The House On The Creek (2 page)

The Creek glittered below, cut into geometric shapes by dim sunlight. Shadows gathered at the edges of the water and then spread away along the bank. From where she stood, the water looked deep and inviting.

The breeze whispered and the trees moved in the wind and something shone metallic on the far shore. Abby shaded her eyes and squinted. And then she knew. Everett’s skiff, abandoned in the long grasses, overturned, belly to the sky. She supposed the little boat was no longer floatable. The plywood plug had certainly rotted away over the years and probably the old oars, too.

She wondered, fleetingly, if she should retrieve the boat. She could probably repair it, probably re-plug the hole, and repaint the skin. Maybe find a pair of used oars at the discount sports shop. She and Chris could sail the thing along the Creek on lazy afternoons. She knew Chris would enjoy the adventure. And it had been a very long time since she’d taken a swim in any river.

Rubbing her arms against the chill, Abby sighed and dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t be stealing, not really. The skiff had obviously been forgotten for over a decade. But it wouldn’t exactly be right, either.

Maybe, if she skimped a bit, let the household repairs go another month, maybe then she could save enough to buy Chris a little boat.

Maybe.

Hands on hips, Abby turned and looked up the slope behind the boat house. Through the trees she could just pick out the Anderson house. A two story brick colonial, the building had been in severe disrepair when cancer had finally sent Edward to rest. Abby had spent a good two years and much of the old man’s legacy in restoring the place.

She’d repaved the long driveway and refitted the peaked roof. She’d put down a new hardwood floor and rehabbed the antique bathroom fittings and replaced the dangerous wiring. Gutted the plumbing and updated the kitchen. She’d even had just enough left over to landscape the wide yard and rebuild the old gazebo where a teenaged Everett had hidden his stash of beer and cigars.

She’d turned the house into a beauty, a gem. It had taken hard work and every spare moment, but she had managed. And when at last she’d put the house on the market, it had sold in less than a month, in spite of the slightly overinflated asking price. She still couldn’t quite believe her luck.

Thanks to Edward, she now had a start on Chris’s college fund. And if they continued to count every penny, her Ivy League dreams were just that much closer to reality.

Thanks to Edward, and to the house’s new owner, who would be arriving within the hour. Abby glanced at her watch and sighed. She should be excited, even ecstatic. She’d taken Edward’s gift and tripled it. But in the process, she’d also learned to love the house. She had put her heart and soul into its rebirth, and she was suddenly reluctant to let it go.

Silly
, she scolded herself.
Sentimental and silly.

Abby put her hand to her shorts, testing the right pocket, making sure the house keys were still safely zipped against her thigh. She had one last repair to make, one screw to turn. Then she would trade the keys for a nice hefty check and let the mansion go.

Sucking in a resigned breath, Abby padded back across the boat house roof and scrambled down brick. Her feet were irreparably mud and she grimaced as she pulled socks and shoes over filthy toes.

She struggled back up the bank, through tree and hedge and vine, and left the burble of College Creek behind. She stopped once to pick a handful of wild flowers. The purple flowers smelled sweet, like honeysuckle. She stuck the bunch behind her ear as she broke free of the woods. She cleaned her muddy boots on grass before she stepped onto the freshly paved drive.

Her shoulders straightened as she walked slowly uphill to Edward’s house. Her chin lifted. She was proud of her work. She knew she had done very well.

The mansion sparkled in the sunlight, smooth red brick shining as though oiled. The trim was traditional colonial cream, but she’d painted the front door a deep green. The windows were beveled glass between crosshatched frames, very expensive and very beautiful. Four chimney stacks sprouted from the roof, and the garage sported two wide doors and a living space above.

A new brass mailbox stood on a pedestal by the front door, and on the stoop Abby had placed a pot of happy pansies. The entire impression was charming and cheerful.

She’d left her telescoping ladder on the drive in front of the garage, along with her bucket of nails, her toolbox, and an iron wind vane. The wind vane was hand crafted, a replica of one that adorned the Wren Building at the nearby College of William and Mary. Abby was foolishly proud of the replica, and wanted to have it in place before her client arrived.

She set the ladder up against the garage and secured it with ropes and weights. Then she hefted the wind vane over her shoulder and stuck a screw driver into her pocket. She climbed the ladder carefully, afraid to scrape the newly shingled roof.

She’d chosen the exact place for her wind vane, at the very peak of the roof, just between the garage doors. She bent her knees, balancing against the slope, and walked steadily along the roof to her spot. She set the wind vane in place, bent at her knees, and began securing the iron base to the peak.

Eyes fixed on her hands and tools, she worked automatically, ignoring the world around her. She forgot to breathe as often as she should, she didn’t feel the sweat that trickled between her shoulder blades, and she didn’t notice time as it passed.

She’d just positioned the last screw when the rumble of a distant motor broke her concentration. A car growled up the long drive. It could only be her client. Nobody without business came so far along the Creek. She frowned at her watch and saw that she’d lost time in perfecting the wind vane.

She spun the screw before she straightened. Then she grabbed her tools and walked to the edge of the roof. Wind cooled the damp on her brow. In the garden below, pink tulips danced, nodding as if in welcome.

The car slowed, rounding the last curve before the house. A sports car. European. Abby should have guessed. Any person who would spend two point five million on a house, sight unseen, would of course drive a flashy car.

The car gunned and then pulled to a precise stop in front of the garage. A shiny black door sprang open and the driver unfolded himself. Hair bleached light as tow, a little too long for the latest fashion. Lennon style sunglasses balanced on a sharp nose, blue lenses reflecting light. As Abby watched, the man squatted in the driveway before the left front tire, apparently examining the treads.

He ran a careful hand over black rubber, searching. His fingers were long and graceful, his bare forearms darkly tanned. After a moment, apparently satisfied, he rose to his feet and turned his attention to the house.

He rounded the front of the car and skirted the garage, stopping twice to touch brick. He paused to stare down her tulips and examine a bed of daffodils. He turned away from the flowers and looked at the main house. Then he stopped, head tilted.

Abby held her breath. She thought he couldn’t see her past the edge of the roof. But he did. He took two easy steps back, turned, and looked right at her.

His lips quirked, wry, as he examined her with the same consideration he had given the garden. He stuck one hand into the pocket of his slacks, jingling change or keys, and used the other to pull away his shades.

He had wide green eyes, clear and dark as the Creek. His cheekbones were as sharp as his nose, but his mouth was softened by laugh lines. His smile turned from dry to self mocking, and Abby found herself grinning in return.

“Why, Abby Ross,” he said in a husky Virginian drawl. “You still trying to grow wings?”

Abby nearly fell off the roof.

From two stories below, Everett watched her sway. In a flash he was a teenager again, frozen in place, watching little Abby Ross throw herself from the boat house, his heart pounding as she crashed through trees and into the Creek. She’d gone under twice before he had managed to grab her arm and free her from the water. And then she’d slumped so still in the bottom of his skiff, so limp and lifeless, he had been sure she was dead.

She hadn’t been. Merely concussed and half drowned. But it had been the end of their summers together and the end of his youth.

“If you fall on me again, Abby Ross,” he said to the woman who rocked on the roof of his new home, “this time I’ll crack your skull myself.”

But she had already righted herself. His breath caught as she squatted at the very lip of the roof, and he had to swallow hard to keep his guts from squirming.

“Ev?”

“Who else?” The empathetic thumping of his heart made the word a growl. He wished she wouldn’t stand so near the edge.

“But I thought...” She trailed off and began again. “Have you come for my house?”

“Edward’s house,” he corrected sharply. He took a breath, replaced his sun glasses, and stuck both hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling. She’d driven him mad, that final summer, climbing everything in sight; trees, buildings, bridges. She knew he hated heights and she’d taunted him with it. And here she was, a woman grown, teetering on the edge of disaster. She hadn’t changed a bit.

“Come down from there, Abby.”

“All right. Sure. Just a sec. Let me get my things.” She disappeared from view, and he heard her scrambling about on the shingles. “Okay. Be right down. Don’t go anywhere.”

And where would he go? He thought, regarding the garage from narrowed eyes. Hadn’t he waited his entire life for this small triumph?

A ladder stood slanted against the bricks. As Everett watched, hands still buried in his pockets, slim brown legs appeared over the lip of the shingle and then Abby slithered into view. She dropped two stories, barely touching ladder rungs, and hit the ground with a smile.

He studied her through blue lenses as she crossed the drive. She was still small. He found himself inexplicably glad she hadn’t over topped his own mediocre height. Her hair was cut short, to just below the edge of her chin, and the style gave her an elfish look. Wide, dark eyes added to the spritely air and her grin was full of guilt or mischief.

She bypassed his car, stopped before the pretty flowers and held out a delicate, grimy hand. “I thought you were somewhere west. Seattle.”

“I was.” He took her hand and felt the blunt ends of her nails against his palm. He remembered, suddenly, those same hands, cool and wet against his skin as she wrestled with him in the Creek.

Usually their water battles had started over possession of his battered skiff and ended in a bout of heavy breathing. She’d made his overactive teenage hormones boil. He’d dreamed nightly of her body and their kisses. She had been sweetness and freedom when he had spent most of that summer trapped in the dark.

Everett found his gaze lingering on Abby’s curving mouth. Immediately, he released her hand. “I’ve taken some time off. Come back to revisit my roots. Find some peace.”

Abby frowned and studied his face. Everett was glad of his shades.

“I thought you’d gone on to better things.”

“So I have. And now I’ve come back. For my father’s house.” He made a show of studying the manicured yard and pointed bricks. “You’ve done a fine job. A miracle, really.”

But she still frowned. “I thought - I mean, a Mr. Windsor -”

“My agent. I like to do business quietly. The check’s cut, Abby. And the money’s good, I assure you.”

“Of course.” She spoke absently, and then turned to look at the house. “Well. Would you like a tour?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

He thought he glimpsed a flash of regret on her mouth, but if so the emotion was quickly gone. Then, as though she hadn’t heard the indifference he’d carefully injected into his tone, she smiled and started away from the garage.

“Let me at least show you the fuses. You’ll need to know where they are.” She climbed the front steps with the grace he’d always admired and glanced over her shoulder. “The locks are funny. You have to jiggle, a little. I kept Edward’s old door handles. Just cleaned them up some.”

Everett eyed the gleaming lockset. “Remarkable.”

Abby opened the front door and stepped over the threshold. Everett followed. The interior was cool and smelled of beeswax and lemon. During his childhood the walls had stunk of beer and sweat and sorrow.

“I refinished the entry floors.” Abby said. “They’re good hardwood. A few of the boards needed replacing. And the banisters.”

Everett followed Abby through the entryway. He remembered the spacious rooms and the high wide fireplaces. He didn’t remember the large windows or the color of the afternoon across wood floors. The old man had kept the shades drawn and shag carpets over the wood.

Abby led Everett down a bright hallway and into a shining kitchen. She opened a small cupboard.

“Fuses are in here. Box used to be just bare on the wall, but of course you know that. I had the shelving built around to hid it.”

Everett fought unwelcome surprise. “The counters are new, and the appliances. And did you cut a new window, here?”