Carolina Mist Read online

  “No way of telling until I get started,” he said. “I won’t know what needs to be done until I start doing it. That’s a problem with an old house like this. You start taking things apart, you don’t know what you’ll find. To replace the plumbing, the wiring, the rotted wood outside—I don’t know, it could take three months or six. Who knows, it could take as much as a year.”

  “My, a whole year?” Belle fought back a smile as she pondered the possibilities. A lot could happen in a year.

  “So. Would you like to join in the toast?” Alex raised an empty glass in Belle’s direction.

  “What? Oh, yes. Please.” Belle took the wineglass he offered her, careful not to spill the pale red liquid.

  “To this wonderful old house and all its quirks,” Alex offered. “May we get the best of it, and not the other way around.”

  “To the successful renovation of Thirty-five Cove Road,” Abby added.

  “To Leila,” Belle piped up unexpectedly. “May she watch over your efforts and guide you both.”

  “To Aunt Leila.” Abby took a sip of her wine.

  Yes, indeed, most definitely, to Leila. With twinkling eyes, Belle observed the two of them together. Wouldn't Leila be pleased?

  A whole year of weekends. Here in Primrose.

  There was never any question that they belonged together. She and Leila had always known it.

  How long, Belle wondered, her nose twitching as the first faint touch of lavender invaded the room, would it take for them to realize it?

  22

  “Where did you learn to cook like that?” Abby asked as they cleared the dishes away after a perfectly wonderful meal.

  “When I was in law school, I worked for a friend who owned a restaurant. He had a wonderful chef who, fortunately for me, was very generous when it came to sharing recipes and technique. I soon found that I liked cooking more than I liked waiting on tables. I actually thought about chucking law and opening a restaurant of my own.”

  “Everything was delicious. You would have made a great chef, I’m certain of it.” Abby sighed as she scraped the plates of the last remnants of veal marsala and angel hair pasta with mushrooms and green onions.

  “Coming from someone who is as accomplished a cook as you are, I am flattered by the compliment.”

  “I learned how to cook out of necessity, to keep myself from starving while I was in school. I had so little money to live on, especially the year after my parents died and everything they had was tied up by the bank and the lawyers and my father’s creditors…” She turned her back on him so that he would not see her pain. She was half a second too late.

  “I’m so sorry for all you had to go through, Abby,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry that I was not there for you.”

  “From what Belle has told me, you were having some rough times of your own.”

  “Well, you’re right. I guess it was right about that same time that my parents’ divorce became final and Dad married Courtney.” He snorted scornfully. “Can you imagine having a stepmother named Courtney?”

  “It’s a pretty name.” Abby shrugged.

  “Abby, Courtney was two years older than my sister and had a chest measurement higher than her IQ.” Alex slapped the dish towel at the edge of the counter in agitation. “And you know what just kills me? It took my mother three years to accept what happened—to accept that her husband had in fact not only left her for a younger woman but did in fact marry the girl. She had even begun to believe she could make it through life alone, when she died. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Just that quickly, she was gone. And she never got the chance to prove to herself that she could support herself. That she could stand on her own.”

  “Did your father…” Abby began.

  “I would prefer not to talk about him.”

  “Alex, I can understand why you’d be angry, but…”

  “There are no buts, Abby,” he said flatly.

  “You may not understand what he did or why,” she could not help but add, “but he’s still your father, and at least your father is alive.”

  Alex’s jaw set tightly, and his eyes narrowed. “He hurt my mother more than he needed to and turned his back on her for the sake of his new wife and his new son.”

  “You have a half-brother?”

  “So they tell me.”

  “You’ve never seen him?”

  “My sister sent some pictures.”

  “Does he look like you?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Don’t you want to know…”

  “I know everything I need to. Could we please drop it now?”

  Abby rinsed the last of the dishes in silence, then drained the sink.

  “Why don’t you get the contractor’s estimate,” Alex suggested, his voice still flat and cool, “and we’ll look over his list and see what kind of schedule we can come up with.” It took a while, but over the next few hours, Alex’s natural warmth and enthusiasm began to return as they dissected the areas of work to be done and divided it into a neat schedule. Abby had retrieved a calendar from her purse, and she began to methodically date the entries on the schedule.

  “Umm, better let me see the calendar for a minute.” Alex frowned as he studied Abby’s notations. With her pen, he circled several dates. “There are a few weekends when I know I’ll be out of town. Let’s see… this weekend, I’ll be in Pittsburgh for depositions. And this weekend, I’ll be in Atlanta from Thursday through Monday…”

  “Atlanta?” Abby asked aloud.

  “Melissa’s sister is getting married,” he noted offhandedly.

  “I see.” Abby bit her bottom lip. “Thursday through Monday? Sounds like one hell of a wedding.”

  “From what I’ve been hearing, it will be.” He laughed. “Melissa’s parents are pulling out all the stops for this. Nothing is too good for their little girls, you know.”

  All weekend, the name had not been mentioned. She’d begun to hope against hope that somehow Melissa had just sort of disappeared. She should have known better. Beautiful, wealthy, A-type women like Melissa do not just fade away. Especially where a man like Alex is concerned.

  “Where is Melissa this weekend?” Abby asked.

  “What?” He looked up from the schedule. “Oh. An aunt in Georgia was having a wedding shower for Carlene, Melissa’s sister. Why?”

  “No reason.” She shrugged. “Just wondering.”

  He looked at her quizzically, then said, “And you know, I’m not certain that we’re not being overly optimistic here.” He pointed to a weekend four weeks away. “I think if I get the wiring done in the three bathrooms on the second floor before the end of next month, I’ll be doing really well. So we may want to reschedule…”

  Okay, so she’s still a part of his life. On the weekends, he’ll be with me. Maybe not the way he’s with her, but he’ll be here. With me. And for a while, I can pretend…

  Pretend what? That Alex and I are on the road to happily ever after?

  Don’t even start to look down that road, she told herself sternly, ’cause there’s nothing but one big heartache waiting at the end of it.

  She sighed deeply, unaware that he had turned to stare at her at the sound.

  “Hey, I know what you’re thinking, Ab,” he told her gently.

  “You do?” She was horrified at the thought that at this minute he could read her mind.

  “Sure, but don’t let it get you down. It may all seem overwhelming now, but we will finish this someday. And you’ll be able to get a good price for the house, you’ll see. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even buy it myself.” He smiled and went back to his scheduling.

  Oh, swell. Just one more happy possibility to look forward to. Alex and Melissa wallowing in domestic bliss in my house.

  The image of a score of perfect children, all blond and sporting Melissa’s tiny upturned nose, following Alex down the steps like so many ducklings to a waiting school bus, made Abby want to choke.

  Sh
e rested her chin in her hand and studied his face from across the kitchen table. He’s too adorable, she thought as he looked up at her and smiled absentmindedly before going back to the calendar that lay open before him. He was up to June already. She wondered if she would be able to bear spending two days a week, every week, under this roof with him, knowing that he had someone else in his life the other five days. She wondered how Melissa would feel about him spending the weekends in Primrose and brightened slightly.

  She’ll hate it, of course.

  Somehow, just knowing that gave Abby a perverse sense of satisfaction.

  “Abby, don’t forget on Monday to call the lumberyard and order this material.” Alex handed the list to her. “Tell them I’ll pick it up next Saturday morning. Colin offered to let me borrow his pickup.”

  “Okay,” Abby stuffed the paper into the pocket of her jeans without looking at it and watched from the bottom step as he tossed his overnight bag into the backseat of the Saab. What the upwardly mobile young attorney will drive. She folded her arms across her chest to ensure that they did not somehow find a way to wrap themselves around him and draw him to her. Then, just to make sure that her hands had something else to busy themselves with, she forced them to pull with deliberation at some errant strands of vine which, inspired by the unseasonable warmth of the past few days, had optimistically begun to twine around the porch railing.

  “If I get the chance this week, I’ll call around and see if I can find some of the tools I’ll need for the plumbing,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Don’t look so glum, Abby. It’ll be fun. It’ll be just like old times, you’ll see. Just like the old days.”

  Just like old times? she thought as she waved to him as he pulled out of the driveway and gave the horn a few short, jaunty beeps. Just like the old days?

  In the old times, we had a lifetime of dreams, just waiting to come true. Now we have, at the most, a few months to spend together before we go our separate ways for good. Now we're all grown up, and someone else is sharing your life and starring in your dreams.

  In the old days, I trembled at the thought of touching you, because we were just beginning to learn how precious, how good a loving touch could feel. Now I tremble at the very memory, because I want to touch you that way again, but I dare not. In the old days, we were learning to love, not quite yet lovers, but ever best friends. Now I do not know what we are.

  How could it ever be just like old times again?

  She gave a final hard tug on the last piece of vine, snapping it off at the root before going inside to make Belle’s lunch.

  The following weekend brought biting February winds and rain. Alex called on Friday night to say he’d wait till Saturday to drive down. On Saturday, an icy rain fell in fierce sheets against the windows, and when the phone rang at nine in the morning, she knew that he would not be coming. He could use the time to work on a new case he’d been assigned, he told her. Maybe the weather would be more cooperative the following week.

  It was not. The winter, which had begun on so mild a note, had turned positively arrogant, locking Primrose in the grip of a raw wet spell that lasted three long weeks. Abby was down to her last dozen logs for the fireplace in the morning room, which she liked to keep toasty warm for Belle, when the warm temperatures returned with the arrival of March. The first warm weekend brought Alex.

  Abby tried her best to act normal as she watched his car pull into the drive and park behind hers. As he bounded with all the exuberance of an overly large pup into the morning room to kiss his grandmother. As he chatted casually with Abby while dialing Colin’s number to arrange for the use of the pickup truck. As he discussed with her his plans for the day and what he hoped to accomplish. As he opened the refrigerator and stashed the bottle of wine, he’d brought to share at dinner. As he moved effortlessly back into her life as if he belonged there. As if he had never left.

  A few times during the day, he would consult with her, but for the most part, they worked independently, she painting woodwork in one bedroom, he replacing the electrical wiring in the hall bathroom. They broke at noon to have lunch with Belle, then returned to their tasks. Abby cleaned up at four, showered, and had dinner on the table by six-thirty.

  “I’d forgotten how tiring physical work can be.” Alex yawned over the warm cherry cobbler Abby had served for dessert. “I guess I’ve been riding the desk too long.”

  Abby leaned back in her chair and watched him cover his yawning mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes blinking closed momentarily. She would give anything to be able to get out of her chair and go to him, to stand behind him and ease the knots from those broad shoulders, to drape her arms around his neck and nuzzle him, to…

  “Sorry, Ab.” Alex’s mouth quirked into a lazy grin, interrupting her daydream just as she had mentally begun to turn his face to hers and lock lips with that all-too-inviting mouth. “I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight.”

  “It’s okay,” she managed to squeak. “I’m tired, too.”

  “Gran, what was the movie today?”

  “Why, it was His Girl Friday.” She beamed. “Rosalind Russell and Cary Grant. Your grandfather and I saw that film in the theater on a trip to New York City in 1940. We had a wonderful two weeks. I remember we stayed at the Plaza, and my sister Barbara—God rest her—and her husband, Peter, who was her second husband…”

  “Alex, why don’t you go to bed?” Under the table, Abby’s foot nudged a rapidly fading Alex. “It’s silly for you to force yourself to sit here and make conversation when you are clearly falling asleep before our very eyes.”

  “You know it isn’t the company, it’s the hour.”

  “Whatever it is, your eyes are sailing at half-mast.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

  “Of course not,” Abby assured him.

  “Well, then, in that case…” He rose from his chair, leaned over to kiss his grandmother, then smiled at Abby, telling her, “Don’t forget that the waffles are on me in the morning.”

  “You’re on, pal.” Abby began to stack the dishes, thinking about the last weekend he had spent under her roof and the wonderful breakfast he had prepared for her and Belle. “I guess, as tired as you are, you won’t need to be going in search of reading material tonight.”

  “What do you mean?” Alex looked back over his shoulder, puzzled.

  “I just meant, like the last time you stayed here.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Last time you were here, you came downstairs and went into Thomas’s study. I assumed you were looking for something to read.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Alex, you did. It was around two in the morning. I was on the couch in the morning room, and I heard you.”

  “Abby, if you heard someone come down those steps at two in the morning, it was someone else. I slept like a log both nights, and I fully expect to sleep as well tonight. Gran, you’re not taking late-night strolls around the house, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Belle brushed the suggestion aside with the wave of her hand. “Perhaps, Abigail, you were dreaming.”

  “I don’t think so.” She frowned. Hadn’t she heard him on the steps? Hadn’t she heard the study door open and seen the faintest bit of light?

  “Well, if you catch me sleepwalking, just turn me around and point me back to my room.” Alex yawned again and headed toward the stairs, leaving Belle to finish her cobbler and Abby to wonder just what she had heard that night as she huddled under the afghan in the parlor and pondered the fates that had brought Alex Kane back into her life.

  23

  Abby sat on the top step of the back porch and swished the last bit of coffee slowly around and around in the bottom of the cup while trying to decide if she wanted a second cup and, if she did, whether she should call Naomi to see if she had a few minutes to come over and join her on the steps on this fine afternoon to savor the first elusive scents of the promise of spring. Recalling that
Naomi would be at the library with Sam for the Tuesday afternoon story hour, Abby sighed and with some reluctance splashed the remains of the coffee onto the grass. She stomped her sneakered feet against the step to dislodge bits of drying mud before going back into the house. She rinsed her cup and checked in on Belle, who was snoozing comfortably with her beloved pup on her lap.

  Smiling at the cozy scene, Abby pushed the red power button on the remote control to turn off the television. If she worked steadily over the course of the afternoon, she told herself, she could finish painting the last of the windows in the right front bedroom. Then tomorrow, perhaps, she could paint the walls. Maybe a light pink, she reflected as she opened the front door to check the contents of the mailbox. The very palest strawberry-pink. With a touch of white lace at the windows and the quilt on the old maple bed, the room would be certain to charm prospective buyers.

  She flipped through the mail—advertisements for a new pizza place out on the interstate, the electric bill— pondering Naomi’s suggestion that she paint an old dressing table white, then trim the top and sides with tiny stenciled roses. Could she really spend so much time to personalize one room, when she could go on to the next?

  The next stop on Abby’s agenda would be the sitting room off Belle’s bedroom. Perhaps a true and sunny yellow in there, she mused, then recalled that at some point over the past few years, the gutters had leaked, allowing water to seep in around the window. The sill would have to be replaced—Alex would have to do that—before the painting could be done.

  Movement from the driveway caught her eye, and she turned just as a figure disappeared behind the huge rhododendron at the corner of the house. Abby crossed the porch and peered around the side of the house, but dense shrubs obscured her view. She hopped down the steps and crossed the lawn to follow the curve of the drive to the back of the house.

  What, she wondered at the sight of the unexpected visitor who strolled casually toward her backyard, was Alex doing there in the middle of the week?