by Jan Neuharth
As she stepped off the last stair, the front door swung inward and a man’s voice called out, “Knock-knock. Anyone home?”
An attractive brown-haired man, probably in his mid-to-late thirties, breezed inside and quickly closed the door. He had on a gray wool overcoat, buttoned up the front, beneath which she caught a glimpse of a blue shirt and red-and-blue striped bow tie. He turned in her direction and his dark eyes lit up. “You must be Abigale.”
“Yes.”
He grasped her hand firmly between both of his. “I’m Thompson James. Your uncle was a close friend of mine. I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
Thompson gave her hand a quick squeeze before releasing it. “It’s freezing out there,” he said, exaggerating a shiver as he unbuttoned his overcoat and hung it on the coatrack by the front door. “When did you arrive?”
“Just a couple of hours ago.”
He straightened his bow tie as he turned back to her, his mouth curved down in a sympathetic smile. “You must be exhausted. That’s a grueling journey from Afghanistan.”
“Have you been?”
“Not Afghanistan. But I’ve been to Iraq.”
Margaret poked her head around the corner and waved her arm, gesturing them into the room. “Abigale, I thought I heard your voice. Hello, Thompson. Both of you, come on into the library. Everyone’s gathered in front of the fire.”
Thompson held out his hand. “After you.”
Abigale was smothered by the scent of pipe tobacco as a stout, older gentleman grabbed her in a bear hug. After squeezing her so hard she let out a groan, he released her, a broad grin crinkling his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. What a beautiful woman you turned out to be! Not that I’m at all surprised, mind you.”
“Smitty?”
He winked. “You betcha. Still kickin’ after all these years.”
Abigale leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
Margaret grabbed her elbow and tugged her over to the stone hearth. “Come closer to the fire, Abigale. It’s colder than a you-know-what tonight. Now let’s see, I think you know most of these folks, except Wendy Brooks.” She nodded in the direction of a plump, pleasant-looking woman wearing wire-framed glasses, who was seated on the sofa.
The woman smiled and tucked a strand of short brown hair behind her ear. “Hi, Abigale. I’m the hunt secretary. I’ve had the pleasure of riding to hounds with your uncle since I moved here from Michigan about ten years ago.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
An attractive, slim blond seated next to Wendy waved her hand. “Hey, Abigale. It’s me, Julia.”
Abigale’s eyes widened. “Julia Farleigh?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, my God. I wouldn’t have recognized you. You used to have brown hair.”
Julia flashed a smile, revealing a perfect row of unnaturally white teeth. “And braces. Not to mention an extra thirty pounds. In all the wrong places.” She ran a hand down her sweater and smoothed away the wrinkles, showing off her flat abdomen and voluptuous curves.
Abigale laughed. “Not anymore. You look fabulous.”
“Thanks. You too.”
A man leaning against the hearth straightened and held out his hand. “Percy Fletcher. Long time no see.”
Abigale fought to hide her shock at Percy’s appearance. His athletic build had turned soft, and a barrel chest strained against his shirt buttons. A receding hairline added years to his portly appearance.
“Wait, you’re not still going to pay me back for that swimming pool incident, are you?” He raised an arm across his face in mock defense as Abigale reached for his hand.
She arched an eyebrow. “You know what they say: ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’”
Percy pumped her hand and raised his glass. “Touché. Fair warning.”
Laughter floated through the room and Abigale breathed out a sigh. Perhaps she’d get through this after all.
Margaret patted her arm. “Now let’s see, that’s everyone, except Manning, whom you know, of course.”
Abigale’s eyes followed Margaret’s gaze to the man who stood beside a liquor cart in the far corner of the cozy room. There he was, a grown-up version of the boy she remembered. The years had hardened Manning’s muscles and added bulk to his broad shoulders; no hint of a middle-aged pouch on him. His wavy hair, more sandy now than blond, was shorter, and his face harder, accentuating his high cheekbones and strong jaw. But there was a different air about him. His eyes, blue as a summer sky, showed no hint of the naughty-boy gleam she remembered. The gaze he leveled at her seemed clouded with weariness. Or was it wariness?
Manning stepped forward. “Hello, Abby.”
She had expected the moment to be uncomfortable, but she wasn’t prepared for the rush of sadness that seemed to suck the air out of the room. Her father’s angry shouts whirled in her head, as vividly as the day seventeen years ago when he’d paced this same room, hurling hateful accusations at Manning.
Abigale knew she should cross to him, but she didn’t move. She just stood there. She managed a smile. “You look great.”
Manning snorted softly, giving her a look that seemed to say, So that’s how we’re going to play it—just make small talk?
His blue eyes hardened as he raised his glass to his mouth. “So do you.”
CHAPTER
23
Abigale pushed the remnants of her apple pie on her plate as she looked across the table at Thompson, trying to focus on the story he was telling about being ambushed on the drive from the airport to his hotel in Iraq. But Manning’s presence at the end of the table trumped her ability to concentrate. With one ear, she listened to Manning and Smitty discuss the entries for the upcoming steeplechase races. The sound of Manning’s deep drawl swaddled her like her favorite cashmere sweater. She had no doubt that if she closed her eyes she’d see the apple orchard, bathed in moonlight; picture Manning and herself sprawled on the grass, counting fireflies, searching for constellations in the velvet summer sky, talking about all the places in the world they wanted to visit one day.
She shook off the memory and forced her attention back to the conversation with Thompson. “What were you doing in Iraq?”
He raised his glass, swirled the red wine around the goblet and inhaled, then took a sip. “Spearheading an audit of several defense contractors.”
“Oh, interesting. Do you work for the government?”
“Are you kidding? Do I look like I work for the government?” He leaned back and stared down his nose, but gave her a grin.
“I didn’t mean that as an insult. In Switzerland, working for the government is considered prestigious.”
“In America, it’s a badge of mediocrity.”
“Good to know.”
He tilted his head and stared quizzically at her. “You don’t have an accent.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re Swiss, but you speak perfect English without the trace of an accent. Were you educated overseas?”
“I went to college here in America, but the lack of accent is owed to years of voice lessons.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Why voice lessons?”
She lifted a shoulder. “My father insisted. My family was in the hotel business and my father thought speaking English without an accent made the American guests feel more at home.”
The conversation between Manning and Smitty stopped, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Manning look in her direction.
Abigale forced her attention back to Thompson. “So, if you don’t work for the government, who do you work for?”
“I’m a partner with Knightly and Knightly.”
“Is that an auditing firm?”
“We’re the nation’s oldest accounting firm. My specialty is auditing companies to determine if they’re cooking the books. The U.S. government retained us to audit several defense contractors in Iraq after all the
allegations arose about extravagant expenditures of taxpayers’ money.”
“What did you find?”
“We’re not finished yet. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“So you’ll be going back over to Iraq?”
“Not if I can help it. My team is still there doing the grunt work. One of the perks of being in charge is that I don’t have to spend any more time in cesspools like Iraq than I absolutely have to.”
Manning snorted, but Thompson displayed no reaction. He flashed a smile at Abigale. “Your experience in Iraq was probably vastly different from mine. We should get together and compare war stories, so to speak.”
“Sure, Thompson,” Manning said. “I’ll bet that’s just what Abby would like to do.”
Thompson gave him a cool smile. “Why don’t we leave that up to Abigale to decide?”
“That’s enough, boys. Abigale didn’t travel all this way to listen to the two of you throw barbs at each other.” Margaret folded her napkin and placed it on the table beside her plate. “If everyone has finished with dessert, I suggest we retire to the warmth of the fire in the library. I’ve set up the coffee service in there.”
As Margaret rose, the shrill ring of the telephone drifted in from a distant room. “Oh, wouldn’t you know it. Manning, would you answer that, please?”
Abigale followed the others into the library and had just settled onto the sofa beside Julia when Manning poked his head through the doorway, shrugging a barn jacket over his sport coat. “That was Javier. Dixie’s gone down in her stall and he can’t get her up. I’m going down to the barn to help.”
Margaret looked up from pouring coffee. “Don’t tell me she’s colicking again.”
“It looks that way. Javier said the bedding in her stall’s all torn up. He’s trying to get hold of Doc Paley.” Manning backpedaled toward the door. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”
Margaret set the silver coffeepot on the tray with a clang. “I’m coming with you.”
Manning’s mouth tightened. “Javier and I can handle it, Mother.”
“It’s Dixie we’re talking about!” Margaret’s voice cracked like a whip, and her heels tapped a quick rat-a-tat-tat as she strode toward the door. “Do you actually think I would sit here sipping coffee while she’s in distress?”
The front door banged closed and no one spoke for a moment. Then Julia shrugged and smiled at Abigale. “Welcome home.”
“Margaret seems pretty upset,” Abigale said. “Dixie must be a special horse.”
“Yes, indeed,” Smitty replied. “She’s a homebred. Margaret raised her from a foal and did all the training herself. Showed her on the line. The whole nine yards. Dixie turned out to be Margaret’s most-winning show hunter ever. Last year Margaret retired her from the show ring to breed her, and that’s when all the problems started.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mare didn’t take much to being in foal. She went off her grain, picked at her alfalfa. Despite Margaret’s best efforts to maintain her, by the time the foal was born last March, Dixie was a tired shadow of her former self.
“A while after the foal was born, Dixie started to perk back up. She was back to her old habits of kicking the stall and screaming come graining time, and she started to pick up weight. Then, about three months after Dixie delivered the foal, Margaret found her thrashing in the pasture one night, colicking something awful. Margaret rushed her to the Equine Medical Center and it turned out to be a large-colon torsion. Twisted gut. They performed emergency surgery and removed over seventy percent of the mare’s large intestine. The surgery was a success, and Dixie should live a normal life as long as she’s kept on a special diet, but the mare keeps colicking. You can almost set your clock by it when there’s a change of weather.”
Smitty reached up and rapped his knuckles on his head. “Nothing as serious as the colon torsion, knock on wood, but it scares the bejesus out of Margaret every time it happens.”
Abigale said, “I’ll bet. I hope this turns out to be another mild episode.”
“Me too. I think I’ll stop in on my way past the barn and see how she’s doing.” Smitty set his coffee cup on the end table. “I imagine you’d just as soon we get out of here and let you get some rest.” He patted Abigale’s knee as he rose from his chair. “It’s nice to have you back here after all these years, even if it is under such tragic circumstances.”
She stood and gave him a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Thompson stretched out his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Abigale. Or do you prefer to be called Abby?”
“Abigale’s fine.”
“Manning’s the only one ever got away with calling her Abby,” Percy said, winking at her.
Heat flared in Abigale’s cheeks, but she ignored Percy’s remark.
“Abigale, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay and tackle the kitchen,” Wendy said. “The last thing Margaret needs is to come home from the barn to a sink full of dirty dishes.”
“Of course. I’ll help you.”
“Make that three of us,” Julia said.
CHAPTER
24
Abigale felt someone’s eyes on her and turned from the sink to see Duchess standing behind her, her brown eyes glued to the plate in Abigale’s hand.
“Do you think Margaret would mind if I gave Duchess some scraps?”
“Aw, look at her.” Julia smiled and scratched the Lab behind her ear.
Duchess sat, head cocked to one side, tail sweeping the floor. Abigale laughed. “You know a softie when you see one, don’t you? Okay, I’ll give you a little bit if you promise not to tell your mom when she gets home.”
She scooped some leftover pot roast into the ceramic bowl that was next to a fluffy-looking dog bed, then helped Julia and Wendy finish washing the dishes.
“Well, we made quick work of that,” Wendy said, draping the wet dish towel on the handle of the oven door.
“Thanks so much, both of you, for staying and helping.” Abigale glanced at the clock on the wall and was surprised to see it was only nine o’clock. It felt like midnight. “It seems like Margaret’s been gone a long time. That’s probably not a good sign.”
Wendy rummaged through her purse and retrieved a pen and a credit card slip. She wrote on the back of the receipt and handed it to Abigale. “Here’s my phone number. If it’s bad and there’s anything I can do to help, please call me. No matter the hour.”
Abigale nodded. “Thanks. I will.”
A bitter blast of air gusted in when Wendy slipped out the door, and Julia rubbed her hands up her arms. “Brrrr, it feels more like February than October tonight. I’ll bet you’re dying to crawl under the warm covers and get some sleep.”
“Actually, I think I’m beyond tired. I’ll probably wait up until Margaret gets back.”
“Do you want company?” Julia’s eyes flickered, as if she feared Abigale would reject her offer.
“Sure, I’d like that.”
Julia’s face relaxed into a smile. “Great. Let’s go sit by the fire in the library.”
“Should I brew a warm pot of coffee?”
“You could.” Julia arched a thinly plucked eyebrow. “Or…we could raid Margaret’s bar.”
Abigale laughed softly. “I vote for option number two.”
“Courvoisier or Grand Marnier?”
“You choose.”
Julia poured two generous tumblers of cognac and they flopped on the sofa.
“So, girlfriend, what have you been doing with yourself these last seventeen years? Besides being a famous photojournalist and winning yourself a Pulitzer prize.” Julia tucked a long leg beneath her as she snuggled into the deep cushion.
“Oh no, that’s not fair.” Abigale shook her head. “You first.”
“I’m waitressing at a pub outside Upperville. Showing in the summer, foxhunting in the winter. Looking for Mr. Right.”
“How’s the search going?”
“What about Thompson?”
“Thompson’s an okay guy. I dated him for a while when he first moved here. But there’s definitely no there there.” Julia made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. “Zero sexual attraction. In fact, it made me wonder if I’m not his type, if you get my drift.”
“You mean, he’s gay?”
“I kind of got that impression. Either that, or he’s saving himself for his wedding night.”
Abigale sipped the cognac. “What’s the story with Manning and him?”
“You think there’s something sexual going on between Thompson and Manning?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Abigale said, smiling. “I was referring to the tension between them.”
“Oh, that. They haven’t gotten along from the get-go. Thompson looks down on Manning, thinks he’s irresponsible. And Manning thinks Thompson is a brown-noser. Thompson moved here while Manning was living in California, and I think when Manning returned he didn’t like how close Thompson was to Margaret and Richard, kind of like Thompson had invaded his territory, you know? Then there was an incident with the hunt truck—Manning took it without permission and Thompson reported it stolen—and since then the two of them don’t even seem to bother trying to get along.”
“Did Thompson know Manning had borrowed the truck?”
“He’s says he didn’t.” Julia twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Hey, want to hear something ironic?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Manning and I were together for a while.”
Abigale felt the cognac rise in her throat. “Really?”
“Yeah. About four years ago. He ended up in my bed one night when we’d both had too much to drink. Manning was too much of a gentleman to treat it as a one-night stand, so he took me out on a few dates afterward. But it never went anywhere. We finally settled on a happy medium. You know; friends with benefits.” Julia’s lips curved into an impish grin. “Emphasis on benefits.”