That Night on Thistle Lane

by Carla Neggers

  “That’s my soup, my friend,” Noah said, getting out a bowl. He glanced at his watch. He had time to eat his soup before he had to be at the small private airport for his flight.

  He didn’t have time to eat his soup and stop to see Phoebe.

  Seeing Phoebe won over Olivia’s soup, as good as it no doubt was.

  “On second thought, Buster,” Noah said, “the soup is all yours.”

  Not that the big dog was seriously interested in tomato-basil soup. Noah filled Buster’s bowls with food and water, figuring he’d ask Phoebe to make sure someone looked after their friend’s dog. It could be his excuse for stopping to see her, should the O’Dunns, the Frosts, the Sloans and the rest of little Knights Bridge be keeping an eye on Thistle Lane.

  Seventeen

  Phoebe had said goodnight to the last of a summer reading group that had met while she and the fashion show committee had gone over the last details of what promised to be a fun night. How profitable it would be was anyone’s guess but at least they were managing to keep costs down.

  She was tidying up the circulation desk, about ready to lock up and head home, when she heard the front door creak. She was surprised to see Noah enter the library. He moved with his usual smoothness, and he wore jeans and a black button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up. She smiled to herself. He was even sexier than he’d been in his black cape and mask.

  He pointed toward the children’s section. “I’ll just be in here while you finish up,” he said, then stepped into the empty alcove.

  Phoebe stifled images of him as a five-year-old—then as a father, taking his children to the library. But would he? Had he ever gone to the library himself as a boy, picked out books, sat with other kids through a story hour? With her evening meeting, she’d had a long day and had spent much of it—even while picking mint with him at Carriage Hill—thinking about how little she really knew about Noah Kendrick.

  Being a librarian, she’d searched out more information on him that afternoon, beyond what Vera had read at the hairdresser’s or what everyone in town already knew since Dylan’s arrival there in the spring. Phoebe had a few more facts at her fingertips. Noah was thirty-three, the only child of a structural engineer and a high-school chemistry teacher, both retired and living at their wealthy son’s California Central Coast winery.

  In addition to the winery, Noah owned a house in San Diego and a condo in Hawaii, and he collected antique swords.

  He’d sailed through MIT. No surprise there.

  Phoebe thought of her avocado-colored refrigerator and her flea-market finds.

  A different world.

  The women in Noah’s life tended to be very attractive actresses, with or without talent.

  Talent, Phoebe suspected, wasn’t that big an issue to him.

  She glanced at her watch as if she had somewhere else she needed to be, but she didn’t. And as Noah left the children’s section and returned to the main room, book in hand, she realized she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  “You read The Tale of Peter Rabbit to the kids?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “They enjoyed it. It’s hard not to identify with Peter.”

  “He drinks chamomile tea at the end.” He smiled that enigmatic smile she’d noticed straight off at the masquerade in Boston. “You and Olivia and your sisters must love chamomile tea.”

  “Especially with lemon,” Phoebe said with a laugh.

  “That Peter is a risk taker. Not all his risks work out that well, but his life is more exciting because he takes a few chances. At least he ends up with some great stories to tell.” Noah set the book on the circulation desk. “Okay if I leave it here? My mind was elsewhere and I don’t remember which shelf it was on.”

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m loquacious tonight. Must be that uplifting orange mint I inhaled all morning.”

  Nothing in her research had indicated that Noah Kendrick, founder and CEO of NAK, Inc., had a wry sense of humor, but Phoebe had discovered he did. He stood back, studied a series of framed photographs of Quabbin—Winsor Dam, Goodnough Dike, the cemetery where graves and monuments from the lost towns were relocated and the beautiful, pristine waters of the reservoir itself.

  Phoebe eased in next to Noah and pointed to the steep, grassy hill formed by the dam on the southern end of the reservoir. “My mother used to roll down the hill when she was a kid. Can you imagine? They don’t allow that anymore, and they closed the road over the dam after 9/11 for security reasons.” She nodded to another photograph of an inundated section of what used to be Enfield, the largest of the towns that were depopulated, disincorporated and razed. “Those islands were once hills in the valley towns.”

  Noah gave her a sideways glance. “You love this valley.”

  “It was flooded decades before I was born, but when I see people like Grace Webster, it doesn’t feel that long ago. She loves that the protected wilderness has helped with the return of bald eagles to the area.” Phoebe smiled. “She’s holding out for mountain lions.”

  “Was your father from around here?”

  “He grew up in a mill town just north of here. He came to Knights Bridge after he returned from Vietnam. He was drafted. He said all he ever wanted when he got back was to live in a small town and have a small farm.” Phoebe went back behind her desk and grabbed her tote bag. “I don’t think he ever imagined meeting my mother and having four daughters.”

  Noah turned from the photographs. “How did they meet?”

  “My mother got lost in the woods by our house. There was just the shed then. Dad was living out there alone. He thought he’d be alone forever. Thought he wanted to be. Then Mom showed up, no idea where she was—and she’s lived in Knights Bridge all her life. She was dehydrated, covered in mosquito bites and singing Christmas carols. It was the dead of summer, but she says she could only remember the words to Christmas carols.”

  “What did your father do?” Noah seemed genuinely interested. “Did he have a phone? I think I’d have called the police, or at least an ambulance.”

  “No phone. He liked to tell us as kids that he tried to pretend the shed was abandoned, but my mother saw his truck and had heard stories about a Vietnam vet living out there, and she doesn’t give up easily.” Phoebe switched off her desk lamp, then started to the entrance, aware of Noah watching her, his stillness, his intensity. She glanced back at him. “Coming?”

  “I want to hear the end of the story. What did your father do when your mother finally got him to come out of the shed?”

  “He gave her water and took her home. She said that was when she knew he was the man for her.” Phoebe was silent a moment, picturing the two of them together. “Dad always said Mom saved him from becoming a hermit. He really loved all of us so much.”

  Noah joined her and they went out together. She locked up, then walked down the stairs with him. It was dark now. She’d noticed it becoming darker earlier, another sign the end of summer was near.

  “Did your father retain some of his hermitlike ways?” Noah asked as they descended the stairs.

  Phoebe noticed their shadows as they walked out to the street. Across the common, two teenagers were playing Frisbee. She took a breath, regaining control over her emotions. “He never liked to go places,” she said. “He was content to stay in Knights Bridge.”

  “What about you, Phoebe?” Noah asked softly. “Do you want to travel?”

  “I’d love to. My mother’s always wanted to do a walking tour in England.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  She smiled. “A walking tour in England. Jane Austen country, I think.”

  “So you’d go with your mother.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” Phoebe said without hesitation. “We travel well together, not that we’ve ever gone that far. Olivia wants Maggie and me to see San Diego.”

  He glanced at her. “I think you’d like it.”

  “There’s so much I want to see.” She expected
him to get into Olivia’s car but didn’t see it parked on the street. Instead he stayed with her as she turned onto Thistle Lane. “I have a travel savings account and I’m accumulating travel points on my credit card. Every little bit helps. What about you? Do you like to travel?”

  “When I have time. I haven’t traveled for pleasure as much as you might think. Hiking last week with Dylan and his friends was enjoyable but a hotel room on business isn’t the same as walking with you on a quiet summer evening.”

  She felt a rush of heat and was grateful for the darkness. She could feel Noah’s eyes on her as they walked down the lane, close to each other but not quite touching.

  “You’re happy here, Phoebe.”

  “I’m happy with what I have. My life might be predictable compared to some people’s lives, but that’s okay. It’s good.” She looked up at the sky, a few stars glittering against the darkening sky. “It’s warm out tonight but I can feel summer’s winding down. Can’t you?”

  He laughed. “Don’t tell me it’s going to snow.”

  “I suppose your idea of snow is a ski slope?”

  “More like watching other people ski while I sit by the fire with a good Scotch.”

  “What about your winery? Do you get up there often?”

  He shrugged. “As often as I can. The people who run it are good friends, and my folks live up there now. They love it.”

  Phoebe didn’t tell him she’d read about his parents. “Why did you buy a winery?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s worked out okay.”

  “But it’s not what’s next for you,” Phoebe said.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “I’d love to see that part of the country.”

  “I’d love to show you.”

  Phoebe felt a rush of panic that she was getting in too deep with him. Falling in love with him. Not the billionaire, she thought. The man.

  But he was a billionaire.

  They came to her small house, a light on above the front door. “I think my mystery seamstress lived here,” she said. “We found a box of books and things that could have belonged to her.”

  Noah turned to her, his face more angular in the dark shadows. “Would you mind if I took a look?”

  Her mouth went dry. His tone, his eyes, the way he stood. All she could think about was their kiss in the library attic. She had no idea what he was thinking about, except he did seem genuinely interested in the box, or was doing a good job faking it.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” she said finally. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  She led him onto the porch and through the front door, switching on lights as she showed him back to the kitchen. She knew he was taking in her simple furnishings. Since it was just her living there, she didn’t have to worry about melding her taste with anyone else’s.

  She offered him wine but he shook his head. “But don’t let me stop you.”

  It would stop her. Definitely. “I don’t like to drink alone,” she said, then added, “Not that I drink that much.”

  He was already lifting up a copy of Assignment in Brittany. “Have you ever read Helen MacInnes?” he asked.

  “Not yet, no, but I was looking at that book last night and would love to read it.” Phoebe leaned against the counter, watching him, really wishing she’d had wine. “Helen MacInnes, Mary Stewart, Victoria Holt, Daphne du Maurier—they’re all popular with the women at Rivendell. Younger women are reading them now, too. I started The Moonspinners last night.”

  “My mother’s a Mary Stewart fan,” Noah said.

  Phoebe walked over to the table and ran her fingers along the softened spine of Rebecca. “I love a happy ending.”

  He raised his eyes to her. “Do you believe a happy ending is in store for you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not a character in a novel.”

  He set the Helen MacInnes novel back in the box and picked up This Rough Magic, another by Mary Stewart. “Do you think in real life we only get one chance at a happy ending, and if it doesn’t happen, that’s it? We’ve lost our chance for a happy ending?”

  Phoebe stood back from the copy of Rebecca, her eyes narrowed on him. “Someone told you about Richard.”

  If Noah felt guilty at all, he didn’t show it. “Richard’s the name of the guy who moved to Orlando without you?”

  Orlando. Noah even knew that much. Phoebe faked a laugh. “You can see I wasn’t kidding when I told you I have no secrets. Richard dumped me two days after my father’s funeral. I’d thought...” She took a breath. “Well, I thought he wouldn’t do that. Who told you? Not my sisters.” She thought a moment. “Brandon Sloan. Male solidarity at work.”

  Noah smiled. “Brandon is outnumbered by O’Dunn women.”

  “Maggie’s outnumbered by Sloan men. No one would even remember Richard if I’d had a string of affairs or gotten married, but I haven’t. I have no complaints, Noah. I like my life.”

  “You have a life that you think will never change. In five years, ten years, thirty years, you’ll be the director of the Knights Bridge Free Library, living on Thistle Lane.”

  Phoebe dug into the box for another book. “And what’s wrong with that?”

  Noah remained intent on her. “Nothing at all is wrong with that, except that I’ve found that the future is hard to predict.”

  “I get that, Noah. I get that anything is possible. I could get fired. The library could get shut down. I could decide to move in with my mother and raise goats. I could go into catering with Maggie. You see? I get it.”

  “Possible doesn’t mean probable.”

  “Is that an MIT way of talking?” With sudden energy—a burst of defensiveness—she lifted three books out of the box and set them on the table. “The library’s always been in excellent hands. People love it. It’ll be okay regardless of what I do. I’m a temporary caretaker, whether I’m there for five years or fifty years.”

  “Phoebe...I’m not trying to upset you.”

  She nodded. “I know.” She opened the faded, yellowed paperback copy of Le Petit Prince. “Do you speak French?”

  “Some.”

  “What does ‘some’ mean to you?”

  “It means I can get along okay in Paris,” he said.

  “Do you like Paris?”

  “Dylan and I were there on business a few times. It’s such a romantic city, and there we were, a couple of straight guys on our own, working twelve-hour days. We both thought it was terribly unfair.”

  “You regretted not bringing one of your Hollywood babes,” Phoebe said, then winced. “I’m sorry. That was rude and uncalled for.”

  Noah didn’t seem to take offense. He tucked a finger under her chin. “I regretted not being there with a woman I cared about. So did Dylan. At the time, though, we didn’t have that kind of woman in our lives.”

  Phoebe resisted an urge to grab his hand, thread her fingers into his. It seemed crazy and at the same time inevitable. “You two worked hard,” she said. “You had no guarantees that any of the risks you took—all your hard work—would pay off, especially early on.”

  “Part of what made it fun did.” Noah slid a hand along what was left of her ponytail, down her back. “Phoebe...”

  She knew he was attracted to her. She could see it in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. She could feel it in the way his hand drifted lower on her back. “My seamstress taught herself French and fashion design, and as I said, I’m guessing she lived here.”

  “You’re starting to identify with her.”

  “I want to know her story. I wonder if she went to Hollywood. If it was her dream and she seized the moment and went. To act, to be a costume designer—I don’t know. If she wanted us to find her—anyone in Knights Bridge, I mean—she’d have been in touch in the past forty years. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

  “She could have changed her name.”

  “I don’t even know her name when she was here.”

  “But you
’re on the case,” Noah said.

  She nodded. “I love a good mystery, too.”

  “Nero Wolfe always gets his man.”

  “He never really changes. It’s one of the things I enjoy about him. But that’s not how life is, is it?” She draped her arms over Noah’s shoulders. “I think I’d like you to kiss me again, Noah Kendrick.”

  He was already lowering his mouth to hers, slipping his arms around her waist. He drew her against him, lifting her off her feet, nothing gentle or tentative about him when his lips touched hers. She felt her dress ride up, her bodice go askew, but didn’t care about her exposed skin.

  He sat her on the table, old books falling onto the floor as he skimmed his hands up her sides, letting his thumbs ease under her breasts, find her nipples under the fabric.

  Awareness, the ache of desire, spread through her. She opened her mouth to his kiss, tasted him. She shut her eyes, gasped when she felt him ease her dress off her shoulders. The bodice fell to her waist.

  Hardly aware of what was happening, she suddenly felt her bra come off, the cool night air on her breasts. She couldn’t breathe. “Noah,” she whispered, kissing him again, holding on to his shoulders.

  He trailed light kisses down her throat, slowing when he reached her breasts. She still had a grip on his shoulders as he took a nipple between his lips. When she felt the wet heat of his tongue, it was all she could do to stay upright on the table.

  The crack of a heavy tome hitting the floor brought him to his senses.

  He stood back, gently easing her dress up over her exposed breasts. His eyes were dusky, a rawness to his movements despite his impressive, never-faltering control. Phoebe tried not to let her gaze drift too low, but she knew he wasn’t unaffected by their near lovemaking.

  She held her dress to her and smiled. “Well. I’m glad we’re in the kitchen and don’t have to worry about neighbors peeking in the windows.”

  “It’s a small town.”

  “And you’re leaving.”

  He didn’t contradict her. “I’ll be back,” he whispered. “I promise.”