Chapter 9

9

F inley's heart ached at what Holden had revealed. Something told her that he might not have told his one serious girlfriend everything he had just shared with her.

She gazed into his eyes. "I wish I could change the past for you. Make it different. Easier. Better. But I know what you went through made you who you are today. You're a good man, Holden. You're thoughtful. Caring. Smart. Funny. I don't know if I would have the great attitude you do, coming from nothing. I'm lucky that I still have both my parents in my life. We talk frequently. I wasn't as close to my brother growing up. He's a dozen years older than I am. When I started kindergarten, he was leaving for college. But as adults, we've started talking. We're friends now."

She framed his handsome face with her hands. "I can't begin to understand how rough you had it, with an abusive dad and an absentee mom. One who's still absent from your life."

Hesitating a moment, Finley decided she would simply speak from her heart. "We haven't known one another for long, but the connection between us is greater than anything I've ever felt. I meant when I said you aren't alone. You aren't. You have me. I still have a lot to figure out about myself. Where I'm going. How I'm going to get there. But you are the one who's encouraged me to trust my gut and take the risks I've been too afraid to even think about."

She swallowed. "I need you in my life, Holden. As a friend. And more. I need you to be my sounding board. The person who will always be straight with me, even when I don't want to hear the bad stuff. I'm going out a limb here, but I also want to be your lover. I haven't trusted a man in a long, long time— but my heart tells me you're the man who can change everything for me. Help me be a better person. Push me to reach my full potential. And enjoy life along the way while I'm heading to my destination. I've always been a person who plays it safe. I don't rock the boat. I sometimes go along to get along and keep my feelings and opinions to myself. I'm methodical. A bit of a neat freak. I love structure. But you're pushing me out of my comfort zone. And I like that."

She paused. "I like you."

Finley had never spoken so openly— or boldly. Then again, she'd never met Holden before. This man made her feel things unfamiliar. Express herself as never before.

He stared at her. The longer he did, the more worried she became.

"You've got to say something," she insisted. "Or it's going to be very awkward climbing off you and going back to eating my spaghetti."

A slow smile appeared. "I was just drinking you in. You are the most beautiful, most honest, most talented person I've ever met. I keep thinking why would a woman like you be interested in a man like me?" He paused. "I guess, deep down, I'm still that little, neglected boy, not thinking he's good enough or smart enough to be somebody. My dad didn't just beat me down physically. He constantly belittled me, shaving away any confidence I ever had."

Holden took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "I think I've pushed myself to be successful just to prove him wrong."

"Don't measure your worth by a bitter alcoholic," she cautioned. "Or what anyone else says about you. You are the sole judge of your value. Your worth. And let me tell you, I believe in you, Holden. I think you can pretty much do anything you set your mind to. How many people even write a book, much less get it published? And yet you've done that twice. That's amazing. Not only that, both novels have been so outstanding, they've become movies. Or one has and one will be soon. You've even challenged yourself by going out on an artistic limb and agreeing to write the screenplay for one. With absolutely no training, just your instinct guiding you. And you know what? It's going to be incredible. You are incredible."

His hands had gone to her waist. Now, they moved to her face. "My own personal cheerleader. You're the incredible one, Finley. You have such heart. You're creative. Loyal. Compassionate. Nurturing. What did I do to deserve someone like you?"

"You opened yourself to the universe, Holden. It led you to Lost Creek. We were meant to find one another."

Their lips met, the kiss a solemn oath which promised the other that good things lay ahead.

Holden was the one to break it. "I do want to make love to you. Not now. I think we need to give each other a little more time. But soon."

He kissed her again, murmuring, "Very soon," against her mouth.

This time, she was the one to break the kiss. "I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Scott. In the meantime, I want to try your spaghetti."

He laughed. "It's probably cold by now."

"That's all right. I think it'll be perfect."

Finley pushed up, returning to her seat. Surprisingly, they were able to return to mundane, normal topics after such honesty between them about a hurtful topic to Holden. She saw a resiliency in him, something that had to have seen him survive such a terrible childhood.

She told him about her day at school and how her class was studying about inquiry and research, learning to put that research into their own words and organize it in order to write about it.

"My focus is on language arts and social studies. My partner on the team covers the math and science objectives. That's a good thing because while I liked science, especially geology, I was awful at math."

"Tell me about your students," he urged. "The good ones— and those bad ones."

Finley found herself talking through the rest of dinner, Holden asking insightful questions, even making a suggestion on how to handle one of her problem students.

"I was pretty badly behaved in fourth and fifth grades," he shared. "I read way above grade level. Most of the bad behavior was because I was so bored. And then it became habit. At first, the other kids were in awe of me because I would talk back to my teachers. Dare them to knock the chip off my shoulder. Then the novelty wore off, and I went back to being the sullen, quiet kid who didn't have any friends."

"What changed?" she asked.

"I didn't always have a lunch to eat. My mom was too proud to fill out the papers for me to get on the free or reduced lunch program. I guess she thought I could exist on pride alone. I started spending lunchtime hanging in the boys' bathroom, hiding in a stall, reading. Then our janitor found me in there one day. Mr. Hamilton."

She watched his face soften with the memory.

"He took me to his office, which was pretty much a broom closet with a desk and shelves of cleaning supplies. Shared his lunch with me, even pouring soup from his thermos. Homemade soup from his wife. Mr. Hamilton was the first adult who really talked to me. I mean that he asked me questions— about me —and actually listed to my answers. For the first time, I felt seen. Heard."

"He fed you more than food. He fed you attention," she observed.

"Exactly. Soon, I was taking his advice. Doing my homework and turning it in on time. Not smarting off to my teachers. I'd never really cared about getting good grades, and neither of my parents ever emphasized that. But Mr. Hamilton wanted to see my papers and my report card. He noted my progress and urged me to do better.

"That man changed my life."

Finley smiled. "I'm glad he came into your life and helped you turn things around."

"We ate lunch together every day. Talked about all kinds of things. Mr. Hamilton was a news junkie. He followed presidential elections. World events. Sports. The weather. Soon, I was reading newspapers and magazines, talking about every topic under the sun to him. He even put in for a transfer to the middle school I was supposed to go to, and we continued our lunches during the three years I was there. By then, I was on the A Honor Roll and reading voraciously. Mr. Hamilton was the first person I told that I wanted to be a writer. He didn't laugh. Didn't judge. Merely told me that he thought I'd be good at it."

"That's wonderful. I wish every kid had a Mr. Hamilton in his life. Do you still stay in touch?"

"He had a heart attack the last week of my senior year in high school. Pushing a heavy-duty floor scrubber one minute— and dropped dead the next. He left me a letter, telling me how proud he was that I'd won a scholarship to college. How I'd been the best friend he'd ever had. Even left me a little over two thousand dollars, which I never mentioned to my parents. That was my mad money in college. I had the scholarship but also worked to pay for room and board. If there was a movie I wanted to see, I'd dip into that fund. A book I'd checked out and wanted to own? I bought it with the money Mr. Hamilton left me. I used the last of it to put down the deposit on the apartment I rented when I started teaching."

"What an inspirational man," she said. "He changed your life, Holden. Mr. Hamilton was a father to you in every sense of the word."

He wiped his eyes with his napkin. "I never really thought of it that way, but you're right. He helped me become interested in the world. He saw potential in me when no one else did."

"I think you need to write his story," Finley encouraged. "Or the story of him mentoring you. I know that would be really different from the political thriller you wrote and the murder mystery. It's a story that needs to be told, though, whether you do it as fiction or non-fiction."

Holden nodded to himself. "You're right. I'll have to think about it, though. I've got several ideas on the back burner. Right now, I'm concentrating on the script for Wolf. It's my first priority. Then I've got a solid first draft of my third novel. I always complete it. Let it sit for a bit. Then come back and read it straight through with fresh eyes. Once I finish those two things and send the novel off to Evan, I'll definitely run with your idea."

"It would be a great way to honor Mr. Hamilton," she said.

By now, they had finished their meal. Finley poured them both a second glass of wine.

"Take this into the den. I'll clean up and join you."

"Nope. I'm not going to leave you with a mess. Put away the leftovers for Emerson. We'll clean together." He smiled at her. "It always goes faster when you have a helping hand."

Within minutes, the kitchen was sparkling. They took their wine to the den and were sitting on the couch when Emerson arrived home, carrying a white bakery box.

"Dessert for tomorrow," she said. "I think this will be a real hit."

"How did your cake tasting go?" Finley asked.

Emerson set the box in the kitchen and returned to them. "The groom doesn't like chocolate. The bride wanted nothing but chocolate. They argued for a good half-hour before I stepped in and read them the riot act. In the end, the wedding cake stayed traditional. The groom's cake is now the bride's cake. Chocolate on chocolate on chocolate. Both are happy."

"Holden made spaghetti and meat sauce," Finley said. "There's some in the fridge for you."

"You cook?" Emerson asked, eyeing him up and down. "If I would've have known that, I might have vied for your attention and knocked Fin out of the way."

"I don't even know how to toast a piece of bread," he admitted. "In New York, every meal was takeout. Finley is the one who said she's going to teach me how to cook. Tonight was pasta with meat sauce."

Emerson chuckled. "Not my dream man after all. Sorry, Holden. I'll continue to hold out for someone who knows how to grill a steak. Make divine mashed potatoes. Fry chicken or bake bread. But I do thank you for the leftovers."

Finley heard Emerson heating up the spaghetti in the microwave. Her roommate took her bowl and waved at them on the way to her bedroom, saying, "Papers to grade. See you tomorrow at dinner, Holden."

"Goodnight," he called. Then his gaze turned to her. "Will Emerson stay in her room?"

"At least for an hour. Maybe longer."

"Do you have papers to grade, Miss Farrow? Or can I convince you to spend the next hour kissing me?"

"I think I can work you into my schedule, Mr. Scott."

Suddenly, his mouth was on hers, filling Finley with warmth.

And the hope they might have a future together.