Everything the Heart Wants Read online

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  Also by Savannah Page A Sister’s Place Bumped to Berlin When Girlfriends Series When Girlfriends Break Hearts When Girlfriends Step Up When Girlfriends Make Choices When Girlfriends Chase Dreams When Girlfriends Take Chances When Girlfriends Let Go When Girlfriends Find Love

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Text copyright © 2017 by Savannah Page All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781542046039 ISBN-10: 1542046033 Cover design by Michael Rehder

  To every woman, wherever her path may lead, whatever her heart may choose, whomever she may love, however she may fly.

  Contents Start Reading One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Epilogue Acknowledgments About the Author

  Home is the nicest word there is. —Laura Ingalls Wilder The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong. —Laura Ingalls Wilder

  One We had a plan. No one in the history of the world has ever said, “If you work hard enough and believe deeply enough, life will turn out exactly as you planned. You’ll have everything you could ever want and then some.” No one. Ever. But still. We had a plan. And I expected that plan to go . . . according to plan. I’ve never been especially fabulous at making decisions, nor particularly confident in the ones I do manage to make, but there are two things of which I am absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt, 100 percent certain. And never in a million years did I imagine that these two ironclad decisions would be at odds with each other. That in what would be the great big novel of Halley Brennan’s life, they were the choices that would make the novel both move forward and come to a screeching halt. Adam Brennan and I had a plan, and it all started when we first met fifteen years ago during my sophomore year in college, when my good friend Nina invited me to spend Thanksg

  Two As soon as we arrived home for the evening, I headed straight for the home office and finished the day’s work at last, later than usual. Afterward I locked myself in the bathroom with a good book and a steaming bath—a respite that was never more needed than tonight. Now my nerves have settled some, but the nauseated feeling that came over me earlier still lingers. When my eyes fall to Adam as I enter the living room, the nausea swells once again. “Sent your e-mail?” Adam asks me. I finish tying the drawstring of my pink flannel pajama bottoms and nod. In our rush to make it over to Westwood for dinner at Nina and Griffin’s, I hadn’t had enough time to send my editor the final notes on my article for next month’s issue of Copper, the women’s magazine for which I write. “Rest assured, the women of Los Angeles will now know that rhubarb’s the new kale,” I answer with mock enthusiasm. “Phew.” Adam, lying across the length of the sofa, cell phone in one hand, drops his free hand to his

  Three A whole week passes, and much to my surprise the B word is not brought up. Not even the morning after our disagreement, when I figured chances were high Adam would at least ask if I’d slept on things. Nothing. That’s exactly how I’d hoped things would go down. However, the resulting week has been anything but what I hoped for. Adam seems to be distancing himself from me, or at the very least letting his reserved side shine brighter than usual. He’s brooding. Things seem different between us—there’s a lot of quiet space. For instance, Griffin’s law firm happened to have some extra tickets to the sold-out ballet I’d wanted to see, and when they arrived in our mailbox one afternoon, Adam stuck them under a magnet on the fridge without mentioning their arrival. I happily discovered them while preparing dinner and asked him if he had the date marked on his calendar—it’s a Friday-evening performance, and he’ll need to leave work early to beat the traffic. His answer was a simple, “I’ll

  Four You’re just upset because you didn’t hear what you wanted to hear,” Adam says brusquely as he shuts our mailbox with more force than necessary. “And you’re telling me you heard what you wanted to hear?” Arms akimbo, I stand in front of him, impeding his path to our condo. “Of course I didn’t.” As agreed, we met with a therapist. Her twenty-plus years of marital counseling and one available hour at the end of today meant she was qualified to help Adam and me climb out of our mess. Unfortunately, halfway through the session it became clear that her advice was hardly worth considering. “Good,” I say, turning on my heel. “Because suggesting we should probably consider a separation is nonsense.” Adam and I stalk to our front door. “Let our heads get clear by being away from one another,” Adam mocks the therapist. “Take time, space, reassess. It’s ridiculous.” “That’s the easy route,” I say. “Walking away. We’re not . . . going to fail.” “I agree. I’m not a fan of what she had to say, e

  Five The following evening, as Adam sits in bed with his computer aglow on his lap, a small sheaf of papers at his side atop the duvet, I announce that we are one step closer to our trial separation. “What do you mean?” he asks, looking up from his laptop. “I mean that I’m moving out.” “No, Halley. You stay here. A separation was my suggestion. I’ll move out.” I apply my hand lotion and shake my head. “No,” I say, eyeing my sparkly princess-cut wedding ring. I’m careful not to press lotion into it. I’ve always refused to take it off, even when applying lotion, because I nearly lost it once by doing so. Ever since, Adam made me promise to keep it on, no matter what. If that meant excessive ring cleanings, so be it. As I look at my wedding ring, as we discuss who will live where during our separation, I can’t help but wonder if Adam would mind now if I took it off. I sigh. “No,” I say again. “It’s our problem, and I don’t want—” I stop myself. “I can’t live here. Not without you.” “I’ve

  Six The unusual and light summer rain that surprised Pasadena this early evening lets up. The sun is shining its farewell rays for the day, and the pavement and sidewalks are glistening. The scent of wet concrete wafts all around. When I look up into the sky, I can make out a fraction of a faint rainbow peeking from behind the mountains, the buildings, the dispersing clouds. At long last I decide to give my sister, Charlotte, a ring. Not just a call like the ones we usually have where we catch each other up on the little things in record time so she can get back to fighting the fires little ones like to start. Rather a lengthier (and no doubt weightier) call, wherein I confess the marital drama that I’ve been worried she’d be hypersensitive about, and wouldn’t want to believe or process. I pull up Charlotte’s number on my phone during my walk home from work. Living with Marian means being able to walk to and from my office. It’s a slow-paced fifteen minutes, and something I figure I’ll

  Seven As soon as I pull into a parking space at Springs Elementary School, I notice Adam’s car a few spaces over. The USC decal on the bottom of the rear window of the midnight-blue 5 Series is unmistakable. Adam’s head of thick dark hair and that confident slouch as he leans against the side of his car are even more unmistakable. My heart flutters at the mere sight of him. Before I can even shift my car into park, my palms feel sweaty. I smooth out the back of my dress—the simple white cotton short-sleeved dress that hits right at m
y knees, one of the dresses I wore when Adam and I went to Seattle last summer. One of his favorites. My intentions behind choosing to wear this dress today are embarrassingly obvious. The white is a subtle reminder of our marriage, the very dress itself a not-so-subtle reminder of vacation memories, to make Adam’s heart beat the way mine does when I look at him. It’s a small way to say the I miss you that I didn’t have the chance to say during our phone ca

  Eight The ballet is just what Nina and I need tonight. Since last Saturday afternoon at Charlotte’s, I’ve been looking forward to a relaxed evening out with a friend who’s a steady, calming presence—the person to remind you to enjoy the things you have that make you happy. When you want to remember that everything really is all right . . . or at least it’s going to be. The ride to the Los Angeles Ballet from LA’s Westside, where I met up with Nina at her place, is like any drive with my good friend. There’s the requisite stop at the Starbucks drive-through and a golden eighties Madonna song on the radio we can’t help but turn up and sing along to. And there’s Nina’s classic fight with the GPS that offers continuous suggestions for alternate routes to beat the traffic. Nina insists there isn’t a way to turn the setting off, and I think Griffin would figure it out if his wife weren’t so inoffensive and cute in her battles with it. “Darn machine!” “Dang thing.” “No, I don’t want to take t

  Nine Pacific Café is only three blocks from my office. I arrive on time, so as not to appear too eager with an early arrival or too insouciant by being late. I hardly believe Adam would read into my being early or late, but it’s something I would most likely read into with him. Adam is already there, standing by the restaurant’s double wooden doors. Just early? Or eager? “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Adam says when he sees me. He gives me a quick kiss on my cheek. I kiss the air in return, lightly vexed at his immediate turn to the weather for a greeting. It’s the kind of comment one makes to a coworker or to a person one is meeting for the first time. Not one’s spouse. Gaining my footing on optimistic ground, I point to Adam’s head. “It looks good,” I say, referring to his hair. I can tell it’s been cut within the past several days. The sides are thinner and shorter than usual, making the sometimes unwieldy thick growth on the top more pronounced. I like it. It’s got a youthful, h

  Ten I never thought I could feel like a stranger in my own home. Everything looks the same. All the framed photographs are where they were when I left, the living room throw still on the sofa’s right arm, the coasters still stacked on the coffee table shelf. It smells the way I’ve always known it to—like apple cinnamon potpourri. The remote controls are still scattered about the furniture, the magazine bin still filled with already-read magazines that have yet to find their way into the recycling bin. At a casual glance, this is my home. Yet when I sit on the sofa, the soft golden light of the evening spilling through the windows in its routine way, my husband an arm’s length from mine, I feel like an intruder. Everything’s familiar yet foreign. Everything’s where it should be yet misplaced. Adam looks up from his cell phone. “That’s Griffin,” he says. “Says again that everything’s all right.” “Good.” I slowly shake my head, imagining the sheer terror that Nina and Griffin had to go th

  Eleven Halley, it’s beautiful,” Nina says, holding up the cream silk newborn onesie I bought at a baby boutique that Charlotte recommended. A small gesture of encouragement after what Nina went through. Nina sets it across her lap and places the matching cap above it. “Thank you. I love it.” “So is Griffin at your constant beck and call now that you’re on bed rest?” I ask, sitting cross-legged at the end of Nina’s king-size bed. “Treating you like a queen?” Nina’s seated upright, propped up by a mountain of pillows. She has two large bottles of Evian and various snacks on her nightstand, and scattered across the bed are books, pens and pencils, her laptop, her cell phone, her reading glasses, the television remote control, and stacks upon stacks of papers, one thick sheaf bound. “Griffin spends half his business hours working from home now,” Nina explains. “And then Desiree, his sister, comes by twice a week for a couple of hours to help me. She’s a nurse, so this is easy-peasy for her

  Twelve A LETTER TO MY TWENTYSOMETHING SELF, BY HALLEY BRENNAN To My Twentysomething Self, Listen, girl. Plans are good to have, as are backup plans. But I’m going to let you in on a little secret: make a plan. In fact, make lots and lots of them. And then brace yourself. Life has a mind of its own. It’s going to knock you on your ass, sock you in the arm, throw you for one loop after another. There are few guarantees in life. Think you’ll be immune? Even the girl with the glittery life—the important job, the dreamy husband, the stamp-filled passport—even she will find her ever-prepared self scratching her head, going, “I didn’t see that coming.” Don’t worry. It happens to the best of us. And the worst. It happens to us all, and I’m here to tell you not to be surprised when it happens to you. There will come a day when you realize that stressing over a term paper at two a.m. in the college library was far from your low point. When you will realize that your best friends and your own sis

  Thirteen Like kismet, or maybe because I gave life a little of the old one-two, Chantelle and the entire editorial staff love my letter. They said, and I quote, “We love how raw it is.” It’ll make it into Copper’s next issue, gracing newsstands Thanksgiving week. I’m ecstatic—so ecstatic that I nearly do what I’ve always done with good news from work. I almost e-mail Adam a copy of the letter, with a note sharing the thrilling publication news. I then decide that his seeing my piece as an actual feature, in print, will have a stronger impact. On a page in a glossy mag, it’ll say, “Halley’s done it! Halley’s written something that matters, something she’s passionate about, something real.” Adam’ll be proud, and he’ll tell me he knew all along I could do it if I put my mind to it. The upcoming issue date reminds me that Thanksgiving is nearing, and that means so, too, is my next big step in solving the mystery that is my marriage. When Charlotte called over the weekend about Thanksgiving

  Fourteen It’s Saturday afternoon, and though I know Adam was busy at his family’s on Thursday, and there’s still the rest of the holiday weekend, I’m rather thunderstruck he hasn’t contacted me. Surely he opened the mailbox when he got home on Wednesday, saw the magazine and the Post-it, and was planning on calling. Or at the very least texting. I suppose the wait is what I deserve for not hand delivering the mail, saying to his face, “Happy Thanksgiving. Oh, and read this.” Or maybe Adam has read my letter and he hates it. And now he’s furious with me. The letter isn’t exactly roses and rainbows about love and marriage, about the unexpected that life brings a woman. Just the same, it is something I want him to read. A bold move and career success I want to share with the man I love. And, yes, some intimate insight into where I am and how I’m feeling. I’m starting the next chapter of the paperback Nina lent me, Following Home, when Charlotte calls. It’s the other of the two calls I’ve

  Fifteen It’s been days since I’ve heard from Charlotte. Sometimes no news is good news, although in situations like these, and when one’s got a creative mind that won’t quit, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility that no news means very bad news. I could never imagine Marco taking his anger out on Charlotte in a violent way, but this crazy year’s taught me that Murphy’s Law is a thing, and anything is possible. So I decide our silence has gone on long enough, and I’ve given Charlotte enough space. I send her a quick text. Everything okay, sis? Her response comes only a couple of minutes later. Surprisingly yes. Call you tonight? Absolutely, I type back. I don’t let the phone ring more than once when I see Charlotte’s name pop up hours later. I cheerfully answer the call. “Hey! How are you doing?” “I’m alive.” “That’s important. And Marco?” “Also alive.” “Also important.” I’m relieved at the lack of the crying that I had expected to hear, as during our last call. “So, how do

  Sixteen I squint at the screen of my vibrating cell phone. Its persistent and heavy vibrations have woken me
from a dead sleep. The alarm clock reads half past five in the morning. I can’t imagine who’d be calling at this hour. I squint some more, trying to make out the name on my phone. Unable to read it with sleepy eyes, I blindly answer the call. “Halley!” the caller shouts. “Yes? Who is this?” “Nina went into labor.” “Griffin?” “She’s five centimeters dilated,” Griffin says, clearly electrified by the news. I shoot up in bed. “Oh my—” “Rylan’s coming a bit earlier than expected—three weeks—but the doctor has given a healthy thumbs-up. Nina is great. If we’re lucky, we’ll be popping open that champagne sometime today!” “Oh my goodness!” Griffin says there’s a bet going on the hour Rylan will arrive. I ask if he’ll share with me some of the wagers. He’s going with ten in the morning—“It’s aggressive,” he adds, “but I’m just so ready to meet him!” Nina refuses to bet, and I assume tha

  Seventeen It’s hard to breathe. My pace through Old Pasadena down Colorado Boulevard is strong and steady. I pick up speed as I approach the crosswalk each time the green pedestrian light moves to red, making the light right in time. I charge across every street, no matter what the countdown is signaling—ten seconds, seven, two. When I’m stopped, I anxiously tap a beat with my foot. When the light doesn’t turn quickly enough, I start a drum solo with my hands on my upper thighs. I’m a woman on a mission—a quasi–Brooklyn Bridge kind of mission. I duck into the Starbucks along my route, because that’s how this was supposed to go. Well, not entirely, but coffee was a part of the original idea, and when all else fails, there’s always coffee, right? I order two grande lattes—one with soy milk, one dry—then continue my mission to the quiet office park where I’ve asked Adam to meet me tonight. It’s the closest I can come to the Brooklyn Bridge/Long Beach Freeway bridge scene Marian and I came

  Eighteen It’s been nearly a week since I’ve heard from Adam. Since that fateful evening in the park. My luggage is still half-packed, and I’ve decided it’ll stay that way until Adam and I talk again. And I’ve decided the ball is completely in his court. Not to pass the buck but to give him the time that I was able to take to recognize the clarity. I don’t know if he’ll come to it before our divorce proceedings begin, and I don’t even know if he’ll agree to a divorce, though it need not be a mutual decision. I do hope it’ll be amicable and easy—a quick, clean, and friendly divorce. Well, as friendly as one can be. I have the name and number of an affordable and efficient divorce attorney scrawled on a Post-it in my jacket pocket. Mika, a junior editor at Copper, went through her own divorce last year—an amicable and clean one, hence the recommendation. During my walk home, the Post-it starts to burn a hole in my pocket. I blame the Christmas tree lot on my right. The inescapable scent o