Rekindled (27 page)

Anne hadn’t expected that when she left New York. Taking Mitch up on his offer and using his key, she arrived several days in advance of him. The excitement was in being there, in these hills, in Mitch’s house. Nothing could have kept her away longer.

“You’re going again?” her mother had asked in surprise.

Anne was prepared for the question. She had done her homework. “It’s maple-sugaring time. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Her father had remarked, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned around and bought that place. Pretty soon you’ll be spending more time there than you do here.”

It was an exaggeration, of course. Still, Ann blushed. The cottage already had an owner, a hale and hearty one, who appeared to be in no way interested in selling. Fortunately her parents had never learned of the stranded car or the pneumonia fiasco, and they still knew absolutely nothing about Mitch.

Anne was starting to feel guilty about that. She had always been close to her parents. They had been understanding and solicitous during her grief It occurred to her that they would want to know when she was happy.

For she was happy. Knowing that Mitch would be with her in Vermont, she could face just about anything else that arose. His giving her the key was a significant gesture. Now she had a steady tie to the place.

Since returning this last time, she had changed. For one thing, she had finally been able to pack up Jeff’s things. For another, she was smiling more, laughing more, eating more. For a third, she was going out more with old friends.

Strange. For so much of the last year her apartment had been her private retreat, her sanctuary when she couldn’t face the world. Lately, though, it was nearly as lonely as it had been in the dreadful days following the crash.

She missed Mitch. The longing grew with each day that passed, until her only refuge was in work and the company of others. Even then, he was never far from her mind.

Now, with mud streaks covering the bottom half of her once-bright yellow car, she turned onto the familiar private road. Twice her tires began to spin in the muck; twice she was able to back down and charge forward around the offending mud hole.

It was early Wednesday afternoon. Mitch wasn’t due up until late Friday. Everything seemed larger, emptier, and more silent without him, but she wasn’t lonely. His mark was in every room of the house, surrounding her in a promising cloak.

In his absence, she applied herself to menial tasks like dusting, mopping, scrubbing sinks and the top of the stove. Oh, she had brought several translations to do, but she didn’t touch either. She wasn’t in the mood to concentrate.

During those two days, she did more baking than she had in the past two years. She baked bread. She baked muffins. She baked cookies. Something about the rural life was conducive to it.

Same with hiking. Despite the mud, she did it daily. Without a motor humming, she could better hear sounds of the world emerging from winter. The first of the geese honked as they flew in formation through a pale blue sky. The tallest of the tree branches stretched and flexed in the gusting wind. Squirrels scurried. Woodpeckers pecked. The ground squished.

The snow was gone, and the woodland hadn’t leafed out. But naked boughs stood straighter, heraking their resurgence. Even the leggy lilacs by the cabin’s front door stood proudly in promise of fragrant blossoms.

Friday night came and went with no sign of Mitch.

Anne was devastated. She had cooked a chicken dinner and opened a bottle of wine. The house was spotless and polished. She had showered and dressed in a pair of soft wool slacks and a paisley print blouse, had brushed her hair to a high luster and draped it over her shoulders. Though the soft pink glow on her cheeks needed no help, she had carefully applied a sheen of lavender to her eyelids and a coat of mascara to her lashes. On the third finger of her right hand was the exquisite enameled ring he had given her.

Well after midnight, she wrapped the food and cleaned up the kitchen. At two in the morning, she went to bed, but she barely slept. One ear listened, always listened for the sound of a car. It never came.

Saturday morning, she was heavy-eyed and disturbed. She went through all the possible explanations for his failure to appear. He might have been hung up with business and unable to reach her. He might have forgotten that she would be waiting. He might have decided not to come at all. Now that she had a key, she didn’t need him to let her in.

The minutes crept by, one after another, after another. By late afternoon, when there was still no sign of the Honda, Anne was convinced that she had simply blown the relationship into something it wasn’t.

Then came the blare of a horn. She ran from the window seat in the kitchen to the front door. But it wasn’t his horn-she had known that instantly. While everything about Mitch oozed of charm, this sound carried the rough edge of a local pickup truck.

“Mrs. Boulton?” barked a gruff voice. The stocky form of a farmer, clad in heavy wool jacket, baggy overalls, and aged work boots, stepped from the cab of the truck and strode toward her.

“Yes?” She didn’t recognize the man.

“Gut a message for ya. From a fella named Cooper. Phoned the police station. Sorry for the delay.” He handed the crumpled paper into Anne’s outstretched hand, touched a callused hand to his cap’s bill, climbed back in his truck, and was gone.

Nervously she unfolded the paper. The scrawl was nearly illegible. “Unavoidable delay. Mitch arriving Sunday night. Miles Cooper.”

With a tired sigh she cast a glance down the empty road. Another whole day to wait. Unavoidable delay. She wondered what that meant but it didn’t keep her awake that night. Exhausted from the night before, she slept deeply.

Sunday brought rain, and a dark, gloomy day. Anne went out for a walk anyway, did a crossword puzzle, sat at the window for what seemed hours. By midafternoon, she was champing at the bit. With neither cleaning nor baking left to do, she did some translating. When she finally heard a distant car, the dim light of day had long since yielded to night. But the growing purr was familiar. Without doubt, it was the Honda.

Excited, she opened the front door. It seemed an eternity before he finally climbed from the car, wrested his bags from the trunk, and bolted through the rain toward the house. When he brushed past her without a direct glance, she knew something was wrong.

She closed the door on the rawness of the night, and turned to see him drop the bags, throw off his overcoat, and head for the fire, all without a word. Unsure, she sank down on the sofa and waited.

The man reached out to her both physically and emotionally. He wore a beige sweater and brown corduroy slacks, and looked as strong and fit as ever. But it was the fatigue, suggested by his bent head and the limp hand in his pocket, that made the greatest impression on her. She ached to help, but she feared rebuff. So she remained silent.

For a time, frowning at the fire, Mitch seemed oblivious to her presence. Needing to make some small gesture, she went quietly to the kitchen and returned with a mug of strong black coffee.

“Have something hot, Mitch. It was a long drive.”

He looked at her so suddenly that she knew his mind had been miles away. Without a word of either greeting or explanation, he accepted the cup and returned to his brooding. Again Anne waited, fearing what was wrong, but needing to be there.

Finally, he put his head back, drew in a great breath, straightened, and turned. His eyes were tired, his face more drawn than she remembered it. He drank the last of his coffee and set the mug on the mantel. His smile was wan, but it was a smile. “You’re looking well.”

She rested her chin on her knees, which were drawn up and held by her arms. “I have been, thanks to you. The antibiotic did the trick.”

“No more trouble?” When she shook her head, he said, “That’s good,” and looked back at the fire.

“What’s wrong, Mitch?”

He shot her a dry look. “Don’t ask. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Was it a bad drive up?”

“The usual.”

A silence followed.

“I received the message,” she tried. “Thanks for sending it.”

“I didn’t want you waiting.”

Or worrying, she added silently, bitterly. His aloofness scared her. It suggested he hadn’t wanted to come at all. Perhaps he even regretted having given her the key.

“Would you like me to leave, Mitch?”

He looked at her like she was deft. “Of course not. Why do you suggest that?”

“Because you’re two days late, then you walk in here like a zombie and stare at the fire. It occurs to me that you might just want your house to yourself”

“If I had wanted that, I’d never have given you a key to the place.”

“Why did you? I keep asking myself that, but I can’t come up with a good answer.”

“I wanted you to have access to the place whenever you wanted.”

Gewhy?”

“That’s a crazy question.”

“And this is a crazy situation.”

He went to the front window and stared out at the darkness. “I never promised you more.”

Well, he was right. A heavy weight settled in Anne’s stomach. Head bowed, she rose from the sofa, reached for the empty mug, and headed for the kitchen. At the door, she stopped, but she didn’t turn. “Have you had any supper?”

“No.”

“I’ll make something.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I’ll do it.”

Five minutes later, she sat across from him and watched him down the club sandwich that she had made with the chicken that had gone uneaten on Friday night. Conversation was sparse and cryptic, compounding her frustration. “Thank you,” he said when only crumbs remained. “That hit the spot.”

“I’m glad I’ve finally done something right,” she murmured, standing to clear the dishes.

He caught her hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you know.” She freed her hand and she continued to the sink.

Suddenly he was directly behind her. “You’ve been vague about something for the last hour. What is it?”

Fiercely, she scrubbed at the dish.

“You’re angry because I showed up late?”

“No.”

“What else could it be? I sent word. I even did it through Miles so you wouldn’t worry that I knew your last name.”

“That’s not bothering me.”

He turned her around. “Look at me, Anne.”

Her hands dripped of soap. She held them out to the sides.

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong,” he insisted, and she was suddenly angry.

“Why? I don’t owe you an explanation for my behavior, any more than you owe me one for yours!”

His eyes held hers for long minutes. “Ah. That’s it. You want an explanation for my lateness, like this is some kind of a business meeting.”

“I don’t want a thing!” she cried, whipping out of his grasp to dry her hands on the towel. She thrust a damp rag into his hand. “Here. You finish cleaning. I’m going to bed.”

She held off tears until she was safely up in her attic room and sure of not being followed. Then they came with a vengeance. She had loved Jeff and lost him, through powers that were beyond her. Now it was happening all over again with Mitch.

Oh, yes, she loved Mitch … Mitch, whose last name she didn’t even know. She knew that she had missed him desperately, that his brooding upset her, along with her inability to console him. She knew that she wanted an explanation for his delay.

For long hours she agonized. Leave here tomorrow, a tiny voice said, protect yourself, you don’t need this pain. But a louder voice told her to wait. Mitch made her feel. She wanted to be with him. There was always hope.

On that optimistic note she fell into a deep sleep, long after all sound of life from downstairs had ceased. The rain continued to pound the windows, but it was the smell of strong coffee that finally woke her up.

Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was there in her room. The weight by her right hip, a distinct depression in the mattress, the faint hint of aftershave-all told her so. She opened heavy eyes and focused on him. Through a sleepy haze, he looked soft, gentle, and caring. Freshly shaven, showered, and dressed, he was powerfully male. His face was one big tender smile, broken only when he sipped coffee from the mug he held.

“Good morning,” he said. “I’d begun to wonder whether you’d ever wake up. A real sleeping beauty.”

Anne was relieved enough that his mood had improved to muster a smile. “I had trouble falling asleep.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hmph. Got a taste of your own medicine?” Pushing higher up on the pillow, she moved her hair off her cheek.

As the quilt fell away, Mitch’s eyes lit. “What’s this? Bare arms? A negligee? Where’d the long flannel nightgown go? It’s not that warm yet.”

Anne scowled. “It’s not a negligee. A negligee is something daring. This is just a nightgown.” Primly, she pulled the quilt to her throat.

“We’re arguing semantics, Annie. The fact is, you look like a woman should look first thing in the morning.”

“I look awful,” she grumbled, picturing ratty hair, swollen eyes, and bare features and suddenly wishing she could hide.

“If you could bottle up and sell what you call awful, you’d make a million.”

“Well, I’m sure you’d know. You must have seen dozens of women first thing in the morning.”

“Ah. I think you need coffee.” He slid an arm behind her and drew her up. “Jealousy isn’t your usual style.” Though a smile played around his mouth, his eyes were serious.

“I’m not jealous,” she said, but she drank his coffee. The intimacy of it made a lie of her denial. She wanted to know who occupied Mitch’s time and thoughts when he wasn’t with her. Oh, yes, she was jealous.

“Better?” he asked and took another drink himself. He placed the mug on the nightstand when she lay back against the pillows. “Is the nightgown symbolic? Like the pink sweater last time?”

She lifted a shoulder, self-conscious. “I suppose. I’m getting out more now. I feel better.” Except when she thought about the upcoming trial, which she desperately tried not to do. “What about you? Any symbolic recovery gestures?”