Carolina Mist

by Mariah Stewart

  “I’d say the decking needs a bit of shoring up.” Alex frowned, bouncing slightly to demonstrate the deterioration of the old boards, which groaned slightly beneath his weight.

  “Careful.” Abby laughed as the decking under her feet swayed slightly. “Or we’ll both end up in the river.”

  “Remember when I used to tie Grampa’s old rowboat up here?” He pointed toward the end of the dock, almost as if expecting to see the small boat still tied to the bulkhead where he’d last seen it.

  “You mean the Pirate’s Prize?”

  “Aye, and a proper prize for a swashbuckling pirate she was, lassie.” His voice dropped several octaves and turned to gravel as he pretended to search his pockets. “Where’s me eyepatch, lass? And have ye seen my sword?”

  “The pirate summer.” She laughed. “What were we that year, nine and ten? I remember we spent most of the summer going up and down the river, looking for Blackbeard's treasure.”

  “We filled an old tin biscuit box with marbles and pieces of quartz.”

  “Excuse me, but I distinctly recall that they were diamonds,” she reminded him. “Pink diamonds. And priceless.”

  “All part of the pirate booty we buried up on the point. Plunder from raids on the high seas.” He lowered himself onto the decking, stretching out the length of the dock like a big, lazy cat, until he lay flat on his back, one arm cushioning his neck, the other draped casually across his face to shield his eyes from the rising sun. “How many times do you suppose we buried that box and dug it up again?”

  “Over the course of that summer? Maybe a hundred times.” Abby plunked herself at the edge of the dock and leaned back against the pilings. “Do you remember taping the label onto the top of the box?”

  “ ‘Valuables,’ I wrote on it.” Alex raised his head slightly to look at her, his left hand shading his eyes. “I wonder what happened to that box.”

  “I imagine it’s right where we last buried it.” She shrugged, tilting to dip one hand into the river below. She tapped her fingers lightly on the surface of cold water, as if tapping out a tune, her tiny, rhythmic splashes scattering drops in every direction. The sun had risen high enough above the trees to bathe them with the first rays of the day, and she pulled the sleeves of her old crewneck sweater up to her elbows to expose her winter-pale skin to the comforting warmth. Accustomed to the harsher Februarys common north of the Mason-Dixon line, Abby delighted in the delicious comfort of the toasty North Carolina morning. It felt good to relax on the dock in the sun, she thought. Every bit as good as it had felt when she was seven and twelve and sixteen and had spent the first hour or so of the morning lounging by the river.

  “Do you remember where that was?” He lay back down flat on the dock, one hand still draped across his face. “Where we last buried the box?”

  “No.” Abby stretched out her right leg, thinking that if she extended it as far as it would go, and if she moved it slightly to the left, the bottoms of their feet would be touching. Sole to sole. She smiled wryly to herself, her mind playing on the words. Soul to soul.

  “Neither do I.” He sighed and closed his eyes.

  Abby leaned back, grateful for the opportunity to study his face without him knowing she was doing so. The light sandy brown hair of his youth had deepened to a honey brown and was just long enough to fall across his forehead, right above his dark brown eyes. The lankiness of his teens, which had once given him an unfinished look, had given way to a muscular hardness that had tormented her from the moment he had lifted her from the ladder on Christmas Day and swung her around as easily as he would have twirled an umbrella.

  “He sure did grow up nice,” Naomi had said.

  Abby smiled at the memory. Nice didn’t begin to describe the man who stretched out before her. Soft, loose jeans wrapped his legs in denim. The dark blue fleece of his sweatshirt stretched across his chest and pulled up above his waist to expose the flat expanse of his bare abdomen when he suddenly moved both arms behind his head to rest his neck. Abby felt a flipping sensation in her stomach.

  I can’t believe he can still make me feel this way. Her face flushed a sudden scarlet. What on earth would he think if he knew that I still had a crush on him after all these years?

  He doesn't have to know, she told herself sternly. Unless, of course, I make a complete ass out of myself.

  She pushed unruly hair behind her ears and tapped more rapidly on the water’s surface. Besides, he already has a "significant other.” One who is in a position to do things for his career that I could never do.

  Abby pulled up one knee and rested her head on it, forcing her attention to the brown ducks that floated past, bobbing up and down in the water like feathered corks.

  Darkened by the ancient, gnarled cedars that lined the banks, the river was the color of iced tea that had steeped just a little too long. The few remaining swirls of mist seemed to evaporate before her eyes with the grace of waltzing couples leaving the dance floor.

  “This was the greatest place in the world, back then.” Alex sat up suddenly, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “The greatest place for a kid to spend summer vacation. We had the best times here, didn’t we?”

  “We surely did,” she agreed softly.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he began slowly, looking not at her but rather at a point somewhere across the river, where the trees stretched their thin shadows into the water. She waited, sensing he was collecting his thoughts.

  “I want to pay you for Gran’s keep, so to speak. Room and board, you can call it.”

  “She doesn’t eat much, Alex.” Abby smiled.

  “You have no income,” he reminded her. “I know it has to be difficult for you, maintaining such a big house. And buying materials for all the work you’ve been doing—even just the paint—has to be expensive.”

  “Actually, things are very tight.” She cleared her throat.

  “Well, if I contribute on Gran’s behalf, it could only help.”

  “It would help,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been wonderful to take care of Gran these past few months. I’m incredibly fortunate to have you here with her. The very least I can do is kick into the kitty.” Abby swung her legs over the side of the dock, letting them dangle just inches from the water, pondering the reality of the situation. I am falling in love with him all over again, and all he sees when he looks at me is a temporary solution to his oh-what-to-do-with-Granny dilemma.

  “The carriage house needs work,” Alex observed. “The shutters on the second floor are half hanging off.”

  She turned to her left, where the carriage house loomed at the end of the dock. The glass panes of the windows were heavily glazed with the residue of the years, and paint peeled from every surface, giving the once handsome structure the look of a building that has long been abandoned.

  “Thanks for pointing that out to me,” Abby replied dryly. “I’ll put it on the list of things to do.”

  Alex got up and walked the length of the dock, inspecting the back of the carriage house. He pushed gently on the door, which stood in the very center of the wall, and frowned when it swung open at his easy touch. Abby watched as he disappeared inside. With a sigh, she rose and followed him.

  The sudden assault of dust twitched Abby’s nose as she stepped into the dimly lit area that had once served as a tack room. Brittle pieces of leather, old bridles, and leads, hung upon the wall hooks so long ago by the Cassidy grooms, now lay like outgrown and discarded snakeskins on the brick floor. She sneezed lustily just as Alex appeared at the end of the little hallway, his hands on his hips and a look of concern on his face.

  “Abby,” he called to her. “Someone has been in here.”

  “How can you—achoooo!!!—tell?”

  “The area around the base of the ladder leading up to the loft is disturbed.” He motioned to her to come and inspect the evidence.

  “Probably just some neighborhood kids.” Abby s
hrugged. “Looking for a place to neck.”

  Wordlessly, two pairs of eyes strayed up the wooden ladder, step by step, to the loft, where they met over a shared memory before looking away, neither of them speaking the obvious: Just like we used to do.

  “Or whatever it is kids do these days.” She broke the spell by pretending to inspect an old glove she found on the floor.

  The casual intimacy of the morning had tumbled too suddenly upon her, propelling disordered emotions to grate like sandpaper against her nerves. She sought as quickly as possible to sweep aside the muddle of her feelings to some small, secret place within her, someplace where she could store it all away until she could be alone to sort it out. “They could set fire to the building, burn the damn place down. The damage to your property aside, Gran has some valuable pieces of furniture stored in here.”

  “If they’re that valuable, they shouldn’t be in here.”

  “Maybe I’ll see if Colin can help me move that hall piece over to their house now.” Alex lifted the corner of a sheet and seemed to inspect the furniture beneath it.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” she said, needing something to say, something to mindlessly fill the space between them, something that could push aside the growing awareness of him that had begun when she watched him stretch out along the dock.

  He looked as if he was about to say something, then changed his mind.

  “I think I’ll do that right now,” he said. “Talk to Colin, that is.” He backed away from her and followed the light from the open back door. “You coming?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  Once outside, Alex tried to wedge a stick into the lock to secure the door. “You really need to get this fixed,” he told her.

  “I’ll send the handyman around first thing on Monday morning,” Abby snapped. “As soon as he’s finished the porch and the chimney and the plumbing and the electrical work.”

  “You really do have your hands full, you know,” he noted.

  “I can do a lot of it myself.” Abby turned her back and started up the slight incline toward the back of the house.

  “Ab, you can’t possibly do everything that needs to be done.” Two strides of his long legs, and he was beside her on the path.

  “No fooling.”

  “I mean, if you expect to have this place ready even by late spring—which really isn’t realistic, by the way, when you think about it—you need to have help.” His pronouncement appeared almost to cheer him in some perverse way.

  “Alex, you saw the estimate from the contractor. So, unless you happen to have an extra fifty thou or so you haven’t earmarked for anything else—or unless you know where I can find a handyman who’ll work for food—I’d appreciate it if you’d refrain from reminding me of just how much more I have to do and just how unlikely it is that I’ll be able to do it.”

  In her frustration, she had stood up, and her fisted hands had instinctively found their way to her hips. No one knew better than Abby how extensive the repairs on the house would be. She did not need Alexander Kane to point out to her just how much of it she could not do by herself.

  “Remember how pretty this garden used to be?” Alex stopped just outside the gate. “How the roses fell over the fence…”

  “Feel free to reminisce as long as you like.” She kept walking even as he paused to look around at the remnants of the old rose arbor. “I have work to do.”

  Abby could feel his eyes on her back as she strode toward the house. How very annoying for him to rub it in. Of course, it was to his advantage that the repairs were so extensive. The longer it took her to get the house ready to sell, the longer it would be before he would have to make alternative arrangements for Belle. No wonder he was so cheerful.

  Abby checked in on Belle and found her still headed downriver aboard the African Queen. She filled her spray bottle with water in the kitchen sink and headed up the steps to the small bedroom where earlier in the week she had launched an assault on peeling walls. She dragged the ladder to her starting point, turned on her radio, and attacked the old paper with an unexpected fury. Two Loretta Lynns, one Marty Robbins, and a Johnny Cash later, Patsy started singing “I Fall to Pieces.”

  “Patsy, you traitor,” Abby muttered, leaning down to fumble with the dial, searching for a rock station, settling for the Stones’ “Honky Tonk Woman.”

  Abby managed to finish scraping one entire wall before she realizing that Belle would be awaiting her overdue lunch. She wiped her scraper off on an old towel before hopping down the steps to the kitchen, where she searched for luncheon provisions. She stood in front of the open refrigerator, pondering the small array of leftovers. Would it be the beef stew for lunch and the chicken—perhaps in a pot pie—for dinner? Or would it be the chicken in salad for lunch, with the beef stew—dumplings added—for dinner? She would ask Belle if she had a preference.

  Belle wanted tuna salad for lunch, and shouldn’t Abby check with Alex to see if he’d be joining them for dinner? Abby went back outside, where Alex had just pulled his red Saab convertible into the driveway. She reached the car just as he lifted two brown paper bags from the backseat.

  “Would you believe I had to drive all the way to Elizabeth City to find veal?” he asked. “And a store that carried more than two kinds of red wine?”

  “Does this mean you’re staying for dinner?”

  “This means dinner’s on me. I hope you like veal marsala.”

  “You cooking?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Beats the heck out of the chicken pot pie I was going to make.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked first.” He stopped midway up the back steps. “Abby, I owe you an apology.”

  “Apologize for forcing us to dine on veal rather than leftover something?” She shook her head. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “How ’bout for overstating the obvious, then? Abby, what you have accomplished here on your own is truly impressive. But, without help, you’ll be here forever. It isn’t right that this house—and my grandmother—should hold you hostage when what you want is to move on. It’s only fair that you have the opportunity to do that.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying you’ve found your handyman. I’ll do all those jobs that you can’t do. I’ll replace the plumbing, do all the heavy carpentry, replace the electrical outlets…”

  Clearly taken off guard, Abby said nothing as she digested his words.

  “Alex, it would take months, working every weekend, to do the things you’re talking about.”

  “I understand that.”

  “You know how to do all that stuff? Plumbing and everything?”

  “I worked for a general contractor every summer during college. I think the only thing I might have a problem with is the chimney, but everything else I can do.”

  “Alex, you’ve already offered to contribute financially.”

  “One has nothing to do with the other. The money is for Gran. The work is for you. I want to help.” He squeezed her hand. “And besides, I’ve dreamed about living in Primrose for years. At last, I’ll be able to do that. If only on the weekends.”

  “And only till the house is sold,” she reminded him.

  “Only till then. I know that selling the house is your goal. I understand that getting your career back on track is very important to you, believe me. But I also understand that to get the kind of price you need to get for the house, certain work has to be done. If we work together, over the next few months, we should be able to take care of business. Maybe by the end of the summer, you’ll be on your way to wherever it is that you decide to go. What do you say, Abby?”

  Every weekend. Working together. Just the two of them. Or would Melissa be part of the deal? She dared not ask. “Abby?”

  “I’m thinking,” she told him.

  “Is it that difficult to accept my help?”

  “Of course not, it’s just that…”

 
“Okay, you drive a hard bargain. I’ll throw in half the cooking. Saturday breakfast and dinner. You do Friday dinner and Sunday breakfast.”

  Abby thought it over. “But that means you’ll be spending more time cooking and less time working on Saturdays.”

  “Okay. We’ll compromise. I’ll do breakfasts, you’ll do dinners, except for tonight. But that’s my final offer.”

  “Is your veal marsala as good as your eggs Benedict?” She pretended to ponder the situation.

  “Better.” He winked as he began to unpack the grocery bags. Fresh mushrooms followed a package of angel hair pasta onto the counter.

  “It sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

  “You can’t.” He grinned, clearly pleased. He pulled a wine bottle from a long thin bag. “Corkscrew?” he asked, and she pointed to a drawer near the sink. “Why don’t you grab the wineglasses, and we’ll drink to our deal?”

  Abby had just raised a goblet of thinnest crystal to touch the rim of the one in Alex’s hand when the door swung open and Belle appeared. She studied the tableau for a long moment, trying to decipher the significance of the upraised glasses.

  “I give up,” she said crisply. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Well, I guess you could say that we’re sealing a bargain, Gran,” Alex told her.

  “What sort of bargain?” Belle asked.

  “I’ve indentured myself, so to speak, to Abby,” he said. “I’ve offered to help her with the work she’s doing on the house. Do the heavy work for her.”

  “Really.” Belle looked from Alex to Abby, then back again, as if attempting to get a read on the situation. “And when do you propose to do this?”

  “On the weekends.”

  “Weekends,” Belle repeated softly.

  “Every weekend, till we’re done.” He nodded firmly.

  “And when do you suppose that will be?” she asked.