Carolina Mist (17 page)

As long as it keeps him from poking in here,
she thought.
I would not care to discuss why my eyes are red and my face is blotchy. So if I am really quiet and keep very still, he’ll never know I’m here. And that’s just fine with me.
She began to drift off to sleep.
Just perfectly fine
…

“
A
h, so this is where you’ve been hiding,” the voice from beyond the cocoon chuckled. “Very good, Meri Puppins.” With the tips of the fingers of one hand, Abby drew aside the flap of the afghan which was still semiwrapped around her face like a chador. Alex stood, hands on hips, in the center of the room, watching as Meri P. tried to jump onto the loveseat with Abby.

“You can hide from me,” Alex told her solemnly, “and you can hide from Gran, Abigail, but you cannot hide from your dog.”

“She’s not my dog.” Abby unsuccessfully smothered a yawn. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven-thirty.” Alex sat down on the edge of the chair opposite her.

“Oh, my gosh,” Abby gasped. “Meri has to go out.”

“Relax. She’s been out. I just came in to see if you’d like to have your coffee in here.”

Abby sniffed the air. Sure enough, the scent of brewing coffee drifted from the kitchen.

“That would be a treat.” She attempted a smile.

“I aim to please, ma’am. One sweetener—artificial, of course—and some cream, right?”

“Right.” She nodded and sat up, dropping her shroud to try to straighten the tangle of auburn curls that spilled out of control around her face.

Like a phantom, Alex had moved almost effortlessly to
where she sat and, reaching out one hand, had taken a strand of hair between his fingers.

“Like silk,” he mused as he caressed the tangles. “Strawberry silk. Remember when I used to call you Red?”

“Remember when I called you Candy?” She smiled in reply.

“So long ago.” He seemed to loom closer. “Where did the years go, Abby? Where did we go?”

“We grew up. We went about the business of our own lives.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” he asked earnestly. “After so long a time, here we are again, just as if nothing has changed at all.”

“But everything has changed, Alex,” she reminded him. “Nothing has stayed the same. Appearances aside, Primrose is different, the people are different. We’re different, you and I.”

“Are we? I don’t feel different when I’m here,” he told her. “
When I’m here, I feel like…
like
myself
again. I don’t know if I can explain it, but I like the way it feels.” He nodded thoughtfully, then grinned. “And I like the way you look, all wrapped up there in that blanket. Snug as a bug.”

He leaned toward her slightly, and for a very long moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. He was, she was certain, debating just that. And at precisely the second he decided that he would, at the exact second that Abby knew she wanted him to, Belle’s voice drifted from the top of the stairs, calling to her grandson.

“One minute, Gran,” he called back.

The same hand that moments earlier had entangled in Abby’s locks cupped her face, his thumb gently tracing the outline of her chin. Their eyes locked, and Abby almost thought that if she closed her eyes, she would, in fact, be sixteen again, sitting on this same loveseat, about to receive her very first kiss from the very same boy. He smiled, and she knew that the same scene was playing out in his memory, too.

“Seems like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?” he asked.

“It was a lifetime ago,” she told him.

Belle called to Alex again, banishing the moment and bringing them back to the present. Abby looked toward the front hallway to break the spell, knowing that one of them had to be the first to look away. Alex rose and left the room with obvious reluctance.

Abby watched as his long denimed legs carried him to the doorway.

That was cl
ose,
she told herself.
Too close.

“Gran is ready for breakfast,” he announced as he stepped back into the room.

“Okay.” Abby nodded and started up from the loveseat, wondering how to gracefully extract herself from the afghan without falling on her face or worse, exposing her worn flannel nightgown to his scrutiny.

“My turn this morning,” he told her. Was he fighting a grin as he watched her wrap the blanket around her small body like a sarong? “What’s your favorite breakfast?”

“Oh, eggs Benedict. Freshly squeezed orange juice. And, of course, perfect coffee.” She tossed her order out lightly as she swept passed him, slinging the end of the blanket jauntily over one shoulder.

“As you wish, madam.” He bowed low as she left the room. “Say, in twenty minutes?”

“Twenty minutes?” Her eyes widened. “You can do all that in twenty minutes?”

“No sweat.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the door.

“You’re on, bucko.” She poked him in the ribs as she sauntered regally into the hallway.

She pitched the blanket in the direction of her bed, stripped off the flannel nightgown (what the well-dressed sex symbol of the nineties will wear, she noted ruefully), and turned the hot water on in the shower. She washed her hair with absentminded efficiency but left the shower without rinsing off the soap.

“He has you rattled,” she accused the face in the bathroom mirror. “Twenty-four hours under the same roof, and you think you’re a teenager again.”

She returned to the shower and rinsed the soap from her
hair, then towel-dried it before pulling on jeans and a clean sweatshirt.

“You,” she whispered aloud as she pointed sternly at her reflection when she returned to the bathroom to hang up the towel, “are
not
sixteen. You are playing with fire of the wors
t kind. He and Melissa are…
whatever it is that they are. The last thing you need right now is
one more thing
to complicate your life.”

She shivered, recalling the touch of his fingers on her face, the way his eyes burned into hers with that same soft fire that had lit her dreams for so many years. She raised her fingertips to her lips, and for a moment she could feel it, just as she remembered it, that same sweetness of kissing him. That same rush. That same longing.

Ah, but that was
forever
ago, she reminded herself.
That
Alex Kane and
that
Abby McKenna didn’t exist anymore.

More’s the pity.
She shook her head as she took the steps two at a time. She forced a smile onto her face as she pushed open the kitchen door.

He doesn't have to know,
she told herself as she met his eyes from across the room and her heart resumed its errant banging against her chest.

He won’t know,
she promised herself as she accepted the coffee from his hands and allowed him to usher her to the morning room where her eggs Benedict—perfectly prepared—and freshly squeezed orange juice awaited her.

21

“
W
alk down to the river with me,” Alex said as Abby started for the stairwell and the room that awaited her attention on the second floor.

“I really have
…
” She began a weak protest.

“I know, a lot to do,” he teased. “Just half an hour, at the most, and then I promise to stay out of your hair.”

Abby looked into the morning room, where Belle was happily situated in her viewing chair with a second cup of tea, the remote control, and Meri Puppins.

“We’re going out back for a few minutes,” Abby told her.

Belle wiggled the fingers of her right hand in a sort of semiwave to indicate she had heard.

“The African Queen,
”
Belle said brightly, her eyes never leaving the television screen. The early Saturday morning classic film had become the highlight of her week.

“Really?” Abby paused in the doorway. “That’s a favorite of mine.”

“One of the all-time best.” Belle nodded. “I still cannot believe I can sit here in this chair and bring Kate Hepburn right into the morning room with me. Leila would have loved it.”

Abby smiled as she left the room. Belle said exactly the same thing every Saturday mor
ning. Last week, it had been Myrn
a Loy; the week before, Ginger Rogers. Abby was pleased to have brought such wonders into Belle’s life. And yes, most certainly, Aunt Leila would have loved it.

Joining Alex on the back porch, Abby inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring to drink their fill of the heavy scent of pine washed down with early-morning dew and mist.

“It always smells so good here first thing in the morning.” She sighed. “Some mornings, I just want to come outside and inhale, as if I can’t get enough of it.”

“Isn’t it funny how there are some things you just never forget?” Alex asked as they walked into the yard. “The smell of pine always makes me think of Primrose. Every time I get a whiff of it, even from those little cardboard trees you hang in your car to freshen the air, it brings me right back to this spot.”

Alex walked to where he had, years ago, carved their initials into the trunk of the pine and reached a long arm upward to trace the letters with his fingers.

“They’re still there,” he said, as if surprised. “Look, Ab.”

“I saw.” Abby walked past without breaking stride or pausing to wait for him to complete his inspection.

He caught up with her as she approached the old carriage house.

“I’ll have to get Colin over this afternoon to help me get that piece of furniture out of there”—he motioned to the outbuilding as they passed it—“and over to his house.”

“That was really nice of you to offer that old hall piece to Naomi and Colin.”

“It belongs in that house,” Alex told her. “Gran said that Grampa’s father had that piece designed for that spot in that house.” He gestured toward the street and the old Matthews house on the opposite side of Cove Road. “And besides, when you consider all that Colin and Naomi have done for Gran, I’m more than pleased to see it going back where it was meant to be.”

The whine of the outboard on the back of a small boat broke the early-morning silence and drew their attention to the river, where a small craft fled toward the sound out beyond the wooded point a quarter-mile down the river on their right. The last of the boat’s frothy white wake rode toward them on small, undulating waves as they stepped onto the old dock. Silently, they stood at one end, surveying what the years had done to a once-favorite spot.

“I’d say the decking needs a bit of shoring up.” Alex frowned, bouncing slightly to demonstrate the deterioration of the old boards, which groaned slightly beneath his weight.

“Careful.” Abby laughed as the decking under her feet swayed slightly. “Or we’ll both end up in the river.”

“Remember when I used to tie Grampa’s old rowboat up here?” He pointed toward the end of the dock, almost as if expecting to see the small boat still tied to the bulkhead where he’d last seen it.

“You mean the
Pirate’s Prize?
”

“Aye, and a proper prize for a swashbuckling pirate she was, lassie.” His voice dropped several octaves and turned to gravel as he pretended to search his pockets. “Where’s me eyepatch, lass? And have ye seen my sword?”

“The pirate summer.” She laughed. “What were we that
year, nine and ten? I remember we spent most of the summer going up and down
the river, looking for Blackbe
ard's treasure.”

“We filled an old tin biscuit box with marbles and pieces of quartz.”

“Excuse me, but I distinctly recall that they were diamonds,” she reminded him. “Pink diamonds. And priceless.”

“All part of the pirate booty we buried up on the point. Plunder from raids on the high seas.” He lowered himself onto the decking, stretching out the length of the dock like a big, lazy cat, until he lay flat on his back, one arm cushioning his neck, the other draped casually across his face to shield his eyes from the rising sun. “How many times do you suppose we buried that box and dug it up again?”

“Over the course of that summer? Maybe a hundred times.” Abby plunked herself at the edge of the dock and leaned back against the pilings. “Do you remember taping the label onto the top of the box?”

“
‘
Valuables,’ I wrote on it.” Alex raised his head slightly to look at her, his left hand shading his eyes. “I wonder what happened to that box.”

“I imagine it’s right where we last buried it.” She shrugged, tilting to dip one hand into the river below. She tapped her fingers lightly on the surface of cold water, as if tapping out a tune, her tiny, rhythmic splashes scattering drops in every direction. The sun had risen hi
gh enough above the trees to ba
the them with the first rays of the day, and she pulled the sleeves of her old crewneck sweater up to her elbows to expose her winter-pale skin to the comforting warmth. Accustomed to the harsher Februarys common north of the Mason-Dixon line, Abby delighted in the delicious comfort of the toasty North Carolina morning. It felt good to relax on the dock in the sun, she thought. Every bit as good as it had felt when she was seven and twelve and sixteen and had spent the first hour or so of the morning lounging by the river.

“Do you remember where that was?” He lay back down
flat on the dock, one hand still draped across his face. “Where we last buried the box?”

“No.” Abby stretched out her right leg, thinking that if she extended it as far as it would go, and if she moved it slightly to the left, the bottoms of their feet would be touching.
Sole to sole.
She smiled wryly to herself, her mind playing on the words.
Soul to soul.

“Neither do I.” He sighed and closed his eyes.

Abby leaned back, grateful for the opportunity to study his face without him knowing she was doing so. The light sandy brown hair of his youth had deepened to a honey brown and was just long enough to fall across his forehead, right above his dark brown eyes. The lankiness of his teens, which had once given him an unfinished look, had given way to a muscular hardness that had tormented her from the moment he had lifted her from the ladder on Christmas Day and swung her around as easily as he would have twirled an umbrella.

“He sure did grow up nice,” Naomi had said.

Abby smiled at the memory.
Nice
didn’t begin to describe the man who stretched out before her. Soft, loose jeans wrapped his legs in denim. The dark blue fleece of his sweatshirt stretched across his chest and pulled up above his waist to expose the flat expanse of his bare abdomen when he suddenly moved both arms behind his head to rest his neck. Abby felt a flipping sensation in her stomach.

I can’t believe he can still make me feel this way.
Her face flushed a sudden scarlet.
What on earth would he think if he knew that I still had a crush on him after all these years?

He doesn't have to know,
she told herself sternly.
Unless, of course, I make a complete ass out of myself
.

She pushed unruly hair behind her ears and tapped more rapidly on the water’s surface.
Besides, he already has a
"significant other.
” One who is in a position to do things for his career that I could never do.

Abby pulled up one knee and rested her head on it, forcing her attention to the brown ducks that floated past, bobbing up and down in the water like feathered corks.

Darkened by the ancient, gnarled cedars that lined the banks, the river was the color of iced tea that had steeped just a little too long. The few remaining swirls of mist seemed to evaporate before her eyes with the grace of waltzing couples leaving the dance floor.

“This was the greatest place in the world, back then.” Alex sat up suddenly, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “The greatest place for a kid to spend summer vacation. We had the best times here, didn’t we?”

“We surely did,” she agreed softly.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he began slowly, looking not at her but rather at a point somewhere across the river, where the trees stretched their thin shadows into the water. She waited, sensing he was collecting his thoughts.

“I want to pay you for Gran’s keep, so to speak. Room and board, you can call it.”

“She doesn’t eat much, Alex.” Abby smiled.

“You have no income,” he reminded her. “I know it has to be difficult for you, maintaining such a big house. And buying materials for all the work you’ve been doing—even just the paint—has to be expensive.”

“Actually, things are very tight.” She cleared her throat.

“Well, if I contribute on Gran’s behalf, it could only help.”

“It would help,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

“Thank
you.
You’ve been wonderful to take care of Gran these past few months. I’m incredibly fortunate to have you here with her. The very least I can do is kick into the kitty.” Abby swung her legs over the side of the dock, letting them dangle just inches from the water, pondering the reality of the situation.
I am falling in love with him all over again, and all he sees when he looks at me is a temporary solution to his oh-what-to-do-with-Granny dilemma.

“The carriage house needs work,” Alex observed. “The shutters on the second floor are half hanging off.”

She turned to her left, where the carriage house loomed at the end of the dock. The glass panes of the windows were heavily glazed with the residue of the years, and paint
peeled from every surface, giving the once handsome structure the look of a building that has long been abandoned.

“Thanks for pointing that out to me,” Abby replied dryly. “I’ll put it on the list of things to do.”

Alex got up and walked the length of the dock, inspecting the back of the carriage house. He pushed gently on the door, which stood in the very center of the wall, and frowned when it swung open at his easy touch. Abby watched as he disappeared inside. With a sigh, she rose and followed him.

The sudden assault of dust twitched Abby’s nose as she stepped into the dimly lit area that had once served as a tack room. Brittle pieces of leather, old bridles, and leads, hung upon the wall hooks so long ago by the Cassidy grooms, now lay like outgrown and discarded snakeskins on the brick floor. She sneezed lustily just as Alex appeared at the end of the little hallway, his hands on his hips and a look of concern on his face.

“Abby,” he called to her. “Someone has been in here.”

“How can you—
achoooo!!!
—tell?”

“The area around the base of the ladder leading up to the loft is disturbed.” He motioned to her to come and inspect the evidence.

“Probably just some neighborhood kids.” Abby shrugged. “Looking for a place to neck.”

Wordlessly, two pairs of eyes strayed up the wooden ladder, step by step, to the loft, where they met over a shared memory before looking away, neither of them speaking the obvious:
Just like we used to do.

“Or whatever it is kids do these days.” She broke the spell by pretending to inspect an old glove she found on the floor.

The casual intimacy of the morning had tumbled too suddenly upon her, propelling disordered emotions to grate like sandpaper against her nerves. She sought as quickly as possible to sweep aside the muddle of her feelings to some small, secret place within her, someplace where she could store it all away until she could be alone to sort it out. “They could set fire to the building, burn the damn place
down. The damage to your property aside, Gran has some valuable pieces of furniture stored in here.”

“If they’re that valuable, they shouldn’t be in here.”

“Maybe I’ll see if Colin can help me move that hall piece over to their
house now.” Alex lifted the corn
er of a sheet and seemed to inspect the furniture beneath it.

“That’s probably a good idea,” she said, needing something to say, something to mindlessly fill the space between them, something that could push aside the growing awareness of him that had begun when she watched him stretch out along the dock.