An Irresistible Impulse (3 page)

The phone rang three times. Each time Lorraine deftly reached it before Abby. That, too, was an experience. For when the first caller was identified as her neighbor, Cindy, and Abby extended her hand for the receiver, she was as amazed as her friend to hear Lorraine politely explain that though Abby couldn’t talk, Lorraine would be glad to relay the conversation.

Yes, Abby
would
be serving on the Bradley jury. No, she wouldn’t be home again until the trial was over. Yes, it would be a big help if Cindy could call the medical center and tell them the news. No, Abby couldn’t have visitors. No, she didn’t want to cancel the mail, but would Cindy be kind enough to pick it up for her and sort through it for anything critical? Yes, she had everything she needed, and anything else could be picked up later by one of the court officers. Oh, and could she call Celeste O’Brien and ask her to take over her natural childbirth classes for the next few Saturday mornings? And Sean…would she be a sweetheart and call him for her?

As it happened, the last was unnecessary. For the second call, coming while the receiver
was still warm, was from none other than the doctor himself. Had she
just
gotten home from the courthouse? She
what?
Who was
this?
And why
couldn’t
Abby come to the phone?

Abby’s expression warmed in amusement as Lorraine related one after the other of the questions Sean fired. Taking her cue from Abby, she humored him gently. Sean, however, was barely appeased when he finally hung up moments later.

“
That
was not a happy man,” was Lorraine’s wry observation.

“No,” Abby mused as she gathered together several professional journals, some notebooks, pens and pencils, and the leisure reading that had finally been deemed acceptable. “I didn’t think he would be.” She sighed. “At least he can’t blame
me
.”

As she’d anticipated that morning, Abby most definitely sensed relief at the prospect of several weeks away from Sean. She needed the break; things had grown claustrophobic.

The peal of the phone wrenched her from her thoughts, though only for a minute. For it was Sean again, with a second round of questions. How long would the trial be lasting? Couldn’t he see her—even for a chaperoned visit? How could she possibly be chosen to serve on a jury? After all, she was a nurse and as such was in great demand!

Once again Lorraine fielded the inquiry with practiced flair, relating Abby’s responses in those few instances when they were offered. For the most part, Abby stood back and let her guard take the flak. If she was truly to be “protected” during this experience, she reasoned impishly, shouldn’t such protection begin at home?

With Sean off the phone once more, though, there was little else to be done. The thermostat was lowered, the lights turned off. After a final check of the house, Abby lifted her bags and helped stow them in the wagon Lorraine had driven.

As the car moved ahead and the house fell behind, she was filled with the same anticipatory excitement she’d felt that morning in the courthouse. She’d had her wish; she’d been chosen. Now she was looking forward to the experience.

Pausing on the threshold of the room, she eyed the reserved gathering. The jurors. Her counterparts. Somehow she felt discouraged
by her impression of them as a subdued, even stoical group. Not that merriment was called for, given the purpose of their presence, but a certain conviviality might help pass the time. Perhaps a drink or two would do wonders at that….

“Lively crew, isn’t it?” came a voice of conspiracy close by her ear. Its deep velvet sound quickly conjured the image of a most intriguing man. Though she’d never heard him speak, the tone that warmed her now held that same spirit she’d seen etched in his features that morning. There was lightness, and a sense of adventure, plus a certain ability to take it all in stride.

Catching her breath and closing her eyes, Abby dared to hope in that instant that she might be right. Then, tempering enthusiasm with caution, she slowly turned.

“Hi,” she offered more breathlessly than she’d intended. “I wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

“Nor I you,” he countered in quiet confidence. “Believe me, it’s a relief.” He cast a glance past her shoulder into the room. “I’m not sure about these others….”

Abby’s gaze joined his, her voice as low. “I know. Not too encouraging, is it?”

“To say the least. It’s obvious they’d rather be anywhere but here.”

“Not you?” she asked, turning to look pertly up at him.

His grin bore a hint of that air of conspiracy she’d heard in his voice moments earlier. “No more so than you.”

His cocked brow seemed to invite her elaboration, but she wasn’t quite ready to accept the invitation. Rather, she looked back toward the group, which stood in awkward clusters around the room. “It’s a hardship for many of them, I guess.”

“Not enough to be excused…”

“No, but still, in
their
minds, it may be an ordeal.”

“Not in yours?” he reversed the questioning. She had no choice but to follow suit.

“No more so than in yours.” She grinned, feeling suddenly and surprisingly happy. “I’m Abby Barnes.”

A large hand was extended her way. “Ben Wyeth here. It’s my pleasure.”

In fact, the pleasure was hers. For his hand was warm and encompassing, his fingers confident in their grasp. And his smile…his smile did something very delightful to her insides. She could only nod more shyly and wait until he released her and spoke again.

“You
don’t
seem at all disturbed at the
idea of being locked away for three weeks,” he began directly. “Why not? And don’t tell me it’s your duty!”

Abby laughed knowingly. “You’ve heard that one today, too?”

“More than once,” he drawled, then grew more serious, “but tell me your reasons.”

Of the many she’d analyzed in the course of the day, she chose the least personal and shrugged at its simplicity. “It’s…an exciting opportunity. Something new and different, not to mention important.” She blushed. “But even that sounds pompous.”

“Perhaps,” Ben acknowledged, “but I agree with you. This case will be a controversial one. To serve on its jury
has
to be a challenge.”

A sudden thought returned Abby’s attention to those in the room. “Is it complete…the jury? I was number twelve.”

“I’m thirteen. Bad omen?”

To the contrary, she mused, but gave a shrug of coy innocence. “Who knows…and number fourteen?”

Ben put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to the right. Then he leaned forward, his mouth close by her ear again. “There. The gentleman in the green jacket.”

Her eye easily found its target. “Oh, dear, how
could
I have missed him? I’ve never
seen a blazer quite that…shade before!” she reflected diplomatically.

“It’s called wake-up green. Charming, isn’t it?” he quipped.

“Absolutely.” It had to be the loudest thing she’d ever laid eyes on.

Reading her mind, Ben straightened. “I think I could use a drink. Come on. Let’s go in.”

The hesitancy Abby had felt when she’d first arrived downstairs seemed to have vanished. Taking confidence from Ben, she let him guide her between watchful groups of twos, threes, and fours toward the bar at the far end of the room.

“Bourbon and water,” she prompted the bartender. Ben ordered his straight, then turned to study the jurors silently. Abby studied him.

His profile had a chiseled quality about it, his features strong, not quite perfect. His hair had a natural wave, with lighter streaks woven through cocoa to hint where one day there might be gray to match his eyes. Tonight he wore tan slacks and a brown tweed blazer, with a crisp white shirt that played up the last of the summer’s tan.

“Here you go, folks.” The bartender handed them their drinks. Abby accepted hers gracefully before following Ben’s direction to a nearby window seat.

“What do you do in real life?” he asked, safely installing her in a corner of the bay and sliding down within arm’s reach.

“ ‘Real life?’ ” She chuckled. “I like that.” Then she spoke more quietly. “I’m a nurse.”

“A hospital-type nurse?”

“An office-type nurse. I work with a pediatric practice.”

“Nurse practitioner?”

Her eyes brightened. “You’ve heard the term?”

It was Ben’s turn to chuckle. “I have a close friend who’s a pediatrician. He swears by his nurse practitioners, depends on them to handle the less serious problems while he tackles the major ones. He’s the first to sing their praises.”

“Thank heavens for that!” Abby exclaimed. “We need all the help we can get when it comes to our image.”

“You mean
your
doctors don’t appreciate you?”

Abby’s cheeks flamed as a picture of Sean flashed through her mind. “Oh, they do! And our patients do, too. But other people…well…it seems that I’m constantly having to explain that my job is different from that of a bedpan lady.” She thought back to the morning’s explanation. “Come to think of it, the judge was more solicitous than most. After I described my responsibilities as falling
midway between those of a traditional nurse and a doctor, he wanted to be sure I could be
spared
.”

“And you can?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” she rejoined with a smile, looking up to find herself drawn into his gaze. It seemed a fine place to be lost just then.

“I’ll drink to that,” he declared as though sensing her thoughts again.

Abby joined him, sipping her drink absently. “But what about you?” she asked at last. “What do you do for a living?”

“I teach.”

Her eyes widened. “Do you really?”

“Uh-huh.” His lips twitched just enough to suggest that there was more to the story. She bit readily.

“Children-type teach?” she asked, borrowing his style, imagining him propped on a desk before thirty seven-year-olds.

Despite the look of indulgence on his face, he crushed that image summarily. “Young adult-type teach.”

“College level?”

“That’s right. I’m on the faculty at…” Feigning caution, he lowered his voice. “…uh, at the college across the river.”

Loving his theatrics, Abby beamed. “You teach at Dart—”

“Shhhhhhh. More than once I’ve been accused
of treason.” He glanced furtively at the others. “And I don’t particularly care to alienate these good citizens so early on in our association.”

Unconsciously, she’d lowered her voice to match his. “But it’s an Ivy League school!” she argued. “They should be proud of your association with it, regardless of whether it’s in New Hampshire or Vermont. And besides, it’s less than thirty minutes away!”

“Make that fifteen from where I live. And you’re right. It’s a fine school. But still,” he sighed, “it’s not in Vermont. These people have a unique sense of loyalty.”

She shot a glance toward the citizens in question. It seemed none had moved beyond a shuffle to the right or the left. Her voice remained low. “In this case, I’d say it was martyrdom. Why
do
they look so disgruntled?”

Ben, too, noted the predominance of sober faces. A drink in hand had done nothing to relax them. “They’re not used to change, I guess,” he remarked thoughtfully. “You have to admit that living up here is much more placid than life in the big city. We’ve both been
there!”

Puzzled, Abby frowned and looked slowly sideways. “How did you know?”

When he looked back at her, he seemed startled, as though unaware at first of the assumption he’d made. His own brow furrowed
beneath its casual thatch of hair. “Bourbon and water, I guess. It came so naturally to you.”

She nodded, smiling her guilt. “That’ll do it every time. Not that I drink often, mind you, but a fellow I dated through college had this thing for bourbon. I guess I developed a taste for it out of necessity.”

“How about the guy? Taste gone bad?”

“A lonnnnnng time ago,” she drawled without regret, amazed at the extent of her own relaxation. Benjamin Wyeth was an easy person to open to. Benjamin Wyeth…saying his full name, albeit silently but for the first time, struck a familiar chord. She couldn’t quite place it.

“Have you ever married?” he asked gently, momentarily diverting her attention.

“No…. How about you?”

For the first time, he seemed to withdraw into himself. His eyes darkened fleetingly, his brows drew together. His voice took on a distant quality when he spoke. “I was married once…a long time ago…. My wifedied.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.” Reacting on instinct, Abby reached to put her hand on his arm. “It must have been very painful.”

As quickly as he’d gone, he returned to her, his eyes softer now, searching. “It was. It still is sometimes. We were young and idealistic.
She died in a fluke accident. I suppose half the pain was disillusionment—you know”—he forced a grin—“the it-can-happen-to-anyone-else-but-us type of thing.”

“Like serving on a sequestered jury?” she asked softly, intent only on making him forget the past.

He nodded and smiled more naturally. “Like serving on a sequestered jury.” Then he tipped his head to the side in pensive query. “Do you live alone?” Startled by the shift, she simply nodded. “Do you mind it?”

She gave herself a minute to gather her thoughts. “No. I kind of like it. I’ve always had roommates for one reason or another—until now. Even after three years, it’s still a novelty. Besides, there are friends and neighbors to keep me from getting lonely.” At work there was Janet, and even Sean when he wasn’t harping on the state of his heart. In her South Woodstock neighborhood there were the Alexanders—Cindy and Jay—who had opened their home, their hearts, and their minds to her when she’d first moved north from New York. Then there were people like Marta, whose hand-woven shawls had become
the
thing with which to warm one’s shoulders on a chilly Vermont night. And Ted, whose knowledge of Bach ran a close second to his expertise on the winter slopes. And Andre, in whose bookstore she’d spent many a
Saturday afternoon and whose literary recommendations had brought her that many more Sunday afternoons of pleasure.

“You’ve never wanted to live with…a man?”

Momentarily taken aback by the more personal turn of the conversation, Abby took time to find the right words. There was nothing to be defensive about; she knew her mind where the opposite sex was concerned. “No,” she said gently, “I’ve never wanted to do that. And it hasn’t been simply a matter of principle. I never found anyone I care to spend twenty-four hours a day with.” She hesitated for a second. “I suppose it would be nice…with the right man….” Her lipsthinned as she thought of Sean. What
was
wrong with their relationship? Why couldn’t she get excited about him?

“Ah-ah. There
is
someone,” Ben teased. “I can see it in your eyes.”

As she shook her head, her hair waved darkly by her shoulders. “No, there’s no one.” It was, in a way, the truth.

Far from convinced, her companion shifted on the window seat to stare at her thoughtfully. “It’s strange….”

“What is?”

“Your reaction to being here.” His gaze narrowed, and Abby felt suddenly self-conscious. The voice that went on was deep
and intense, surprisingly so for a man she’d taken to be easygoing. “You’re looking forward to this just as I am. I could tell that the minute I saw you this morning. In that sense, we’re different from the others…you and I.” He paused to study her closely. “You live alone, so it’s not a roommate you’re trying to escape. And you have a job, a good job that interests you. So it’s not as if you’re dying for a vacation…. Am I right so far?”

“Uh-huh,” she replied, intrigued by the analytic nature of his mind. He seemed to be solving a riddle, and enjoying every clue.

“Now…this business about a man. You’re attractive, intelligent, and single. And you have to have known that this wouldn’t be a ‘swinging’ time. So I ask myself
why
a woman like you would welcome an experience like this.”

“I’ve already given you a reason.”

“One,” he reminded her with a teasing smile. “But I have this nagging feeling that there’s another. You get a certain look in your eye every so often. Is it relief? I’d almost suspect that these three weeks are a kind of reprieve for you.” He paused. “Now you’re blushing. Am I close?”

“It’s the bourbon,” she argued, trying to stifle a grin. “What did you say you taught?” It had to be psychology.

“It’s not the bourbon,” he went on, clearly enjoying the banter. “You’ve still got the better half of that drink in its glass. And I didn’t
say
what I taught…but it’s political science.”

“No kidding! That’s a great field. Any specialty?”

“You’re trying to change the subject.”

“I thought we were talking about each other.”

“No, Abby. I was talking about you—”

“Uh, excuse me, Dr. Wyeth, Miss Barnes.” Both heads flew up to find the bartender standing before them looking decidedly awkward. “If you’d like to bring your drinks into the other room, I believe Mrs. Abbott has dinner ready.”