SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW

by Donna Sterling

  Sunny saw the door slam shut, sensed his absolute withdrawal.

  "You want words?" he taunted. "Pretty words?" He shook his head. "No. I won't lie to you that way, Sunny. I don't understand why you'd want me to." In quiet fury, he left the bed and strode past her. "We'll stick to our original agreement. You manage the inn. I'll be an absentee owner—" he cast a glance over his shoulder, his gaze connecting with hers "—and leave you the hell alone."

  He disappeared into the dressing room and slammed the bathroom door.

  Sunny closed her eyes as a wave of anguish washed over her. The walls around his heart were insurmountable, at least to her.

  In cold misery, she wandered out onto the balcony to stare into the night.

  She remained outside until he had settled down on the cot. It seemed an eternity until the rhythmic sound of his breathing convinced her he was asleep.

  She packed in the dark.

  Hurting, bleeding as if she were amputating her own arms and legs, she penned him a note, then slipped the borrowed wedding band off her finger.

  Ryan woke shortly before sunrise and noticed that Sunny had already risen. And made the bed. Ever efficient.

  His anger of the previous night returned full force, and he clenched his teeth as he stalked into the bathroom for a shower. He wanted it stingingly cold, bitterly, and he welcomed the numbness that overtook him.

  He shaved as if it were a normal day, as if the old emptiness weren't pressing in around him, like wolves stalking him in the wilderness. But he noticed her toothbrush was missing from beside his. Her shampoo and toiletries were gone.

  Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom and saw that the dressing area held none of her belongings. Her clothing and her suitcases were gone. His apprehension grew as he pushed through the bedroom door.

  Nothing of her remained.

  A glinting object on the dresser caught his eye. The gold wedding band. Beside it, a note. A terrible heaviness settled into his chest as he scanned the familiar writing.

  I want you to be happy, Ry. You won't be if you live without love. If you can't love me, go find your Mrs. Right. And hire another manager for the inn. I can no longer consider living here. Tell Lavinia and Wilbur anything you like.

  S.

  Ryan stared at the note in stunned disbelief. It made no sense. None. How could she say she wanted him to be happy, yet tell him to find someone else? He couldn't do both.

  And what did she mean by "find your Mrs. Right," as if he would possibly consider marrying anyone other than her? She was the only one to whom he would ever give his name. Only she brought the laughter and the pleasure and the gut-level thrills he craved. She also brought the anger, and sometimes the rage. No one else had the right. No one else had the power. Only Sunny.

  She made him feel. She made him see and taste.

  She made him love.

  Ryan sank down on the bed, staring straight through the paper in his hands. The revelation blinded him. He loved her. He loved her so fiercely that if she had truly left him … if he had to live without her again…

  Like a fuse blowing beneath a power surge, darkness suddenly engulfed him. The deep, nameless dread was back. He lowered his head, his forearms pressing against his knees.

  He wasn't sure how much time passed before he struggled to his feet, and he dressed in a daze. Love brings the pain. When had he learned that? He couldn't recall the circumstances, but he acutely remembered the result. Bitter, paralyzing pain.

  He wouldn't fall victim to it again. He was strong enough to avoid it this time. He had lived without Sunny for ten long years. He could damn sure live without her again.

  He simply could not tolerate needing anyone as much as he needed Sunny.

  Later that day, Ryan informed Wilbur and Lavinia saying he no longer intended to buy Windsong Place

  . He wanted to be gone. Every room, every corner, vibrated with images of Sunny.

  Emptiness squeezed him breathless.

  Jamming his hands into his pockets, he headed for his room to pack. But instead of his room, he somehow found himself in the vast, echoing attic that would have been Sunny's studio.

  The late-afternoon sun was blotted out by clouds and failed to dispel its gloom. He walked past the crates of canvases, the drawing table, all the supplies he had foolishly ordered.

  He'd been looking forward to watching her work, watching the light dance off her fingers as they evoked beauty, seeing her spirit soar. But she had left him.

  Something pricked at a memory. The memory of pain he had forgotten. He had come to this attic when he was a boy. He had come here to listen to music. Piano music. He must have been very young, because his father had locked the attic long before Sunny had come into his life as a pesky little girl.

  He remembered a woman playing, her fingers quick and graceful on the ivory-and-ebony keys as he sat on the bench beside her. The memory brought with it a strong, warm tenderness. And an odd resentment.

  The woman had been his mother. He remembered that now.

  As if magnetically drawn, he moved toward the front window and peered through the freshly polished glass. The sloping front drive of Windsong Place

  was spread out before him.

  Without warning, another memory descended upon him, and suddenly the dimness of the attic was the bright warmth of a summer afternoon. He was on the front porch, beside a suitcase that was almost as big as he was.

  His mother was calling his name. Gentle hands brushed his cheek. Slender, caring hands. He inhaled the comforting fragrance of her perfume, and another scent. Cinnamon, like the cookies she baked. She tucked one into his hand now, it was warm from the oven.

  "Don't cry, angel." She wiped the tears from his cheek and kissed him. Her own eyes were red and puffy. "I'll come back for you when I get things worked out. I love you." She engulfed him in a hug.

  He wanted to go with her but hands pulled him back. The large, rough hands of his father. He cried and fought, but his mother kept walking, suitcase in her hand. He could hear her crying—his mother crying!—as she tossed the suitcase into the back seat and slid behind the wheel of her shiny gray car.

  His father growled, "She's not going to take you anywhere." Then he stared after the car as it pulled away, his eyes hard and angry. "Nothing in this world will hurt you worse than the woman you love. Remember that, son."

  Though he didn't know his father very well, Ryan knew his mother. She'd promised and she'd be back. She always kept her promises.

  The brightness of the afternoon dimmed. The warmth cooled. Darkness descended. Still, he sat on the top step of the porch and waited, watching the front drive for her shiny gray car to return.

  He had waited there the next day, too. And the next.

  Remembering, Ryan gasped in the musty attic air as the pain of her betrayal seared through him. He had trusted her, but she had lied. She hadn't come back for him. Ever.

  Frozen in front of the attic window, staring at the driveway, Ryan relived all the hurting, the grieving. The hating. Eventually, he had come to hate her.

  How could he have forgotten all of this so completely?

  He squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to turn away from the movie running in his head, push it aside, make the hurting stop. Just when he thought he would explode, an inner voice whispered, Look again. Look at the whole picture.

  Ryan stood very still, replaying his mother's betrayal one more time. Mysteriously, another piece of that long-ago day surfaced from the deepest murky recesses of his mind.

  He hadn't simply waited on the porch for her return. He remembered that now. He had run down the garden steps and into the woods, as fast as his legs would carry him. If he took the shortcut, he could stop her on the road, just before the second curve. Branches and brambles tore at his clothes and scraped his face. Down the path he raced until he reached the paved highway.

  But he was a moment too late. As he stepped onto the grassy shoulder of the road, t
he gray car whizzed by. Disappointment tore through him. Disappointment, and sudden fear.

  He remembered the sharp squeal of tires around the curve, the crunch of metal, the shattering of glass. The splintering sound of the tree.

  And he remembered the smell of burning rubber. The acrid taste of thick black smoke that scalded his eyes and throat as he searched for her. He saw her through the broken glass of the back window, her hair all wet with blood…

  She had died that day. Clarity struck Ryan like lightning. The pain seared through him again. But it was a different kind of burning this time. A cleansing one.

  As though a blindfold had been ripped away, he opened his eyes. She hadn't deliberately left him. She hadn't betrayed him at all. Death had taken her.

  Slowly, gradually, a gentle wave of understanding eased the tension from his rigid muscles and softened the sharp edges of his pain. Olive had explained to him about his mother's death, he remembered now. Olive had told him she was with the angels. But he'd refused to understand.

  He had insisted on waiting for her.

  Ryan tried to envision his mother, but the fragments wouldn't pull together. The tone of her voice and the color of her hair eluded him. Too many years had passed since he had sat beside her as she played her piano. Too many years since he had waited on the porch for her return. But he remembered her softness.

  "This is why you drew me back to Windsong Place

  , isn't it?" he whispered. "To make our peace."

  The wind mellowed into a soothing music. Ryan swore he could smell cinnamon cookies. He tucked her memory away, deep within his heart, for safekeeping.

  Before he could savor his newfound peace, another thought intruded. The thought of luminous green eyes, silken hair, and a softness his soul craved. Sunny. His Sunny.

  No. Not his.

  Rain pelted the attic windows. Thunder rumbled with ancient fury and shook the very earth. Thunder. With it came a slender, wide-eyed woman pattering to his side, her image so vivid, Ryan reached out to touch her.

  But as the thunder faded, so did the woman. Leaving only the mournful song of the wind. And the same old emptiness.

  "Get up, gal."

  Sunny squinted through one eye, then sat up in Olive's old-fashioned feather bed. "Grandma! What are you doing out of the hospital? They told me they'd release you tomorrow. You didn't steal the doctor's car again, did you?"

  "I don't steal cars, I borrow 'em," Olive grumbled.

  "I drove her" came a voice from the doorway. Cool and regal as ever, Lavinia Tanner stood in the bedroom doorway. "To help me look for you. I take it you and Ryan had a fight."

  Shoving her sleep-mussed hair out of her eyes, Sunny wished it were as simple as a fight. Striving to retain some modicum of dignity, she replied, "We've reevaluated our relationship. Readjusted our goals. Revamped our agendas."

  "A fight!" concluded Olive.

  "But Sunny, dear, about tomorrow," said Lavinia. "We really must talk."

  "You're darned tootin'," Olive muttered, squaring her jaw. "I told Lavinia here that no granddaughter of mine would run out on an obligation just because of man problems. Especially not when the whole gol-derned community's planning to show up."

  "I don't understand you, Grandma. You raised a fuss a few days ago, saying that Ryan was going to break my heart. So why are you so determined to see us together now?"

  "When you and Ryan dragged me into the parlor for tea, I saw how things were. Your heart's already broken, gal. Has been for years. I'm hoping that mule-headed boy I raised finds out he's got a heart somewhere, too. Otherwise, you can kiss yours goodbye."

  "He has a heart," whispered Sunny. "I'm just not in it."

  "Then doing the right thing by Lavinia tomorrow won't make matters any worse." The bulldog tenacity in Olive's green eyes told Sunny that arguing would be fruitless.

  Instead, she turned to the thin-lipped woman beside her. "Lavinia," she implored, "please accept my apology, but I won't be running the inn. Ryan and I are—" she swallowed convulsively "—parting ways. The ceremony would be a lie."

  "Such is the nature of PR work, dear," murmured Lavinia, unperturbed. "The media will lose interest soon enough. After the ceremony." She sat down on the bed and laid a gentle hand on Sunny's quilt-covered knee. "I wouldn't presume to interfere in your personal life, Sunny. But you've done a lovely job at the inn. In one week, you've won the devotion of the staff, and the guests are raving about the changes you've made. The inn comes alive when you and Ryan are there. Don't let a quarrel stand in the way of your future."

  "I have no future with Ryan."

  Lavinia and Olive both stared at her glumly.

  "Then I'm asking as a friend," said Lavinia. "Won't you please go through with the ceremony? For my sake?" Looking self-conscious, Lavinia studied her gleaming red fingernails. "I've, uh, invited a few of Ryan's friends who called after seeing the televised interview. People from the very best, the very oldest families. These contacts could be beneficial for all of us. Wilbur and I are selling franchises for other Tanner Resort Inn locations, you know." Her gaze squarely pinned Sunny down. "Surely you won't leave me looking like a fool?"

  Sunny was in big trouble. She had, after all, agreed to take part in the ceremony. She had been part of its planning. In all good conscience, she could not refuse to walk down that aisle tomorrow morning.

  * * *

  12

  « ^ »

  Saturday dawned bright and warm. The springtime fragrance of wildflowers, blossoming trees and grassy meadows scented the clear North Carolina mountain air. Windsong Place

  —every peak, every gable, every mullioned window—sparkled with a special luster.

  It was a cruel joke of nature, thought Sunny, that today she would whisper her goodbyes and walk away from Windsong forever. And the day and the place were perfect for a wedding.

  The ceremony was scheduled to begin at eleven. Olive cranked up her old Chevy and drove Sunny to Windsong Place

  early.

  While Olive inspected the house she had worked in for forty-some years, Sunny went directly to Lavinia's suite, avoiding the hallway that led to Ryan's room. She didn't want to see him before the ceremony. If she had to risk facing him again, she preferred that it be in public, where private communication would be impossible.

  To her relief, she learned he had spent the night away, and hadn't yet returned.

  "He promised he'd be back in time," Lavinia fretted. She had been checking her watch at ten-minute intervals.

  Sunny refused to contemplate where Ryan might be. She almost hoped he wouldn't show. She'd rather suffer the public humiliation of being a jilted bride than the private hell of seeing—and leaving—Ryan again.

  The grandfather clock chimed as the hairdresser coaxed Sunny's curls into some kind of order and Lavinia announced that Ryan would be late.

  "He called from his apartment in New York!" she declared perplexed. "He needed something from home, he said. What in heaven's name do you think it could be?"

  Sunny didn't care to guess.

  Lavinia continued, "He asked if I'd found his wallet. He lost it—it has quite a few credit cards in it."

  "Lost his wallet?" repeated Olive. "Ain't like him. Some New York pickpocket got it, that's what."

  Before Olive could launch into her diatribe about the evils of the big city, Sunny ducked into a vacant bedroom and pressed her back to the closed door, desperately trying to bolster her courage. Only a little longer, she promised herself, and the whole charade would be over.

  Olive found her, and returned her to the hairdresser. Artfully he weaved a pearl-beaded tiara through her curls and attached the shoulder-length veil.

  When she finally had a moment alone, Sunny stared in the mirror attached to the bedroom door. The gown of ivory taffeta shone with an elegant luster. Hand-beading detailed the fitted bodice and the lace-edged portrait neckline. Lovely though it was, Sunny knew the gown was nothing more than a costume. And she felt
like a fraud.

  "A smile might put a little color in your cheeks," Olive suggested, looking resplendent herself in a dress of pink chiffon. Sunny forced a smile. Olive's lips quirked downward. "Forget it. Try some rouge."

  As the sound of voices from the garden grew into the dull murmuring of a crowd, Olive hurried out to greet her friends and neighbors from Heaven's Hollow.

  The door swung shut behind her, then immediately opened again. Sunny's eyes rounded in surprise. "Fran!"

  Her assistant manager sallied in with one slender, jeweled hand on her hip, her penciled brows raised in feigned arrogance. "So, you do remember my existence? Good thing, considering I drove half the night through mountains to attend a wedding to which I wasn't invited."

  Fran's familiar foghorn voice brought a lump to Sunny's throat. An ally, at last! Someone to hold on to when the final goodbyes had been said. Someone to guide her back to Atlanta, force her to eat, to sleep, to breathe…

  "Oh, Fran!" Sunny threw her arms around the petite brunette. "How did you even know…?"

  "Not from you! I had to find out about my best friend's wedding from Daphne, who saw something about it on television. Were my feelings hurt? Crushed, hon. I was crushed like a bug. Sure, I understand being swept off your feet by wild, reckless passion. It's one of my fondest aspirations. But I still can't believe that you would marry anyone without even—"

  "I'm not marrying anybody, Fran."

  "What?" Fran blinked her extraordinarily long lashes. "I hate to harp on details, hon, but this gorgeous ivory dress and those pearl-beaded shoes aren't exactly beach-wear."

  "The wedding's not real. It's a sham."

  "A sham? Get outta here! You're about to marry Mr. Six-Foot-Three, Sexy-Gray-Eyes, Twenty-Million-Bucks-or-More…" Catching sight of Sunny's face, Fran stopped. "Oh. Oh, no. Oh, hon." She put an arm around Sunny's shoulder, her voice drastically subdued. "Is it bad?"

  "Bad." Sunny swiped at a tear with the back of her hand.