Summer Shadows (36 page)

Besides, he was a seminary professor. Seminary professors were supposed to obey the law.

“Have we talked the issue of your mother to death?” he asked Abby.

She nodded. “I think so, and I’m grateful for your help. I feel like we’re Queen Louise of Savoy and Margaret of Austria hammering out
Le Paix des Dames.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know. The Treaty of Cambria that created peace between France and the Holy Roman Emperor back in 1529.”

“Where do you pull all these obscure women from, for Pete’s sake?” She amazed him with her grasp of truly arcane trivia. “And am I Louise or Margaret?”

She grinned at him. “Take your pick. I just hope my peace attempts with Mom are more successful and long lasting than Margaret and Louise’s.”

“So your original conversation didn’t go well? Even though you told her all that we discussed during dinner?”

“She was not impressed.”

“The first confrontation is always the hardest.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. Just remember, from now on, no more temper tantrums. No more running and hiding.”

Abby rolled her eyes.

“What?” he demanded.

“I feel like one of your students.”

He thought back over his comments. “So I was a bit didactic.”

She blew a raspberry.

He dug his fingers into her ribs, delighted when she jumped. “I’m a teacher. I’m used to telling people things. Besides, I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but at the moment being
told
stuff doesn’t go down well, even when the stuff is right.”

He noticed that even though she was complaining, she wasn’t stepping away from him. “We can’t just chalk this up to telling the truth in love?”

She dug her fingers into his side, and he winced. “What do you think?”

“I guess not.” He pushed the leash button to give Fargo lots of lead to chase a seagull.

“You treat me with great respect, Marsh, even when I don’t deserve it.” She smiled up at him, and those sparkling black eyes did funny things to his stomach. “I cannot begin to tell you how
much that means to me. When we talked at dinner, we talked. Give and take. My thought, your thought.”

He nodded. “So it’s the imperative sentence that gives you heartburn?”

“Acid reflux of the emotions.”

He thought about all the times his father gave him orders. He hated it. Then he thought of the times he’d been witness to his dad using the same authoritative manner on his mother. Or trying to.

“Marcus, you will not address me in that tone,” Mom always said, her eyes stormy but her voice noncombative. “I am not one of your lackeys. Rephrase, please.”

If his brash, pompous father had learned to rephrase, so could he. “Since the first conversation didn’t go as well as you’d have liked, what are your next steps?”

From the look on her face, he could tell he’d just scored big points, all thanks to his father. Paradigm shift!

“Well, I won’t lose my temper anymore. I won’t run and hide.” She ticked her points off by extending a finger for each. “I will address all issues with honesty and love, showing respect for her and Dad. I will pray that the Lord works in their hearts as in mine so that we don’t wound each other but reach a Christ-honoring conclusion.”

“You’ve got it.” He studied her in the amber light of evening. Even these few days had made a difference in her appearance. Her pallor was gone, replaced by a rich reddish gold that washed across her cheekbones and nose. Her black curls defied her best efforts to contain them, the wind and humidity restyling to their specifications. Her eyes had lost some of the haunting shadows that sat in their depths. She was still too thin, but he had all summer to fatten her up.

Then there was her smile! It never failed to make him catch his breath. She was smiling now, pleased by his approval. He hoped her good spirits were up to his next question, the one he’d refrained from asking at dinner, the one that was gnawing at him. “Now tell me: What got you so upset today that you couldn’t face your mother?”

She hesitated, the sparkle dimming, then disappearing.

“Come on, Abby. You can trust me.”

“It’s not that.” She stared at their feet for a few seconds. “I’m
almost afraid to tell you what upset me.”

“Afraid? Of me?” He was surprised. “It’s worse than hiding from your mom?”

She glanced up, then away as though unable to meet his eyes. “Yes, it’s worse. Much worse.”

He stopped, turning her to face him. “Abby.”

“But I’m innocent!”

He had no doubts about this tenderhearted woman. “Of course you are.” She hadn’t the conscience to do awful things and survive. Look how the problem with her parents had tied her in knots.

She appeared grateful for his words of support, took a deep, fortifying breath, and blurted, “Someone’s accused me of everything from mental instability to child molestation.”

He was so floored he couldn’t think of one thing to say.

“Two anonymous letters were sent, one to the head librarian and one to the chairman of the library board.” Her expression was one of bewilderment as she told him about the letters and the reactions of Nan Fulsom and Mr. Martindale. “Why would anyone do something like that, Marsh? How can I ever prove myself innocent of such despicable charges?”

The worry and sorrow in her eyes tore at his heart. “You’ve worked at the library how long? Three days?”

She nodded.

He was silent for a minute, thinking, while she watched him uncertainly. Fargo, impatient with standing around, pulled his leash as taut as he could, running into the water and trying to bite the waves. Then he ran back, circled them, and headed for the water again. In the nick of time, Marsh saw the danger as the leash tightened around their legs. He dropped the lead.

“The letters don’t make sense to me, Abby.” Absently Marsh watched Fargo race into deeper water, then out again. “You would never do anything inappropriate to a child. All someone has to do is watch you with Jess and Karlee to know that, or listen to you talk about Maddie. You love kids.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You have no idea how much that comment means to me.”

Fargo went whipping around them again, preparing for another assault on the sea. Marsh put out a foot, stepping on the
leash as it slithered by. Fargo jerked to a halt.

“Come here, you big oaf.” Marsh pushed the button to retract the lead. Soaking wet and very disgruntled, Fargo sidled up to Marsh and Abby. He began to shake. Water flew.

Hands up to protect her face, Abby stared at the dog. “You did that on purpose.”

Fargo stilled, tilted his head to one side, and raised his brown eyebrows. “Me? Never,” he seemed to say.

“Probably,” Marsh agreed, unperturbed. He raised his arm and brushed water from his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. “Do you have a copy of the letters?”

Abby nodded. “Back at the house.”

“How about the envelopes?”

“No.” She bent and wiped her face on her skirt. Marsh liked it better when she used his T-shirt. “I never gave them a thought.”

“But you have seen them?”

She nodded.

“Were they sent through the mail or hand delivered?”

Abby thought for a moment. “Mailed, I think. At least the one to Mr. Martindale was. I remember seeing a stamp on the envelope.”

“He received it early today?”

She nodded.

“So the letter was mailed Monday or Tuesday at the latest.” He looked at her, very pleased with himself.

She looked back, confused. “I’m not following you.”

“The first letter, the one about you going to a psychiatrist, is just a nasty mistelling of a truth, right? The grain of truth hidden in the lie kind of thing?”

She nodded. “The second one is an outright lie.”

“An outright lie mailed before you’d even worked two days at the library.”

Abby’s eyes widened as she saw Marsh’s point. “I spent most of Monday with Nan as she showed me around, introducing me to people, telling me about library policies, having me sign insurance papers, stuff like that.”

“There’s no way you could have done what the letter accuses you of. Even discounting your heart for God and your high personal standards, there simply wasn’t time. Such activity requires a
modicum of trust on the part of the victim as well as a lot of privacy. You haven’t been at the library long enough to know the kids.”

“My desk is right out in the open. I don’t even know where the hidey-holes are. Oh, Marsh!” She threw her arms around him, giving him a hug. “Why didn’t I think of that? All I have to do is talk to Nan about the postmarks, and I prove my innocence. Thank you!”

He happily held her until she pulled back. There were still the questions of who wrote those letters and why, but they could discuss those issues later. For the moment he’d let her enjoy her vindication.

“My hero,” she said, smiling at him in a way that made his heart turn over.

Eat your heart out, Randall Craig. I’ll have to make certain you’re a hero to Marguerite too
.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he said, thinking how strange it was that for a writer everything was story fodder. “Remember when we met, and you told me about some woman who was the first European woman in North America?”

“Sure. Marguerite de la Roque.”

“Marguerite.” He nodded. “I thought that was the name. Thanks.” When he didn’t say more, she looked at him in question. He made believe he didn’t see.

You idiot, Winslow! You should not have asked that question
. It had just popped out, the next logical step in his thoughts, but it led to a forbidden topic. To explain would mean to explain Colton West, something he knew he’d eventually have to do if his feelings for her continued to escalate. But not yet. He wasn’t certain when, but not today.

“It’s all right,” she finally said, her voice bright, encouraging. “I know about your Marguerite.”

He froze for a minute, then stepped back from her so he could see her face. She was smiling at him with that wonderful verve of hers, that joy that sprang from her heart in spite of her troubles. He enjoyed her, admired her, loved to spar with her, and couldn’t remember a woman he’d ever felt so at ease with.

But talk to her about Colton West?

How did she know about Marguerite, and how much did she know? He had protected his secret for so long, refusing interviews,
using his reclusiveness à la J. D. Salinger and Harper Lee as a PR ploy. His anonymity had worked like a charm on sales. He knew that if he acknowledged Colton West to her, she’d want to tell the world. She was a no-pretenses woman, allergic, he was certain, to secrets.

She waited, eyes bright, for him to tell her about Colton West, but as time stretched and he said nothing, her face shuttered.

“Oh.” She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, tears glittered. “I see how it is. I open up. You don’t. Foolish me. I thought we were friends who trusted each other.” She gave him a sad little smile, turning back toward the house without saying another word.

He was beside her in two long strides, catching her arm. “Abby!” He didn’t know what else to say, but he knew he couldn’t let her walk away.

“Let go, Marsh,” she said in a small voice. She wouldn’t look at him.

“Abby, don’t be like this.”

“Abby
, don’t be like this?” She tried to pull her arm free.

He tightened his grip. “I–I can explain.” But the words caught in his throat.

“I thought—” she began, then brought a hand to her mouth like she was holding words back.

He could imagine the words.
I thought we had something special developing. I thought we were honest with each other. I thought you liked me
.

Liked her? If he was honest with himself, he was probably falling in love with her, which scared the stuffings out of him. She wasn’t Lane; he knew that. Still, no matter how many times he told himself she was different.…

“I need to go, Marsh.” She pulled her arm free. “I need to be alone.”

He couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t let her walk away thinking he didn’t care. He grasped her elbow to steady her on the sand, pacing himself to her.

“I don’t want my father to know,” he blurted.

“I already figured that out.” She stopped and looked at him, her eyes serious and sad. “I think you’re being foolish. I think he’d be proud of you.”

Marsh made an indecipherable noise deep in his throat. Like she knew.

She saw his skepticism and turned away again. “Right. What do I know? I can’t even figure out how to get along with my own parents. How could I ever know about you and yours?”

Marsh knew with unnerving certainty that the next few minutes would greatly affect the rest of his life. Even Fargo knew something was wrong. He sat beside them looking from one to the other with a worried expression. Perceptive animal. Too bad he couldn’t give advice.

“How did you find out?” Marsh managed to ask around the lump in his throat.

“When I was on your porch, I started picking up the papers scattered all over the floor. I read part of a chapter.”

“Ah.”
Brilliant riposte, Winslow
.

Her lips pressed together, but he wasn’t certain whether in anger or distress. “I’m sorry. I read what was intended to be private.”

He watched her, marveling that he had so hurt her by his simple hesitation. He felt uncomfortable yet strangely pleased that he affected her so. He knew he didn’t mean to wound her. To the contrary. He wanted to protect her, to care for her, to be with her.

“Nobody knows but Rick and my agent. And you.” He paused, lifting her chin so she would look at him. She stared off into the distance beyond his left shoulder. Not quite what he wanted, but at least he could see her face. “I want you to know that I trust you with the information. I know you will protect it.”

She became very still beneath his hand. Slowly her eyes focused on his face, and he could see the faint glow of hope in them. “I’m not used to sharing myself, Abby. The last time I did …”

“Lane?”

He nodded. “I decided after that fiasco that it was safer to keep my own counsel. Then she married Dad and, well, you know how things are.”