R Is for Rebel (7 page)

The engines squealed to life and Eliot took his cell phone out of his pocket. He tapped in a quick message. “Just letting my parents know we'll be there in time for dinner.”

“We will?”

He slipped the phone back into his pants pocket. “Yeah, we should land around 6:30 local time. We'll be out at the farm around 7:00. You ready for middle America, Lady Abigail?”

Her eyebrows drew together. “Don't call me that.”

“Why not? I like it. You are a lady, after all.”

“Sure, with a small
L
. But the other, the upper case
L
is just daft. I didn't do anything to deserve it. It's silly.”

“Blah blah. Get over yourself, Abigail.”

“You sound like Bronte!”

“Why? What does Bronte have to say about it?” The plane had taken off and was making a steep ascent that pushed Eliot's shoulder closer to Abigail's. She gave him a little shove to keep him from pushing her any more than necessary.

“Oh, the usual. Like she does with Max. Which I find hilarious. But for some reason, when she turns her whole quit-complaining-about-your-very-well-tended-lot-in-life-and-do-something-about-it laser beam on me, it doesn't seem quite so humorous.”

“Did you call any people this week about getting involved in a charitable organization? What happened with your banker?”

She looked down at her hands.

“I mean, only if you want to talk about it. I don't want to pry,” he added.

She wanted to grab the front of his perfectly ironed white shirt and tell him to pry her wide open. She wanted Eliot to ask her everything and just be with her on this whole I'm-starting-my-real-life-right-now journey that seemed to be upon her. “Do you have any scotch on this bucket of bolts?”

“What do you think?” Eliot tapped a button on the armrest next to him and the polished burl surface lifted up to reveal a tiny bar, about one-foot by one-foot with four glasses and two bottles of excellent scotch neatly packed like a picnic basket. “Et voilà!”

He took out the Oban and offered it with a questioning look.

“Yes, please,” Abby answered.

Eliot poured her an inch and passed her the cut crystal glass. He poured one for himself, closed the top on the bar, and lifted his glass.

“Cheers, Abigail. To new beginnings.”

“New beginnings,” she said as she stared into his eyes and they both took a sip. Eliot had demanded they always maintain eye contact when they were having that first celebratory sip, some stupid Italian tradition that was starting to make Abby crazy. For some reason, staring at him while her lips were on the edge of a glass and his lips were on the edge of a glass made her… palpitate. She finished taking the sip and closed her eyes. The heat from the liquor (and the nearness of Eliot, probably) made her flush.

“I think I will take my coat off after all.” Abby set her glass into the cup holder to her left and undid her lap belt. She took off the bulky brown coat, and Eliot took it from her and set it over the back of a nearby seat.

“You look great.”

Damn him. Why did he have to comment on her appearance? She supposed she was going to have to get used to it. He seemed determined. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “It's just a black turtleneck and jeans.”

“Oh. Your clothes are hideous. I just meant
you
look great.” He took another sip of his scotch and reached for a small remote control that was tucked into a slim recess near his seat. “Want to watch a movie?” He clicked on the television and looked over Abby's head to see what movies were loaded into the system.

“Hideous?” she asked.

Without looking at her, he said, “Of course they're hideous. You do it to torment me, without even knowing you're tormenting me. That exquisite body of yours all consumed and concealed in those layers of…” He gestured with the remote in a circular motion to indicate her general sartorial mess. “The scarves and the wraps and the—” He interrupted himself to pull at the edge of an old purple scrap of fabric she'd wrapped around her neck several times. “I don't even know what to call that.”

“It's a scarf, Eliot. You know perfectly well what it is. And what would you rather see me in?”

“Nothing, of course.”

“Other than nothing!” She widened her eyes to chastise him, but the flush of excitement at the prospect of Eliot seeing her in nothing was obvious to both of them.

He smiled at the little victory. “Okay.” He took a small sip of scotch. “Other than
nothing
, I think I'd like to see you in…” He narrowed his eyes. “Stand up.”

“What?”

“I said stand up. You heard me. This is a professional consultation. There are women who would give untold sums to have me tell them what to wear. It's what I do for a living, remember?”

“You want me to stand up like a mannequin?”

“Precisely.”

She laughed and took another sip of scotch and didn't move. Eliot didn't change his expression. “You're not joking?” she asked, incredulous.

“No. I'm not joking. But if you don't want to hear it, that's fine too.” He shrugged. “I'll just chalk it up to cowardice.”

“That is so low. You know I'd jump out of this airplane if you handed me a parachute. How dare you accuse me of cowardice?”

He shrugged again. “You're just afraid of how beautiful you are. I get it.”

Abby's heart started to pound. She was running out of excuses about why Eliot's attraction to her was based on something passing or meaningless or… excusable. Because he didn't seem to be going away. In fact, he seemed to be circling closer and closer to the truth every time he opened his mouth.

“I am not beautiful.” Abigail said it quietly as she stared into the depths of her glass of scotch.

“Fine. Let's watch a movie if that's what you think.”

He clicked on the volume and a vintage James Bond movie began to play on the screen, Sean Connery with his jet pack over a chateau in France.

“Fine,” Abby said. But she wasn't fine. She felt like Eliot Cranbrook was peeling her skin off one layer at a time, and she wasn't sure she could stand it.

Soon after Bond got his assignment from M, Abby had finished her scotch and started to doze. When she woke up several hours later, she was curled up with her head on Eliot's thigh and his hand resting lightly on her shoulder with his thumb doing this familiar, featherlight back-and-forth motion. She sat up quickly and startled them both.

“Whoa!” Eliot moved his glass of scotch away so it didn't spill on them.

“What time is it? How long was I asleep?”

“Wow. Relax, tiger.” He looked at his watch. “About five hours. We're almost there.”

“Five hours? What did you put in my scotch?”

“Please. As if I'd have to drug you for you to fall asleep. You're practically narcoleptic.”

“Oh dear. I'm utterly disoriented.” She pulled her hair away from her face and reached into her pocket for an elastic. She coiled the unruly tangle into a big loose bun at the base of her skull. “That's better. Where's the loo?”

Eliot stared at her, all rested and fresh. “Right there at the back.” He pointed a few feet from where they were sitting.

“Thanks!” She smiled and sprang from her seat. “I'll be right back.”

A few minutes later, she was back and looking out the window. She could see the sparkle of tiny lights on the earth below. “This is so exciting. I've never been to the middle of America!”

“Your first flyover state?”

She nodded.

“You are priceless. So glad I can provide you with a little down-home fun.”

“I didn't mean it like that. You are always trying to make me sound like the worst snob.”

“No, I'm not. I'm just trying to make you see that… oh, forget it. I'm not trying to
make
you anything.”

“Other than a not-so-hideous dresser.”

“Look. You've always appreciated my honesty. Please don't go and get your hackles up about what is really just my job. It's what I do, Abigail. I dress women for a living. And”—he gestured around the plane as if it were exhibit A—“I'm pretty damn good at it even if I shouldn't say so myself.”

“All right, all right. I get it. It's what you do and all that. So go ahead and turn me into a paper doll and tell me what you'd envision me wearing if I were ever to capitulate to such nonsense.” She stood up and twirled with her index finger pointing to the top of her skull like a ballerina in a little girl's jewelry box.

“I'm not going to do this if it's some way for you to try to prove that I'm objectifying you. I think clothes are beautiful. I don't think they're nonsense.”

She dropped her arms. “Very well, if you're going to turn all serious on me. What would you like? First position? Second position?” She set her feet in perfect balletic stances.

“Third position. Right foot forward.” No nonsense.

Abby breathed and tried to make it sound normal, but when Eliot spoke to her like that, in that confident, deep, specific way, it did something to her, something erotic and powerful. “Okay,” she said, feeling soft and pliable.

Years of ballet never really left a person. Those positions were in her muscle-memory, no matter how many years had passed since she'd actually stood at the barre. The plane was beginning its descent, so she had to adjust her position.

“Turn to your left.” He used the glass of scotch to show her which way, then set it down in the cup holder next to him and stood up. He had to duck his head slightly, his six-foot-four-inch frame pushing the limits of the luxurious cabin. He began pawing her.

He put both of his large hands around her waist and Abby gasped. “I knew your waist was tiny. Look at this.” His hands nearly touched when he squeezed her. “I could probably get you down to twenty inches if I corseted you.”

Abigail was simultaneously terrified and delighted at the bizarre vision of Eliot “corseting” her… visions of
The
Story
of
O
and—“Aha. You like that idea, don't you, Abigail?” He tightened his grip even more.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He let go of her waist and lifted her arms, as if she were a marionette, raising them level with her shoulders, then slightly higher, then letting them drop. He circled behind her.

“May I?” He was holding the edge of the offending purple scarf in one hand, asking if he could remove it. For some reason, Abby had never liked having her neck bared. It made her feel more naked than being in a bikini… to be clothed and bare-necked.

“Sure.” She swallowed and tried not to turn it into some striptease in her mind, but the feeling of Eliot Cranbrook very slowly, very carefully removing that one scrap of fabric from her body was probably the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her. Her heart rate sped up; her cheeks flushed; her breasts felt heavy.

“Lovely,” he whispered from behind her, once the scarf was completely removed. Since he'd made it perfectly clear that none of her clothes would ever match that description, she was left with the unsettling realization that Eliot really did think that she, Abigail Heyworth, was lovely.

“Eliot.”

A single finger touched the nape of her neck, just beneath the bundle of hair that she'd casually tied up. He tugged at the stretchy material of her turtleneck to expose the top of her spine and upper back. “Right here. I am going to find a gown that draws all my attention to this spot. Maybe a vintage Alexander McQueen.” His thumb circled the top of her spinal cord as he contemplated his options, and she felt it ping through her like an electrical shock. He released her turtleneck and grabbed her shoulders in that old familiar way. “We're about to land. Buckle up.”

He took the purple scarf and threw it in the garbage bin that was built into the wall next to the bathroom door.

“Hey! That was mine!”

He came back and sat down next to her, buckling up as the sound of the landing gear rumbled in the background. “The operative word being:
was
.”

Abby laughed and closed her eyes, feeling the pull of gravity and the push of jet propulsion and the nearness of Eliot as the plane touched down in Iowa, America.

“Eliot!” His father's voice was rolling and sure, just like Eliot's, but a little scratchier from age. “Over here!”

Abby looked across the small landing area, really just a paved strip in the middle of a bunch of very windy, very barren cornfields, to see a tall man standing in front of an old silver station wagon, then waving as he walked toward them.

Eliot was hauling a black weekend bag, and Abby had her large backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Eliot! Why is she carrying her own luggage? What will she take us for?”

“Hi, Dad. This is Abigail Heyworth. Abigail, this is my father, William Cranbrook, better known as Will.” His dad pulled him into a quick hug, then reached for Abby's backpack.

“Please let me carry your bag since it seems my son has been so poorly raised.”

Eliot shot Abby a grin from behind his father's back.

“Oh!” Abby laughed. “It's not like he hasn't tried to carry my bag. I just won't let him. And I certainly won't let
you
carry it!” Abby reached out her hand to shake the older man's.

“You young ladies today. I wouldn't survive an hour. When someone offers to carry my bag, I simply hand it over!” All three of them laughed and made their way out of the biting wind and into the warmth of the waiting car. As Eliot had predicted, they were at his parents' house in about thirty minutes.

They pulled into the garage then walked through a narrow glassed-in passage that connected to the nineteenth-century brick house. Eliot took off his coat and then took Abby's and hung them both on the hooks near the door. The door at the other side of the small room opened, and Eliot's mother clapped her hands together and walked quickly to greet them.

She pulled Eliot into a tight hug and said, “I always miss you!” loud enough for all of them to hear. It was the strangest thing for Abigail. She felt like she was intruding on some deeply intimate moment, but she was soon to see that these spontaneous displays of love and affection were the norm for Eliot's family. They actually loved one another and wanted each other to know it. How cold her own family must appear to him. She shivered at the thought.

“Oh, look at you! You must be freezing! I wish we could've ordered better weather for your first visit!”

“Mom, this is Abigail Heyworth. Abigail, this is my mom.”

“It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Cranbrook.”

“Oh! It's Penny. Please call me Penny. Now let's get you all out of the mudroom.” Eliot's mother chattered and bustled and led them all into the kitchen, shutting the door and sealing the cold air behind them. She clapped her hands together again and turned to look at Abby. “So you're Abigail. Let me look at you. You're so pretty.”

Abby blushed from an overwhelming slew of emotions that she couldn't even begin to untangle. This woman knew of her, wanted to know her. Eliot must have spoken of her to his mother. This woman was looking forward to having her visit, to having her in her home, with her son. To cooking food for her. It was all a bit odd and confusing.

“Thank you so much for having me on such short notice.”

“Oh, please. We're so happy to finally meet you. All we've heard for the past few months is Abigail-this and Abigail-that.”

Abby laughed and caught a look from Eliot. He stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb and looking a little sheepish—as if his mother maybe spilled the beans—then he shrugged to let her know he wasn't sorry.

“Come on in,” Penny continued. “I was just finishing up the pie and I know you must want a drink—or do you want a hot bath and to go straight to bed? Are you exhausted? Eliot never gets jet lag. I don't know how he does it.”

Abby turned back to Penny. “I slept the whole way. I'd love to help you with the pie, and a drink wouldn't go amiss either.”

“Perfect! Eliot, drinks please.”

Eliot was smiling in the doorway between the kitchen and the small office that led into the living room. “Coming right up.”

Abby looked over her shoulder and smiled, and Eliot's mother fluttered her hand with an off-you-go motion. Eliot looked as if he could have stood there staring at them all night, but forced himself to turn toward the living room to make the drinks. Eventually, he joined his dad in front of the fire and the University of Iowa football game while Abby and Penny finished making dinner.

The guest room for Abby was right across the hall from Eliot's childhood room, where he still stayed whenever he came home. His parents' bedroom was on the ground floor. After the delicious dinner—roast chicken and mashed potatoes and Brussels sprouts and cherry pie that Penny had prepared and served and cleaned up as if there was nothing else in the world she would have rather been doing (because there wasn't… because Eliot was home and it was his favorite dinner and she loved to make it for him)—after all that, they headed to bed.

Penny showed Abigail to her room. Eliot's mother babbled along about how she hoped Abigail had everything she wanted and encouraged her to sleep as late as she liked. She pointed out the extra towels under the sink and the bottled water and the blanket in the closet if she needed an extra layer, until Eliot finally poked his head in the room.

“Let her go to sleep, Mom.”

“Oh! Sorry. It's just so much fun having you both visit. I'm sorry, Abigail. I do tend to ramble. You sleep well.” She started to leave the room then turned back quickly. “And we're casual in the morning. Just come down to breakfast in your bathrobe and we'll read the paper in the sunroom and then—”

“Mom!”

“Oh dear.” She reached out and gave Abby a quick hug then gave Eliot another hug as she slipped past him before going downstairs. “Good night, you two.” She called from the bottom of the stairs.

Abby called good night and thank you, then turned to look at Eliot.

“You all good?” he asked quietly, after they heard the door to his parents' room shut.

“Great. Thanks.” Her voice sounded a little too loud in her ears. The old house, secluded on the prairie, was profoundly quiet now that everyone had settled in. Wind whipped around the place from every direction, but instead of making it feel isolated or dreary, it made it feel more cozy inside, safe from the elements. Intimate.

Abby was starting to feel off-kilter again, remembering all that talk of being corseted and how it felt to have this man's strong hands hold her like he'd done on the plane. Then, as if he could see those hotter thoughts bubbling up in her mind, he smiled a slow, knowing smile and shook his head.

“You sleep well, Abigail.” He started to pull the door shut.

“Eliot. Wait.”

He held the door open halfway and looked at her, waiting for her to continue.

“What's it going to take… I mean… I really want to…”

He widened his eyes. “Yes?”

“Why are you making this so hard for me?”

“I'm not trying to make anything hard for you. I just want you…” His words hung there between them for a few seconds, his dark blue eyes narrowing as he looked into hers, then quickly darting to her lips and back to her eyes. “I want you to feel easy, relaxed, if we do anything.” He had come closer to her and reached out to put a loose strand of hair behind her ear and let his hand linger on her neck.

If?
Abby nearly stopped breathing altogether. Who was Eliot kidding? It was definitely
when
as far as she was concerned. He was an itch she was going to scratch. Definitely. No more
if
about it.

Her breath was short and she had to make a very concerted effort not to shut her eyes and lean into him, into that warm palm of his that was gently stroking her neck beneath the fabric of her shirt.

“I want you, Abigail, but I think you need to know what
you
want, what you're asking for.” His fingers were pressing against the artery at the base of her neck, as if he was checking her pulse.

“I think…” Her voice was low and unfamiliar. “I think you are seducing me and trying to make me think it's my idea.”

He let his hand fall away from her neck and she missed it immediately, with a strange spike of longing for so small a touch. “I don't know if that's exactly right,” he said. “I'm certainly not trying to seduce you for some temporary fling… just to get you to say yes, if that's what you mean. But you're right: I most definitely want it to be your idea. Sleep well, Abigail. I'll see you in the morning.”

She huffed a little sigh. “Okay. Sleep well, Eliot…” She almost said,
lots
of
love
like she automatically did when Bronte took Wolf to bed when Abby was at Dunlear. Or when she was with Devon and Sarah and they all said good night at the bottom of the big staircase… good night… lots of love.

Eliot pulled the door shut behind him and Abigail leaned her forehead against the thick oak panel and listened to the sound of his receding footsteps.

It was just a throwaway bit, that
lots
of
love
… that
wanting
to say it. It didn't mean
I
love
you
like
that
. She tapped her forehead against the wood a couple of times, hoping something illuminating would penetrate her thick skull, then turned to the bathroom and set about unpacking her toothbrush and getting ready for bed.

***

Saturday morning, Abby took Penny Cranbrook at her word and shambled downstairs in her pajamas and the thick robe that was hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

“Good morning, Abigail. I thought I heard you rustling around up there. Would you like some coffee?”

“Good morning. Yes, please.” Abby sat on one of the stools next to the island in the middle of the kitchen.

Penny wore a flowery flannel bathrobe that went to the floor and a pair of thick socks that looked like they probably belonged to her husband. Abby must have been staring at the older woman's feet, spacing out as she often did when she first woke up.

“Oh! I have such cold feet… not very fashionable footwear in the morning. Eliot's dad loves to joke that I always have cold feet… except when it came to marrying him!” She handed Abby a mug of black coffee then set a small creamer and sugar bowl on the counter near where she sat.

“I have it black, thanks.”

“I used to be so good about that, but I'm all cream and sugar all the time these days.” Penny laughed at herself. “I spent way too many years watching every calorie so I could wear all the latest things. Now I'd rather taste cream and sugar than wear a size six.”

Abby smiled and took another sip of coffee.

“Let's go sit in the sunroom. I made some zucchini muffins, and we can read the papers out there. Eliot and Will went into town to pick up some shotgun shells. They thought you might want to go pheasant hunting before we head over to Grandma Cranbrook's later this afternoon. What do you think?”

“I'd love that.” Abby looked up at the gray winter sky through the slanted glass ceiling. “Is this a British conservatory? It feels wonderfully familiar.”

“It is. After Eliot's dad sold his company, it was our first real extravagance.”

Abigail realized she didn't have a clue about what Eliot's father did for a living. She figured it would be rude to inquire.

“Has Eliot told you about his father's business?”

Well, that answered that. Abigail smiled. “No. I mean, Sarah said that Eliot's father and her father had been business associates for many years, but I never really knew the specifics.”

“Oh, that's right.” Penny smiled over her mug of coffee. “Isn't it considered sort of rude in England to ask
what
do
you
do
? What a perfect example of our cultural differences.” Penny leaned forward and picked up one of the muffins, then tucked her feet up under her and got more comfortable in the large wicker chair with the big down cushions. “Here in the States, we pretty much
want
to be known for what we do, rather than who our parents were or where we came from. It's what we make of ourselves that we want to be known for. Don't you think?”

“I think you might be right. Whereas in England, I suppose it seems, well, I don't know, this will probably sound elitist or something, but people would rather be known for their ideas, not what they do for money.”

Penny laughed. “Oh, you sound like Sarah's grandmother. Have you met her?”

“Yes, I've met her a couple of times. She's extraordinary.”

“She is. I remember Sarah telling me how
appalled
her grandmother was that Sarah had decided to go into
trade
! Isn't it funny that there are still people who think like that?
Trade!
” Penny laughed at the sound of it.

Abby smiled but she was a bit ashamed to admit that her own mother had raised her with the same contradictory set of values. One, especially if one happened to be female, was meant to be productive but never money-grubbing, busy, but never truly obligated to an employer. It was an impossible balance to strike.

“I'm sorry, did I say something wrong, Abigail?”

“Oh, no, nothing.” She looked up and saw compassion in the woman's eyes—just like Eliot's. Something sweet and concerned that made Abby want to cry. “Really nothing. Just how we all sometimes get mixed messages from our parents.” Abby smiled again, trying to change the subject.

“Oh! I know all about that!”

“Really?”

“Yep. This was my parents' house.” Penny gestured around her head. “I was born in this house. That's why I sound like I'm from a farm and Eliot sounds like he's from… Harvard. That boarding school bred the farm right out of him. Anyway, my people were what was known as
upstanding
. Methodists. Hardworking farmers. No nonsense. And I went and fell in love with the boy in school whose father was a truck driver. His people were from
Kentucky
no less.” The way she said
Kentucky
made it sound like a plague on both their houses. Which it probably was at the time.