A Turn in the Road - Debbie Macomber [77]
“Me, too.”
“Are you going to breakfast or not?” her daughter demanded.
“We’re going,” Rooster said, and offered Annie and Ruth each an arm, elbows jutting out.
Max reached for Bethanne’s hand, and every doubt he’d experienced instantly fled. They were together and that was enough. They would take this day by day.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Ruth said to Rooster.
“Why, I’m taking two beauties out for breakfast, that’s what.”
“I believe that’s our cue to slip off by ourselves,” Max said. They walked out of the hotel, and when Rooster went left, they went right.
Max’s heart lifted. He had twenty-four hours with Bethanne. It was going to be a good day.
Twenty
“How about a ride?” Max asked Bethanne after they’d finished breakfast. They’d returned to the hotel, strolling lazily down the busy sidewalks of Branson. Bethanne hadn’t seen Ruth, Annie or Rooster since they’d parted ways about an hour earlier.
“I’d think after all that time on the bike, riding would be the last thing you’d want to do.”
“There’s a place I want to show you.”
“Then I’m all for it.” Twice now Bethanne had ridden with Max and each time she’d felt more relaxed, more comfortable. He must have planned this, because when he collected his Harley, he had Rooster’s helmet.
When she was securely seated behind him, Max took off. He hadn’t said where they were going, but it really didn’t matter. She would’ve gone anywhere with him.
They rode for about forty minutes. He turned off the main road to a lake with a number of upscale modern homes built along the shoreline. Then he pulled into the driveway of one of those houses and climbed off the bike.
After removing his helmet, he said, “This belongs to a friend of mine. He said I can stop by anytime I want.”
“Is he at home now?” she asked, removing her own helmet.
“I don’t know. I left him a voice mail and said I’d like to take him up on his offer. I haven’t heard back.”
Bethanne dismounted and tucked her fingertips into the rear pockets of her jeans while Max walked over to the house. He dashed up the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he lifted a brick from beneath the window, thrust his hand in the hole and took out the key.
“Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” he said, unlocking the front door.
Bethanne hesitated. “You’re sure your friend won’t mind?”
“I’m sure.”
“You’ve done this before…stopped in like this.”
“No.”
“Max,” she protested.
“It’s okay, I promise.” Without waiting for her, he walked inside.
Reluctantly, Bethanne followed. When she entered the house she noticed large, comfortable furniture. Max went over to the triple-wide sliding glass doors that led to the deck. He opened two, letting a clean breeze waft through the rooms.
He moved to the railing and looked out over the lake, which sparkled in the sunshine. It was alive with activity. The sounds of enjoyment—laughter and good-natured shouting—carried easily to the house. People were boating and fishing. A water-skier crossed the lake, and a couple of Jet-Skiers left huge rooster tails in their wake.
Bethanne joined him on the deck, and he slid his arm around her waist. “I had no idea this was so lovely,” he said, almost as if he was speaking to himself.
“You haven’t been here before?”
“Once. That was about two and a half years ago. Like I said, a friend of mine owns this. It was a little over a year after Kate died and I was consumed with grief. I was here, but I don’t even remember looking at the lake.”
“Grief takes over your life, doesn’t it?” she said, growing thoughtful. “Years ago I read that grief is the place where love and pain converge. For whatever reason, that stayed in my mind. The truth of it hit me after Grant left. I grieved for my marriage.” Like Max, she spoke in a whisper. “In the months after that, I discovered a number of things about myself, and they weren’t necessarily things I liked. My husband had moved in with Tiffany. I wanted him back. I was willing to do anything, be anyone, if only Grant would come