by Sarah Remy
She’d worn her watch to bed, but when she looked for the time her wrist was bare. She spent several minutes digging through rumpled sheets, managing to unearth Everett’s discarded belt, before she found the time piece.
“Almost noon.” She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t slept past eight in years, if ever. Even as a child she’d preferred to rise with the sun.
Feeling a motherly pang of guilt, because the last thing her son needed in his life at the moment was a perpetually tardy mother, Abby strapped the watch back onto her wrist, and shot up the basement stairs. The door to the kitchen was open, and as she hopped up the last two steps she heard the happy crackle of frying meat. She smelled bacon.
Abby had renovated Edward’s dark kitchen with sunlight in mind, widening the windows, and using light marble for the counter tops. She’d used a pale stain on the cabinets, and stainless steel whenever possible.
The result was worth the effort.
The countertops gleamed, and the cabinets reflected warmth in splashes across the floor. The windows sparkled, and through the glass she could see the deep green swatch of the back lawn.
The kitchen was perfect, lovely. Abby couldn’t help herself. She smiled.
“Quite a change you managed. The old man kept it dark as a tomb.”
It took a second for Abby to find him through the glare, and when she did her throat went dry, and her heart began to thump.
He stood in front of the industrial range Abby had installed herself, and tended a griddle. His hand on the spatula was deft and skilled as he flipped bacon and sausage. Scrambled eggs sizzled on a second frying pan, and a platter of toast steamed on the counter.
“Eat.” He pointed at the toast with the tip of the spatula.
He was obviously not long from the shower. His hair was damp, dark gold as it had been in the rain, but drying here and there to white blonde. He wore a pair of grey sweats more ragged than the ones she had found, and a plain white cotton shirt.
His cheeks were smooth, and he smelled lightly of herbs and spice. Aftershave, Abby supposed, drifting closer. Everett Anderson had grown into a man who shaved regularly and used after shave.
She might have smiled at the joke if she hadn’t been so unnerved by the way her body responded to the simple sight of a man bent over spitting bacon. Of this man, who had stripped away her every reserve beneath the sheets, and yet was still, in so many ways, a mystery.
Then he looked up from the griddle, and her heart nearly stopped in her chest.
“It’s late,” she managed. “You shouldn’t have let me oversleep. Chris will be worried.”
He shook his head. “I called your baby sitter. Explained you were off schedule.” His gaze scorched her again and Abby trembled. “He said to tell you he’d get your boy off to school right on time.”
“Jackson’s worth his weight in gold.”
Everett flipped a sausage. “Jackson, is it? You’ve a grown man staying the night with your child? One who asked me to remind you to pick up varnish on your way in to work.”
Abby eyed frying bacon. “I told you, he’s my partner. Jackson and I go way back, and I owe him for more than babysitting favors.”
She watched as he considered, and she braced herself for a snide remark. Instead, he transferred sausage to a paper towel.
“He told me he’d show me the backs of his knuckles if I treated you badly. Pancake?”
The heat of his stare gave lie to his lazy smile. Abby’s stomach forgot hunger and tied itself into knots.
“How about a shower instead? I’m already late.”
“If you like. Use the bathroom upstairs. In the master suite. Extra towel on the counter.”
“Fine. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Fine.” Everett echoed. He set the spatula down, and crossed kitchen tile with a grace that made Abby’s body tingled in remembered pleasure. “But when you’ve showered, you’ll eat.”
“I’m not really very hungry.” She backed away, afraid that if he touched her they’d spend the afternoon devouring each other on the kitchen floor.
He paused, and his lips twitched into a wry smile. “Maybe you’d prefer last night’s left overs.” She saw by the spark of his glance that he understood her unease and that it pleased him.
“I’ll think about it,” she said, and fled before he could reach for her.
When Abby returned a deliberately long twenty minutes later, skin chafed clean and nerves cooled, he’d set bacon to warm beside the toast and was dishing up scrambled eggs. The tinfoil swan had been dissected and a huge piece of chocolate cake revealed.
“You usually sleep in the basement and shower upstairs?”
He turned from the range, and when she saw his face she knew she’d stepped on guarded territory. “I like the basement. I feel comfortable there.”
“There’s a perfectly comfortable and very expensive antique bed waiting upstairs. With linen sheets and a down comforter.”
His scowl lightened. “Is that an invitation?”
“An observation.” She snagged a piece of bacon and took a bite. Her taste buds kicked into overdrive. “You’re right. Now I’m awake, I’m starving.”
Everett grunted and passed her a plate of eggs and a fork. Abby ate three pieces of bacon, and then gathered up the chocolate cake, and took the entire feast over to the kitchen window.
She settled on one of the high barstools she’d hunted down one weekend in Richmond, and was pleased at how well the stool fit the counter height. She took a mouthful of eggs and arched her brows.
“You can cook. Where’d you learn that skill?”
He shrugged, back turned, as he served himself breakfast. “I got tired of burgers and pizza. And I rarely have time enough to sit down in a restaurant.”
“So you spend time in the kitchen instead?”
“It’s relaxing. And, as it happens, I’m good at it.”
“Hmm. Modest, too.” She sucked bacon grease from her fingers, and glanced around the kitchen. None of her furnishings had been changed, and it didn’t look as though he’d added anything to the necessities she’d provided.
“So, Ev, I’m flattered that you seem to like my interior design, but maybe you should think about doing a little shopping. Add something here or there. Make it less of a show piece and more of a home.”
He placed himself in the sunlight at her side, and leaned back against the counter. “I haven’t thought of it. Maybe next summer.”
“You’re going to eat in the kitchen for an entire year? A nice dining room table wouldn’t set you back too much.”
One pale brow quirked. “A year? Abby, I bought the house. But I haven’t left Seattle.”
Abby set a buttery piece of toast back onto her plate. “You said you were moving into the house.”
“I am.” Everett set his own plate down on the counter, and frowned. “Not year ‘round, Abby. A month or two her and there, in the summer. I thought you understood that.”
It wasn’t hurt that lumped in the back of Abby’s throat and turned the taste of eggs to ashes. It couldn’t be, because she refused to let him wound her again.
“Oh.” She set her food aside. “Well.”
“I’ve got work to get back to. I can’t leave Seattle indefinitely.”
“You blew a wad of dough on a house you only plan to visit?”
He must have heard the gravel in her throat because he leaned forward as if to see her face. “You know why I want the house, Abby.”
It wasn’t hurt and it surely wasn’t anger that made the breakfast plate quiver in her lap. “I guess I do. A regular blast from the past, is it? You got your daddy’s house and, a nice little bonus, you finally got your childhood sweetheart in the sack.”
She set her plate on the counter, and slid from the stool. “I’ve work of my own to get back to.”
“Abby.” He straightened with her, and cupped the palm of his hand around the base of her skull to keep her still. The brush of his callus
ed fingers made her body clench in longing, and she cursed silently and then aloud.
“Dammit. You promised me. I told you I couldn’t afford any mistakes and you said we were meant for each other.” She wouldn’t make it a plea. “Let me go.”
“No.” Everett took her lips with lazy assurance. He tasted of eggs and bacon and tenderness, and when his tongue traced her lips she shivered. “I never lied to you, Abby Ross. We are meant for each other.”
Anger evaporated like a late day summer storm burst, and softened to anguish.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers stroked back her wet hair, soothing. “Two weeks here, maybe three. Summer’s almost over, and there’s a lot of busy work waiting for me on the coast.”
“Busy work.” She felt silly tears prick the back of her lids, and squeezed them back.
“Important busy work.”
“Maybe this time you’ll say goodbye before you run off.”
And she knew, then, as soon as the words were said, that he hadn’t changed after all. Not one bit. She’d been a fool to believe otherwise. Everett Anderson would be running for the rest of his life.
The realization made her feel suddenly alone, and lost, and worn to the bone.
She felt his rib cage heave as he sighed. He stepped back but gripped her shoulders as though he sensed her retreat.
“You’re not my past, Abigail. You’ve always been my future.”
Pretty words, but even if he believed them, Abby knew better. She rolled her shoulders against his hands as though it didn’t matter.
Everett growled, a low rumble, and his fingers flexed.
“Ev. You’re hurting me.”
He released her immediately, and she saw the ripple of shame on his mouth. She took one rough hand before she could think better of it, and linked her fingers with his own.
Everett brought her hand to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m stronger than I look.”
“I know it.” Humor smoothed away the worry in his eyes. He kissed her fingers again and then, abruptly: “Move in, Abby. Spend your days and nights with me. Every moment until I have to fly west.”
“Every moment?” She teased him while her heart cracked. “We’d be at each other tooth and nail before the first hour was gone.”
“And spend the rest of the day making up.”
Abby saw the careful gleam of hope in his eyes. She smiled gently as she took her hand back, and then she turned to clean up the breakfast dishes.
“Abby.”
She looked at her fork instead of at his face. “We can’t, Ev. You know that.”
“Is it the boy? We’ll move you both in here. It’s a big, empty house, you said so yourself. He can sleep upstairs in that bed you’re so fond of.”
“While you and I frolic on an inflatable mattress in the basement?” Any other time she might have laughed. She didn’t look at him as she dumped plates into the sink and began rinsing. “It’s not Chris. There are things we need to talk about. Your father. This house.”
“Not this time around, Abby. Maybe next time. These next few weeks, all I want to think of is you. You and I.”
Abby shut off the water, and turned around. She felt old, a mother with a son and a practical set of mind, and no time for a lost love and his buried pain.
“You want to be a kid again, Everett? Hiding in the Creek all summer long, us against the world, pretending real life won’t intrude?”
“Would it be so bad?”
She shook her head. “I’ve grown up, Everett.”
He said nothing as she picked up the Trellis cake and shoved it back into the fridge. He watched her quietly, expression unreadable. But she saw the way his hands moved restlessly at his side, and she felt an unwelcome pang of sorrow.
She crossed her arms and faced him steadily.
“So you have,” he said at last.
“I thought you’d found the peace you said you were looking for. I thought you’d found it here, in this old house. I misunderstood. You’re still running from your ghosts. And you’re no good to me running, Ev.”
“I’ll always make my way back to you, Abby.”
“That’s not enough.” Defeated, she wiped her hands on borrowed sweats. “I want you to take me home, please.”
“That’s it?” The words were cold, but she could feel the rising heat of his anger in her own bones.
“Unless you’d rather I call a cab.”
Abby expected he’d give in to his temper as he had in the old days. She waited for him to shout. Hurl curses like mud clods. Throw her out of the house she’d learned to love. Toss her from his life and move on.
But he didn’t say a word. He rubbed one hand over his face and through his hair, causing pale spikes to stand up beneath his fingers. Then, with the same hand, he smoothed away the tussle, putting dandelion tufts back to order.
The gesture seemed habitual, routine. She wondered if he realized how much it gave away.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
He sounded very relaxed, cool, and slightly remote.
“Unless it’s your car or the number of a cab company, I’m not interested.”
“It’ll only take a minute. Then I’ll drive you home.” He held out his hand, and when Abby hesitated his mouth hardened. “Please, Abby. Trust me.”
It was a low blow, and Abby supposed he knew it. She had always trusted him. Trusted him to keep her secrets, trusted him to shield her from trouble, trusted him to save her when she foundered.
Us against the world, she’d accused him, but once it had been true.
She let him take her hand.
He walked her across the back lawn like a soldier marching his troops. Abby had to stretch her legs to keep up. The grass was still wet and cold, and water dripped slowly from the roof, collecting in the flower beds around the house.
“You’re making me ruin a pair of your socks.” She glanced down at the mush on her feet.
Everett didn’t break stride. “I’ve got others.”
His own feet, Abby noticed, were bare and tan against the lawn.
“Where are we going?”
“The gazebo.”
That surprised her. “Why?”
He shot her an exasperated glance. It was the first evidence of emotion she’d seen on his face since they’d left the kitchen. “You’ll see.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
Everett made an inelegant sound. “You love surprises. Stop complaining. It will only take a minute.”
Abby considered indulging in a good sulk. The man pushed her buttons like a pianist doodling a symphony, and it drove her mad.
He made her feel fourteen again, and young Everett Anderson the center of her universe. She wanted to rail at him, to accuse him of purposefully misleading her heart. She wanted to cry, she wanted him to kiss her until she couldn’t stand.
And he was right. Abby loved surprises. Anticipation could almost make her forget the bruise on her heart.
By the time they reached the gazebo she had outpaced him by four steps.
“This?”
She peered doubtfully at the pile of tools and the heap of white canvas tarp. The roof of the gazebo shielded the clutter from rain, but only barely. She wondered if he knew how quickly those shiny new tools might rust.
“This,” he said, and pulled at the canvas.
She drew a breath and held it until her lungs began to protest. Then she let it out in a slow puff, and watched him from the corner of her eye. “You’ve been working hard.”
“Off and on.” He pulled more of the tarp back, revealing all of the skiff.
Everett spoke casually, but Abby could tell how much time and effort had gone into the little boat. He’d sanded it down, removing old paint and mildew. Several new boards gleamed among the old, and Abby knew as well as anyone how much care it took to work wood around the skeleton of a boat.
He’d torn out the original anchor. A newer version lay against the gazebo, waiting.
“It’s wonderful.”
He didn’t seem to hear. “I’ve ordered up new oars. And I thought I’d put in a small bench seat. And paint her. Something bright. Blue, maybe.”