He pulled back and grinned at her. “I’m guessing you have to be on your best behavior until you accomplish your damned objective. But I warn you, it’s a fool’s errand. Granny won’t sell.”
“If you’re really so worried about me talking to her, I could take you to meet the prospective buyer one day next week. You wouldn’t have to tell Isobel right away.”
“Oh, no,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t do secrets. They never end well. If we’re doing this, we’ll be upfront about your agenda.”
“Mr. Chester asked me to present the offer. I’m not responsible for the outcome.”
“If you say so.” He kept an arm around her waist as they walked out to the car. “Granny is beside herself with excitement that you’re coming. I suppose I hadn’t realized how much she has missed Brody and Cate and the baby since they left. With just me around, the house has been too quiet.”
“Maybe I could have lunch with her one day.”
He gave her a sideways frown. “Are you suggesting that idea as a lawyer or as a decent human being?”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Abby said, glaring at him.
He helped her into the car and closed her door. Even when she was mad at him, he felt a sexual pull. That reality didn’t bode well for his peace of mind.
When he was behind the wheel with the engine running, he apologized. “I’m sorry. No more cheap shots about your profession today, I promise.”
She grinned wryly. “Only today?”
He shrugged, feeling lighthearted and pumped about the evening to come. “I’ll take the rest of the calendar under consideration, I swear.”
The trip up the mountain was quick. When they arrived, Abby stepped out of the car and stared at his grandparents’ house in admiration. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is up here. I’ve never been inside, though.”
“Some of the exterior upkeep has been let go. Brody and I put a lot of sweat equity into cutting back bushes and fixing gutters...things like that. For a long time after Grandda died, Granny couldn’t bring herself to stay here with him gone. But now that she’s back, she’s happy again. This house was something they built together, just like the business.”
After unlocking the front door, he stood aside for Abby to enter. He tossed his keys into a carved wooden bowl on a table in the foyer and motioned for Abby to follow him. Raising his voice, he called out. “Granny. We’re here.”
He’d half expected his grandmother to be hovering by the front door, ready to greet her guest. “She’s probably in the kitchen.”
“I love all the artwork,” Abby said. “Everything is warm and welcoming, but so very unique.”
“Aye,” Duncan replied, half-distracted. “They collected paintings and sculptures from all over the world. Granny. Where are you?” He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and his heart stopped. A small figure lay crumpled in the center of the floor.
“Granny!” He fell to his knees, his heart pounding. “God, Granny. Call 9-1-1,” he yelled, though Abby was at his elbow, her eyes wide, her expression aghast.
While Abby fumbled with her cell phone and punched in the numbers, Duncan took his grandmother’s hands and chafed them. “Talk to me, Granny. Open your eyes.” Abby finished her brief conversation. “Get me a wet cloth,” he said. “The drawer by the sink.”
Moments later, she crouched at his side and handed him a damp square of cotton. Duncan placed it on his grandmother’s forehead. Her lips were blue. His heart slugged in his chest. CPR. He needed to do CPR. He’d had the training. Instinct kicked in. He began the sequence of compressions and breaths. Counting. Pushing. Praying.
Abby took one of Isobel’s frails wrists and held it.
Duncan shot her a wild-eyed glance. “Anything?”
“No.” Tears welled in Abby’s eyes but didn’t fall.
“Damn it.” He repeated the CPR sequence again. And again. Until his chest ached and his arms ached and his heart was broken. “I just talked to her half an hour ago.” This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real.
Abby put her arms around him from behind and laid her cheek against his. “I think she’s dead, Duncan,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
Five
Abby hadn’t realized she could hurt so badly for a man she had known for such a short time. The two hours that followed were nothing less than a nightmare. A parade passed through the house... EMTs and ambulance drivers and Isobel’s personal physician and eventually a representative from the local funeral home. At long last, the elderly woman’s tiny, cold body was zipped into a dreadful black bag and loaded into the back of a hearse.
If she’d had a choice, Abby wouldn’t have chosen to witness that last part, but Duncan wouldn’t leave his grandmother and Abby wouldn’t leave Duncan. Somewhere along the way, he had withdrawn inside himself. He spoke when necessary. He thanked everyone who helped. He made decisions. He signed papers. But the man who had picked her up at her home earlier that evening was gone.
At last, they were alone. The sprawling house echoed with silence and tragedy.
“You should eat something,” Abby said quietly. “Let me fix you a plate.”
He didn’t respond. She wasn’t even sure he heard her.
They had been standing at the front of the house watching as the vehicle bearing his grandmother’s body drove away. Quietly, Abby closed and locked the door and took Duncan’s arm. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll make us some coffee.”
As soon as they entered the room, she winced. It was impossible not to remember seeing the small, sad body lying forlorn and alone in the middle of the floor. The doctor believed Isobel likely suffered a massive cardiac event and had died instantly without suffering.
Abby had searched Duncan’s face to see if this news brought him comfort. Nothing in his anguished expression told her that was the case.
Now, as Duncan stood irresolute, she eased him toward a chair. “Sit,” she said firmly, as she would with a child. She bustled about the unfamiliar kitchen, finding plates and cups and silverware. By the time the coffee brewed, she had scooped out small portions of the appetizers that were to have been Isobel’s contribution to the evening’s social hour. Baked Brie with raspberry jam. Fresh minced tomato and mozzarella on bruschetta. Mushrooms stuffed with sausage and ricotta.
She put a plate in front of Duncan and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Try to eat something,” she said. He stared at the food, but he didn’t see it. That was painfully obvious.
Her heart breaking for him, she poured two cups of steaming coffee, carried them to the table and sat down beside him. She took his hand in both of hers, worried that his long fingers were cold. “Talk to me, Duncan,” she said quietly. “Talk to me.”
He blinked as if waking from a dream. “She was with me at the office this afternoon. She was fine. I talked to her on the phone after five. She was fine. How could this happen?”
“Miss Izzy was an old woman. I guess her heart gave out.”
“I should have been here.”
She heard the reproach in his voice. She understood it. But it stung, even so. Duncan was hurting, and he needed a place to direct his pain.
“You heard the doctor. He thinks she died instantly.”
Duncan’s eyes flashed. “But she shouldn’t have died alone.”
There was nothing to say to that.
Abby picked up a fork and forced down a few bites of food, though she didn’t really feel like eating at all. She was hoping that Duncan would follow her example by rote. After a few moments, he did. He cleared half of what was on his plate, drank one whole cup of coffee and poured himself a second one. Then he paced the kitchen, his agitation increasing by the moment.
Abby was at a loss. “Should we call your brother and your father?” she asked.
He gl
anced at his watch. “They’ll all be asleep by now. No need to wake them. Granny was very specific about her funeral arrangements. The entire family came en masse for Grandda’s services. She was honored and glad to have us here. But she insisted that when her time came, no one was to come back to the States. She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread on top of the mountain.”
Suddenly, Duncan walked out of the kitchen. She followed him. His mood was volatile, so she was worried. Down the hall, he opened the door to his grandmother’s bedroom and stood there. Not entering. Only looking. Her bed was neatly made. The novel she had been reading earlier, perhaps before napping, lay facedown on the mattress.
Abby slipped an arm around his waist, trying without words to offer comfort where there was none. A minute passed. Then another.
Duncan was immovable, a statue in a house that had become a mausoleum. When he finally spoke, his words were barely audible. “Do you think she knew how reluctant I was to come here and stay? That I didn’t really want to learn the business? That my heart wasn’t in it?”
The guilt-ridden questions came from the depths of his grief.
Abby leaned her cheek against his arm and sighed. “Your grandmother adored you, Duncan. The fact that you were willing to give up everything to move here and help her run Stewart Properties made her happier than she had been since your grandfather died. She didn’t see your doubts, Duncan. All she saw was a grandson’s devotion.”
“I hope so.”
Abby juggled her own share of guilt. She mourned Isobel’s passing for the family’s sake. But for Abby, this sudden change meant that Duncan would not be staying in Candlewick. The idea of an affair with the wealthy, charismatic Scotsman had never been realistic from the beginning. Now, though, all the delicious might-have-beens were gone for good.
Duncan’s posture was rigid. Grief was hard for a man, especially one as masculine and dominant as a Stewart clansman. Abby feared for his mental well-being. The blow of this untimely death so soon after the trauma of uprooting his life and relocating to the States had clearly shaken him to the foundations.
She stroked his arm. He was in shock, whether he realized it or not. His thinking was muddled, his emotions on overload. “Come to the den,” she said softly. “Sit and rest. We could watch a movie. Or talk.”
Duncan shook his head as if trying to wake up from a dream. “I should take you home,” he said, his tone oddly formal. “Let me get my keys.”
Abby got in front of him and made him look her in the eyes. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight, Duncan. There are half a dozen bedrooms. I can sleep anywhere. But I won’t walk away and let you rattle around this big old house by yourself.”
“I’m not a child.” His gaze was slightly unfocused, his voice rough, as though normal speech was difficult.
She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I know that. But you’re hurting, and no one should have to bear this alone.”
In the end, she wasn’t much help at all. Though she managed to get him into the den, he merely stared at the TV screen blankly for hours, unseeing. She might as well have shown him old Bugs Bunny cartoons or sitcom reruns. He would never have known the difference.
At eleven, she powered down the electronics and began turning off lights. She touched his arm. “Why don’t you go take a shower, Duncan? It might make you feel better. In the morning, I’ll help you with whatever decisions you have to make. Tonight, though, you need sleep.”
He nodded and stood, but his compliance seemed illusory at best.
When Duncan was safely in his bedroom, Abby wandered through the house, checking doors and windows. There was an alarm system, but she had no idea how to arm it. Maybe for one night it wouldn’t matter.
Finding a guest room was not difficult. Isobel Stewart and her late husband had entertained out-of-town company often. The suite Abby picked at random was decorated beautifully, though a tad formally for her tastes, in deep burgundy and navy. The bathroom had been updated in recent years. All of the necessary amenities were available in drawers and cabinets, including the kind of shower cap hotels offered.
She took a shower, brushed her teeth and put her same clothes back on. Tomorrow, Lara would bring her a small bag of essentials. Earlier, she had sent a brief text to let her friend know what had happened. Lara’s rapid, heartfelt response was one small note of sunshine in a horribly gloomy experience.
At last, she folded back the covers on the large, opulent bed and slipped between the sheets. Sleep should have come easily. Adrenaline and emotional exhaustion had left her feeling wrung out. Even so, she couldn’t settle. Her ears strained to hear any sound from Duncan’s bedroom. He was almost directly across the hall from her. She had left her door open a crack so she would know if he stirred.
Her premonitions were on target. At 1:00 a.m., she awoke to the sound of someone prowling about in the hallway. In the distance, the kitchen lights came on. Various rustling noises told her Duncan might be getting a snack. He must be hungry. What he had eaten earlier was hardly enough to keep a grown man going for very long.
She debated joining him. Scrambled eggs could be considered comfort food at this hour. She could fix him a light breakfast. But soon, the lights were out again, and she heard him go back to his room.
The disruption of her slumber, coupled with her concern for Duncan, made going back to sleep almost impossible. Frustrated, she got up and used the bathroom. Then she stood in the center of the bedroom in the dark and pondered what to do. Was he sleeping? Had he slept at all?
Tomorrow would be another long, difficult day. In this situation, even strong adults sometimes needed help from a doctor in the form of a sleep aid. Not that Duncan would take kindly to that suggestion.
When she heard his door open a second time, she stepped into the hall without second-guessing herself. Duncan jerked backward, startled. “Why are you up?” he growled.
Abby wrapped her arms around her waist and shrugged. “I heard you. I was worried.”
“I’m sorry I woke you. You should have gone home.”
She wouldn’t let his harsh words hurt her. She couldn’t. He was lashing out because he didn’t know what to do with the emotions tearing at him. “Have you slept at all, Duncan?”
“On and off.”
They stood there in the narrow hallway. Duncan wore nothing but a pair of flannel sleep pants that hung low on his hips. His broad chest was bare. His hair stood on end. Though there was not enough light to see for sure, Abby knew his jaw was covered with stubble. The scent of his skin, warm from his bed, wafted in the air between them.
“Duncan, I—”
He held up a hand, cutting her off. “Don’t bother. I’ve said it all to myself, and nothing helps. She was old. Old people die. I get it. But I wasn’t ready. And I didn’t know it would feel like this.” He dropped his head and stared at the floor, dejection and sorrow in every angle of his big, masculine frame.
Abby’s heart clenched and ached. He was so very much alone and so very far from home. She took his hand before she could change her mind. “I’m going to lie down with you,” she said firmly. “On top of the covers. That way you won’t be alone. It helps, I think, to have someone close when you face a loss.”
It was a mark of his utter desolation that he didn’t protest. Nor did he make some silly male comment about her climbing into bed with him. If anything, the vibe she got from him was gratitude, not that he actually expressed it in so many words.
His bed was a king. The covers were rumpled as if he had fought with them for hours. Together they straightened the sheets and comforter. Without asking, Duncan fetched an extra blanket from the closet. Then he climbed into bed. The light in the bathroom was still on with the door pulled almost completely closed. Abby didn’t mention it. Whether an oversight or not, that tiny beam of light was comforting in this dark, dark night.
&
nbsp; When Duncan was settled, Abby lay down on top of the covers on the opposite side of the bed and pulled the spare blanket around herself.
Duncan reached out a hand and turned off the lamp. “Thank you, Abby.”
The tone in his voice made her want to cry. “You’re welcome,” she whispered.
* * *
The next time she surfaced, it was still dark outside. Confused and disoriented, she blinked and moved restlessly until her memory came crashing back. She was in Duncan’s bedroom...in his bed. A noise had awakened her.
She froze for a moment. Was it an intruder? Had her failure to set the alarm left them vulnerable?
For long seconds, she listened. And then it came again. A keening, terrible sound. The sound of a man in the throes of a nightmare.
Duncan flung an arm over his head and cried out. She could feel the agony of his dream.
Throwing her blanket aside, she scooted across the mattress and approached him carefully, not wanting to make things worse...certainly not wanting to embarrass him. She put her hand on his arm and spoke his name. “Duncan. Wake up, Duncan. It’s me, Abby.”
It took several tries, but finally he shuddered and opened his eyes. His face was damp. “Did I dream it?” he asked hoarsely. “Is it true?”
Abby’s throat hurt. “I don’t know what you dreamed. But if you’re asking me about your grandmother, then yes. She’s gone.”
“Bloody hell.” His voice broke on the second word.
Abby couldn’t help herself. She scooted beneath the covers and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, shaking. She stroked his hair. “Ssshhh,” she said. “It’s okay, Duncan. It’s going to be okay.”
For the first time, she saw him as something other than the wealthy grandson of a wealthy family for whom everything in life had come easily.
He was just a man.
The clock on the bedside table marked the passage of time. Abby drifted in and out of sleep. Duncan slept, as well. She heard his heavy breathing. She felt the weight of his limbs. And with every hour that passed, she knew her own personal grief—grief for the relationship that would wither on the vine before it had a chance to take root.
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