by Bonnie Pega
Annabelle and Danni had been especially close with the triplets—Rose, Daisy, and Lily—because the triplets were the same age as they were. But they’d also been friends with Anne and Caterina despite the fact that they were one year older and two years younger respectively.
Rose, Lily, and Anne had left White Creek for Norfolk, though they usually showed up on Sunday mornings to attend church and eat Sunday dinner together. Caterina had stayed in town and opened a children’s clothing shop, and Daisy had stayed on as a nurse-midwife. They’d kept in touch with Annabelle and Danni via phone calls, letters, and the occasional visit. It was good to see them now, although Daisy wasn’t there. She’d overslept, Caterina said. Annabelle was grateful for their presence, hoping it would insulate her from Gregory.
Thirty minutes into the church service she knew that theory was shot all to hell. Heck, she corrected herself as she remembered where she was. She stifled a sigh. A six-foot-thick brick wall probably couldn’t insulate her from Gregory. He radiated an energy that drew her, nine years ago and now.
And his voice, she thought. As long as she lived she doubted she’d ever forget his voice. If the laws of physics altered to allow sandpaper to be made of velvet, that would be his voice. Maturity had added a depth and resonance that made it more compelling than ever. His voice was intimate and personal one minute, soaring to the rafters the next, and she was alternately thrilled by it and horrified at being thrilled by it. She found herself hanging on every word but couldn’t have told anyone what he’d said.
He looked so remote in his robes. So grown up. So—so preacherlike. Mentally she contrasted that image with the college senior who’d lived in blue jeans and a Greenpeace T-shirt. She missed the college senior. While he might have always been up to his eyeballs in one cause or another, at least he’d been less complex, easier to read. But, in all honesty, maybe she’d been easier to read back then too. After all, she had wanted nothing more than to be the number-one thing in Gregory’s life.
With a start, she realized that everyone around her was getting to their feet. Was the service over already? Before she could reach for her purse, she noticed Lily and Caterina opening their hymnals. She turned to Rose to share hers and met a sympathetic smile. “You okay?” Rose whispered. Annabelle nodded.
The triplets knew all about Gregory and Annabelle’s deep, dark history. It was okay that they knew, Annabelle thought, but she hoped no one else did. From Danni, she’d already heard about the determination on the part of most of the ladies in town to play matchmaker between Gregory and anybody. They’d apparently been thrusting daughters and nieces and their friends’ daughters and nieces at him for the last six years, though to no avail. If the women found out about Gregory and Annabelle’s previous romance, she just knew they’d start rubbing their hands together with glee.
Irritated with herself, she pulled her thoughts back front and center, composing herself as she remained standing for the final benediction. She looked around, her gaze lighting on the side exit, and she decided to head in that direction. No way did she want to get caught in the crush of people milling down the center aisle toward the back to shake hands with the minister. Before she could move, however, she found herself boxed in by Clara Walling, her grandmother, and Bosco Wilson’s wife, Elsie.
Annabelle eyed her grandmother’s bright perky smile. She’d learned that the brighter her grandmother’s smile, the more likely the possibility that she had mischief up her sleeve. She turned to Mrs. Walling. “Hello, Mrs. Walling, it’s nice to see you again. Mrs. Wilson, I know I haven’t had a chance to visit yet, but I ran into Buddy when I was looking for Daisy yesterday.”
Mrs. Wilson’s round, weathered face split into a smile. “It’s so good you’re back in town for a while, Annabelle. I know how much your grandmother misses you. I understand you’re an English teacher, aren’t you?”
“Um, yes, I am.” Annabelle was puzzled by the remark, but from the expression on her grandmother’s face, she knew there was a reason behind all this. She couldn’t wait to find out what it was. She gave her grandmother’s face another speculative glance. Then again, maybe she could.
Mrs. Walling smiled at Annabelle. “Virgie said that you’d taken charge of the sixth- and seventh-grade plays at the private school you taught at in Raleigh.”
Still mystified, Annabelle nodded. “Yes, I worked with the kids on a couple of plays.”
“You enjoyed doing it too,” her grandmother added.
“Sure, I enjoyed it. Kids are enormously fun to work with.”
Mrs. Wilson beamed. “Wonderful. Then, while you’re here with your grandmother, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind helping with the church’s Independence Day play. It’s just a couple of hours two nights a week and Saturday afternoons. The play will be presented at the church on the Sunday after Independence Day.”
“What?” Annabelle said. Hang around the church, and Gregory, two evenings a week until then? No way! She thought this with such force that she was afraid she might have said it aloud, but apparently not, for the expressions on the faces of the three ladies never changed. “But I can’t. I—Gran needs me to help her—”
“Not at all, dear,” Virgie said. “Not at all. I’m sure I could spare you. I don’t need a baby-sitter, you know. Just a little help around the house on occasion.”
Annabelle shot her grandmother a pleading look. “But, Gran—”
“I know how much you’d love to help out, dear, so don’t mind me. I’ll be happy knowing you’re enjoying something so much.”
Annabelle acquiesced gracefully, though she gave Virgie a look that promised plenty of argument later. The icing on the cake was her grandmother’s hand all but pushing her down the aisle to the back of the church.
“You can’t leave without letting the good reverend know what a wonderful sermon he gave this morning,” Virgie said. “You know, Annabelle, since he’s been here, I haven’t dozed off in church even once. I used to sleep through half of Pastor Charles’s sermons. Of course, everyone else did too. I remember once—”
Annabelle tuned out the rest of her grandmother’s chatter, her attention captured by the tall robed man she was rapidly approaching. She tried sticking out her hand with a hearty “Great sermon, Rev,” but he spoiled her quick getaway plan by holding on to her hand far longer than was necessary.
“I’m so glad you made it this morning, Annabelle.” His gaze fastened on the neck of her red shell with an intensity any preacher should have had the decency to be ashamed of. Apparently he wasn’t, for he looked up and met her eyes with a smile. “And might I say you look especially nice this morning? I’ve always thought you looked good in red.”
She glanced down and saw the tip of a tennis shoe poking out from beneath his severe black robe. For a second she wanted to smile at him, laugh with him, then she regained her sanity and all but jerked her hand from his grasp. “Thanks. See you. Come on, Gran. We need to be going.”
“Wait a minute, dear.” Virgie shook Gregory’s hand. “I’ll be expecting you as usual for dinner. I cooked a beautiful roast yesterday afternoon and I’ve got some scalloped potatoes just ready to pop in the oven when we get home.”
“You know I’d never miss one of your home-cooked meals. The way you cook is truly a gift, Virgie.” He turned those wicked preacher’s eyes back to Annabelle. “And I’m looking forward to sharing a meal with you again, Annabelle. It’s been a long time.”
No way would she taste a bite of dinner if she had to look at him over the table, she fumed as she drove back to the house. Not only that, but she doubted she’d be able to swallow without something sticking in her throat. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. She’d be damned—darned—if she’d let him ruin one of her grandmother’s meals. He was right about one thing, though. Gran’s cooking was truly a gift.
She had to admit that roast beef, scalloped potatoes, and stewed tomatoes would be one of the fancier meals she’d ever shared with Gregory. Most of their
meals together had been fast food consumed in Gregory’s tiny apartment. Their first meal together had been one overcooked hot dog at a Feed the Kids rally. Gregory had taken the wiener, then offered her the first bite. They’d been nearly inseparable after that.
If she could choke down one tough blackened wiener, she certainly ought to be able to serve up fork-tender roast beef. She glanced at her grandmother, who was admiring the signatures she’d garnered on her cast. She also wouldn’t mind serving up her grandmother’s head on a silver platter. “Gran, I’d like a straight answer, please. I want to know what you were doing back there at church. You cornered me into doing that darn play knowing full well it would be throwing me right under Gregory’s heels for the next couple of weeks.”
Her grandmother flashed an innocent smile, which didn’t fool Annabelle for a minute.
“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t realize,” she said easily. “I was just thinking how much you’d enjoy having something to occupy your evenings rather than sitting at home with a doddering old lady.”
Annabelle snorted. “You’re about as doddering as I am, Gran, so don’t hand me that. Not many seventy-year-old grandmothers break their arms because they were doing wheelies on a motorcycle with their boyfriends. And at twenty miles over the posted speed limit!”
“We were only ten miles over the speed limit,” Virgie protested mildly.
“No sidetracking me, Gran. Why are you deliberately throwing me at Gregory’s head?”
“You just said I was tossing you under his heels. Make up your mind, dear.” Virgie paused to roll down her window. “But I do think if you spend a bit of time with him, maybe you’ll get used to seeing him around and you won’t spend so much time away from here.”
That last part rang so true that Annabelle fell silent. Was that what she’d been doing? She supposed it was. She had been back to White Creek only once in all the time Gregory had been here. She’d called her grandmother often, and had always spent time with her when she came to Raleigh to visit Annabelle’s parents, but Annabelle had stayed away from White Creek. Still, she had a feeling that wasn’t the only reason Gran was setting this up. “Are you sure that’s all?” she asked suspiciously.
“Would I lie to you, dear?”
Annabelle sighed. Gran would lie to Saint Peter if she thought the reason was a good one. And she’d do it so sweetly, she doubted he’d even mind.
THREE
At least the Gregory who showed up at two for dinner was closer to a Gregory she recognized, rather than the dignified one who wore ministerial robes. This Gregory wore comfortable blue jeans and a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat. He did carry a coat and tie with him—for Sunday-afternoon visits, he said.
Great, Annabelle thought. At least he wouldn’t be there all afternoon. Surely she could handle an hour or two of his company, and after all, it wasn’t like she’d be alone with him. Gran would be there. Lute Simpson, her grandmother’s steady boyfriend for the past five years, would be there, and probably one or two others. It seemed half the town dropped by Gran’s for Sunday afternoon dinner at some time or another. Annabelle found herself wishing they’d all make it today. The more the merrier. Or, at least, the more distractions, the better.
It irked her that she wasn’t able to simply consign Gregory to old business. But maybe it was hard to do that with your first lover. Particularly if he’d been your only lover. Not that she’d pined away for him for nine years, she told herself. It’s just that she’d been too busy to get intimately involved with anyone else. And it wasn’t like there hadn’t been offers. Just from no one she considered special.
Annabelle muttered a brief hello to Gregory, then headed for the kitchen, saying there were a few last-minute details to take care of. The stewed-tomato and the scalloped-potato casseroles didn’t need any diligent attention as they bubbled in the oven, but it was as good an excuse as any to avoid going back into the living room.
She could hear muffled laughter from the other room, Gregory’s hearty laugh soaring over everyone else’s. His laugh had always been full of energy and contagious good humor, and for a moment she forgot herself and started to smile.
Before the smile could fully form, it was chased away by a surge of anger at Gregory for barging back into her life. For holding her prisoner in her grandmother’s house. That was quickly followed by frustration with herself for allowing her feelings about Gregory to prevent her from doing anything she wanted to do. Blast the man, anyway! She’d go in the living room if she darn well pleased, and her feelings about Gregory had nothing to do with anything. They were ancient history. Prehistoric.
Nervously, she swiped her hands down the front of the white trousers she’d changed into and smoothed her tousled curls. After pasting a smile on her face, she walked into the living room and perched on the chair next to Lem Petrie, a grizzled-faced man who could have been anywhere between sixty and ninety. He was a widower whose pride and joy, besides several grandchildren, were his horses, Sally and Pepper. Annabelle asked him about his horses because she knew he’d be content to rattle on for hours, leaving her free to try to ignore the almost physical sensation of Gregory’s golden-brown gaze on her.
How could he manage to hold intelligible conversations with both Lute and her grandmother while making her feel that she was the center of his undivided attention? Every time she looked up, she found his gaze still on her—by turns heated, quizzical, curious, frustrated. It took all her concentration to pay attention to what Lem was telling her. She kept wanting to spin around and yell at Gregory to keep his snoopy little eyes to himself.
When the timer sounded in the kitchen, she gratefully leaped to her feet. “I’ll get everything ready, Gran. You just relax.” She hurried into the kitchen, glad to be alone for a moment to shake off the lingering sensation of Gregory’s gaze. She removed the potatoes from the oven and set them on the counter, then started to do the same with the stewed tomatoes. This time, though, she nearly hit Gregory when he walked up behind her.
Startled, she tilted the casserole dish, sloshing some of the contents on the floor. Without thinking, she grabbed the dish with her other hand to steady it, burning her palm in the process. “Ouch!” She hurriedly set down the dish and raised her left hand to peer at it. “Look what you made me do,” she snapped irritably.
“Let me take a look,” Gregory said, reaching for her hand.
She cradled it close and turned to one side. “It’s fine.”
“Let me see,” he said again, and took her hand in his. He gently turned it over and looked at the pinkened patch on her palm, then turned on the faucet and held her hand under the cool water. “I’m sorry, Annabelle. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he murmured, all the while rubbing his fingers over the back of her hand.
She tried to remove her hand from his grasp, but Gregory didn’t want to let it go. It had been so long since he had touched her. Even this contact, as innocent as it was, brought back so many memories that appeared to have been waiting just beneath the edges of his consciousness. Now they sprang forward and he nearly reeled at their assault.
Almost without his realizing it, his thumb discovered the sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger and began a circular caress. The skin there was so soft, he thought, but not as soft as her lips had been. Nor as soft as her breasts. And nowhere near as soft as the inside of her thighs. Was she still as soft? He ached with the desire to find out.
He wanted to groan at the intensity of the feelings that swept over him—both the emotional ones and their physical side effects. Closing his eyes for a moment, he wished, hoped, prayed for strength, then opened his eyes and met her gaze. He saw in her expression all the heated memories that were scorching him. “Annabelle—” His voice was so hoarse, it startled him into silence.
Virgie poked her head into the kitchen. “What’s goin’ on in here, you two? You could’ve set the table twice over by now.”
Annabelle jerked her hand from Gregory’s and blotted
her damp fingers on a dish towel. “Nothing. I burned my hand a little, but it’s okay. I’m just pouring the tea.” She ducked her head and set about filling the glasses on the counter with ice.
Gregory wanted to pound his fists on the wall. So close. He’d been so close. For a moment the words he’d been waiting to ask her had hovered on the tip of his tongue. Before he could get them out, though, the interruption had changed everything. Still, he intended to find out just why Annabelle had left him all those years ago. He needed to find out.
All he’d gotten nine years ago was a terse note telling him that it just wasn’t working out for her and she was moving back in with her old room-mate, Denise. When Gregory had driven to Denise’s to see Annabelle, Denise had said she wasn’t there, but wouldn’t tell him where she was. When he’d called her, she wouldn’t come to the phone. He’d even taken to waiting outside her classes, waiting for her to emerge. But when she had, she’d refused to discuss it.
For nine years the only answer he’d had to “Why?” was “It just wasn’t working out.” Before Annabelle left White Creek, he meant to find out the truth.
“It’s a conspiracy!” Annabelle muttered to the cat who was sprawled on her bed. She sat down on the edge of the mattress, craving a moment’s respite from the disturbing man in the living room.
Right after dinner, Lem had stood, thanked them for the dinner, and said he was taking his poor ol’ arthritic knees for a walk. Lute and Gran had left almost immediately after that, saying they were going to drop in on Magda to chat about Daisy’s wedding preparations. Subtlety had never been her grandmother’s strong point. It was painfully obvious she was trying to give Annabelle and Gregory privacy.
“Okay,” Annabelle said to herself. “All I have to do is remind him he’s got visits to make and tell him I’ll take care of the dishes. Most men would be glad to escape kitchen duty, anyway.” She nodded and got to her feet. With any luck at all, it would work and Gregory would leave.