Authors: Antoinette Stockenberg
Embers (68 page)
The dri
v
er pulled out of the space and Allie settled back, more ner
v
ous now than at any time since the day a month ago when she decided to fly back to the States. In some ways the decision had been made for her: when one has reached the absolute bedrock of boredom; when one
'
s husband has been sighted on a pri
v
ate beach with a nubile thing half one
'
s own age; when one has tried it, spent it, seen it, toured it, swum it, and skied it
...
.
That ‘s when a girl wants to come back home. If for no other reason than to find out how long and how far she‘s been gone.
Allie closed her eyes, shutting out the last
five
years. She took a deep breath, then
pulled herself together. Slipping a gold compact from her bag, she snapped it open to see deep violet eyes staring
back at her, reassuring her that thirty was an age that only other people looked.
Or was she wrong? Had she aged?
Her face was flushed but untanned, despite her Mediterranean lifestyle. She
'd used sunblock before sunbl
ock was all the rage, and had worn long, flowing co
v
er-ups while competing ingénues skipped across the hot sand in little more than dental floss.
She
'
d dri
v
en more than one man wild with curiosity in the bargain.
Five years! How did that happen? She began
mentally going o
v
er the presents she
'
d brought with her. Too many? Would it look as if she
were
trying to buy her way back into the family
'
s affection? She hoped not. The Swiss-made fly reel, the antique gold earrings, the checkers set crafted of i
v
ory and inlaid wood, the funky solid-sil
v
er sheriff
'
s badge that she
'
d found in a Paris flea market
...
could anyone really object to such small, discreet trifles?
Possibly the French doll with its couturier-filled trunk was a little extra
v
agant
,
but Sally must be old enough by now to enjoy it. And Terry and Timmy
—
in their mid-teens,
so hard to belie
v
e
—
could either use the Gucci wallets or throw them away, but they should be exposed to
something
besides
V
elcro-clad nylon to keep their money in.
Allie sighed a jittery sigh and looked around. They were turning onto her old street. She regarded it not as a str
eet of smart and pretty bed-and-
breakfasts, but as it was in the old days, peely and friendly and a real neighborhood. She thought of Bobby Beaufort, who
'
d made a tree house and let only her in, no one else. The tree, a towering oak, was still there; she had no idea where Bobby was. When he got back from
Switzerland
after that wild, wild
v
isit, he
'
d upped and got someone named Cora pregnant, and presumably he was with her still.
That news had come in a letter from Meg, the last one Allie had had the heart to answer, o
v
er
four
years ago. After that, Allie had fallen off the edge of
...
somewhere. Into
...
something. It was all such a blur now.
But Bobby Beaufort wasn
'
t. She smiled as she remembered the week he
'
d spent with her in
St. Moritz
, when she
'
d broken away from Dmitri and holed up with him at The Palace. What a pair they
'
d made! She in her
Milan
knock-offs, he in his funeral suit, stepping through the hotel
'
s car
v
ed portal and down the se
v
en fabled steps that led to The Restaurant, where princesses and playboys looked up and then down their noses at them.
The sex had been phenomenal, the best she
'
d e
v
er had, and it lasted until the money Bobby got from selling the Harley ran out. After that he went back to
Maine
and apparently found Cora. And after Bobby
—
because of Bobby
—
Allie
ended up meeting
St. John
.
The cab pulled up in front of the Inn Between and she was suddenly reminded of Tom Wyler
'
s Cutlass and the way her hea
rt pitter-pattered when she saw
it parked in the same spot. Was it
actually ever
possible?
The cabdri
v
er began unloading her things on the curb. Allie raised one eyebrow and said,
"
Bring e
v
erything inside, please.
"
She paid him generously and, without waiting, walked up the porch
—
the
v
eranda
—
of the Inn Between.
She stepped into the hall, the hall that had once seemed so wide and spacious to her: new wallpaper, new carpet,
some furniture
not quite old enough to be antique. It was much the same.
No one came out to greet her.
Nothing‘s changed,
she thought, irrationally pleased. She looked around for the little ser
v
ice bell pro
v
ided for the guests, the one she used to bang whene
v
er she came in the front door, and found it on a linen-draped side cabinet. She took a deep, deep breath, then raised a perfectly manicured hand and brought it down on the bell with a
pain-n
-n-ng.
The next sound she heard was the high shriek of a child, followed by clump-clump footsteps running in her direction from the back rooms.
"
Rachel, honey, no, no!
"
came Meg
'
s
v
oice, gay and laughing
, from the kitchen
.
"
That
'
s not Daddy. Daddy won
'
t be here until suppertime
—
"
A two-year-old with a mop of chestnut-brown hair and big hazel eyes stopped short when the tall woman with jet-black hair standing before her turned out not to be her daddy. Stuffing one hand in her mouth, Rachel looked up at Allie appraisingly, then laughed at her silly mistake, turned on her heel abruptly, and clump-clumped back toward the kitchen.
Two seconds later, the tiny innkeeper
's assistant
was back again, pulling her mother by the skirt.
Customer!
was written all o
v
er Rachel
'
s fat-cheeked little face.
Allie laughed, then looked past the toddler at her mother, who was holding a carbon copy, only shyer, in her arms.
"Meg —
twins
,"
she said softly, tears springing to her eyes.
"
Allie!
"
"
I
'
m home, Meggie,
"
said her younger sister.
"
I
'
m home.
"
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