Page 47 of Give Me Strength

The color drains from her face. “Oh dear.”

“What?”

She lifts both hands in mock surrender. “It’s not my secret to share. You should ask Gilbert about it. It was their relationship.”

“I don’t know. Why open up old wounds for my own curiosity? Seems unnecessarily cruel.”

She nods, her expression sympathetic. “Didn’t you wonder why your dad punched him at their funeral?”

All the time. “My Aunt Bonnie said it’s ancient history.

“That’s one way to look at it,” she says with an amused chuckle. “Start by asking him that. Or jump him. I endorse either one.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Rumor has it, you’re married.”

She shrugs and picks up her tea cup. “In name only.”

“Right,” I drawl. “The way Vivian Bertolucci tells it, you stole her fiancé.”

“Vivi says a lot of things, and most of it is just her blowing hot air.”

That sounds like a non-answer. “So you didn’t marry her fiancé?”

“Hey,” she objects hotly. “For the record, he married me. Not the other way around.”

“Splitting hairs, aren’t we?”

“The marriage is in name only.”

It’s my turn to cock my head to the side, studying her. “Please, don’t sugarcoat it on my account.”

That draws a dark chuckle from her. I can’t help my own answering smile.

We sit there, talking and laughing, the weight of the afternoon’s tension melting away. I realize how much I’ve missed this: just being with someone who understands and who’s been through similar struggles and triumphs. The hours slip by unnoticed, and I feel more at peace than I have in a long time.

22

GILBERT

It’s not every day that Russell Hargrove calls to ask me for a favor, especially one that involves Ashlynn. I thought he was testing me at first since the favor was my giving Ashlynn a ride home, a system we’ve been working to find a good balance for her. That is, until he told me what transpired at her dance class this afternoon... and at school earlier in the day.

I hightail it out of the office before Russ is done talking. By the time I arrive at Brookfield Academy, the parking lot is almost empty. The sun is starting to set, casting a warm glow over the building.

I step out of the car and spot a man standing nearby. He’s tall, with dark hair and warm brown eyes, casually dressed in jeans and a fitted navy t-shirt. There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place him.

He notices me and gives a friendly nod.

“You here to pick someone up too?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply, extending my hand. “I’m Gilbert. I’m here for Ashlynn. You?”

“Ernest Marchetti,” he says, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m here for Wynter. They went across the street to catch up.”

I turn to look in the direction of the café, as though willing her to appear. As I do so, the name clicks, and my gaze snaps back to meet his. “The Wynter Martin?”

He nods again. “We’re married. Sort of.”

I lift a questioning brow. “How does one sort of get married?”

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