All Through The House (20 page)

At the first sight of the house, he had felt odd, disoriented.
He'd gotten out of his car, noticing how the hedges had grown wild and the
paint peeled. There had even been a couple of broken windows; the sun had
glinted off jagged edges. And then Josiah had answered the door, peering
nearsightedly at Nate until he heard his voice.

They had taken up right where the last letter left off,
their friendship having more to do with the long correspondence than it did
with the years that came before. Since Josiah's death Nate had missed the old
man, both the friend he had become and the benefactor he had been.

Nate had never wanted to open drawers, read Josiah's
letters, see whether he'd paid his bills on time. When he'd thought about the
contents of this office, he had been tempted to dump all the paperwork into
bags and put them out for the garbage truck. Josiah's life was nobody's business.

So why was he sitting here, tugging open the first desk
drawer, which wanted to stick?

He was self-analytical enough to know the answer. Right now,
he desperately needed some sense of connection. The house couldn't give it to
him; maybe Josiah could.

An hour later, his coffee cold, Nate was about to give up.
There wasn't much left here of interest; Ed had gutted Josiah's files of
anything worth reading. Nate yanked open the last drawer of the file cabinet,
intending to give it no more than a cursory look. It was almost empty. One
file, labeled "Personal Correspondence" sagged near the back. Nate
lifted out the folder and opened it in front of him on the desk.

The first thing he came to were some letters to the editor
of the local newspaper. Reading them, he smiled. The opinions were familiar,
the voice almost strong enough to ring out loud.

More letters, to people he'd never heard of. Then, at the
back, he found a packet tied in a faded red ribbon. Inside were a number of
envelopes, neatly sliced open, addressed in Josiah's slanted writing to an Emma
Ratliff.

"Dear Sister," the first letter began. It was
dated nearly twenty-five years before. Nate skimmed down the page and found
nothing pertinent. He almost didn't pick up the second one, feeling as though he
was violating Josiah's privacy. But a deep need made him persist—and then he
saw his own name.

"Have I mentioned the kid who hangs around here?"
Josiah said. "He's a nuisance, but I feel sorry for him. His father's a
drunk, his mother deserted him. Used to just stand out there and stare at the
house until I asked him one day what he wanted. I think he's just looking for a
refuge. Not surprising, since he often has bruises. Anyway, the boy claims to
be interested in the history of the house. You know I can't resist talking
about it. Once I'd invited him in a couple of times, what could I do? He's nice
enough, I guess. I just wish he didn't come quite so often. I'd better find a
use for him. Pruning roses?"

Nate laid the letter down with a steady hand. Something
inside him seemed to have frozen. Had Josiah really seen him that way? A
nuisance?

Driven by the need to know, he picked up the next letter,
kept reading. The packet covered a span of seven years. Josiah had written
three or four times a year in some detail. In most of the letters Nate wasn't mentioned;
apparently he hadn't been a big enough part of Josiah's life to justify
comment. Martha's illness was here, her death, problems at the mill, comments
on world affairs, Josiah's own health.

Nate came to his name again; a paragraph talked about how
well he'd trimmed the hedges. "Useful after all," Josiah commented.

Six months later. "Haven't seen any bruises on the boy
in a while. Too big for his father to tackle, I suppose." Josiah mentioned
Ed more often, sometimes with irritation, but overall with a kind of toleration
that cut painfully through Nate's numbness. "He's an Irving, after
all," Josiah admitted after one tirade. "He's my heir, and I know
he'll do right."

Right? Nate's hand tightened, crumpling the thin sheet of
paper.

By the end he felt sick and his eyes burned. Clearly Josiah
had become fond of him, and he had mentioned Nate's departure for college with
pride. "I take responsibility for it," he had said. "God knows
where he came by them, but the boy has brains. He wouldn't have used them if it
weren't for me, however. I have to admit the place seems almost lonely without
him dropping by."

The letters ended with a last one that inquired anxiously
about Emma's health. Apparently she had then died and the whole batch were
returned to Josiah. Why Ed hadn't taken them, Nate couldn't imagine. Maybe he
hadn't gotten beyond the letters to the editor.

Almost lonely. Nate shoved the seven years’ worth of
correspondence back into the packet and retied the ribbon. His teeth clenched
until his jaw ached and he wanted to throw up.

Almost lonely...but not quite. Neither Nate's presence nor
his absence had really impinged on Josiah's life. He'd liked Nate, maybe even
been proud of him. But he hadn't loved him like a son; Nate had only needed to
see him that way.

Humiliated and angry, he turned the lights off and left
Josiah's office. He had found the man he sought, Josiah had answered his
questions. Now he knew how completely he'd deceived himself. He had always
believed that even if his parents hadn't loved him, one person had. Tonight he
had discovered differently.

At last he made himself face the deeper hurt. How could he
expect Abigail to feel something for him that nobody else ever had?

*****

Nate woke up that next morning and rolled over to stare at
the ceiling, his mood black even before he remembered why.

Thank God he didn't have to be anywhere today. He didn't
think he could face Appleton, or even John. He didn't know what else to do with
himself either, though. How could he? He didn't know who the hell he was
anymore.

He didn't call Abigail Saturday or Sunday. Too restless to
stare at walls, Nate spent the weekend working in the garden, cutting out old
wood on the once-flowering roses that would now form hips. He pruned hedges,
though not without wry awareness that he was still being "useful"—and
the Irving House was no more his than it had been back then, so long ago.

Sunday night he had a beer and watched a preseason NFL game.
When he clicked it off at the end, and the silence enveloped him, Nate realized
he was thinking about work tomorrow pretty much as he did every evening.

He searched himself for anger or the humiliation that hurt
even worse, and found neither. To his surprise, he realized he was ready to
accept the truth. It had been natural for him as a child to cling to the belief
that somebody loved him, as though only that love could give him worth. Now?
Now he had confidence in who he was, even if he'd let it be shaken. He was a
damned good architect, a decent sailor, a man others seemed to like. He
couldn't have asked for a better friend and business partner than John, or a
life that suited him better.

With one exception. He needed Abigail in it. He needed, for
the first time in his life, to have somebody who loved him back. Had he
jeopardized that by expecting Abigail to make up for everything he had missed?

Was she right? Had he grabbed her too tightly, afraid of
losing the most precious thing that he'd ever had?

He wandered into the kitchen for another beer. Leaning
against the counter, he popped the top and took a long swallow. Okay. How was
he going to quiet her fears? How could he show her that he respected her
abilities? How could he convince Abigail that he trusted her to make decisions
that would affect both their lives?

How could he separate love from need?

*****

Abigail came to work Monday morning with purple bruises
under her eyes and an ache that clutched at her heart whenever she let herself
think of Nate, or even the future.

"Morning, Meg," she told her partner, hoping
against hope that she wouldn't comment on her appearance. "Any
messages?"

"Are you okay?" The phone chose just then to ring,
and Meg reached for it. "McLeod and James, how may I help you?"

Abigail flipped a hand and headed thankfully toward her
office.

Meg covered the receiver with one hand and hissed, "Nate's
in your office, Abigail."

'Here?" At last. Her pulse accelerated. The weekend
without a call from him had been torment. She had wanted time, but not to
regret. In the last two days, Abigail had begun to see how her reaction must
have looked to Nate. In a moment of passion and deep emotion he had proposed,
only to discover the woman he loved was not delighted, but horrified. How must
he have felt?

How did he feel? Abigail hovered on the threshold to her
office, afraid to go in. The truth was, she had no idea what to expect—or what
she wanted. What if he proposed again, said he'd given her time to think it
over? Was she any more confident of her answer than she had been Friday night?
And yet, could she blame him if he had decided not to wait for an answer? How
would she feel if she had asked him to marry her, and he had hesitated,
claiming a need to think it over?

The unlatched door opened silently under her hand, and she
had a moment to observe him. Nate sat at her round table flipping through the
pages of a newspaper so quickly it was obvious his interest was idle at best.

In profile his face was relaxed, so classically handsome she
could almost forget how rakish his smile was, how magnetic the gleam in those
gray eyes was. He grimaced at something he saw in the local section, and
Abigail watched that groove in his cheek deepen.

He folded the paper and turned his head, catching her
flat-footed. Their eyes met, his opaque, and she thought suddenly that he
looked older. In the gray light coming in the window she was more aware of the
fan of lines beside his eyes, the furrows between his brows. She remembered the
sulky, beautiful teenage boy she had imagined, and could no longer see him.

He stood up slowly and nodded. "Abigail."

"Nate, I...I'm glad to see you."

"Are you?" Question—or sarcasm?

She lifted her chin slightly. "I hoped you'd
call."

He ignored that. "I'm here today about business."

Her heart sank sickeningly, and she echoed,
"Business?"

"I have a proposition for you." He didn't make a
move toward her. "Do you remember the development I told you about? We
were surprised this morning by a call from the city. They've decided to give
permits that were promised before the sewer moratorium. We figure we'd better
go ahead before they change their mind again, so we'll break ground for the
first couple of houses by next week. We're planning forty, and we have an
option on some neighboring property for expansion down the road. Let me show
you the layout."

Abigail made herself walk over to the table, where he spread
a map showing how the acreage had been carved up. As he traced with a finger
where roads would run and what would be pasture, she saw only his hands, one
braced on the table, so large they shouldn't have been as gentle as she knew
them to be.

As though from a distance she heard him say, "John and
I talked it over this morning, and we want you to sell the houses for us."

She should be thrilled; this was the kind of opportunity she
dreamed about. So why did she feel...numb?

Abigail lifted her gaze to meet his steadily.
"Why?" she asked.

His face was utterly closed to her. "What do you
mean?"

"I mean...." She bit her lip. How could she ask if
he was trying to buy her? But she had to know. So she did it bluntly. "Is
this a way of keeping me dependent on you?"

A muscle jumped in his cheek and he straightened to face
her, letting the edges of the map roll. His voice was deep and rough. "You
weren't kidding Friday night, were you?"

She shook inside, but outwardly stayed composed. "I
need to know why you're giving me this chance. Why today?"

"Would you believe me if I said it's because you're
good at your job?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he took a folder
out of his briefcase and tossed it on top of the map, then snapped his
briefcase shut. "No strings attached," he said with harsh restraint.
"Does that make any difference?"

"Nate, you know I can't turn this down."

"You're a small agency. Maybe it's too big a challenge
for you."

She was mad enough to snap, "I'll sell the damned
houses for you," but not so mad that she didn't realize she'd just been
expertly manipulated.

She saw a flicker in his eyes, and then he nodded.
"Call if you have questions." He grabbed his briefcase and was gone.

Abigail sagged into a chair and stared at the manila folder.
Well, so much for that. No more roses or pretty books or pewter knights. He'd
stepped up the scale of his giving. The question was why.

She was afraid of the answer. If he was trying to buy her,
she had to face the fact that her worst fears were right. And if she was
wrong.... Abigail pressed her knuckles to her mouth and took a shuddering
breath. If she was wrong, she had just wounded the man she loved. Unforgivably.

Meg put it with her usual succinctness. "For heaven’s
sake, Abby, what's your problem?"

"I don't know." Abigail jumped up from her seat
and began to pace around the tight confines of her partner's office. "I
must sound horribly ungrateful."

"You do," Meg agreed. "Though I'm not sure
you should be 'grateful.' We'll do a hell of a job selling for him. This is the
kind of opportunity we've been begging for, and that means we'll commit more of
ourselves to it. What I would expect is you'd be happy, at least, to get the
chance."

Abigail stopped and closed her eyes. "I am. Of course I
am. I know as well as you do how important it is to us. It's just...." She
hesitated for the millionth time. "Why now? Why didn't he hint they were considering
us? No, it's just out of the blue, like he's saying 'See what I can do for
you?' I feel...tainted."