by Sarah Remy
Of course it would be. He coughed the wedge from his throat. “Windsor’s flying in early. We’ve a bit of business we need to complete before the guests arrive.”
She made a face, and he saw some of her spirit return. “Man’s an ass.”
“You’ve never met him.”
“He’s an ass, I can tell.”
“Well, don’t tell him.” Everett ran his fingers through his hair. “He’ll be settled in by dinner. I’d like to see the kid, spend some time with you.” Pride wouldn’t let him make it a plea. “Come to dinner.”
He saw the indecision in her eyes and then, to his relief, she straightened her shoulders. “He’s eager to see you. We’ll come. For a little while. It’s a school night.”
He’d take what he could get. “Just dinner, then. How is he?”
“Better. Busy. Richard hasn’t bothered to pick up the phone, but I suppose you know that.”
“Boy’s better without him.”
This time her smile was real and warmed the knot in his belly.
“Abby.”
“Night, Ev.”
She was gone. He stood rooted in spot, listening to her footsteps on the stairs and along the front hall. She shut the front door quietly, but still he heard the click of her fingers on the latch.
He couldn’t find the strength to move until he heard the crunch of her tires on snow, and then he only made it as far as the mahogany desk before his knees went weak. He dropped into the carved chair, propped his elbows on the desk, and gazed sightlessly at the wall.
The man who opened the door to Chris’s enthusiastic knock was thin and pinched as a skeleton and exactly as Abby had imagined, except for the bright green bow tie.
“Windsor,” she guessed.
“Ms. Ross.” He didn’t quite bow, but it was a close thing.
“Nice tie.”
He didn’t quite smile, either, but Abby was surprised to glimpse a softening of his pinched brow.
“Come in.”
He took her coat and Chris’s windbreaker, and hung the garments neatly in the huge side closet she had made into a coat room.
“Mr. Anderson is in the game room. He hopes you’ll join him.”
“Cool.” Chris disappeared down the hall.
Because she couldn’t quite decide how to react to Windsor’s blunt stare, Abby nodded and followed after. She heard the scuff of the man’s shoes trailing behind, and felt the weight of his consideration between her shoulder blades.
“The house is awesome, Mom.” Chris stopped to enjoy the small kitchen Christmas tree. “It looks really great.”
“Thanks.” She grinned back.
“Does Everett like it?”
“Everett does.” The sweet Southern drawl preceded its owner up the basement stairs. Everett stuck his head into the kitchen, and smiled at Chris. “Everett likes it very much.”
Her son didn’t exactly fly into the man’s arms, but he did accept Everett’s extended hand with a great deal of eagerness. And he didn’t seem in any hurry to let go.
“Come downstairs.” Everett set his arm around Chris’s shoulders. “We’ve got billiards and Italian. Extra meatballs. You play snooker, kid?”
“No. Some of the kids at school wanted a table for the gym, but it cost too much.”
“You’ll love this table. It’s a doozy.” With a glance over his shoulder at Abby, Everett ushered Chris into the basement. “Come and eat and then I’ll teach you a few moves.”
Abby followed more slowly. Lights blazed in the game room. A fire jumped behind a glass screen. She’d installed stained glass fixtures over the billiard table, and the wash of color made the space glow with reds and blues.
The table itself was a masculine work of art, all burgundy felt and wood so dark it was almost black. Abby had known, when she had first seen the table in a show room, that it would fit Everett’s taste to a T.
“Woah.” Chris stood in front of the table, enthralled. “It’s huge. How’d you ever get it down here?”
“Trade secret.” Abby winked at her son.
Italian take out overloaded two round tables. Abby knew the inlaid tops could be flipped over to reveal roulette.
She snagged a paper plate, chose a hot calzone, and carried her dinner to the soft leather couch dominating one side of the room. She sank into the cushions, kicked off her boots, and took a healthy bite of dinner.
It was very hot. Heavenly. Cheese and tomato sauce scalded her tongue. She closed her eyes in bliss, and took a second bite. Then she devoured until she had picked the plate clean of crumbs.
“Good, huh?” Everett stood before her. He held another plate, overflowing with pasta. “Try the meatballs.”
Too hungry to be bashful, Abby took the plate, and licked sauce from her thumb. “I think I forgot lunch.”
“Eat up, Abigail.”
She did. And when she she’d finally had enough she heard the click of billiards and Chris’s whoop of laughter, but couldn’t see the table past Everett’s legs.
“There’s soda and beer behind the bar, if you’re thirsty.”
She shook her head. “Not thirsty.”
“You’re still angry with me.”
She peeked up into his face to see if he looked as irritated as he sounded, but the colored lights blurred his features.
“I’m not angry.”
He didn’t argue with her. She knew he wouldn’t, not in front of Chris, and for that she was grateful. The man had some sensitivities, at least when it came to her son.
He bent and brushed the top of her head with his mouth, and the shock of his touch made her insides melt.
Then he left her.
Abby stacked her plates on the floor, and stretched out along the couch. She watched the clash of egos, listened to the crack of balls and the friendly insults. Counted as Chris downed four servings of pasta, and felt a twinge of sympathy from her own stomach.
Teenaged boys, she thought, were a mass of conflicting miracles. Nerves like drawn wire and stomachs of steel.
She snorted when the burping contest began. Sometime after Chris took decisive victory, she fell asleep.
The darkness was safe and warm and smelled of the Creek. Abby burrowed more deeply, unwilling to give up the comfort. She had been having such lovely dreams. Dreams of sunshine and flight and -
“Abby.”
His fingers were in her hair, stroking. Beneath his mouth her flesh warmed and tightened. Still half asleep, she stirred, and sighed, and pressed closer.
“Abigail. Open your eyes.”
She might have, but she didn’t want the dream to end. Murmuring, she turned her head, and brought her lips against his own.
She heard his sharp intake of breath. His fingers stilled and then began to move again, caressing lower, stoking the fire at her center. Blind, she twisted, searching, yearning. Wanting more.
The draft of his retreat tickled her nose. Startled fully awake, Abby sat upright and found herself buried in a nest of blankets and haloed in firelight.
The overhead lamps were off, the pool table silent. Only the dim glow on the hearth brightened the room.
He stood against the pool table, a blacker patch of life in the dark room. She could barely make out the rise and fall of his chest, but she could still hear the strain of his breathing, and she could see the gleam of his eyes.
“Where’s Chris?” She brought a hand to her throat. Had he kissed her?
“Upstairs. Putting away the last of dinner.”
He hadn’t kissed her. She tasted only tomato sauce on her lips, not the earthy tang of desire she remembered so clearly. But his fingers had worked magic, and her nerve endings were still tingling.
“What time is it?”
“Late. You’ve been asleep for several hours.”
Mortified, Abby fumbled around in the shifting light until she found her boots. “You should have woken me earlier.”
“Chris was having fun. I’ll drive you home.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” She stood up on legs that wobbled, and smoothed her hair. “I can drive.”
“You’re exhausted.” He didn’t move, but she felt his eyes track her as she groped for her tote and adjusted the strap across her shoulder.
“The cold will wake me right up.”
“Or you’ll be too dull to right the car when you hit ice. I’ll drive you home.”
“No. I don’t need your help. I’m doing just fine without.”
“So you are.” He sounded mild, but his sudden grip on her elbow almost bruised. “I won’t lose you. Or Chris.”
“My car.”
“You can pick it up tomorrow. God knows you’ll be here all day, making sure everything is just right.”
Abby felt a prick of excitement. “The party.”
“Is a mere six days away, yes. Are you ready, Abby?”
She was too wise, too strong, too stubborn to let nerves shake her. “Of course.”
“Of course,” Everett echoed. He shifted his grip from her elbow to her hand and closed her fist in his own. “So am I.”
His eyes were pools of firelight. In the wash of flame she could see that he was silently laughing.
She wanted to smack the grin from his face. She wanted to kiss him until he begged for more.
But she was too wise, and too stubborn. So she shook off his grasp, and crossed her arms. She marched past him up the stairs to the kitchen, spine straight, and gathered her sleepy son.
Chapter Eighteen
ABBY TRIED ON THE GOWN in front of her mother’s cheval glass. The silk was too thin for winter, but the cut was perfect. The woman in the mirror was confident and graceful, and ready for anything.
She thought maybe the dress made her beautiful.
Fingering the high Mandarin collar, Abby turned slowly in front of the glass. Delicate gold thread glittered in the embroidered designs. She’d splurge a little on a wrap for warmth, and she thought she had a pair of shoes in closet that just might work.
He’d been right. The dress suited her. Just as the house suited him.
She’d heard him whistling in the kitchen late that afternoon, while she’d packed off the last of the florists. Whistling Christmas carols and once or twice breaking into muted song.
She didn’t think she had ever heard him sing before. And she’d had to wipe her eyes again, foolishly, right there in front of the florist. Because he sounded happy.
And Everett had never been happy. Wryly humorous, maybe. On a good day, playful. She remembered him laughing loud and often, but always at himself. She had never before seen real joy on his face until she’d dried her eyes, and walked into the kitchen, and found him singing to a row of sugar dusted gingerbread men.
He’d clammed up immediately, turned sheepish and silent. But then he’d fed her a gingerbread cookie with such tenderness she had almost broken.
I love you.
She’d seen the declaration on his face, and had to turn her own away.
“Mom!” The bedroom door slammed open. Her son stuck his head into the room. His jaw literally dropped.
“Wow.”
Her tremulous smile spread to a grin, and she pirouetted on more time. “You like?”
“Wow!” He said again. “You look great! Where’d you get a fancy dress like that? You look like a movie star.”
She laughed, and crinkled her nose at her reflection.
“It was a Christmas present from Everett. He brought something for you. It’s under the tree, but you can’t open it till Christmas Eve.”
“Mom!”
“Not my fault. He made me promise.”
Chris slipped into the room, and stood at her side. She studied their reflections and realized that he’d grown again. Soon enough her child would top her by several inches.
“Are you going to stay out all night?”
“Probably. The party runs through breakfast.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll stop by in between things, just to check in, okay?”
“Mom.” He made a face. “I’m twelve. I can stay one night by myself.”
“I know.” She thumped him lightly. Whatever crisis Chris had suffered over his lost father seemed to have passed. “Video games all night are fine, but no guests. No pizza guy. You don’t open the doors to anyone. Jack and I both have keys. And if your microwave mac and cheese catches fire you run out the door to Mrs. Witherspoon’s house and then call 911.”
“Mom! I know! I’m not a baby.”
Abby poked him in the ribs. “Day after tomorrow we’ll go see the Illumination fireworks. Okay?”
He nodded. “It’ll be fun.”
“It will.” She hugged him about his hips, drew him close, and leaned her head on his crown, memorizing the pretty picture they made in the mirror. “Now, the pressing question. What should I do with my hair?”
“Geez!” He groaned and rolled his eyes.
Abby kissed him on the nose before he could scoot away. “There’ll be school Monday. You should do some homework tonight before the video game marathon.”
“There won’t be school. It’ll snow again.”
“You never know.”
“Fine, later. I was going to call Roddy and see if I could get a ride to the rink.”
“Later,” she echoed. And then put on her Mom face when he opened his mouth in silent plea. “Give me an hour, then we’ll see if we can get the Mercedes to start.”
He ducked his head. “We need a new car.”
“When we win the lottery.” She smoothed the gown about her waist. “When we win the lottery we’ll get a new car. I’ll even let you pick.”
“A Spyder,” he said. And then, quick as a flash, changed his mind. “Or maybe a convertible. Or one of those new Audi SUVs.”
“Keep hoping, boyo.”
But he was gone. She stood alone with her twin in the mirror.
“A movie star.”
She snorted a little at her son’s imagination and then stripped down, quickly and efficiently, and packed the gown away in her closet. Until tomorrow.
“And tomorrow,” she promised herself, “we’ll enjoy every splendid minute.”
Everett couldn’t have wished for better weather. The storm dumped enough snow to make the forest around his home a winter wonderland, and the Weather Channel promised the worst of it would pass just in time for his guests’ arrival.
His clients would have the white Christmas he’d promised them, and never know they had missed holiday paradise on the Big Island. Everything looked to work out just as he had hoped.
Assuming, of course, that the Richmond airport remained up and operational.
As he waited in the library for Windsor’s daily report, Everett browsed through the books Abby had chosen for his shelves. The room smelled of leather and lemon oil. Oriental rugs, deeper in color than the ones downstairs, were arranged in a half hazard manner beneath divan and smoking chairs.
She’d managed to please every sense.
He slid a volume from a high shelf and read the title. Of Mice And Men. How he had struggled with that one in school. But in the end, he’d loved it.
He heard footsteps on the rug outside before Windsor rapped on the door. He set the book back in its place.
“Come.”
Windsor marched into the library with a general’s precision. The man wore a subdued grey shirt and black trousers. Only his shoes suggested a more festive spirit.
The patent leather loafers were bright red, and shiny as Rudolf’s nose.
“So?” Everett said when Windsor didn’t speak at once. “What’s the verdict?”
Windsor dropped into a leather chair, and spread papers across his lap. “Airport’s open. Richmond says they can handle the weather. I don’t anticipate any problems in that direction.”
“Good.” The smile Everett had been hiding found its way to the surface. “And the drivers? You’ve the schedules?”
Windsor nodded. “Down to the minute. I called this mor
ning to double check with the limo company, and also to schedule a driver for yourself.”
Everett let his brows rise in enquiry.
Windsor crossed and uncrossed his legs, red shoes tapping air. “As of this morning you are officially without a ride of your own.”