“You'll want water too,” he said, coming back into the room and opening the door which led to the basement. Emily jumped nervously when rusty water burst from the taps in the kitchen sink. She turned them off. “The taps are on in the bathroom as well,” he said emerging from the basement and going down the hall. He was back moments later. “I forgot to turn on the hot water tank while I was downstairs. You'll be wanting some I'm sure.”
“I want you to leave,” she said, feeling almost desperate to get rid of him.
“Fine,” he said, suddenly wondering why he was acting like a boy scout. All at once, the thought of her discomfort (she was sure going to miss the hot water) gave him a bit of grim satisfaction, and he couldn't resist as he closed the door behind him to bid a final cheery “Welcome home, Emily.”
He took the porch steps in one bound and headed toward the cabin. Snuffed out by the heavy clouds, there was no moon, no stars, but Rain had taken this route through the woods so many times he didn’t even slow his step.
He took his boots off inside the cabin door, went over to the fireplace, and stirred the dying embers back to life. He placed a couple of logs on the fire and, after pouring himself a whiskey from a decanter on the mantle, dropped into the closest armchair. He felt the glow of the fire on his face. The dancing flames shot his hair through with gold and sparked in the deep blue of his eyes.
Why was she really here? he wondered. She’d managed the farm at arm’s length ever since her father had died. Surely she could sell it the same way. And it’s not like she came to soften the blow for him – she was positively gloating.
But maybe in the end, this would be for the best. He needed to straighten out his feelings for this strange, angry, beautiful woman. He needed some closure, and this might be the last chance he’d have. If she went ahead with the sale of the farm, he’d never see her again.
One day he would like to marry and have children. Grow old with a woman he loved. But how could he commit to another woman with Emily always intruding on his thoughts, her face appearing every time he was supposed to be making love to another woman?
Oh, who am I kidding? he thought as he threw back the rest of the drink. The only woman he’d ever wanted was Emily. There would never be anyone else. Seeing her again tonight was all he needed to convince him of this. But he had to make her stay long enough to convince her too.
And he knew how he was going to do it, too. She wasn't going to like it, but then he wasn't going to give her a choice in the matter.
Chapter 2
If Emily had remembered to pack her travelling alarm clock, she might have carried out her mission as planned. If she had arrived at the lawyer's office at 9 a.m. instead of 11:30, she might have been back in Toronto by the same evening, leaving the lawyer to fight with Rain Storm and with her sense of superiority intact.
But when she awoke the morning after her arrival, she was blissfully unaware of the larger picture. She was, however, thoroughly annoyed with herself for not driving into town the night before. As Rain had pointed out, there was no hot water, and Emily, confronted with the mysteries of the hot water tank, was unable to solve them.
The house itself was musty after being shut up for months on end, and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. The thick feather mattress that her grandmother had made was missing from her old bedroom, and, forced to sleep in what used to be her parents' room, she couldn't help but feel uneasy. Lying awake until almost dawn, listening to the old house creak and groan, it was no wonder in the end that she had overslept.
She heated water for washing on the electric stove in the kitchen and carried it to the bathroom to add to the cold, rusty-looking water in the sink. She washed her face and opened one of the jars of cosmetics she had arranged beside the basin. The face that looked out of the mirror at her was soft. Her eyes were a soft brown shaded with long thick lashes. Her nose was tiny with a slight tilt, and her lips were soft and full. Her hair was styled in a severe blunt cut, but it constantly threatened to wave softly over her forehead.
When they were children, Rain had called her his little fawn, and it was this impression of vulnerability that Emily eradicated every morning with jars of makeup and a hair dryer. There was no room for innocence in her life; she was tough, and everyone, including Rain Storm, would know it. It was like a mantra for her: I am strong, I am strong. If she said it enough, perhaps one day it would be true.
She dressed in a straight black skirt that came just above the knees, a plain white blouse, and a severe black jacket. Black stockings and simple black leather pumps finished the look, what fashion magazines called power dressing. It was designed to be intimidating, but Emily carried it off to the point of hostility.
* * *
Although Martin Wright was foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier with a reputation in the village for being ruthless in business matters, he was reluctant to tell Emily the news. He cleared his throat boldly. “I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Ms. Alexander.”
To the rest of the world, Rain Storm was Raymond or Ray Storm or just Storm. Rain was Emily’s childhood pet name for him, and from her he accepted this play on his name – even liked it – as he liked everything about Emily. However, anyone else who thought they could get away with calling him Rain had found themselves sprawled face down in the dirt of the schoolyard. He was a tough kid, sensitive to his parentless state, always on the alert to any slight. Most of the kids called him Storm, just to be on the safe side, and although he had long stopped getting into fights, the use of his last name had followed him into adulthood.
Aware of the formal and tense nature of the visit, the lawyer used Rain’s full name with Emily. “Mr. Raymond Storm came into my office this morning with a letter your father had written before he died.”
“Well, he couldn't have written it after he died.” She had learned from Jonathon never to give her opponent an inch.
The lawyer paused to determine whether she had said this as a joke and expected him to laugh, but her face was as cold as ever. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he said, clearing his throat again. “The letter, witnessed by your father's doctor, leaves the cabin and fifty acres, including the entire lake frontage, to Mr. Storm.”
He watched an expression of blind fury crossed Emily's face. He knew he was in trouble, so he kept on talking in the hope that he could diffuse some of her anger. “Mr. Storm's claim is legitimate, and I have no doubt it will hold up in a court of law. Not only will this stall the sale of the property, without the lakefront the farm also loses considerable value....”
“You don't need to tell me what I already know, Mr. Wright,” Emily retorted. “However, I would like to know why you, whom I left in charge of my property one year ago, knew nothing of this arrangement. You discharged the will, and I was left to believe that was that.”
“Mr. Storm claims he only just found the letter.”
“The day I come back to sell the farm. Rather convenient, wouldn't you think, Mr. Wright?” Her anger was stronger now. She had to sell the farm. She had to free herself from the past, and she was convinced this was the only way to do it.
Mr. Wright felt that his name was been thrown at him like a poisoned dart. “Well, he claimed he found it last week and hadn't had time to follow up on it. But, when you arrived yesterday....”
“He thought he'd make trouble.”
“To be fair, Ms. Alexander, even without the letter, he'd have grounds to dispute the will.”
“Why?”
“Your mother and father raised him. He was working with your father since he was old enough to walk. And when your father's health started to fail, after you..., well, he could probably come up with fifty character witnesses who would say he was just like a son to the old man.”
“Not like the daughter who deserted him, is that what you're saying, Mr. Wright? You would think children never left their parents' arms,” she said defensively.
“No. I'm just saying that the courts would
probably grant Mr. Storm just as much, if not more, than what the letter grants him already.”
“So, who are you working for, me or Mr. Storm?” she asked, distancing herself from Rain with the use of his surname.
“You,” he said, dreading what she was going to ask him to do.
“Then look after it. It's my family's farm, and he's not to get it. I'll give him a cash settlement upon sale. Find out what he wants.”
“Look, Ms. Alexander.” It was a desperate appeal, though he didn't think she'd go for it. “You're going to sell it anyway – it’ll no longer be in your family. Why not just cut your losses and get on with it?”
She could feel the fear like a rock in her stomach. She crushed it with anger. “I didn't get to where I am today by cutting my losses, Mr. Wright, so I don't think I'll start now. Are you going to talk to Mr. Storm or shall I?”
“No. I'll do it.” He could at least do that for Ray. He hoped Ray knew what he was doing. He had gained a lot of respect for the man over the years, and he didn't like the idea of being any part of putting the man out of his home. He would tell Emily to find another lawyer; his bias was too strongly in Ray’s favour. But first he'd speak to Ray.
“Good. I'll be at the house for the next couple of days. This is my cell number. I'll check in tomorrow.” Emily handed him her business card, picked up the briefcase she was never without, and walked toward the door.
Martin Wright had a sizeable ego. He didn't want her to go thinking she had made mincemeat of him. He cleared his throat yet again. “Well, you know what they say, Ms. Alexander.”
“No. What do they say?”
“That it never rains but it storms.”
“The expression, Mr. Wright, is: It never rains but it pours,” and she slammed the door behind her.
* * *
“Rain!” Emily yelled through the barn door.
“I'm in the loft,” he called back.
“Get down here!”
“I'm busy!”
God, he’s infuriating, she fumed. He must know what she’d come for. She climbed the narrow steep steps to the hay loft, careful not to let her suit touch the walls. Rain was sitting on an old kitchen chair holding a large baby’s bottle for a small wobbly calf in one hand and a book in the other. The calf sucked eagerly on the nipple, bunting it impatiently from time to time as if to increase the flow of milk. Emily looked at the calf, remembering suddenly how she used to love to feed them, not even minding when they nudged her with milky mouths when the bottle was done.
“Cute, isn’t he?” Rain said, looking up from his book. “I’m minding him for a neighbour. The mother died, and he didn’t have enough time to bottle feed, so I’m helping out. The little guy goes back this afternoon. I’m going to miss him.”
“What the hell do you think you're doing?” she said angrily, looking away from the calf.
“What do you mean?” he said, sounding genuinely confused.
Two thoughts passed through her mind simultaneously. One was that he was without a doubt the most attractive man she had ever known. The second was that he was doing this little innocent routine to deliberately annoy her. She ignored the first thought and focused on the second.
“You know what I'm talking about!”
“Can't say that I do.”
“For heaven's sake, Rain, don't play this stupid little game with me. You know what I'm talking about. Your little trip to the lawyer this morning.”
“Oh, that,” he said as if it were the furthest thing from his mind. “Just looking out for my own interests. I figured you'd be looking out after yours.”
“Damn right. You've got a lot of nerve after I've let you stay here.”
“What? As a hired hand?”
“Have you ever been anything else?” She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. Why couldn’t she just do what she’d come to do? Why did it have to be so complicated?
Rain closed his book carefully and set it on the floor beside his chair. “I was more than that to your father.” His voice was low and intense. “I was like his son.” He looked deep into her eyes. They were cold with fury. “Especially after you deserted him.”
When she spoke, her voice was full of the dark hardness of her eyes. “You're fired. As soon as I find someone else.”
The silence hung on the air between for a moment. He shattered it with a bitter laugh. “You’re kidding, right? I’m not waiting around until you find someone else. I'm out of here. I can't wait to see you out here mucking stalls.”
God. She'd done it now. But she wasn't going to let him see the fear. “Fine. Have it your way. Leave me a list of feeding details, and start looking for a new home.” She turned and raced down the loft steps, his laughter ringing in her ears, her eyes blurring with tears of frustration. When her five-hundred-dollar jacket snagged on a nail head protruding from the wall, she barely noticed.
She forced herself to walk steadily across the yard to the house. She was sure he was watching her from the loft, and she didn't want to supplement his amusement by tripping and sprawling headlong into the mud. But once inside, she threw herself on the living-room couch. Why had she behaved so rashly – even childishly? She had been so enraged, she had shot back without thinking. She had imagined this meeting with Rain a hundred times before coming, and not once had she imagined Rain laughing at her. In her fantasies, he had been fully aware of her superiority, looking at her with awe and respect.
Damn him! she thought, pulling herself up from the couch. But if this was the game he wanted to play, she'd beat him. How did that saying go? Something about losing the battle but winning the war. She'd show him.
There was no question of getting a hotel now. She was stuck here with the dust, cobwebs, cold water, and ghosts. First, she went down into the cellar and studied the hot water tank. It was a simple matter of a switch after all. There, that was easy, she thought with satisfaction as the tank began to make hot‑water‑tank noises. Next, she went to the kitchen and bathroom and ran the taps until the rust cleared from the lines. Two problems solved. She found the vacuum cleaner in the hall closet and tackled the cobwebs and dirt. A duster and some furniture polish took care of the dust, leaving only the ghosts.
She wandered from room to room, picking up photographs from tables, desks, and dressers, lifting them down from their hooks on the walls. She had tried to survive by forgetting, but her father had tried to survive by remembering. Hanging on desperately to the memories of how things were. But as far as Emily was concerned, that had been part of the problem in the first place. He had wanted to hang on to everything, not wanting things to change, wanting to run this farm like his father and his grandfather before that, wanting his wife and daughter to share his passion. It was as if the land controlled him instead of the other way around...and she blamed him for the consequences.
Most of the photographs were of her mother. Some were taken before Emily was born; others predated her parents' marriage. The latter photographs were mainly studio pictures, publicity photographs from her mother's days as a professional ballet dancer. She had been a farmer's daughter, but her talent as a dancer had been recognized early. Everyone had agreed that she had a brilliant future. She was talented, young, beautiful, with an exuberance for life that lit up her face and shone in her eyes.
The other photographs of her were taken by Emily's father. She had given up her career upon marriage, and these photos showed her as a wife and mother, weeding the garden, preparing Christmas dinner in the kitchen, sitting on the front porch with Emily on her lap. Emily had asked her mother many times why she had given up the glamorous life of a dancer to become a farmer's wife. Her mother would answer with complete sincerity that she had always wanted this simple life of home and family and had never regretted her decision for a moment. And Emily, scanning this row of pictures that spanned the years of her mother's life, had to admit that her mother, although she had aged, had never lost that incredible spark of her youth. She impatiently b
rushed away the tears that had formed at the corners of her eyes. She had not seen a photograph of her mother in ten years.
Emily's school pictures stood in a straight line along the back of her parents' dresser. She counted thirteen pictures, one for every year in school. An unframed snapshot rested against the last picture in the row. It was taken on the day of her high school graduation in front of the new truck that would take them to the ceremony. She recalled her father insisting she stand closer to Rain, and as she had sullenly refused, it was the truck that dominated the picture, herself and Rain pushed to the photo's outer edges.
Emily's father was not in the photograph because he was taking it, and Emily's mother was not in the photograph because she was already dead. It was the last photograph her father had of her – she was gone within days of graduation. Her stance was angrily defiant, and while Rain appeared to be complying obediently, the strain of the occasion was visible in his overly bright smile. She looked at herself in the photograph. Her eyes were hard and furious. From the very beginning, she had coped with the loss of her mother with blame and anger. No wonder it was so ingrained.
Emily stuffed the photographs into her parents' chest of drawers, which after all this time, still contained her father's shirts. It was about time she cleaned this place out, she thought, pulling the shirts out of the drawers and stuffing them into the laundry hamper. She resolved to wash them and take them to the nearest Salvation Army store.
She wished she had not dwelt on the photographs. She had meant to put them away without looking at them, but it was too late now, and the dusty images kept intruding on her thoughts. She pushed on with her work, stuffing the hamper-load of shirts into the washing machine downstairs.
Falling for Rain Page 2