CHAPTER THREE
“THE FISHING LODGE caught fire, or something, yesterday,” Camille said, handing Prue a bag of oranges. She put two bags of lettuce into the vegetable crisper in the fridge, then closed the door and looked into Prue’s dismayed face. “I met him at the market. He was supposed to leave for Boston this morning, then fly out to Alaska, but his partner asked him to wait until the lodge is rebuilt. Hank offered him a job, so he’s staying here until the lodge is ready.”
Prue was stopped in her tracks by that news. No. That couldn’t be. She had fifty-one special orders for her designs. She couldn’t operate under that kind of pressure with the possibility hanging over her of running into Gideon at the market or the Barn.
“Tell me you’re kidding,” Prue pleaded.
Camille pushed a ten-pound bag of potatoes into her arms. “Can’t do that. It’s the truth. Put that stuff away before you get a hernia.”
Prue carried the oranges and potatoes to the far corner of the room where an old-fashioned cooler-cupboard opened to the outside and kept produce cool. She placed the food on the slatted shelf, then closed the door and came back to her mother.
“But why would he want to stay here? I’m here. We’re getting a divorce.”
“Divorced couples often live in the same city.”
“This isn’t a city, this is a small town! We’ll keep bumping into each other.”
Camille smiled as she walked past her with a dozen eggs destined for the refrigerator. “Then you’ll have to behave with grace and dignity when that happens, won’t you?”
Prue sank dispiritedly onto a stool pulled up to the work island in the bright cream-colored kitchen. “I don’t think I’m capable of that,” she grumbled.
Camille, on her way back to the grocery bags, stopped to stare at her. “What?”
“Come on, Mom,” she said, playing with the bag of green onions sitting on the countertop, waiting to be washed. “You know how it is. Paris has the smarts, and I have the…the reputation for reacting. She keeps her cool, and I just try to look pretty while I’m preparing to blow up or laugh nervously.”
Her mother changed directions and came to sit on the stool beside her. “What are you talking about? You’ve always been the…the…”
“Princess…” Prue provided for her. “Yes, I know. The one who likes things her way, who forces the issue until it comes out her way. To some people, it looks like charming determination, but to those who know me well, it just means I don’t know what to do when things don’t turn out the way I planned. Because Paris is the brains and I’m like you.”
Camille blinked, obviously uncertain whether or not to be insulted. “Thank you, Prudence,” she said drily.
Prue touched her arm. “Mom, you know what I mean. Paris is a woman of today, all intelligence and quick wit. Who else could come home with nothing and make a taxi service a going concern?”
“You’ve opened what appears to be a very successful design studio,” Camille pointed out.
Prue shrugged. “I can see designs in my head and I can sew. But my talents are the kind that would have gotten me through if this was nineteenth-century France. But this is twenty-first-century America where women run countries and corporations, fly in space, preside over colleges and hospitals. I’m out of date.”
Camille blinked again. “Then, if you’re just like I am…”
“No.” Prue anticipated her conclusion and denied it. “You’re not out of date. You’re an actress and a model. You’re supposed to look beautiful and be fabulous and charm everyone.” She met her mother’s eyes. “And we know how brave you’ve been. I’ve proved nothing, except that I can sew.”
Camille put a hand to Prue’s cheek. “Prudie, when did this insecurity begin? I don’t remember you ever questioning yourself this way.”
“I’ve had a lot to think about since I’ve come home.” She took her mother’s hand and held it. “I’ve watched Paris take hard news and still get on with it. I’ve learned about all you went through that we never suspected. And you both found men to love who loved you in return.”
Camille squeezed her hand and said significantly, “So did you.”
“But I apparently wasn’t enough.”
“Depends on what you choose to believe.”
Prue covered her eyes with one hand. “Let’s not have that argument again.” She dropped her hand to the table and said with a touch of regret, “My plan was to finish my orders, then maybe take my designs to New York where I can really compete. But if Gideon’s staying here, maybe I’ll go to New York now.”
“Well, that’s foolish,” Camille said. “You have fifty-one orders. Doesn’t that involve fittings—probably more than one—for each garment?”
Prue had to concede that it did. She knew she couldn’t leave, it just felt good to pretend that she could.
“Yes, it does. It’s going to take me months.”
“You told me last night that Rosie DeMarco said she could help you in her spare time.”
Prue nodded. “It’s going to take months even with help.”
“Then, you’ll just have to decide that when you run into Gideon, you’ll be civil and not make a scene.”
“I think you should make a scene.” Paris walked into the kitchen holding a large bowl covered with plastic wrap. “I think the next time you see him, you should run into his arms, tell him you want to listen to his explanation one more time with an open mind, and try your marriage again.”
Prue rolled her eyes at her sister. “You’re delusional. What’s in the bowl?”
“Chilly’s chili,” Paris replied, handing the bowl to Camille. “I had lunch with Randy at the station and—you know his partner on the ambulance, Chilly Childress—sent me home with leftovers. You have to try this stuff. It’s hellfire ambrosia.” She took Camille’s stool as her mother put the bowl in the refrigerator. “Did you know,” she asked Prue, “that Gideon’s rented that old A-frame on the far side of the lake? He’s staying for a while. Something happened with the partnership deal. Addy told me. I guess Hank found him the house.”
“A fire happened,” Prue informed her. “Mom met Gideon at the market this morning.”
“So, what do you think?” Paris asked, looking pleased. “I think it’s fate. I think the cosmos is conspiring to force the two of you together so you have to work it out.”
Prue caught her mother’s eye across the work is land as she prepared a pot of coffee. “And to think I said Paris was the smart one.”
Paris broke into a wide smile. “She did?” she asked Camille. “Prue said I was smart?” She turned to her sister in suspicion. “You want something. What is it? A kidney?”
Prue swatted her arm and slipped off the stool. “I have to get to the studio. You just keep dreaming.”
“Actually,” Paris said, catching her arm. “I need something.”
Prue stopped. “Yes?” she asked warily.
“You know the wedding dress I modeled?”
“The one you fainted in and got all dusty? Yes, I do.”
“Can I get married in it?” Paris asked with a gleeful expression.
Camille squealed and started crying as she wrapped Paris in her arms. Prue forced herself into their circle until it was a three-way hug.
“Of course you can,” she said. “Congratulations!”
Paris drew slightly away, her green eyes bright with happiness. “Randy and I talked about it when I was at the station for lunch. He wants to get married as soon as possible. We’re thinking within the next couple of weeks.”
Camille frowned. “But that’s barely time to plan showers and invitations and—”
Paris interrupted with a shake of her head. “We don’t want all that. We’ll call everyone. The guys at the firehouse want to fix the food, and I’ve got a dress.”
“But…” Camille didn’t seem able to focus her complaints.
Paris hugged her again. “It’s what we want, Mom. No fuss, just everyone we love around us. Okay?�
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Even her mother found that hard to dispute. “Okay.”
“I want you to give me away, Mom.”
“Really? Is that…proper?”
“Yes. It’s done all the time. And Prue, of course, will be my maid of honor. Chilly’s going to stand up for Randy. What’s the matter?”
Camille had a worried expression. “You’re not moving away, are you?”
“No. Randy wants to stay and so do I. In fact, we’re going to start house-hunting pretty soon.”
Camille put a hand to her heart in relief. “Thank goodness. I thought the hurry meant he was going back to medical school or you really did want to go back to Boston. I know I lived without you and Prue for quite a while, but I’ve really enjoyed having you back.”
Prue saw in Paris the excitement, the promise she herself had known when she’d burst into the house one rainy afternoon four-and-a-half years ago to announce her engagement to Gideon. She remembered the deep-down satisfaction she’d felt that life was progressing according to plan, that she’d found a hand some, smart and well-respected man.
She hadn’t known then that her princess life was about to be dethroned. That it wasn’t all as perfect as it appeared.
Paris’s cell phone rang. “Berkshire Cab,” she answered. “Oh, hi, Letitia.” She listened a moment, then slipped off the stool. “Sure I can. I’ll be right there. Ten minutes.”
She turned off the phone, tucked it into the pocket of the baseball jacket Randy had lent her at a picnic about a month ago, and that had hardly been off her back since. “I’m picking up the Lightfoot sisters,” she said, hugging Camille one more time. The Lightfoot sisters were a spinster pair who ran the Maple Hill Manor School outside of town. It had been in their family for generations. “Want a ride to the studio, Prue?”
“Yes, please.” Prue ran for her purse and jacket and met Paris at the door. “Bye, Mom!”
“Bye, girls. Drive carefully. When Randy gets off, we’ll all have to celebrate!” She shouted the last part as Paris closed the door.
Prue climbed into the passenger seat as Paris slipped in behind the wheel.
“I’m really happy for you,” Prue said, buckling her seat belt. “I’ll make you something special. I don’t know what yet, but I’ll think of something.”
Paris backed out of the driveway, turned onto Lake Road and headed for the highway. “You won’t have time to think about anything but all those orders you have to fill. Letting me use the wedding dress is enough, Prue. I suppose I should talk to Rosie about buying that headpiece I modeled with it. It was perfect.”
“It was. Any thoughts on what color you want me to wear?”
“I don’t know.” Paris made a face as she thought. “Something fallish, I suppose. Like gold or pumpkin.”
“I have a soft orange brocade I’ve been saving for something special. You think that’d be too weird for a wedding?”
“Not at all. You’re not capable of weird when it comes to wearing the right thing. I swear, you’d look good in golf pants.”
Prue laughed. “You’re the one who wowed them at the fashion show.”
“Of course. I was wearing your clothes.”
“And you did such a good job of it, even the Lightfoot sisters ordered two of the cloaks. One midnight, one emerald. They told me they intend to wear them when they go to the opera in Boston.”
Paris smiled. “That’s great. The sisters are so cute.” She pulled into the parking lot of the Chandler Mill Building and stopped near the door. “Will you have time to make yourself a dress for the wedding?” Paris asked as Prue stepped out of the cab. “I mean, with all those orders to fill?”
“Oh, sure,” Prue replied. “I’ll do something simple but special. How do you feel today?”
Paris waggled her right hand. “Early morning’s the worst, then I’m usually okay. Have a good afternoon.” She grinned mischievously. “Any messages for Gideon?”
“No.” Prue was afraid to ask why, but she wanted to know. “Why?”
“I’m picking him up later so he can buy a car.” She smiled innocently at Prue. “You should come along. You keep talking about buying a car, too.”
Prue grabbed the leather wallet that always sat on the console beside Paris, and reached into it for the candy bar her chocoholic sister usually stashed there. And there it was. Hershey with almonds. Basic but delicious.
“Hey!” Paris complained.
“If you can be mean to me—” Prue pocketed the bar, zipped up the wallet again and returned it to its spot “—I can be mean to you. Just leave me alone about Gideon.”
“Prudie! Give me back my chocolate! I need serotonin for two!”
Prue thanked her sister for the ride, stuck her tongue out at her and let herself into the building. Once inside, she stood for a moment with her back to the closed door, absorbing the sense of safety and security the building provided her. No one here ever asked her about Gideon. No one here ever made her think about the loss she’d kept from him. She wondered with a little wince why the grief was suddenly so fresh. Because Gideon was back, probably.
She’d have to consider moving into her studio.
GIDEON LIKED the house Hank had found for him. Hank had done work in it several months ago when the owner was moving and preparing to rent it out rather than sell it on the chance he returned one day.
“It’s probably a little big for one person,” Hank had said, “but then again it’s nice to have space.”
The A-frame had a large living room with the vaulted ceiling typical of the architecture, a long kitchen and dining area off to the right, and a bedroom and a bath behind the living room.
The loft bedroom was huge with a finely carved railing that looked down on the living room.
Hank had led him out onto the deck that ran the length of the structure and pointed across the lake. “See that dock on the other side?”
Gideon had squinted, but the sun was bright and the lake was a considerable distance across. He could barely make it out.
“That’s Cam and Mariah’s place. Used to be mine, but Jackie had the old family place in town and that’s worked out more conveniently for us with the kids.”
“I love this house,” Gideon said. “And I appreciate your finding it for me considering how little you know about me. And considering the story circulating of the incident that led to my separation from Prue.”
Hank nodded. “I’ve heard it. But I’ve been misjudged a time or two myself, and I think it’s a good thing to make your decisions about people on what you witness firsthand. And so far all I really know is that you make good breakfast-table conversation, you were decorated for bravery in the Gulf War and you’re a judo master. Hard to think badly of you on that information.”
Gideon had appreciated that vote of confidence. It was going to make staying here more doable than it might have been. And Hank asked him to set up the new security program that would become a part of Whitcomb’s Wonders’ services. Gideon was certain Hank wouldn’t have asked that of someone he had any doubts about.
This morning Gideon had gone to the furniture store and bought a sofa, a dining table and chairs, a bed and a television. A small apartment-size washer and dryer had been left in the downstairs bathroom. He figured that would see him through his stay in Maple Hill.
A cursory look around the living room reminded him of Prue’s flair for decorating.
It was weird, he thought as he went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Now that he’d seen Prue again, he missed her. When she’d first taken off on him after refusing to see him and discuss what had happened, he’d been so angry at her unreasonable attitude that he hadn’t cared if he ever saw her again.
Then, after almost a year without her, he’d begun to accept that it was over. Anger had evaporated and all that was left was a desperate need to set the record straight.
When Dean had offered him the partnership in the fishing lodge, he’d known he had to make one last effort to ta
lk to her on his way out of her life. He’d wanted nothing more than to hear her say that she believed him.
The frustration had returned when he’d gotten here and found that her attitude hadn’t changed an iota. But he thought he’d seen pain in her eyes. She wouldn’t change her mind because she was still hurt.
And the obvious conclusion was that she still cared about him.
He certainly still cared about her. As much as he could have cheerfully murdered her yesterday for trouncing all his explanations about what had happened in Maine, he had to admit that seeing her had affected him in a major way. All the old feeling was back. Everything he’d felt for her, and thought had been destroyed, had apparently only been suppressed.
He wanted her back. He’d told her he didn’t, but if she wouldn’t listen to the truth from him, it seemed pointless to be honest about his feelings.
The loud ring of his newly installed telephone jarred him out of his thoughts. He put the filled coffee basket into the machine and poured water into the well as he picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Gideon?” The voice was low and female with a touch of Marlene Dietrich’s dramatic alto. He recognized it immediately.
“Aunt George!” he exclaimed. Georgette Irene Hale Milton Didier Finch-Morgan was his favorite aunt, his father’s older sister who’d worked for Vogue, been widowed three times and was now CEO of her third husband’s considerable holdings. She lived in London. “How are you?”
“I’m enmerdée at the moment,” she said, the French word translating to a situation that involved considerable manure. “But I’m coming to see you.”
“But…I’m not home,” he said stupidly.
“Well, I know you’re not home, Gideon. I called you there first and got this number from your mother. She told me about a plan you had to go into partnership in Alaska. I understand it just fell through.”
“Actually, it’s only been delayed,” he corrected. “But why did you track me down? I hope it’s because you decided I’m your favorite nephew and you’re leaving me everything.”
The Man She Married Page 4