Carolina Mist (36 page)

It looks so different now,
she thought, admiring the house in its totality for the first time.
I did that. Well, with Alex’s help. When I leave Primrose, at least I will know that I left this little piece of it better than I found it. At least I will have that satisfaction.

I should start the ball rolling to sell it,
she told herself.
I should stop in to see Mr. Tillman when I go into town this afternoon. He said he could refer me to a Realtor. I might as well find out what this place is worth. Now’s as good a time as any. And I should find out if he can recommend an antique dealer. I will have to sell off so much of what’s here.

Abby entered the cool of the front hallway and paused before going into the music room. The grand piano would have to go. She struck a few notes. It needed tuning. She stroked the satin finish of its top, recalling how Leila had so loved it. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see her great-aunt perched on the edge of the bench, her back
ramrod straight, her once-auburn
hair piled atop her head as she played with the slightest of smiles upon her face. The piano had been Leila’s salvation, she had once told Abby. It had been Thomas’s gift to her when, after a few months far from her beloved Montana hills, Leila began to exhibit signs of homesickness. He had hired the elderly Mrs. Langston to come to the house to give Leila lessons three times a week, hoping to give his wife something new, something different to cherish in her new life. Making music was a joy, Leila had told Abby, and she had played for nearly half an hour every morning from the morning of Thomas’s death until her own. She played for Thomas, she had said, songs he had loved to hear her play. It kept him near to her, she had told Abby, and was her way of letting him know that she had never forgotten who had given her this precious gift of music.

How could a price be placed upon such a piece? Abby wondered.

She wandered from room to room, wondering how much she could afford to place in storage. Surely, she could not sell Aunt Leila’s dining-room set nor the Eastlake parlor set, with its tapestry upholstery (original, in mint condition), though it would fetch a handsome sum. Family portraits, large and small. China, silver, books. Needlepoint pillows worked by the patient fingers of her great-aunt or her great- great-grandmother. How could anyone other than
family
appreciate the connection between past and present generations?

Abby sat on the caned seat of Aunt Leila’s desk chair and tapped her fingers on the flat surface of the old oak desk. She thought of all she had lost of herself that day so many years ago, when the auctioneer appointed by the estate had slammed his gavel to commence the sale of everything she had held dear. How could she bear to part with yet more pieces of herself?

With a sigh of confusion, she peeked in on Belle, who was resting between the morning game shows and her soaps. Abby scribbled a short note telling Belle where she’d gone, then quietly left the house. The grocery shopping, which was normally done on Thursday, would be done today. And then, if she had time, she would stop in at Tillman’s office and get the name of that Realtor.

There was, she knew, no point in putting off the inevitable.

M
r. Tillman seemed pleased to see her.

“Why, Miz McKenna, it’s always a pleasure,” he assured her after she apologized for having stopped in without an appointment. “Don’t you ever worry yourself about not having called first, my dear. I am always available to you.”

“Thank you,” she said as she took the sea
t he held out for her at one corn
er of the big cluttered desk.

“And may I congratulate you on the wonderful job you are doing on your home. Drove by there just last week— looks like a different house entirely. Remarkable what you’ve done there. The Cassidy house has always been one of Primrose’s premier properties, of course, but to see it
restored to its former handsomeness
…
well, you are to be applauded. As a matter of fact, I said that very thing to George Hattersly—he is the president of our town council,
you may recall—when nominations were being taken for the Most Improved Property award. I was happy to throw your hat, as it were, into the ring.”

“You nominated my house for an award?” In spite of her mood, Abby brightened.

“Absolutely. And between you and me, I feel certain you’ll walk away with the top prize. It’s the town’s way of thanking the residents who do their part to raise the standards, so to speak. To
improve the appearance of the
town by fixing up their own little part of it.”

“I’m very flattered, Mr. Tillman,” Abby told him.

And she was, though why this little bit of local news gave her such pleasure, she could not say.
I mean, in the grand scheme of things, this is not quite in the same league as being offered a high-powered position with Lance and Sherman,
Abby reminded herself.

“So, tell me what I can do for you today.” He folded his hands neatly atop his desk and waited.

“Well, actually, it was the house that I wanted to talk about.” She took a deep breath. “You had mentioned that ; you were acquainted with a Realtor here in town—I forgot to write his name down
…
”

“You mean to sell the property, Miz McKenna? After all the work you have put into it?” Tillman said with barely disguised incredulity. He barely missed a beat before recovering to add, “Though, of course, that was the wise thing to do. Certainly increased the value of the house. I’m sure that you’ll be able to find a buyer in no time, and at a respectable price, at that.”

He leaned over and hit the intercom.

“Cerise?” He waited a second before repeating the name. “Cerise?”

“She must be in the ladies room, Mr. Tillman,” a young voice responded. “Can I get something for you?”

“Thank you, Andrea, yes. Please look up Artie Snow’s phone number and bring it in.” He turned back to Abby.

“Artie Snow’s your man. I’m sure if anyone can find a good buyer for yo
ur home… thank you, Andrea…
” Tillman glanced at the piece if paper before passing it across the desk to Abby. “Now, you be sure to tell Artie I referred you.” He winked.

“I certainly will.” Abby rose, thanking Tillman for the information and promising to let him know when she left town.

“And Miz Matthews will be going where?” he inquired as he shook her hand.

“No decision has been made as yet.” Abby tried to appear nonchalant. “I want to see how my job interview goes in Dallas.”

“I’ll bet you’re a shoo-in.” His eyes twinkled as he walked her to the door. “You keep in touch now, hear?”

After smiling to assure him that she would do just exactly that, Abby followed the long hallway to the reception area. The remnants of a scent hung in the still air, evoking a memory both elusive and certain. It seemed as familiar to Abby as its wearer, and the suspicion nagged at her. Abby tucked the paper in her pocket and headed to Foster’s, where she hoped to find something to make an especially fine meal for Belle.

There would be a lot to talk about over dinner.

40

A
ll in all, Abby reflected wryly as she gazed out the window of the plane, it hadn’t gone
so
badly. Abby had told Belle she had a job interview in Dallas, and Belle had neatly folded her white linen napkin, dropped it with no small amount of ceremony onto the dinner table, looked at Abby with eyes that burned her very soul, then left the room and hadn’t spoken to Abby since.

Abby knew that Belle’s pain was as much despair over her own plight as it was anger with Abby for even considering leaving Primrose. Following her unsuccessful attempt to have a rational discussion with Belle, Abby had called Alex’s office, hoping to catch up with him, but he’d already left for his own flight to Salt Lake City. She had hesitated about leaving a message, then declined. This was a matter that had to be dealt with in person. And she would do just that on Friday night.

There was no reason why they couldn’t still see each other, she told herself as she watched the earth below grow ever more remote. Lots of people carry on long-distance relationships. And this way, they would both be doing what they wanted to do.

You are certain that this is what you want to do, aren’t you?
a tiny voice from within prodded.

Of course I am,
Abby assured herself as she smoothed the skirt of her red linen suit, last year’s power dressing.

The silk shirt, once part of her daily uniform, felt foreign on her skin, and the jacket, even though it was slightly too large for her now, seemed to constrain her arms in a way it had never done before. Her black leather pumps bound her toes like the bindings wrapped around the feet of Chinese women in the last century.

Abby had spent all of Wednesday trying to recapture her former executive image, taming her hair and patching her nails. Glancing down at her hands, she smiled. She’d never make it as a manicurist, but it was a vast improvement over the broken, unpolished nails she had before she had hit the drugstore in search of a quick cure. She hadn’t looked this polished and tidily corporate in months. She wondered why it all felt so awkward.

The interview could not have gone more favorably if she herself had scripted it. The fine folks at Lance and Sherman had loved her and would, she was absolutely certain, offer her the job before a week had passed. Where, she had wondered as she rode to the airport for her return flight, was the sense of elation she had anticipated?

Her flight had been delayed for four hours by a severe thunderstorm, and she’d called Naomi to see if perhaps she could look in on Belle. Naomi had already done that, she was told, since Primrose was experiencing some pretty severe storms, too. Abby had selected a novel from the paperback rack in the airport gift shop and taken a seat to await her departure. When her flight had finally been called, she boarded the plane, took her seat, and promptly fell asleep.

The drive to Primrose from the airport seemed to take forever, the effects of the storm readily apparent on every stretch of roadway. Whole trees had fallen, and entire sections of road were washed out with floodwaters. At several points along the way, Abby had to detour and take alternative routes toward the coast. It was with great relief that she made the turn off the interstate that led to Primrose.

The storm that had already passed through must have been a nasty one, she thought as she turned onto Cove Road. It appeared that the entire town was without electricity. No streetlights illuminated the roads, nor were any lampposts lit. All was black as the deepest of nights. She eased into the drive at Number Thirty-five. Looking down toward the river, she could see nothing but the mist as dense as smoke from a deadly fire. Even the carriage house was lost from view. Abby backed the Subaru out of the drive and parked in front of the house, nearer the front door.

As quietly as she could, Abby closed the car door. All of Cove Road—all of Primrose-—seemed to be wrapped in the thickest silence, as if all life had fled in the face of the storm. She tiptoed across the front porch, the key as eager for the lock as she was to get inside her house. From somewhere beyond the porch, a rustle in the shrubs set branches dancing as an owl or some other nocturnal being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck slowly stood up as her fingers fumbled with the key. She was relieved beyond words when the door pushed open without resistance, and she could leave the vague and dismal vapors behind her with whatever night creatures lurked about.

She locked the door and stepped into the darkness within, which was only slightly less menacing, she noted, than the murky blackness without. Slipping out of her shoes, she followed the wall, tracing the top of the wainscot with her fingers as she felt her way toward the steps.

“How did it go?” His soft voice came from within the dark and filled it.

She stood stock still, her shoes in her hand, then replied, “It went well.”

“Did they offer you the job?”

“Not yet. But they will,” Abby replied, the pronouncement confident but lacking joy.

“Will you accept it?”

“I don’t seem to have any other options.”

“And if you did?”

“Then I would consider them equally.”

“Come here, Ab.”

She followed his voice to where he sat alone in the dark, waiting for her.

“
I
was worried about you. It’s a long drive from the airport.”

“I was all right.”

His hands reached for her in the dark and pulled her to him until she rested on his lap.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the interview?” He stroked her hair gently.

“I tried. I called your office.” She felt herself relaxing for the first time since the call from Jacqueline Post had come on Monday.

“I didn’t get a message.”

“I didn’t leave one,” she whispered into his neck.

They sat in silence for several long moments. Finally, he said, “Let’s go to bed, Ab. We can talk about this and all that it means tomorrow. Right now, I am weary, as I suspect you are. Let’s just go to bed.”

She nodded and took his hand, and they fumbled slightly in the dark until they found their way to the steps, then climbed them one by one, hand in hand, to the top.

“Which way?” she asked.

“This way.” He tugged her toward the room that had become his. “The bed is bigger, and I need to hold on to you tonight. All night.”

And he did just that, until the sun rose and began to burn off the soupy fog to bring back both light and life to the dark shores of the river.

“
Y
ou are very quiet this morning, Alexander,” Belle said pointedly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He nodded. “Hey, the electricity is back. Great. I was beginning to think that I’d have to start my day without my morning stimulant.”

Alex poured some dark brown beans into Abby’s coffee grinder and turned it on. “What did you say, Gran?”

“I said, that blasted thing makes the most infernal racket.”

“It does,” he agreed.

“Did Abby make it home last night?”

“Yes.”

Belle watched as her grandson opened the refrigerator and began to poke around inspecting its contents. “What exactly are you looking for, Alexander?”

“Stuff for sandwiches.”

“Breakfast sandwiches?”

“Lunch. I thought I’d head out to the Outer Banks this morning.”

“I see.” Belle nodded knowingly. Matthews men always headed toward the sea when there were important thoughts to think or decisions to be made.

“Never mind.” He closed the door and forced a smile in his grandmother’s direction. “I’ll stop at one of the little delis along the highway and pick up something.”

“What would you like me to tell Abigail when she wakes up?”

“
Tell her that I’ve gone fishing”—he kissed the tiny woman on the top of her white head—“for options.”

He pulled a white sweatshirt over his denim shorts and turned toward the door. “Gran,” he said as he unlocked it.

“What, dear?”

“I don’t want you to worry. About anything. It’s all going to work out.”

"I know that, Alexander. And I’m not worried.” She filled up her teapot. “But what exactly do you have in mind, dear?”

“Nothing, yet. But something will come to me. I can’t lose her again, Gran.”

Belle nodded and blew him a kiss. She watched from the window as he backed his car down the driveway.

“He’ll think of something, Leila. We just have to be patient
…
well, dear,
all eternity
is a luxury we don’t all have. Actually, I was hoping to see this worked out in this lifetime.”

Belle felt the comforting cloud of faintest lavender settle around her. “Now, do come along, dear. It’s
The Maid of Salem.
Claudette Colbert, Fred McMurray, 1937. And it’s just about to start.”

A
bby had been disappointed when she awoke to find that Alex had taken off someplace, though Belle assured her that he would be back before the day was over.

It was around three-thirty when he called.

“Where are you?” she asked, the connection being somewhat unstable.

“I’m just about to leave Nag’s Head.”

“Did you catch anything?”

“Ah, yes. In a manner of speaking. Listen, Ab, could you please set the table in the dining room for four? You know, good china, linen cloth, the good silver. And make some of those wonderful
herbed potatoes, a big salad…”

“Is this your way of telling me that you ran into some old friends and are bringing them home for dinner?”

“Sort of. And they’re more like new friends.” He paused, then added, “And, actually, they are coming for the weekend, so you’d better make sure that there are two bedrooms with made-up beds and at least one bathroom with fresh towels.”

“What?”

“I said, they are staying over till tomorrow. Paying guests. Four of them.”

“Four paying guests?” she repeated, certain she’d not heard correctly.

“The first patrons of the Primrose Inn will be arriving in, oh, roughly two hours.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Sweetheart, you were looking for options. You have an option. Go for it.”

“Alex, do I look like Wonder Woman? I can’t turn this house into an inn in two hours. Even if I wanted to—and I’m not certain that I do—I couldn’t pull this off. The house isn’t ready for this type of thing.”

“Of course it is. What do you think still needs to be done before it’s ready?”

“I’m not ready,” she protested. “I don’t know how to run an inn.”

“You’re resourceful. You’ll figure it out. Look, I’m out of change. I’l
l see you around five. And, Ab…”

“What?” she yelled.

“Make something spectacular for dessert.”

“Arrgghhh!” She slammed the old receiver into its cradle with a roar.

“
P
aying guests. Four paying guests. He has one hell of a lot of nerve. If I wanted to run an inn, I’d do it with no prodding from him,” she grumbled as she frantically ran the vacuum cleaner on the first floor, sucking up the dog hair and dust bunnies with a ven
geance. Not finding Belle or Meri
P. in the morning room, which, she gratefully acknowledged, she had refurbished with Sunny’s assistance, she plumped the new pillows and removed a pile of newspapers.

“Damn that man, anyway,” she cursed as she scrubbed new potatoes and set them aside in a pot of cold water.

She raced up the steps and checked the state of the beds.

No sheets.

She flew to the linen closet and selected some fine white
cotton sheets, ancient but soft and cool to the touch, then set about the task of making up two guest rooms. “Thank God for the quilts,” she muttered as she spread them upon the beds.

She pulled the curtains aside to flood the rooms with light, then ran for the vacuum cleaner. She gathered spray furniture polish and some old cloths to dust the furniture and make it shine. Puffing from the frantic exertion, she stepped back to look at the results.

Not so bad, she grudgingly admitted.

“Flowers,” she said aloud. “The bedrooms should have flowers.”

Abby took the steps at record speed and flew into the kitchen, where Belle had just returned from a leisurely afternoon stroll in the garden with Meri.

Belle’s eyebrows rose at the sight of the young woman vigorously punching numbers into the wall phone.

“Naomi! I need your help! Alex invited people to come, and I need flowe
rs! And salad stuff! And yes…
yes
…
thank you
…
” Abby leaned back against the wall as she hung up the phone. “She’s coming over,” Abby told Belle. “She’s going to help.”

“Help with what, dear?” A perplexed Belle sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.

“Your grandson has turned my home into a bed-and-breakfast inn. He will be arriving in about one and a half hours with our first guests,” Abby announced with her hands on her hips.