by Anne Stuart
“I don’t think I have a frock,” Summer said, trying to summon some enthusiasm.
“I have dozens,” Genny replied cheerfully. “And I’ll make scones and serve clotted cream and we’ll have a lovely time.”
“Lovely,” Summer echoed. She’d lost another ten pounds since she’d been there, not because of her hostess’s cooking, which was excellent, but because she had no appetite. Any of Genny’s Laura Ashleys would hang on her, but she could always sash one in, play English countryside to the best of her ability, just to make Genevieve happy. More pastels—the funny thing was she’d given up wearing black, at a time when her soul was in mourning. It made no sense, but black depressed her, and she was depressed enough.
Tomorrow she’d get on the Internet, book herself a flight back home and put all this behind her.
Because he wasn’t coming. She hadn’t even realized she’d been waiting for him, watching the winter-dead garden, her fingers busy wrapping yarn around needles.
Genevieve was right, it was a beautiful day, unseasonably warm. She had set a table out in the awakening garden, dripping with country fabrics and beautiful old china, and Summer liked her too much to resent playing dress-up. The pale blue flowered dress she’d borrowed was the very essence of a “frock,” flowing, feminine, discreetly ruffled and laced. She even let her hair loose around her shoulders, deciding she, too, could be a British debutante from the 1930s, or whatever fantasy Genevieve was living.
When Summer walked out into the warm air of the garden, she could see that Jilly had been willing to play as well, though there was a certain goth streak to the black sash against the pale lavender flowers of her dress, and her spiky hair was tipped with the same lavender color. She was also wearing her Doc Martens, but she was bubbling and happy, and for a short while that was all that mattered.
Coffee for breakfast, Hu Kwa for afternoon tea. Summer would have preferred something Japanese, she thought, and then mentally slapped herself as she sank into one of the delicate chairs, her knitting in her lap. She really had to get home.
Peter was the first to arrive. He was barely limping by now, and Summer had refrained from asking what had happened to him. She knew enough from Taka to know how dangerous a profession they had, but she didn’t want to think about that.
Peter leaned down and kissed Genevieve’s cheek, and she looked up at him with such adoration that Summer felt her stomach clench. Not blinding adoration, but a wise, knowing look, as if she’d gazed into the heart of darkness and accepted what was there.
Could Summer do the same? She wasn’t going to be given the chance, she thought, concentrating on the complicated pattern between her fingers.
“Isobel will be along soon,” Peter said easily, accepting a cup of tea from his wife. “She had to make a couple of stops along the way.”
“I can put some more water on,” Genevieve said.
“That’s all right—you know she likes her tea strong enough to strip wallpaper, and you can just microwave it.”
“Blasphemy!” Genevieve said. She was facing the drive, and her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Help me in the kitchen!” she demanded.
“Now? I just got here,” he protested.
“Now,” she said. “You, too, Jilly. I need some help with the scones.”
Jilly was sitting cross-legged in a chair, her textbook in her lap, and she looked up, blinking. “There are plenty.”
“I need your help, Jilly,” Genevieve said in her most lawyerly voice, and the girl suddenly emerged from her physics-induced stupor and rose.
“Sorry,” she said. “Of course. We’ll be right back.”
“I can help, too…” Summer began, but all three of them said no in unison.
Shit. Was it her birthday? she thought, when they’d disappeared into the house. They had some jolly little surprise planned for her, and she wasn’t in the mood. They’d all been watching her for the last few weeks, as if they were expecting her to explode, but she’d gone through her daily life with complete calm; it was only when she was alone in her room that she lay dry-eyed, miserable, sleepless. That she faced the fact that she was being torn apart.
Post-traumatic stress syndrome, she thought again. There was probably some kind of drug for her condition, and L.A. was the place to find any kind of prescription pill you needed. Just pop something twice a day and she’d forget all about him.
No, her birthday was in May. They couldn’t be planning any kind of surprise celebration. She could only hope and pray that Lianne hadn’t returned to provide some cursory maternal caring. She’d never been that good an actress.
Summer set down her knitting for a moment, and was reaching for her cup of tea when a shadow fell across her. She looked up.
It was Takashi O’Brien. Of course. Standing there, looking at her. And Summer burst into tears.
He pulled the knitting away from her, throwing it in the grass, then sank down on his knees in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head in her lap. He was shaking, she realized, and the tears were pouring down her face, onto him, as she stroked his long, silken hair and cried.
She didn’t care what it sounded like—the hiccupping noises, the choking sobs. Her own body was shaking, racked by the final release, and he sat back on his heels and pulled her out of the chair, into his arms, holding her so tightly that a weaker woman might break, whispering to her in Japanese, sweet, loving words, letting her cry.
She was a strong woman, and her tears, so long denied, only made her stronger. His heart was pounding against hers, his hands firm and tender, pushing the hair away from her tear-drenched face. When he kissed her she couldn’t breathe, and she didn’t care.
“Holy motherfucker.” The voice came from behind them, and she jerked her head up, to see Reno standing there, a bandage tied rakishly across his flame-red hair, looking at them with disgust. “Do you have to make such a disgrace of yourselves?”
She’d finally stopped crying. Isobel Lambert was coming up behind Reno’s slight figure, impeccably dressed as always. “Hi, Reno,” Summer said, her voice raw from her tears.
“Hi, yourself, gaijin. Just so you know, I don’t approve of you joining the family. I’m putting up with it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Behave yourself, Reno,” Peter said, emerging from the house, carrying a tray with glasses of champagne. “You’re not nearly as tough as you’d like everyone to believe.”
“I eat gaijin for breakfast….” His words trailed off as Jilly came out of the house, in her pseudo-frock, her combat boots, her spiky hair and her young, young face. He just stared at her, motionless, as if someone had clubbed him over the head with a mallet.
Jilly froze where she was, staring back at the exotic creature in black leather and bright red hair who’d invaded the garden.
“Stay where you are,” Genevieve said to Taka and Summer, handing them both glasses of champagne. “You look too comfortable.”
Taka had his arm tightly around her waist, holding her against him, and if her hand shook slightly when she took the glass, so did his.
“To happy endings,” Peter said, raising his glass.
“To true love,” Genevieve added.
“To my sister,” Jilly said, clearly shaken, trying not to stare at Reno.
“Holy motherfucker,” Reno muttered, pulling himself together, trying not to stare at Jilly. “You’re all crazy.”
Summer looked into Taka’s dark, beautiful eyes. “Yes,” she said, “we are.” And he kissed her.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-0044-3
ICE BLUE
Copyright © 2007 by Anne Kristine Stuart Ohlrogge.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permissi
on of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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