by Delia Latham
Somehow, he was beside her. He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her just close enough to send her heart into all kinds of sputters and spurts.
“Take it easy, Noelle. Memories have a way of knocking us a little off-balance, don’t they?” His fingers touched her hair, stroked once, and then settled onto her shoulders. “Shhh.”
Once again, something in his touch felt so wonderfully familiar. She found herself leaning into him, drawing from his solid strength, lifting her face to his…
Michael. The man holding her in his arms as if she belonged there was Michael Holliday, wealthy architect.
Not Trevor.
Oh, dear heavens, am I finally going over the edge? I should never have come back to this town! She jerked backward, donning an ice cloak in the instant it took her to whirl toward the front of the house. “Thank you for the snack, Michael. Please tell Josie it was perfect.”
Her heels clacked against the marble floor as she stepped briskly across the huge dining space, into and through the great room, and back to the foyer, where she’d stashed her purse in the cloak closet. She had to get away from Michael. Now.
Halfway to her parents’ house, she pulled to the side of the road. Her breath came harder and shorter. No, no, no! She’d suffered panic attacks and bouts of hyperventilation often right after…her old self died a thousand deaths. But that was years ago. Why was it happening now?
Noelle threw back her head and yelled in pain and anger at the God who had allowed her life to fall apart in such a horrid way. She’d loved Him! She’d loved Trevor. And God had ripped it all from her in the space of time it took to unravel a wedding.
She’d thought the whole Trevor fiasco was over, that he was just a dark spot in her memory…but he was still there, holding onto her heart with the kind of stubbornness only he possessed.
Michael reminded her of him in some strange way. The two men bore little physical resemblance, other than height and hair color—and even that wasn’t exact. She could even be wrong. For nearly ten years, she hadn’t so much as looked at a photo of the man who’d broken her heart and humiliated her in front of the whole town.
She drew a deep breath and then another and another. When she could breathe without thinking her chest might explode, she pulled back onto the road.
So Michael made her think of Trevor. That didn’t matter. What did matter was that, for the first time ever, Noelle had to seriously consider whether she should break a contract.
****
What was he doing wrong?
Michael fought the urge to drive into Hope Springs and find Noelle, if only to assure himself that she was all right. Somehow, he’d triggered old feelings in her, and that’s not what he wanted. He wanted her to fall in love with him—the man he was now. But Noelle was so sensitive…despite that blasted cold front she turned off and on at will.
She’d built Joy Designs into a mega-business while he watched from a distance, but until today, he’d overlooked the obvious key to her success. How could he have failed to understand that she was using her “gift” to create the stunning home makeovers that filled design and décor magazines?
When he’d walked into the foyer and found her standing still as stone, with her eyes closed and face lifted as if listening, the truth slammed him like a sledgehammer. She was so clearly bringing into play her knack for picking up on the history of a building.
They were in fifth grade when he found her backed into the corner of one bedroom in his parents’ guesthouse, which he and Noelle had claimed as their favorite hideaway from the rest of the world. Their other friends were never invited into the cottage, because it was their place. She’d been a little weird in there at times, but he’d shrugged it off. Noelle was his best friend in the world, but she was a girl, and girls…well, they acted funny sometimes. On that day, however, tears streaked her cheeks, and her golden-brown eyes were fixed on one spot in the room as if she saw something he couldn’t see.
Little shivers raced up his spine as he eased closer to the pale-faced girl in the corner. “Noelle? You OK?”
She shook her head and raised tear-drenched eyes. “Not really. Trev, this house cries all the time.”
“What?” His friend was clearly losing it—whatever “it” was. “Come on. Let’s go outside.” He glanced around the sparsely furnished room, feeling a little like crying himself.
“No. It can’t hurt us, silly.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’?” He shook his head. “You’re weird today.”
She’d scrunched up her nose and pulled her mouth to one side as she always did when she needed to think. Finally, she’d looked him straight in the eye. Even then, something about that big, brown gaze made him want to give her the whole world. “I think someone who lived here a long time ago had something really awful wrong with them. They were bad sick or something, and they cried—a lot. The house still feels the pain.” She shrugged, as if that explained everything.
Maybe it did, for Noelle, but it didn’t tell Trevor nearly enough. When he asked his parents a bazillion questions about the history of their property, they’d worried that he was forming an unhealthy attachment and threatened to lock the place so he and Noelle couldn’t play there. He backed off to keep that from happening, but his folks still offered up a bit here and a piece there. Between their scanty knowledge and his constant hounding of the local librarian, he soon had enough facts to offer something of an explanation—even if the whole thing seemed too crazy to be real.
The family who’d built the guest house in the mid-forties had a child who suffered debilitating pain that, over the years, left him severely crippled. Whatever ailed the boy must have been unknown to the medical community at the time, as Trevor never found a diagnosis in the sketchy records, nothing that named a specific condition. The child simply “suffered immense pain” from a genetic ailment for which doctors had no cure.
Over time, and repeated research trips into old homes to study Noelle’s reaction—it became something of an exploration for the kids—Trevor decided she heard echoes from the past in almost any structure she entered. School was difficult for her, because so many memories were etched into the walls and hallways—happy ones as well as sad, and sometimes overwhelming in the sheer number of them. She’d grow weepy and temperamental, and sometimes leave school early, claiming a headache or a sick stomach. But over time, she’d started to get a handle on her gift. By the time they reached high school, Noelle had learned to control the echoes and could usually choose when to let them in.
That’s what she’d been doing in his house today. Listening for echoes. Letting them in.
Michael was bothered that she’d indicated the manor he’d built from the ground up didn’t “have a heart.” Still, he understood the truth in her words. His over-large, over-extravagant, over-expensive home was also over-empty. He existed there, but without Noelle, he simply got through one day at a time. Not exactly living.
Even more disturbing was her reaction to him. Despite his changed appearance and new name, he somehow stirred echoes in her memory. What was he doing that made her remember the young man she’d loved so long ago?
“Mr. Michael?”
He spun from his statue-like stance in the foyer, where he stood with his eyes closed, as if he too could hear the walls talk.
“Yes, Josie?”
“Are ye all roight, then?” The woman’s kind eyes studied his face. She’d been with him since his new life began, and he was blessed to have her. He couldn’t visit his own mother, but the feisty Josie, with her Scottish brogue, tart personality, and tender heart, made a wonderful surrogate.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Hmph.” She raised her eyebrows and planted both pudgy hands on generous hips. “You’d not be thinkin’ I don’t see through that wall ye’ve built ‘round yerself, now would’ja? Ye know better, Michael. I love ye like me own son, and when ye hurt, I fi’l the pain.” She took one hand off her hip and carried it to her
ample bosom. “Rrright here in me heart, I f’il it. So”–she used that same busy hand to shake a finger in his direction−“I know ye’re hurtin’, and I know it has some’at to do with the bonnie lass.” She shuffled closer and patted Michael’s arm as she fixed her sharp gaze on his. “And if ye want to be tellin’ me why lookin’ at that pretty face makes yer heart hurt s’ much I see pain oozin’ outta yer verrry pores, I’ll be a-listenin’.” An extra forceful pat became a bit of a pounding. “Any time now, ye hear?”
Michael gave the woman a one-armed hug. “I hear, Josie, and I appreciate your concern, but I really am all right.” He touched his lips briefly to her lined cheek. “Besides, I’ve told you before that my heart will always belong to only one woman, remember? And I lost her a long time ago.”
“If ye say so, lad.” Josie turned and made her way back toward the kitchen but kept talking over her shoulder. “Maybe the wee lass could brrring a bit o’ joy into this ‘uge old museum, don’tcha know?”
Michael stared after her. That was twice in one day his home had been referred to as a museum.
He stood in the foyer and cast his gaze around the immaculate rooms surrounding it on three sides. Everything looked perfect—not so much as a fallen leaf from the dozen or so plants scattered here and there. The marble floors reflected crystal chandeliers and art that cost more than Michael’s father had ever earned in a single year’s salary.
Josie and Tennerman had it right. He lived in a museum.
Well, Noelle would change all that. She’d turn this place into a welcoming home. If Michael could keep her from intuiting his identity—at least until the right time. Because if she figured out his secret before he revealed it, she’d hit the door running and never look back.
5
“You’ve never been a quitter, Noey. Do you really want to start now?”
Her father’s quiet words shot a guilty dart through Noelle’s heart. He was right. Michael’s ever-so-slight resemblance to Trevor was not of his own doing. Neither was it his fault that Noelle’s memories of the man she’d loved with her entire being threatened to crush her if she allowed them in.
She could not tear up Michael’s contract, walk out of his big mausoleum of a dwelling place, and point the nose of her vehicle back to San Francisco. She owed the man the honor of carrying out her part of their bargain.
Besides, not doing so would cut a deep flaw in Joy Design’s stellar reputation. Michael Holliday wasn’t just any client. He had deep pockets and—perhaps of even more significance—the curious, hungry eyes of the public. If he so chose, the man could ruin her.
For now, she was stuck in Hope Springs.
“You’re right, Dad. You always are.”
“Of course. Doing right is my job.” His deep, rumbling laughter soothed her ruffled spirit.
“Yes, it is, and you do it well.” She hugged him, and allowed herself to snuggle into his bear-like embrace. She’d missed this closeness so much. The annual visit her parents made to her condo in Frisco wasn’t nearly enough contact. Besides, those brief days of family time in the hustle and bustle of the big, busy city lacked something. The quiet peace here in the mountains couldn’t be matched anywhere else—at least, nowhere that Noelle had visited, and her job had taken her to a good many locations.
Her father released her with a final kiss on her forehead and settled into his big, worn recliner with a sigh. For a second, Noelle noticed new lines around his eyes and lips, more silver at his temples, and a general air of overall weariness that she hadn’t seen before. She sat on the floor at his feet and rested her head on his knee. His fingers drifted to her hair, as she’d known they would, and stroked through the strands as he sat with his head against the back of his chair, his eyes closed.
“Dad.”
He chuckled. “Yes, Noey?”
“Did Trevor come home at all? Ever?”
His fingers stilled and he cleared his throat. “Not that we know of, sweetheart. James and Janet waited, thinking the boy just needed time.” He paused, and Noelle raised her gaze to find him rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t tangled in her hair. “Of course, as more and more of that went by, they became convinced something awful had happened, despite that one early letter. Trevor wasn’t the kind of young man to make his parents worry if he could help it.”
Noelle snorted. “He wasn’t the kind of young man who’d jilt his bride at their wedding either.”
“Noey. Honey.” Dad’s sigh seemed to come from somewhere deep within him. “I was there. I saw what it did to you when he…didn’t show up, and I have to admit, part of me wanted Trevor’s head on a platter, and I’d have been happy to collect it myself if I’d known how to find him. But it’s been so long, and he’s still not home. I believe James would have told me if he’d seen his son…or Janet would’ve said something to Nancy. Don’t you think that if Trevor could, he’d let his mom and dad know he’s alive and well? No matter how badly he hurt you, sweetheart, you know he loved his parents.”
She couldn’t deny that, though she hated to give him any kind of credit. Trevor had adored his mom and dad. So then, why would he abandon them even if he’d decided he couldn’t marry her?
For the first time since she stood weeping in a wedding gown she hadn’t looked at since, Noelle wondered if there’d been a reason for Trevor’s devastating failure to show up at his own wedding—something other than cold feet or even a blinding realization that he didn’t love her. Could something else have kept him away from their wedding?
Her eyes burned, and she jumped to her feet. She’d refused to cry for Trevor for almost a full decade. Why so weepy now? But she knew, and the reason didn’t make her happy.
Michael Holliday.
“Going somewhere?” Her dad’s gaze followed her sudden movement.
“Just to my room. I’ll sketch a bit, maybe come up with some ideas to turn Michael Holliday’s mausoleum into something resembling a home.” She winked and managed a half-hearted grin.
His soft chuckle followed her up the stairs.
****
Noelle pulled the large case of drawing tools from where she’d stashed it in the closet. The box went with her to every job. Sketching always helped her envision the project as it should look upon completion. Sometimes—like now—she used art as a tool to get past a glitch in creativity.
After hoisting the heavy case onto the desk, she returned to close the closet door. Instead, she stood frozen with one hand on the knob. Her heart pounded so hard that nausea lurched in her stomach. Echoes rushed from the shadowy space, washing over her in huge, crushing waves. She tried to shut them down, turn them off, block them, but they refused to be stopped.
Deep, squeezing pain gripped her chest, and she sucked in short puffs of air. With one hand, she shoved aside the dozens of garments her mother hadn’t bothered to get rid of in all the years since Noelle left Hope Springs. She pushed at them slowly at first, and then used both hands to work faster, frantic to reach the darkest recesses of the closet.
Chances were, it was the one thing Mom had disposed of—or at least stored away somewhere. But maybe it was here. And maybe if she looked at it, she could silence the clamoring echoes.
By the time she pushed the last skirt to a new position, slid the final pair of capris out of the way, slung a few tops completely off their hangers and stood panting at the back end of the rod, quiet sobs racked her frame. She stared at the large, industrial-duty garment bag for a long time, willing herself to touch it. No rush of courage came to her rescue. No lessening of the unbearable hurt in every muscle, joint and cell.
Finally, she drew a deep, hitching breath that sounded like a child after a particularly horrid nightmare, and forced her hands to follow the instructions provided by her chaotic brain. She closed her fingers around the hanger and lifted the heavy bag off the hanging rod.
Having fought her way through mental sludge to get that far, she now seemed unable to move at any speed but turbo
. She tossed the garment bag across her bed and tore at the zipper. It snagged a couple of times, forcing her to work it up and then down again, but at long last, she laid back the panels and stared at what lay inside.
The wedding dress she’d wanted to burn. When her mother refused to allow that to happen, Noelle had tossed the beautiful satin-and-lace creation on the floor. “Then give it away. Throw it in the trash. Cut it up and…I don’t know. Make a tablecloth. Just get rid of it. I never want to see the thing again.”
Part of her had known Mom would do none of those things. But she’d had ample time to do something with it. Why had she left it hanging in the shadows like some kind of cursed object, soaking up all the memories, all the pain Noelle had refused to absorb…just waiting to drown her in them?
Noelle touched the dress with one finger. Echoes screamed from its folds, and she flinched and drew away, whimpering, but she’d already opened Pandora’s box. She couldn’t stop now. Moaning through gritted teeth, she took the garment in both hands and worked it free of the heavy plastic in which it had rested for almost ten years. Lifting it off the bed, she held it at arm’s length, her gaze riveted on the shimmering white mirror to her soul. Memories pounded her mind with cruel force.
She’d never walked up the aisle, as had happened in her dream a few nights ago—apparently God had seen fit to spare her at least that humiliation. Instead, she’d stood in the bridal chamber and waited for the music to start. Was she being silly, or was every expression in the room tense and pitying? Her attendants whispered behind their hands. This was a wedding, for heaven’s sake. Why all the long faces?
Finally, she heaved a sigh and pinned someone under a gaze she hoped was unflinching enough to merit a straight answer. “Why aren’t they starting the music? It’s twenty minutes past time. Our guests are going to leave.”
Dead silence filled the room. Noelle blinked, feeling as if she’d been thrust into a hideous vacuum. She couldn’t think or feel or even make a sound. The world around her slowed to a crawl.