by Nora Roberts
He framed her face, touched his lips to hers. “I’m lousy company tonight, Layla, even for myself. I’m going to go home, and do some research. Of the kind that pays the bills. But I appreciate the offer. I’ll come by, pick you up tomorrow.”
“If you change your mind, just call.”
But he didn’t call, and she spent a restless night worrying about him, second-guessing herself. What if he had another nightmare and she wasn’t there to help him through it?
And somehow he’d managed to get through much worse than nightmares for the last twenty years without her.
But he wasn’t himself. She rolled in bed to stare at the ceiling. He wasn’t Fox. The dream, the memories, the telling her about Carly—all of that had just snuffed out the light inside him. Comfort, anger, understanding, rest. None of those had brought the light back. When it came back, because she had to believe it would, would she put it out again if she told him her thoughts about Carly’s connection? If her thoughts proved to be fact, would it be worse for him?
Because the thoughts and worries wouldn’t stop circling, she got out of bed. Downstairs, she brewed herself a cup of Cybil’s tea, carried it up to the office. While the house slept, she selected the correct color index cards to note down the key words and phrases she remembered from the reading. She studied the charts, the graphs, the map, willing for something new and illuminating to jump out at her.
She frowned over Cybil’s notepads, but even after the weeks of working together she couldn’t decipher the odd shorthand Quinn often called Cybilquick. Though she’d already told both her friends the details, she sat now and typed up a report on Fox’s dream, another, longer one of Carly’s death.
For a time, she simply watched out the window, but the night was empty. When she returned to bed, when she finally slept, so were her dreams.
FOX KNEW HOW TO FEEL ONE THING AND PROJECT another. His profession, after all, wasn’t so different from Gage’s. Law and gambling had a lot in common. Many times he had to show a certain face to a judge, a jury, a client, opposing counsel that might not reflect what he had in his heart, his head, his gut.
When he arrived with Layla, his brother, Ridge, and his family were already there, as was Sparrow and her guy. With so many people in the house, it was easy to deflect attention.
So he introduced Layla around, tickled his nephew. He teased Sparrow and hunkered down with her live-in, who was a vegan, played the concertina, and had a passion for baseball.
Because Layla seemed occupied, and he could feel her trying to scope out his mood, Fox slipped off to the kitchen. “Mmm, smell that tofu.” He came up behind his mother at the stove, gave her a hug. “What else is on the menu?”
“All your favorites.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.”
“If I wasn’t, how could I have passed the quality on to you?” She turned, started to give him her ritual four kisses, then frowned into his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Worked late, that’s all.”
Someone had talked Sparrow into picking up the fiddle from the music room, so Fox used the music as an excuse to dance his mother around the room. He wouldn’t fool her, he knew, but she’d leave it alone. “Where’s Dad?”
“In the wine cellar.” It was a highfalutin name for the section in the basement where they stored homemade wine. “I made deviled eggs.”
“All is not lost.”
He lowered his mother into a dip as Layla came in. “I thought I’d see if there was something I could do to help.”
“Absolutely.” Jo straightened, patted Fox’s cheek. “What do you know about artichokes?” she asked Layla.
“They’re a vegetable.”
Jo smiled slyly, crooked her finger. “Come into my parlor.”
Layla did better when put to work, and felt very at home when Brian O’Dell handed her a glass of apple wine, and added a kiss on the cheek.
People came in and out of the room. Cybil arrived with a miniature shamrock plant, Cal with a six-pack of Brian’s favored beer. There was a lot of conversation in the kitchen, a lot of music outside of it. She saw Sparrow, who lived up to her name with her sweet, airy looks, walking her nephew outside so he could chase the chickens. And there was Ridge with his dreamy eyes and big hands tossing the boy in the air.
It was a happy house, Layla thought as she heard the boy’s laughs and shouts through the windows. Even Ann had found some happiness here.
“Do you know what’s wrong with Fox?” Jo kept her voice quiet as she and Layla worked side by side.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me?”
Layla glanced around. Fox had gone out again. He wasn’t able to settle, she thought. Just wasn’t able to settle quite yet. “He told me about Carly. Something happened to remind him and upset him, so he told me.”
Saying nothing, Jo nodded and continued to prepare her vegetables. “He loved her very much.”
“Yes. I know.”
“It’s good that you do, that you understand that. It’s good that he told you, that he could tell you. She made him happy, then she broke his heart. If she’d lived, she’d have broken his heart in a different way.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Jo looked at her. “She would never, never have seen him, not the whole of him, not everything he is. She would never have accepted the whole of him. Can you?”
Before Layla could answer, Fox shoved in the kitchen door with his nephew clinging like a monkey to his back. “Somebody get this thing off me!”
More bodies pressed into the kitchen, more drinks were poured. Hands grabbed at the finger food spread on platters on the sturdy kitchen table. Into the noise, Sage walked, holding the hand of a pretty brunette with clear hazel eyes who could only be Paula.
“I’ll have some of that.” Sage picked up the wine bottle and poured a large glass. “Paula won’t.” Sage let out a breathless, giddy laugh. “We’re having a baby.”
She was still laughing as she turned to Paula, as Paula touched her face. They kissed in the old farmhouse kitchen while shouts of congratulations rang around them.
“We’re having a baby,” Sage said again, then turned to Fox. “Good job.” And threw herself into his arms. “Mom.” She swung from Fox to her mother, to her father, her siblings while Fox stood, a dazed expression on his face.
What Layla saw was Paula stepping through the excitement. As she had with Sage, Paula touched Fox’s face. “Thank you.” And she pressed her cheek to his. “Thank you, Fox.”
What Layla saw was the light come back into his eyes. She saw the sadness drop away, and the joy leap into its place. Her own eyes went damp as she watched him kiss Paula, and wrap his arm around his sister so that the three of them stood for a moment as a unit.
Then Jo moved into her vision, stopped in front of her. She kissed Layla on the forehead, on one cheek, the other, then lightly on the lips. “You’ve just answered my question.”
THE WEEKEND SLID INTO THE WORKWEEK, AND still the Hollow stayed quiet. Rain dogged the sky, keeping the temperatures lower than most hoped for in April. But farmers tilled their fields, and bulbs burst into bloom. Pink cups covered the tulip magnolia behind Fox’s offices, and spears that would open into tulips of butter yellow and scarlet waved in the easy breeze. Along High Street, the Bradford pears gleamed with bud and bloom. Windows gleamed as well as merchants and homeowners scrubbed away the winter dull. When the rains passed, the town Fox loved shone like a jewel beneath the mountains.
He’d wanted a sunny day for it. Taking advantage of it, he pulled Layla up from her desk. “We’re going out.”
“I was just—”
“You can just when we get back. I checked the calendar, and we’re clear. Do you see that out there? The strange, unfamiliar light? It’s called the sun. Let’s go get us a little.”
He solved the matter by pulling her to the door, outside, then locking up himself.
“What’s gotten into you?”
>
“Sex and baseball. The young man’s fancies of spring.”
The ends of her hair danced in the breeze as she narrowed her eyes at him. “We’re not having sex and/or playing baseball at noon on a Wednesday.”
“Then I guess I have to settle for a walk. We’ll be able to do some real gardening in a couple more weeks.”
“You garden?”
“You can take the boy off the farm. I do some containers for the front of the office. I’d plant and Mrs. H would kibitz.”
“I’m sure I can kibitz.”
“Counting on it. You girls could put in a nice little vegetable and herb patch in back of your house, some flower beds street side.”
“Could we?”
He took her hand, swung it lightly as they walked. “Don’t like to get your hands dirty?”
“I might. I don’t have any real gardening experience. My mother puttered around a little, and I had a couple of houseplants in my apartment.”
“You’d be good at it. Color, shapes, tones, textures. You like doing what you’re good at.” He turned off the sidewalk toward the building that had housed the gift shop. Its display window was empty now. Depressingly so.
“It looks forlorn,” Layla decided.
“Yeah, it does. But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”
Her eyes widened when he pulled out keys and unlocked the front door. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you possibilities.” He stepped in, flipped on the lights.
Like many of the businesses on Main, it had been a home first. The entrance was wide, the old wood floors clean and bare. On the side, a stairway curved up with its sturdy banister smooth from the slide of generations of hands. Straight back an open doorway led to three more rooms, stacked side by side. The middle one held the back entrance, and its tidy covered porch that opened to its narrow strip of yard where a lilac waited to bloom.
“You would hardly know it was ever here.” Layla brushed her fingertips over the stair rail. “The gift shop. Nothing left of it but some shelves, some marks on the wall where things were hung.”
“I like empty buildings, for their potential. This one has plenty. Solid foundation, good plumbing—both that and the electric are up to code—location, light, conscientious landlord. Roomy, too. The gift shop used the second floor for storage and office space. Probably a good plan. If you have customers going up and down steps, you’re just asking one to trip and sue you.”
“So speaks the lawyer.”
“It needs the nail holes plugged, fresh paint. The wood-work’s nice.” He skimmed a hand over some trim. “Original. Somebody made this a couple hundred years ago. Adds character, respects the history. What do you think of it?”
“The woodwork? It’s gorgeous.”
“The whole place.”
“Well.” She wandered, walking slowly as people did in empty buildings. “It’s bright, spacious, well kept, with just enough creaky in the floors to add to that character you spoke of.”
“You could do a lot with this place.”
She swung back to him. “I could?”
“The rent’s reasonable. The location’s prime. Plenty of space. Enough to curtain off an area in the back for a couple of dressing rooms. You’d need shelves, displays, racks, I guess, to hang clothes.” As he looked around, he hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “I happen to know a couple of guys very handy with tools.”
“You’re suggesting I open a shop here?”
“Doing what you’re good at. There’s nothing like that in town. Nothing like it for miles. You could make something here, Layla.”
“Fox, that’s just . . . out of the question.”
“Why?”
“Because I . . .” Let me count the ways, she thought. “I could never afford it, even if—”
“That’s why they have business loans.”
“I haven’t given any serious thought to opening my own place in, well, in years, really. I don’t know where I’d begin even if I was sure I wanted to open my own place. For God’s sake, Fox, I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow much less a month from now. Six months from now.”
“But what do you want today?” He moved toward her. “I know what I want. I want you. I want you to be happy. I want you to be happy here, with me. Jim Hawkins will rent it to you, and you won’t have any trouble getting a start-up loan. I talked to Joe at the bank—”
“You talked to them, about this? About me?”
“Not specifics. Just general information. Ballparking what you’d need to start up, what you’d need to qualify, the cost of licensing. I’ve got a file. You like files, so I put together a file.”
“Without consulting me.”
“I put together the file so I could consult you and you’d have something tangible to look over when you thought about it.”
She walked away from him. “You shouldn’t have done all that.”
“It’s the sort of thing I do. This”—he swept his arm in the air—“is the sort of thing you do. You’re not going to tell me you’re going to be happy doing office work the rest of your life.”
“No, I’m not going to tell you that.” She turned back. “I’m not going to tell you I’m going to dive headfirst into starting a business that I’m not sure I want in the first place, in a town that may not exist in a few months. And if I want my own business, I haven’t thought about having it here. If I want my own, how can I think about all the details involved when all this madness is going on?”
He was silent a moment, so silent she swore she heard the old house breathing.
“It seems to me it’s most important to go after what you want when there’s madness going on. I’m asking you to think about it. More, I guess I’m asking you to think about something you haven’t yet. Staying. Open the shop, manage my office, found a nudist colony, or take up macrame, I don’t care as long as it makes you happy. But I want you to think about staying, Layla, not just to destroy ancient fucking evil, but to live. To have a life, with me.”
As she stared at him, he stepped closer. “Put this in one of your slots. I’m in love with you. Completely, absolutely, no-turning-back in love with you. We could build something good, and solid, and real. Something that makes every day count. That’s what I want. So you think about it, and when you know, you tell me what you want.”
He walked back to the door, opened it, and waited for her.
“Fox—”
“I don’t want to hear you don’t know. I’ve already got that. Let me know when you do. You’re upset and a little ticked off, I get that, too,” he said as he locked up. “Take the rest of the day off.”
She started to object, he saw it on her face. Then she changed her mind. “All right. There are some things I need to do.”
“I’ll see you later then.” He stepped back, stopped. “The building’s not the only thing with potential,” he told her. And he turned, walked away down the bricked sidewalk in the April sunshine.
Sixteen
HE THOUGHT ABOUT GETTING DRUNK. HE COULD call Gage, who’d sit and drink coffee or club soda, bitching only for form, and spend the evening in some bar getting steadily shit-faced. Cal would go, too; he had only to ask. That’s what friends were for, being the company misery loved.
Or he could just pick up the beer—maybe a bottle of Jack for a change of pace—take it to Cal’s and get his drunk on there.
But he knew he wouldn’t do either of those things. Planning to get drunk took all the fun out of it. He preferred it to be a happy accident. Work, Fox decided, was a better option than getting deliberately trashed.
He had enough to keep him occupied for the rest of the day, particularly at the easy pace he liked to work. Handling the office on his own for an afternoon added the perk of giving him time and space to brood. Fox considered brooding an inalienable human right, unless it dragged out more than three hours, at which point it became childish indulgence.
Did she really think he’d cro
ssed some line and gone behind her back? That he tried to manipulate, bully, or pressure? Manipulation wasn’t beyond him, he admitted, but that just hadn’t been the case with this. Knowing her, he’d believed she’d appreciate having some facts, projected figures, the steps, stages compiled in an orderly fashion. He’d equated handing them to her on the same level as handing her a bouquet of daffodils.
Just a little something he’d picked up because he was thinking about her.
He stood in the center of his office, juggling the three balls as he walked back over it all in his mind. He’d wanted to show her the building, the space, the possibilities. And yeah, he’d wanted to see her eyes light up as she saw them, as she opened herself to them. That had been strategy, not manipulation. Jesus, it wasn’t like he’d signed a lease for her, or applied for a loan, a business license. He’d just taken the time to find out what it would take for her to do those things.
But there was one thing he hadn’t factored into that strategy. He’d never considered that she wasn’t considering staying in the Hollow. Staying with him.
He dropped one of the balls, managed to snag it on the bounce. Setting himself, he started the circle again.
If he’d made a mistake it was in assuming she loved him, that she intended to stay. He’d never questioned, not seriously—her conviction matched his—that there would be something to stay for, something to build on, after the week of July seventh. He believed he’d felt those things from her, but he had to accept now those feelings and needs were just a reflection of his own.
That wasn’t just a bitter pill to swallow, but the kind that caught in your throat and choked you for a while before you managed to work it down. But like it or not, he thought, a guy had to take his medicine.
She wasn’t required to feel what he felt or want what he wanted. God knew he’d been raised to respect, even require, individuality. It was better to know if she didn’t share his feelings, his wants, better to deal with the reality rather than the fantasy. That was another nasty pill, as he’d had a beauty of a fantasy going.
Her smart, fashionable shop a couple blocks up from his office, Fox mused as he dropped the balls back in his drawer. Maybe grabbing lunch together a couple times a week. Scouting for a house in town, like that old place on the corner of Main and Redbud. Or a place a little ways out, if she liked that better. But an old house they could put their mark on together. Something with a yard for kids and dogs and a garden.