Meeting Miss Mystic (13 page)

Zoë looked around her inn room, her Gardiner home away from home. The bed was covered in a patchwork quilt and looked plush, if lumpy. A wingback chair sat on an area rug beside a window and a simple bureau had a silk flower arrangement in a vase on top of a crocheted doily. The room smelled faintly musty, but not entirely unpleasant, and while there was no TV or telephone in the room, she’d been told she could use the house phone downstairs. She’d paid a little extra to have a bathroom in her room and was grateful for the privacy. She left her suitcase by the bureau, dropped her carry-on bag on the bed and sat down in the chair by the window.

As they had approached the inn, Nils had pointed to a stone and white clapboard house, saying, “Remember Paul, who I mentioned before? That’s his place, there. Used to be a B&B but now it’s his. Lives there alone in that big house.”

Except for Cleo
, Zoë thought, staring at the house until it was out of sight.

She was here. She was actually here and there was nothing left to do but freshen up, go downstairs, walk down the porch steps, and cover the half-block distance to Paul’s front door. Her heart beat mercilessly and her hands were icy cold. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes, feeling miserable. She’d come a long way to tell Paul the truth, but it was almost unbearable to imagine his reaction now that she was here.

He’d been so up front with her—so clear that he was building their relationship based on honesty and trust. There was no way he would be able to hear her words and still have space for her in his life. This entire plan suddenly seemed like a very, very bad idea.

She heard a soft buzzing sound and realized it was coming from her bag. She got up, unzipped the outside pocket to take out the phone then lay back on the bed.

Two texts: one from Sandy, one from Paul.

She clicked on Sandy’s first.

Hey, Zo. Let me know you got there safe. And don’t get scared. You have to trust what you’ve built. If he really loves you, he’ll recognize Holly in Zoë’s face. Whether you call yourself Holly or Zoë, you’re still you, and that’s who he loves. Good luck.

She took a deep breath, eternally grateful for Sandy’s excellent timing and encouraging words. But at the same time, she grimaced.
Trust what you’ve built.
She shook her head.
I’ve built a relationship based on lies. That’s the problem.

She looked back down at the phone, her face softening as she lightly touched Paul’s name to read his text.

Hey, sweetheart. I guess you’re leaving for that conference tonight and I know you won’t be able to talk much this week, but I was hoping we could chat tonight? These state re-certification seminars sure aren’t my favorite. Travel safely and remember how much I care for you. –P

She put the phone down by her side, reviewing the latest in her long list of lies to him. She didn’t know how much she’d be able to text him once in Gardiner, so she’d told him she was spending Sunday through Thursday in New Haven, attending a mandatory statewide re-certification seminar.

She sat up and hit reply.

I wish I could but I promised dinner with my aunt tonight before I leave tomorrow. I’ll try to text here and there. Have a good week, Paul. –H xoxo

She stared at the screen, waiting for a minute then heard the ping of a new message.

Okay. Text me Friday when you’re home. I’ll miss you, Holly. But only 25 more days until our visit. Not long now. –P

She stared at the words
Not long now
.

That’s for sure
, she thought, putting her phone on the bedside table and opening her suitcase to take out some new jeans and a pretty black peasant top that showed just enough skin to make things interesting. She got changed quickly then headed into the bathroom to apply her makeup and brush her hair.

When she was done, she considered her reflection for a moment. Her black bangs dusted the white skin of her forehead and the rest of her hair curled lightly behind a simple hair band. Her scar was pretty well concealed, her eyes were lightly made up and she chose a simple gloss for her naturally rosy lips.

She wore a silver necklace with a single heart charm dangling—a gift from Sandy—that drew her eyes down to her breasts, which swelled appealingly against the curve of the blouse. She put silver bangles on her arm and tucked the shirt into her jeans, which fit like a glove, showing off her curves without making her look too big. She had simple black leather flip-flops on her feet with a simple silver buckle on the thong of each sandal.

She looked back up at her eyes. She didn’t look as pretty as the Holly in the picture (she didn’t look much like Holly at all, really) but she didn’t look bad either. At any rate, she was pretty sure Paul wouldn’t recognize her.

“Time to go,” she whispered to herself. “Be brave.”

She took a deep, shaky breath, then exited her room, heading off, a bundle of nerves wrapped around a heavy heart, to make her confession.

Chapter 8

No Holly until Thursday. He couldn’t help it. Paul felt disappointed. He had become accustomed to talking to her several times a day via text and e-mail and on the phone at least once a week. Thursday felt like a long time.

He thought about writing back one more time, but he knew he needed to respect her work schedule and he didn’t want to be some clingy, cloying virtual boyfriend who wouldn’t give her an inch of space.

He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of cold water, rolling it across his sweaty forehead before taking a long gulp. It was so cold it almost gave him a brain freeze, but tasted so good after his run, he quickly finished the bottle.

Twenty-five days, Paul. That’s not much
, he thought.
Not even a month. Not even
—

His thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched squeal of braking tires followed by the sound of frantic yelling. He moved quickly into the living room, looking out the picture window at the road where he saw a car stopped on an angle, the driver standing beside his car, talking to a disheveled, dark-haired young woman who was holding something brown and shaggy against her chest.

“Oh, my God!” he whispered. It was Cleo! She was holding Cleo.

He opened the front door to find Maurice Evans walking the young woman across the street toward Paul’s front porch, his arm around her trembling shoulders.

“Heya, Principal Paul!” Maurice said, worry etched on his wrinkled face as he shepherded the girl up the porch steps. “Cleo came bounding around the corner of your house into the street. I would a hit her if’n this young gal hadn’t jumped in the way and grabbed her!”

Paul’s eyes shifted to the “young gal” in question. Her dark head was down, grasping the dazed bundle of dog in her arms. Paul reached out his hand to touch her gently on the arm.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

She raised her head slowly, keeping her eyes down, staring at his throat until the last possible second when she raised her eyes to his. He heard her breath catch as she gazed at him, no doubt a vestige of the adrenaline rush that had accompanied her rescue of Cleo. Her deep, dark brown eyes seemed riveted on his face, and he wondered for a moment if she was in shock because she stared at him with such a steady, bewildered gaze, fraught with emotion.

“Did you hit your head?” he asked softly, reaching out and touching her black hair. He took the liberty of running his hands over her head, feeling her scalp under his fingers. No warm, sticky blood, no bumps, just the silky softness of her shoulder-length dark hair.

“N-no,” she murmured, her voice breathy and deep. She finally dropped her eyes back to Cleo, scratching behind the shivering dog’s ears.

“Aw, hell, I’m sorry, Paul, but I gotta pick up Mary Beth at the choir rehearsal. She’ll raise hell if’n I’m not there on time. You can take care of this little gal, right?”

“Right, Maurice,” he said without looking up, staring at her dark, bowed head. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Sorry for almost runnin’ you down, Miss—?”

The young woman looked up at Maurice and seemed to realize he was asking for her name.

“Zoë,” she said.

“Miss Zoë?”

“Miss F—” she stopped for a moment, then cleared her throat. “Zoë’s…fine.”

“Well, Miss Fine, you’ve got some courage in that there heart of yours. You take care o‘ her now, Principal.” Maurice tilted his baseball cap at Zoë and made his way back down Paul’s porch steps to his car, pulling away a second later.

Paul looked down at Zoë, who was watching Maurice drive away. Looking at her profile, he had a better view of the scar on her face. He’d noticed it when she first looked up at him. It was a long crevice on the right side of her face, maybe eight or ten inches long and slightly discolored. Not fresh, but not too old either. He wondered what had happened to her.

She bent her neck back down, cooing to Cleo who looked happy as hay pressed up against Zoë. Her little tail wagged enthusiastically under Zoë’s elbow…which drew his eyes to her chest. It was totally wrong of him to notice her breasts, but her loose, low-cut blouse made it hard to look away. He forced himself to say something appropriate.

“Were you hurt at all?”

She looked up at him, meeting his eyes again. “I tripped when I caught her and skinned my knee.”

He realized how close he was standing to her, literally
in
her space, her elbow brushing against his chest. Why was he standing so close to her? What was the matter with him, crowding her like that? It must have been when he felt her head for blood and bumps. He’d never moved away. He stepped back self-consciously, gesturing to Cleo.

“She looks fine. How about I see to your knee?”

“Are you okay now? Are you okay? You scared us, Cleo!” She spoke softly in her low voice, handing the little Yorkie back to Paul reluctantly.

Paul took her from Zoë and tucked her under his arm where she wiggled in protest, apparently wanting to return to Zoë’s soft warmth.

“Thanks for saving her. She came with the inn.”

Geez, what a stupid, nonsensical thing to say.
But Zoë didn’t seem confused or curious at all. She just held his eyes again, deep brown pools looking up at him, alert and thoughtful and…familiar. Familiar? No. He didn’t know any brown-eyed brunettes. Still…

“Have we met?” he blurted out.

“Not yet,” she answered quickly in that dazed, breathy voice that, frankly, he found a little bit distracting.

He held out his hand. “I’m Paul. Paul Johansson. Thanks for saving my dog.”

“I’m Zoë,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “It was my pleasure.”

***

Zoë swallowed uncomfortably, waiting for him to let go of her hand, but he held onto it, staring at her, and she almost started to panic. Was it possible that with dark hair, dark eyes, a scar and a little extra weight he could possibly still recognize her? She knew she should probably look away, but she couldn’t help herself. He was so beautiful, so dear to her, his hand so strong and warm…she couldn’t bear to look away.

He must have been out for one of his late-afternoon weekend runs because his dirty blond hair was wet and spiky from sweat, as though he’d drawn a hand through it, and his face had the flush of exercise under an even tan. His blue eyes, which were greener than she’d anticipated, sparkled with intelligence and compassion, and his angular, chiseled face just about made her heart stop. Maggie hadn’t been lying about his body either. No, that’s not true. Maggie wasn’t entirely accurate: Fit was an understatement.
Cut
was more like it.

“You just, um—you look familiar to me,” he said, furrowing his brows together before withdrawing his hand and turning away from her, toward the house.

Hers hovered, abandoned, in the air for a moment before she realized he’d pulled away, opening the front door for her. She took a deep breath, giving herself a little pep talk about composure, and preceded him into his house.

She chuckled lightly in wonder, standing in his living room. It was just as he had described it: stairs directly in front of her headed upstairs to the four bedrooms, and to her right was the front parlor with a potbelly stove, a couple of couches, a desk, a fireplace and an open-plan dining area with a table for ten. Just beyond the table she could see the kitchen in the back and the sliding doors that led to the back porch beyond. She knew if she walked out there, she’d find his favorite swing with a view of Electric Peak. It’s where he always sat when he wrote to her. He called it “their place.”

“Make yourself at home,” he said, putting Cleo on the floor. He started up the stairs. “I’ll be right back with the first-aid kit.”

She tilted her head, watching as he took the stairs two at a time, and listened at the bottom of the stairs as he moved around upstairs, floorboards creaking pleasantly.

I’m here
, she thought to herself.
I’m really here.

Now that you’re here…tell him
, said the voice in her head, brooking no argument.

I will
, she fired back.
Just let me catch my breath.

She ran her fingers lightly along the back of the couch as she made her way into the cozy living room, sitting down gingerly on the edge of a rocking chair in front of the stove. Cleo scampered toward her, putting her little paws up on the un-scraped knee of Zoë’s scarred leg.

“You wanna come up?” she asked, scooping Cleo into her arms and sitting back as she settled the little dog on her lap. She rocked back and closed her eyes for a second, scratching idly behind Cleo’s ears, and inhaled deeply.

His house smelled like wood fires and pine and fresh air. Like bacon was fried not too long ago and clean laundry was recently folded. It was homey and comfortable, a smell she could get used to. Fast.

Her hand was still warm from his touch and she brushed her fingers over her lips lightly until a pitiful whine from Cleo demanded another ear scratch. She opened her eyes and grimaced.

He is unbelievably handsome.

He was much more handsome in person—his blue eyes quick and concerned, focused and warm up close as they couldn’t be in a photo. He towered over her, his tall, hard-looking body still somehow elegant and she longed to see him with his glasses on. She had worried, at some points during their correspondence, that she wouldn’t be attracted to him once she met him, that he would somehow fail to live up to the expectations she’d placed on a couple of photos. She’d had no cause for worry. Her entire body was tingling and pulsing just from being around him, which was making it hard for her to focus, hard to remember the reason she was here in the first place.