by Nora Roberts
“I could use it.”
She found Bella alone in the kitchen. “Cooking and cleaning up?”
“Fran’s having some contractions. Mama took her upstairs.”
“She’s in labor?”
“Maybe. Maybe just some Braxton-Hicks. She’s got two doctors, her mother and her husband hovering. She’s fine.” Bella lifted a hand, shook her head. “I don’t mean to sound like that.” She tossed down a dish towel. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
“We’re all tired, Bella. You’re entitled.”
“I envy her. Not just that serenity she wears like a custom-made suit, but the way Jack looks at her. You could just melt. I don’t not want her to have it. I just wish I had a little of it myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No point. I made this bed.” She laid a hand on her belly.
“You’re sure?”
“You can find out so soon, practically before you are. I’m pregnant. I got pregnant on purpose. Stupid, maybe selfish, but it’s done. I’m not sorry about the baby.”
“Have you told Vince?”
“He’s thrilled. He does love children, even if he doesn’t love me the way I want. He’ll be sweet and attentive for a bit, and he’ll take a little more care to hide his next affair—if he dares to have one after you blasted him.”
“Will you be happy, Bella?”
“Working on it. I’m not going to divorce him. I’m not going to give up what I’ve got, so I’ll make what I can of what I have. Don’t tell the family yet. Fran ought to have this baby without another one in progress taking any shine off it.”
Reena smiled. “You’re okay, Isabella. You always were.”
She studied the neighborhood as Bo drove them home. As she’d predicted, people were out early. Heading to the park to walk or jog, strolling with pets and kids. Hurrying off to work. She could smell fresh baked bread wafting from the bakery.
Even when she smelled the lingering traces of smoke and wet, it didn’t dampen her.
She nodded to the cops left on duty.
“I need a little sleep, then I want to go to church, light a candle for O’Donnell,” she told Bo. “You’re going to want to go see your Mrs. M., O’Donnell’s sister.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand down her arm. “Later today.”
“I’ll go with you, and I’d like you to go with me when I visit his wife. But first, I need to go in.”
“I’ll tuck you into my bed, and later we’ll go to church, we’ll light a candle, we’ll go see his family. But you should go to the hospital, get checked out.”
“Nothing broken, second degree. Not that I don’t intend to hit Xander up for some lovely drugs, but what I want most after this is a bed, and yours is just fine. But I have to go in first. I have to see it.”
She unlocked the door. She smelled the smoke, studied where it had stained the walls. In silence, she walked up the stairs. Her belly clenched.
Fire had charred her bedroom door frame, flashed over the floor. Her dresser was scorched, the wood buckled, the burn pattern on the walls showing the fire’s greedy reach up.
And she saw where Joey’s body had fallen, and smothered the flames under it.
“He wasn’t crazy when this started, not the way he was when it ended. It ate at him, at his mind, maybe his soul. Like fire eats fuel. Like cancer’s eating his father. So it consumed him.”
“You weren’t the reason, and never were. You were an excuse.”
Surprised, she turned her head, looked at Bo. “You’re right. My God, you’re right. And that feels like, well, absolution.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m lucky, and I know it. A few bumps, bruises and burns. But I feel sad when I look at this room. It wasn’t perfect, I know. But it was mine.”
“It still is.” He slipped an arm gently around her waist. “I can fix it.”
She laughed a little, and her body relaxed against his. “Yes. Yes, you can.”
She turned away from it, and went home with the boy next door.
ANGELS
FALL
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2006 by Nora Roberts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
ISBN: 1-101-14683-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
FOR MOM
Contents
SIGNPOSTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
DETOURS
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
HOME
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
SIGNPOSTS
Everywhere is nowhere.
—SENECA
1
REECE GILMORE smoked through the tough knuckles of Angel’s Fist in an overheating Chevy Cavalier. She had two hundred forty-three dollars and change in her pocket, which might be enough to cure the Chevy, fuel it and herself. If luck was on her side, and the car wasn’t seriously ill, she’d have enough to pay for a room for the night.
Then, even by the most optimistic calculations, she’d be broke.
She took the plumes of steam puffing out of the hood as a sign it was time to stop traveling for a while and find a job.
No worries, no problem, she told herself. The little Wyoming town huddled around the cold blue waters of a lake was as good as anywhere else. Maybe better. It had the openness she needed—all that sky with the snow-dipped peaks of the Tetons rising into it like sober, and somehow aloof, gods.
She’d been meandering her way toward them, through the Ansel Adams photograph of peaks and plains for hours. She hadn’t had a clue where she’d end up when she started
out that day before dawn, but she’d bypassed Cody, zipped through Dubois, and though she’d toyed with veering into Jackson, she dipped south instead.
So something must have been pulling her to this spot.
Over the past eight months, she’d developed a strong belief in following signs and impulses. Dangerous Curves, Slippery When Wet. It was nice that someone took the time and effort to post those kinds of warnings. Other signs might be a peculiar slant of sunlight aimed down a back road, or a weather vane pointing south.
If she liked the look of the light or the weather vane, she’d follow, until she found what seemed like the right place at the right time. She might settle in for a few weeks, or, like she had in South Dakota, a few months. Pick up some work, scout the area, then move on when those signs, those impulses, pointed in a new direction.
There was a freedom in the system she’d developed, and often—more often now—a lessening of the constant hum of anxiety in the back of her mind. These past months of living with herself, essentially by herself, had done more to smooth her out than the full year of therapy.
To be fair, she supposed the therapy had given her the base to face herself every single day. Every night. And all the hours between.
And here was another fresh start, another blank slate in the bunched fingers of Angel’s Fist.
If nothing else, she’d take a few days to enjoy the lake, the mountains, and pick up enough money to get back on the road again. A place like this—the signpost had said the population was 623—probably ran to tourism, exploiting the scenery and the proximity to the national park.
There’d be at least one hotel, likely a couple of B and B’s, maybe a dude ranch within a few miles. It might be fun to work at a dude ranch. All those places would need someone to fetch and carry and clean, especially now that the spring thaw was dulling the sharpest edge of winter.
But since her car was now sending out thicker, more desperate smoke signals, the first priority was a mechanic.
She eased her way along the road that ribboned around the long, wide lake. Patches of snow made dull white pools in the shade. The trees were still their wintering brown, but there were a few boats on the water. She could see a couple guys in windbreakers and caps in a white canoe, rowing right through the reflection of the mountains.
Across from the lake was what she decided was the business district. Gift shop, a little gallery. Bank, post office, she noted. Sheriff’s office.
She angled away from the lake to pull the laboring car up to what looked like a big barn of a general store. There were a couple men in flannel shirts sitting out front in stout chairs that gave them a good view of the lake.
They nodded to her as she cut the engine and stepped out, then the one on the right tapped the brim of his blue cap that bore the name of the store—Mac’s Mercantile and Grocery—across the crown.
“Looks like you got some trouble there, young lady.”
“Sure does. Do you know anyone who can give me a hand with it?”
He laid his hands on his thighs and pushed out of the chair. He was burly in build, ruddy in face, with lines fanning out from the corners of friendly brown eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a slow, meandering drawl.
“Why don’t we just pop the hood and take a look-see?”
“Appreciate it.” When she released the latch, he tossed the hood up and stepped back from the clouds of smoke. For reasons she couldn’t name, the plumes and the fuss caused Reece more embarrassment than anxiety. “It started up on me about ten miles east, I guess. I wasn’t paying enough attention. Got caught up in the scenery.”
“Easy to do. You heading into the park?”
“I was. More or less.” Not sure, never sure, she thought and tried to concentrate on the moment rather than the before or after. “I think the car had other ideas.”
His companion came over to join them, and both men looked under the hood the way Reece knew men did. With sober eyes and knowing frowns. She looked with them, though she accepted that she was as much of a cliché. The female to whom what lurked under the hood of a car was as foreign as the terrain of Pluto.
“Got yourself a split radiator hose,” he told her. “Gonna need to replace that.”
Didn’t sound so bad, not too bad. Not too expensive. “Anywhere in town I can make that happen?”
“Lynt’s Garage’ll fix you up. Why don’t I give him a call for you?”
“Lifesaver.” She offered a smile and her hand, a gesture that had come to be much easier for her with strangers. “I’m Reece, Reece Gilmore.”
“Mac Drubber. This here’s Carl Sampson.”
“Back East, aren’t you?” Carl asked. He looked a fit fifty-something to Reece, and with some Native American blood mixed in once upon a time.
“Yeah. Way back. Boston area. I really appreciate the help.”
“Nothing but a phone call,” Mac said. “You can come on in out of the breeze if you want, or take a walk around. Might take Lynt a few to get here.”
“I wouldn’t mind a walk, if that’s okay. Maybe you could tell me a good place to stay in town. Nothing fancy.”
“Got the Lakeview Hotel just down a ways. The Teton House, other side of the lake’s some homier. More a B and B. Some cabins along the lake, and others outside of town rent by the week or the month.”
She didn’t think in months any longer. A day was enough of a challenge. Andhomier sounded too intimate. “Maybe I’ll walk down and take a look at the hotel.”
“It’s a long walk. Could give you a ride on down.”
“I’ve been driving all day. I could use the stretch. But thanks, Mr. Drubber.”
“No problem.” He stood another moment as she wandered down the wooden sidewalk. “Pretty thing,” he commented.
“No meat on her.” Carl shook his head. “Women today starve off all the curves.”
She hadn’t starved them off, and was, in fact, making a concerted effort to gain back the weight that had fallen off in the past couple of years. She’d gone from health club fit to scrawny and had worked her way back to what she thought of as gawky. Too many angles and points, too many bones. Every time she undressed, her body was like that of a stranger to her.
She wouldn’t have agreed with Mac’spretty thing. Not anymore. Once she’d thought of herself that way, as a pretty woman—stylish, sexy when she wanted to be. But her face seemed too hard now, the cheekbones too prominent, the hollows too deep. The restless nights were fewer, but when they came, they left her dark eyes heavily shadowed, and cast a pallor, pasty and gray, over her skin.
She wanted to recognize herself again.
She let herself stroll, her worn-out Keds nearly soundless on the sidewalk. She’d learned not to hurry—had taught herself not to push, not to rush, but to take things as they came. And in a very real way to embrace every single moment.
The cool breeze blew across her face, wound through the long brown hair she’d tied back in a tail. She liked the feel of it, the smell of it, clean and fresh, and the hard light that poured over the Tetons and sparked on the water.
She could see some of the cabins Mac had spoken of, through the bare branches of the willows and the cottonwoods. They squatted behind the trees, log and glass, wide porches—and, she assumed, stunning views.
It might be nice to sit on one of those porches and study the lake or the mountains, to watch whatever visited the marsh where cattails speared up out of the bog. To have that room around, and the quiet.
One day maybe, she thought. But not today.
She spotted green spears of daffodils in a half whiskey barrel next to the entrance to a restaurant. They might have trembled a bit in the chilly breeze, but they made her think spring. Everything was new in spring. Maybe this spring, she’d be new, too.
She stopped to admire the tender sprouts. It was comforting to see spring making its way back after the long winter. There would be other signs of it soon. Her guidebook boasted of miles of wildflowers on the sage flats
, and more along the area’s lakes and ponds.
She was ready for flowering, Reece thought. Ready for blooming.
Then she shifted her eyes up to the wide front window of the restaurant. More diner than restaurant, she corrected. Counter service, two- and four-tops, booths, all in faded red and white. Pies and cakes on display, and the kitchen open to the counter. A couple waitresses bustled around with trays and coffeepots.
Lunch crowd, she realized. She’d forgotten lunch. As soon as she’d taken a look at the hotel, she’d…
Then she saw it in the window, the sign, hand-lettered.
COOK WANTED
INQUIRE WITHIN
Signs, she thought again, though she’d taken a step back before she caught herself. She stood where she was, making a careful study of the setup from outside the glass. Open kitchen, she reminded herself, that was key. Diner food, she could handle that in her sleep. Or would have been able to, once.
Maybe it was time to find out, time to take another step forward. If she couldn’t handle it, she’d know, and wouldn’t be any worse off than she was now.
The hotel was probably hiring, in anticipation of the summer season. Or Mr. Drubber might need another clerk at his store.
But the sign was right there, and her car had aimed toward this town, and her steps had brought her to this spot, where daffodil shoots pushed out of the dirt into the first hesitant breaths of spring.
She backtracked to the door, took a long, long breath in, then opened it.
Fried onions, grilling meat—on the gamey side—strong coffee, a jukebox on country and a buzz of table chatter.