by Nora Roberts
“Thank you, Ms. O’Hara, but—”
“Sunny. I baked you a huckleberry pie.”
“Oh.”
In her life, Sunny had never seen anyone more baffled by a pie.
“Thank you. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid I have work, so—”
“Everybody can take a few minutes for pie. Do they call you Abby?”
“No, no, they don’t.”
“Well, Abigail’s a sweet, old-fashioned name. Abigail, I ought to tell you straight off I’m a woman who tends to get her way. You’re going to find it’s easier to just invite me in for a few minutes rather than deal with me coming around until you do. Now, I expect you’ve got a gun on you or nearby. I don’t approve of guns, but I won’t lecture you about it. Yet.”
She shot out another smile, bright as her name. “I don’t have one, or anything else dangerous on me. Except the pie. It’s got a hell of a lot of calories in it, but you’re slim as a willow stem, you can handle some calories.”
“I don’t want to be rude, but—”
“Oh, I imagine you do,” Sunny interrupted, with considerable cheer. “Who could blame you? I’ll make you a deal. You ask me in, have a piece of pie. Then you can be rude, and I won’t take offense.”
Trapped and annoyed, Abigail removed her hand from the gun fixed to the underside of the table by the door.
She didn’t doubt the woman was Brooks Gleason’s mother. She had the same pushy nature disguised as friendliness, the same bone structure.
Saying nothing, Abigail opened the door wider, stepped back.
“There, now, that wasn’t so—oh, what a gorgeous dog.” Without a hint of fear, Sunny pushed the pie dish into Abigail’s hands and crouched down. “Oh, hello, big boy.” She looked up. “Can I pet him? We lost our Thor about six weeks ago. Seventeen when we had to let him go, and blind as a bat.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, me, too. I cried my heart out. We still have old Chuck. That’s our cat, but it’s not the same. We’re going to get another dog, but I’m just not ready to love like that again. It hurts so when you have to say good-bye.”
Helpless, Abigail clutched the pie. “Ami,” she said to the dog. “Ami, Bert. You can pet him now.”
Bert submitted to the strokes, even hummed a little at the pleasure. “Ami? That’s French. Are you French?”
“No. I speak French.”
“How about that. Bert, you speak French, too? You’re so handsome. He has hazel eyes, a little like Brooks’s. What a good dog you are.”
Her eyes filled, and she sniffled back the tears as she straightened. “Sorry. I’m just not over the loss.”
“Death is difficult.”
“It certainly is.” Sunny flipped back her braid, let out a breath as she glanced around. “You’re very tidy, aren’t you?”
“I … I suppose, yes. I prefer things in order.”
“I guess I like chaos, mostly. Anyway, I can never keep anything tidy for long. I have a painting that would work very well in your living room. It’s what I do. I’m an artist.”
“I see.”
“I paint mainly mythical and mythological studies. Fairies, mermaids, gods and goddesses, dragons, centaurs—that sort of thing.”
“Mythology is fertile ground for artists and storytellers. Ah … did you paint the murals on the house off Shop Street?”
“Yes. That’s our house.”
“It’s very interesting. The work is very good.”
“Thanks. I enjoy it. How about some coffee to go with that pie?”
Abigail stared down at the pie. “Ms. O’Hara.”
“Sunny.”
“Sunny. I’m not good company.”
“Oh, honey, that’s okay. I am.”
However awkward and unsettling it might be, it had to be easier—and more efficient—to simply let the woman have her few minutes. And that would be that.
“I’ll make the coffee.”
She started back toward the kitchen, thinking for the second time in two days she had someone in her house. Still, the woman meant no harm. Unless …
“Did your son ask you to come here?”
“No. In fact, he’s not going to be pleased with me for intruding on you when he finds out. But I—oh! Oh! I love your kitchen. Look at all your counter space. I have this same cooktop—an older model. And you grow your own herbs. So do I. Look at that, we’ve already found something in common. I love to cook. It’s like painting, only you’re mixing herbs and spices and mixing up sauces instead of paints.”
“I think of it as a science. There’s a formula. If you diverge from the formula, you may create something new or slightly different.”
Sunny only smiled. “However you look at it, you wouldn’t have a kitchen like this unless you liked to cook, and were good at it.”
She walked over to look out the window. “I’m envious of your greenhouse. I have a tiny one Loren and I built. We don’t have room for a larger one. Got your lettuce in, I see. Looks like a nice-sized vegetable garden.”
“I grow most of my own vegetables and herbs.”
“So do we. I came here in the seventies with a group of other free spirits. We formed a kind of commune, an artist community, you could say—and grew our own food, wove our own cloths—sold our wares. A lot of us are still here. Old hippies.”
“You were part of the counterculture.”
“I like to think I still am.”
As Abigail brewed the coffee, got out cups and plates, Sunny glanced over to the office area. And raised her eyebrows at the views of the drive, the back area, sides, on the computer screen.
“Isn’t that something? Nobody’s going to sneak up on you, are they? You work on security systems, isn’t that right?”
“I do.”
“There was a time nobody even locked a door at night around here, and if you had a shop and needed to run out, why you’d just leave a note. People could come on in, and just leave the money on the counter if they wanted to buy something before you got back. Sometimes progress and change is a good thing; sometimes it isn’t.”
“It’s better to be secure.”
Socially awkward, Brooks had said. Yet the girl set out nice plates, put milk in a little pitcher, set out sugar, cloth napkins. She knew how to entertain company, even if the company was unexpected and not particularly welcome.
Sunny took a seat at the counter. She imagined Abigail had two stools only because they’d come as a set. Sunny added milk and considerable sugar to her coffee, then patted the second stool.
“Come on and sit. Tell me about Abigail.”
“There isn’t anything to tell.”
“There’s always something. What do you like to do?”
“I like my work.” Obviously reluctant, Abigail sat.
“I feel for people who don’t. Besides your work?”
“I work quite a lot.” When Sunny just cocked her eyebrows, Abigail struggled to find more. “Bert requires exercise, so we walk or hike. It was part of the appeal of this property, that there was enough land. I work in the greenhouse or the garden. It’s satisfying. I like to read. I like television.”
“So do I, more than they say you should. But what do they know? And you like solitude.”
“I do.”
“When I was raising three kids, I used to think I’d pay any price for a few hours of alone.”
“I didn’t realize your son had siblings.”
“Two older sisters.”
“You’re very young to have children that age, in their thirties, I assume.”
“I was nineteen when I came to Bickford. I’d been rambling around for about two years.”
“You … you left home at seventeen?”
“The day after I graduated high school. I’d put too much time into that to walk away from it. But once that was done, I was gone.” Sunny snapped her fingers. “I didn’t get along with my parents, which is no surprise, as we saw everything, I mean everythin
g, from opposite sides. We still do, mostly, but we’ve made amends. When I came here, I met a young schoolteacher. He was shy and sweet and smart, and had beautiful hazel eyes. I seduced him.”
“I see.”
“That part was easy, I was quite beguiling,” she said with a laugh. “What wasn’t easy was coming to realize I was making love with someone I’d fallen in love with. I was so sure I didn’t want that kind of life. The man, the home, the roots, the family. But he was irresistible. He wanted to marry me. I said no, none of that for me.”
“Marriage as an institution is part of our culture’s fabric, but it remains only a kind of contract, and unnecessary, as it’s easily broken.”
“You might be speaking my own words from that time. When I learned I was carrying Mya, I agreed to a kind of handfasting. I was dabbling in Wicca back then. We had a lovely ceremony by the river, and moved into a tiny cabin, oh, not half the size of this. No indoor plumbing, either, and I was fine with that.”
She sighed into her coffee at the memory. “I had two babies there. And it wasn’t quite so fine. My man wanted a real marriage, a real home. He’d let me have my way for nearly three years. I realized it was time to let him have his. So we loaded up the babies, went to the justice of the peace, made that legal contract. And with the money I’d made from my art—I got a greeting-card contract, and that was reasonably lucrative. And the money he’d saved from teaching, we bought that ramshackle of a house off Shop Street. We started fixing it up, and Brooks came along. I never regretted a moment. Not one.”
Abigail wasn’t sure it was conversation when a virtual stranger imparted a synopsis of her life story. But it was fascinating.
“You’re very fortunate.”
“Oh, I am. How’s that pie?”
Abigail blinked, glanced down. She’d eaten nearly half, as she’d been caught up in Sunny’s story. “It’s wonderful.”
“I’ll give you the recipe.”
“I’ve never made a pie. It’s just me. A pie doesn’t seem practical.”
“There’s nothing practical about a pie. We’ll trade. I’ll give you the recipe for one of yours.”
“I don’t know what you’d like.”
“Surprise me.”
After an internal debate, Abigail walked over to her laptop, called up her recipe file. She printed out her recipe for chicken paprika. “You can adjust the spices to taste.”
“This looks great. I think I’ll stop at the market on the way home, pick up what I don’t have, and try this tonight. Here, let me write out the recipe for the pie.” She pulled a notebook and pen out of her purse.
“You have it memorized?”
“I’ve been making this pie for too many years to count. It’s Loren’s favorite.”
“You smile when you say his name.”
“Do I? We’ve been married—I count from the handfasting—for thirty-six years. He still makes me happy.”
That, Abigail thought when she was alone again, was the most vital and compelling statement on a relationship. That happiness could last.
She studied the recipe in her hand. She’d transcribe it onto the computer later. Dutifully, she gathered up the plates and cups, and with some surprise noticed the time.
Somehow she’d just spent more than thirty minutes in her kitchen, having pie and coffee and fascinating conversation with a stranger.
“I suppose that means she’s not a stranger now.”
She couldn’t decide how it made her feel, couldn’t decipher it. She looked at her work, looked at her dog.
“Hell. Let’s go for a walk.”
“YOU DID WHAT?” Brooks gaped at his mother.
“You heard me very well. I took a pie over to Abigail’s. We had a nice chat over pie and coffee. I like her.”
“Ma—”
“I think socially awkward’s a good term for it. She’s not shy, just rusty when it comes to interaction. Once we got going, we did just fine. We exchanged recipes.”
“You …” At his desk, Brooks dropped his head in his hands. “Did you hear me last night?”
“Of course I did.”
“It may be she’s on the run. It may be she’s in trouble. It may be, if that trouble finds her, dangerous. And you just breeze on over with pie?”
“Huckleberry. I had to make two so your father wouldn’t get his feelings hurt. She’s got a wonderful kitchen. And looking at the recipe she gave me, I’m betting she’s quite a cook. She also has cameras or some such thing set up all over the property. I saw on her computer screen. She has views of the drive, and the back and so on.”
“Christ.”
“She spoke French to the dog.”
That had him lifting his head again. “What?”
“I just wonder why somebody would teach their dog French, is all. She has very nice manners. She listens to you with her whole body. Something about her just pulled at me. I swear, I wanted to pet her like I did the dog.”
“You … you petted that big-ass monster dog?”
“She told it in French it was all right. He was very sweet. He’s devoted to her, I could see that. Never strayed more than two feet away. He’s a very good dog, and I’m sure a fine companion. But that girl needs a friend. Now, I’ve got to run by the store and pick up some things. I want to try this recipe she gave me.”
“Ma, I don’t want you going over there until I know more.”
“Brooks.”
He was thirty-two years old, and that tone, that look, could still make his balls shrink to marbles.
“You’re a grown man, but it still hasn’t come to the point where you tell me what to do. If you want to find out more about her, why don’t you go out there and be friendly, like I did?”
“And take her pie?”
“You might try a bottle of wine.”
HE WENT WITH A NICE, mid-range pinot grigio. It seemed reasonable, friendly without too many overtones. It also seemed like it was overthinking the whole thing, so he stopped thinking and just drove out there.
The rain that had blown in the night before teased out a little more green. Now, early-evening sun shimmered through those greening branches, splashed on the road, flickered on the busy water of the little stream that wound through.
He bumped his way up her drive, caught a glimpse of the smoke curling out of her chimney.
Then he saw her.
She stood, the big dog at the heel of her knee-high black boots. She wore jeans, a black leather jacket, and a gun on her hip.
He decided not to overthink the fact that everything about her at that precise moment struck him as grab-your-balls sexy.
It just was—right down to the edgy annoyance on her face.
He snagged the wine, slid out of the car.
“Evening.” He strolled toward her as if she wasn’t packing a Glock, didn’t have a dog who could probably sink its teeth into the jugular before he cleared his own weapon from its holster.
She eyed the bottle he carried. “What’s that?”
“It’s a couple of things, actually. One, it’s a pretty nice wine. Second, it’s an apology.”
“For what?”
“My mother. I was over there for dinner the other night, and mentioned I’d been out here. She hopped right on that. So … sorry