughing. Amid the cheers of her teammates, she walked—floated, really—back to the dugout and sat down, dazed and utterly thrilled.

“Well, well, well,” Kate said, clobbering her on the back. “I expect to see that on SportsCenter tonight. That was one amazing hit, pal.”

Looking across the diamond, she saw Liam. He hadn’t changed position, but his eyes were on her, and there it was again, that locked-in feeling. Then he started clapping, quietly, and smiled. That was it, but warmth flooded Posey’s chest as if he’d just presented her with a dozen red roses.

She tipped her baseball cap and smiled back.

The next batter grounded out, and the game was over, Stubby’s 14, Guten Tag 4. Even so, the moral victory was clear, and Stubby’s agreed to buy the first round.

When Posey had been congratulated yet again, when her parents had hugged her and Max had taken several dozen pictures, when most of the people had trickled off, Posey saw Liam and Nicole walking off the field, heading in the direction of their apartment.

“I’ll see you guys at Rosebud’s,” she told her gang, then broke into a run and caught up with Liam.

“Hey, Posey, that was an amazing hit!” Nicole exclaimed, scooping her hair off her neck in a gesture Posey remembered Emma doing.

“Thanks, Nicole,” Posey said. She glanced at Liam, whose eyes were on his daughter.

“Your dad said it was, like, your first hit ever,” Nicole said.

“Sad but true. Hey, do you mind if I have a quick word with your father?”

“Sure! Dad, I’ll catch you at home.” She gave Posey a wave and walked away, all lithe grace and beauty.

Posey watched her go. Abruptly, her heart began slamming against her chest.

“That was a great hit,” Liam said, his eyes glancing off her.

“Whatever,” Posey blurted. Suddenly, looking at Liam was hard. A car passed, and down the street, a mother pushed a pink-clad baby in a stroller, a Golden Retriever walking like a guard at their side.

She took a shaky breath and looked into those green, clear eyes. “Okay, look. I understand you have a daughter, Liam, and she’ll always come first, and it shouldn’t be any other way.” She bit her lip and shoved her hands in her pockets. “When you broke up with me, I said I didn’t need much. But I do. I love you, Liam. I loved you when I was a kid, and I love you now.”

“Posey—”

“No!” she blurted. “It’s Cordelia. You always called me Cordelia.”

“Okay. Cordelia, I just don’t think—”

Posey’s hands flew up to stop his words. “I’d wait as long as you needed, as long as Nicole needed. But I know you feel something for me, and I love you, and I’ve never felt this way about anyone, ever. I want to be with you. I want you to pick me. I know Emma will always be your first love, and that’s fine. But don’t just…don’t just let me go.”

He folded his arms across his chest and looked at the sidewalk. Posey swallowed. Her hands were shaking. “You won’t be sorry, Liam. I’m worth it.”

“I know that,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I do. But I’m not…capable of… Damn it, I have no idea how to say this. But you have this version of me in your head…and it’s just not true.”

“Yes, it is!” He flinched at the force of her words. But once she’d said them, a feeling of calm settled around her. Her heart slowed, her hands stopped shaking, and she reached out and put her hand over his heart, feeling the steady thump. “Liam,” she said softly, “I bet I know you better than anybody. And I love you. There’s no one—no one—I’d rather be with.”

He looked at the ground, and she knew it was over. “I’m sorry, Posey. I really am.”

With that, he walked away, and Posey stood there until he turned the corner and disappeared.