by Jan Neuharth
Abigale scrolled to the end of the downloaded photos, to the shots she’d taken down by the pond. She’d snapped a couple of Manning without him knowing, and she clicked on the first one, enlarging it to full screen. She zoomed in on his face. There was no denying Manning still took her breath away. He wasn’t exactly classically handsome. His hair was too unruly, his nose a tad crooked from when he’d broken it as a kid, and a faint scar ran the length of his right jaw. But his eyes were deep enough to drown in. The curve of his lips held the promise of a kiss. She advanced to a shot of Manning leaning against a willow tree, his arms folded across his chest. His shoulders looked about a mile wide.
“God, get a grip,” she muttered, jabbing at the keyboard to exit full-screen mode. She viewed the shots of the blue heron, a couple of which were nice. The shots of the red fox in the field at Dartmoor Glebe captured the moment just as she’d hoped they would. Her mother would love them. She scrolled up to the shots she’d taken in the woods behind Margaret’s. The shot of the swimming rock was bathed in soft morning light, the river glistening gently in the background. Beautiful.
“What are you looking at?” Manning asked. His voice, deepened by sleep, seemed to rumble across the quiet room.
Abigale jumped. “God, Manning! You scared me. What are you doing up?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He rubbed his eyes as he flopped down next to her on the couch. He wore a pair of orange UVA athletic shorts and a gray T-shirt. He propped up his bare feet on the coffee table. “Are those the pictures you took at the pond today?”
Abigale snapped the laptop lid down. “It’s just a hodgepodge of photos.”
“Can I see?”
She splayed her hands across the lid, embarrassed for him to see the shots she’d taken of him by the pond. “I still need to edit them.”
“I don’t care if they’re not edited.” He grabbed the lid with the thumb and forefinger of his broken arm and tugged it open a couple of inches.
Abigale slid her hand over his, stopped him.
“What the hell?” Manning stared at her for a minute, then grunted, pulling his hand away with a hollow laugh. “Never mind, I get it.”
“You get what?”
“You were looking at the photo you got on your cell tonight. The one with your boyfriend in it.”
“My boyfriend?”
“Yeah. Emilio.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“No?”
“No.”
He smiled. “Does he know that?”
“Screw you, Manning. For the record, we broke up before I left Kabul. And I wasn’t looking at photos of him.” She raised the lid. “I was viewing the photos I’ve taken in Virginia to select some to send to my mother.”
Manning’s eyes shifted to the screen. “That’s the river behind Mother’s.” He peered closer. “Is that our swimming rock?”
Abigale nodded. “I took a hike yesterday morning and snapped a bunch of shots. Here, I’ll go back to the beginning.” She scrolled back to the first picture and enlarged it.
“Can you do a slide show?”
“Sure.” She clicked it on automatic and slid the computer over to Manning.
He settled lower into the cushions and raised his knees. The legs of his nylon shorts slid back, revealing well-muscled thighs. Manning balanced the computer on his lap and angled it slightly in Abigale’s direction, shifting so his shoulder rested against hers.
Abigale’s stomach clenched as the pictures slowly advanced toward the shots she’d snapped of the cross. She felt the muscles in Manning’s arm stiffen, but neither of them said anything as the photos of the cross faded one into the other on the screen. She eased out a breath when the scene shifted to the shots of the fox. The corners of Manning’s mouth hinted at a smile when he saw the snapshots of him by the pond. When the slide show ended, Manning shut the laptop lid and set the computer on the cushion next to him.
“Those are nice,” he said. “You obviously have a gift for photography. Something beyond what you learned at Cornell.”
“Actually, I never took a photography class at Cornell.”
“I thought you did.”
She shook her head. “I begged my father to let me study photography, but he wouldn’t even discuss it. As far as he was concerned, it was the Cornell Hotel School or no school.”
“So where did you get your training?”
“I joined the staff at The Cornell Daily Sun. All of my photography training was strictly hands-on.”
He arched an eyebrow. “That’s impressive. I hope you gave the Sun credit when you won your Pulitzer.”
She smiled.
A log settled in the fireplace, scattering sparks across the hearth. Manning gazed thoughtfully at the fire. The reflection from the flames danced in his eyes. “I came to see you once at Cornell.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. I played polo for UVA and we had a match at Cornell. I knew you were going to school there, so I decided to look you up.”
“But you never found me.”
“Yes, I did.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Manning rubbed his hand along his jaw. “Your roommate answered the phone and told me you were studying outside at—what’s it called—the hill?”
“The slope.”
“Right. The slope. So I went there.”
“And?” Abigale demanded when he didn’t continue.
“And I saw you with a guy. You were lying on a blanket with your books all spread out, but you weren’t doing a lot of studying. I found out later he was your fiancé.”
Abigale’s chest ached, imagining how Manning must have felt that day. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged. “You looked so happy. I figured there was no point. But, for the record,” he cracked a grin, “we beat the hell out of Cornell in the polo match that day.”
She smiled, her thoughts drifting back to her time at Cornell. Manning was right; she had been happy there. Happy to be in America, at Cornell, on staff at the Sun. Happy with Peter. Not with the same manic, head-over-heels, partners-in-crime passion she’d had with Manning. But Peter was her rock. An island to cling to as the stormy future her father had crafted swirled around her, threatening to suck her under.
“What did your father say when he found out you were pursuing photography despite his wishes?” Manning asked.
“He didn’t. My father was oblivious. As far as he knew, I was happily on track to spend my life as an hotelier.”
“He must have figured it out at some point. You’re famous.”
“Hardly,” Abigale said, rolling her eyes. “My father did eventually learn about my passion for photography, but it wasn’t until after I graduated from Cornell. When he discovered Peter, my fiancé, had the passion for the hotel business that I lacked, he tagged his future son-in-law as his heir-apparent to run the hotel. Then my father no longer had a reason to dictate my future. At least not my career.”
“So he let you become a photojournalist and ship off to a war zone?”
“Are you kidding? I started out interning for a Swiss fashion magazine. It wasn’t until after my father’s death that I was free to pursue photojournalism.”
Manning’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry about your father. And your fiancé. I wanted to write you—started to several times—but decided I was probably the last person you wanted to hear from. That must have been hell for you and your mother. You weren’t skiing with them when it happened, were you?”
“No. It was my father, Peter, and six of our hotel guests. Americans. The avalanche danger was high that day and my mother begged my father not to go. She tried to talk him into skiing at St. Moritz, only sixty kilometers away. But helicopter skiers are adrenaline junkies. The risk only seemed to fuel their enthusiasm, so my father agreed to take them. Two of the Americans died along with Peter and my father.”
“Jesus.”
“The conversation betwee
n my parents wasn’t unlike many I heard between Margaret and Uncle Richard, arguing about whether the footing was too treacherous to hunt on a given day.” She gave a hollow laugh, remembering. “Uncle Richard used to say he owed it to the hunt members to go out, the same argument my father made. And Margaret’s response was always the same as my mother’s: that he owed it to the hunt members not to risk their necks hunting in sloppy footing. The only difference is Uncle Richard usually had the sense to yield to Margaret’s better judgment. My father didn’t. I can still picture my mother that day, framed in the arched front door of our hotel as my father drove away. She stared after the van until it disappeared beyond the shadow of the castle, no doubt hoping he’d change his mind.”
Manning slid his hand across hers. “I’m sorry.”
Pain swelled in Abigale’s chest, whether from the memory of Peter and her father’s death or Manning’s touch she wasn’t sure. Ten years had passed since the skiing accident, and time had mercifully dulled the pain. But the old wounds from the breakup with Manning still felt raw. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat.
He entwined his fingers with hers, raised their joined hands, and studied them for a moment in the firelight. “I’ve missed you, Abby. I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me too.”
Manning’s grip tightened and he pulled her hand to his mouth, pressed his lips lightly against her knuckles. A shiver ran to the pit of her belly.
“Don’t,” she murmured, passion and panic playing tug-of-war within her.
His lips parted, breath whispered across her fingers. “Why not?” Desire flared in his eyes, turned them the dusky blue of an approaching storm.
She tugged her hand away from his mouth. “Because. I have to leave, go back on assignment.”
“Tonight?”
The smile in his voice dissolved Abigale’s panic and ate at her willpower. “No.”
“Good.”
Manning cupped his fingers under her chin and ran his thumb over her mouth, so gentle it made her want to cry. He bent his head, brushed his lips against hers, lingered, then captured her mouth with his, pulling her deeper and deeper until she couldn’t get enough of him.
CHAPTER
58
The far-off ringing of a phone woke Abigale. She opened her eyes to see sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtain and wondered lazily what time it was. Night had just begun to fade to gray when they’d fallen asleep.
She was spooned up against Manning, his broken arm curled protectively around her. His breath teased the back of her neck. She shifted ever so slightly, easing the stiffness out of her sore muscles. Their lovemaking was a mindless blur, Manning’s hands everywhere, caressing, demanding, tender, greedy; his hungry mouth; the slide of skin against skin; hard muscles pinning her to the bed; a voyage of rediscovery, a journey into unchartered territory. Emotion welled in her chest and a tear trickled down her cheek, pooled in the hollow of her throat. Life would tumble back down on them, she knew that. But whatever happened, she’d carry the memory of last night—this moment—in her heart.
Manning tightened his arm, drew her closer. She looked over her shoulder and saw his eyes were open. She rolled to face him and Manning smiled, a slow grin like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud. He planted his left elbow on the bed and propped his head up against his palm. “Good morning.” His fingers skimmed her hair from her face and traced the line of her cheekbone.
“Hey,” she said softly. “How’s your arm?”
“It hurts like hell.” Manning kissed her mouth gently. “We’d better do something to take my mind off it.”
Abigale’s lips curved against his. “Let me get you a Vicodin. Or at least Tylenol.”
“I don’t want a Vicodin.” Manning nuzzled her ear, then nibbled his way down her neck as he pulled her closer. “Or Tylenol. But I think you need to check my vital signs.”
Her arms curved around his neck. “I’m pretty sure your vital signs are fine.”
A smile softened his blue eyes and he pushed the sheet away. “Then I’d better check your vital signs.” His hand slid down to her breast, teased her nipple with his thumb.
“That one works,” he said lowering his head. “Let’s check the other one.”
His mouth found her breast, and he slowly drove her insane with his tongue as his hand trailed lower.
“You’re still wet,” he murmured.
A soft moan caught in Abigale’s throat as he rolled on top of her and slid inside.
CHAPTER
59
Margaret knocked again, louder this time. Placed her ear to the door, listened for the sound of footsteps. Still quiet as a church inside. She tromped back to her truck and fished a key out of the cup holder.
Her Subaru was parked in the drive, so Abigale and Manning hadn’t left for the racecourse yet. Why the hell wasn’t anyone answering the door? She jabbed the key in the lock and shoved, and was greeted by a faint odor of wood fire. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. Sunlight poured into the kitchen and she poked her head inside. Empty. She spun around. Eyed the open door to Manning’s bedroom.
“Hello?” she called.
“Mother?” Manning’s voice came from the bedroom, husky-sounding as if he’d been asleep.
“There you are. I was beginning to think no one was home.”
“Hold on!”
She stopped just shy of the bedroom. Heard the scuffle of feet, a door click shut.
“Are you decent?” she asked, averting her eyes.
Sheets rustled. “Yeah. Sure. Come in.”
Manning lay on his back, arms folded in front of him. His blue cast pinned the white sheet to his chest. She heard a clunk as the shower cut on in the bathroom. Saw a trail of clothes on the floor. Orange gym shorts, a pair of jeans. A black bra.
“Abby’s in the shower,” Manning said, his eyes swimming with guilt.
“So I surmised.”
It had been years since Margaret had seen Manning look like he even cared that he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Maybe there was a ray of hope in that.
“Are you on your way to Longmeadow?” he asked with forced casualness.
Margaret nodded. “I called earlier but there was no answer, so I stopped by on my way to see how you fared through the night.” She paused. “Looks like you managed just fine.”
“Yeah.” Manning tugged at the sheet with his broken arm. “Give me a minute and I’ll get dressed.”
“I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”
Manning padded into the kitchen a few minutes later, barefooted, wearing the orange shorts she’d seen on the floor and a wrinkled gray T-shirt. He moved gingerly, as though he wasn’t sure which part of him hurt the most.
“Coffee’s brewing,” Margaret said, switching on the oven. “I thought I’d heat up this egg casserole I found in the refrigerator.”
“None for me, thanks.”
“It looks good. Did Abigale make it?”
Manning shook his head. “Julia.”
“Oh? When did she bring it by?”
“She and Percy came over yesterday afternoon.”
“That was nice.” Margaret had noted the absence of beer in the refrigerator, thought perhaps Abigale had put it away somewhere. But if Percy and Julia had stopped by, that explained it.
“Yeah.” He smiled, pulling a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. “Kind of like old times, Abby and Percy going at each other.”
“What’s that you’re saying about me and Percy?” Abigale asked as she slipped into the room, all scrubbed and perfumed, her wet hair twisted up in a clasp.
Manning’s face lit up when he saw her. “Hey.”
“Hi.” She smiled at him through lowered lashes, almost shyly. “Good morning, Margaret.”
“Morning. Coffee’s ready. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Abigale opened several cupboards and finally found a coffee mug.
“I’ve got the
egg casserole heating in the oven.”
“It smells good,” Abigale said, looking at Manning. “How’s your stomach?”
Manning wrinkled his nose.
“You have to eat something.”
He palmed a bottle of Tylenol and pointed at the glass of orange juice he’d poured. “Breakfast of champions.”
“Wrong. Especially if you think you’re going to work on the racecourse today.” Abigale took the bottle from Manning, shook out two tablets, and handed them to him.
“Only two?”
“If you need more than that you should probably spend the day in bed.”
Margaret saw Manning give Abigale a wicked grin before he tilted his head and tossed back the pills. She caught Abigale’s blush. Lord. The two of them were acting like lovesick teenagers. Yet she found herself smiling as she watched them, despite the fact she was sure no good would come from their reunion. She guessed part of her wanted to believe Abigale might be Manning’s salvation.
All night she’d battled whether to confront Manning about the watch, but in the end she’d decided against it. What was the point? He’d say he had no idea how it got in his coat pocket. Or that he couldn’t remember. Anger and grief tightened her chest, making it hard to breathe. Maybe the truth was, she didn’t want to hear his answer.
“I’ll leave the two of you to eat your breakfast,” Margaret said, snatching her pocketbook off the counter. “I’ve got to get over to Longmeadow.”
“I’ll see you there,” Manning said. “I’m meeting Smitty at nine to flag the course.”