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The day had begun so quietly. At nine, the only problem on his agenda had been how to fit in time to stop at Philo’s and take down a Santa Claus.
That was how he liked things. Simple. Easy to figure out. He’d had enough complexity to last him a lifetime after Wendy’s accident. All those endless, mind-numbing days when he’d paced the corridor of the hospital in Oslo, going crazy because she’d been unconscious and all he could do was sit by her bedside and clutch her hand. Then going even crazier because when she’d finally opened her eyes and regained consciousness, she’d turned away from him.
“She’s not herself,” Gina had told him. “She’s just not herself yet, Seth.”
Two terrible weeks later, Wendy still didn’t want to see him. The flowers he’d sent her filled other rooms. The notes he’d written lay in the trash basket. She wouldn’t take his phone calls. And, at last, a weeping Gina brought him a note in Wendy’s own hand.
“I’m sorry,” she’d written, “but I don’t want to see you anymore. Please. Go away.”
He hadn’t wanted to believe it. She was upset. He understood that. She’d come close to death. Now she’d learned that she’d be in a wheelchair. Forever, the doctors said, though nobody who knew Wendy really bought that. So, okay. He’d swallowed past the lump in his throat, written her a last, long letter telling her that he would give her all the time she needed, that he wouldn’t rush her, that he loved her with all his heart and always would. When she was ready, he wrote, he’d be there. Because he knew—knew—that she really loved him.
Seth walked slowly through the house to the dark kitchen. He snagged a cold bottle of ale from the refrigerator, unscrewed the top and took a long, soothing swallow as he made his way into the glass-walled living room with its view of the valley and the mountain ridge beyond it.
How wrong could a man be? He’d poured out his heart in that last letter and Wendy hadn’t even opened it. She’d sent it back with a note scrawled across the flap.
“I don’t want you waiting for me,” she’d written. “I’m sorry, Seth, but the accident opened my eyes to the truth. What we had was just kid stuff, and now it’s over.”
Still, he’d hung in for a long time, telling himself she’d change her mind. The turning point had come months later. He’d phoned Gina to find out how Wendy was and to ask when she was coming home.
“She’s not,” Gina had told him gently. “She needs some very specialized rehabilitation. There’s a place in France, just outside Paris. She’s decided to go there.”
That was the day he’d finally admitted that the girl he’d loved had changed into a woman he didn’t know. A little while later, he’d realized it was more than that. Wendy had gotten it right. What had been between them had been kid stuff. Hot, horny teenage sex that steamed up the windows and made your toes curl, but nothing more. She’d figured out the truth before he had, thanks to the jolt of reality the accident had provided.
He’d needed his own jolt of reality to get on with his life. At first he’d packed up his things, loaded them into his old pickup and taken off for parts unknown. He bummed around the country for a while, as aimlessly as when he’d turned eighteen—washing dishes in Tennessee, picking beans in Arkansas, clearing a fire trail in the Wasatch Mountains, until he woke up one morning and realized with a start of surprise that he was homesick for New England and Cooper’s Corner.
Seth put down the empty bottle, tucked his hands in his back pockets and watched a fat ivory moon rise over the valley.
He’d headed for the Northeast, got an off-season job at a lumberyard. It sounded like something a guy with muscles and no particular training could do. He hoisted two-by-fours, cleaned up, delivered stuff to construction sites and carpentry shops. After a while, he realized he liked the smell of wood and the feel of it under his hands. The guy who owned the lumberyard was into carpentry, and Seth took to hanging around and watching him work.
One thing led to another. Before he knew it, he had a skill, not just a job. Now he had a thriving business and a home he’d built from the ground up, and the woman he’d been seeing for a couple of months had made it clear she’d be interested in a more permanent arrangement.
A smile curled his lips. He went back into the kitchen, put the empty ale bottle in the sink and reached for the phone. It wasn’t too late to call Jo. Seeing her tonight might be just what he needed. She’d come to mean a lot to him. She was a good woman, bright and warm and kind….
Except she wasn’t Wendy. His body, his being didn’t catch fire when she was in his arms, and he never felt the sweet contentment that came of just holding her after they made love.
Seth cursed and slammed the phone back into its cradle.
He was wrong. It was too late to phone Joanne. It was too late to do anything except take a shower, climb into bed and try his damnedest to fall into an uncaring, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER THREE (#u5504f5da-bc27-5d5e-a1d5-857dd60d2db6)
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning, Seth had a cup of strong coffee in one hand, the day’s schedule in the other and the kind of headache that made a person consider decapitation as a cure—proof, as if he needed it, that life didn’t always give you what you wanted.
Instead of the solid night’s sleep he’d hoped for, he’d tossed and turned until the blanket and sheets were knotted. Eventually, exhaustion won, but instead of finding rest, he’d been drawn into a turbulent sea of bad dreams. Finally he’d said to hell with it and tossed back the covers. That was when he’d discovered that somebody with a sledgehammer had set up shop inside his skull.
Three aspirin, tossed down his throat as soon as he’d staggered to the bathroom, had yet to chase away the pain. A hot shower followed by a blast of icy water hadn’t done it, either. Seth took a swallow of coffee, hoping a belt of caffeine would do the job. He had a nine-thirty breakfast appointment with a guy he’d met on the slopes a couple of days ago. They’d been the only two people crazy enough to take on Deadman’s Run at dusk. Afterward, over brandy-laced coffee in the lounge, they’d introduced themselves.
“Rod Pommier,” the guy had said, narrowing his eyes as if he half expected the name would elicit a reaction.
Seth had recognized the name—he read the papers—and he knew Pommier wanted privacy. That was fine. As far as he was concerned, the doctor was just another skier.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Seth Castleman.”
They shook hands—Seth liked Pommier’s firm, no-nonsense grip—and went back to talking about skiing. After a while, they talked about Cooper’s Corner and how laid-back the town was.
“People seem friendly but not nosy, if you know what I mean,” Rod said.
Seth smiled. “That’s typically New England.”
“I get the feeling that the president of the United States could show up with a pair of skis on and it wouldn’t cause a ripple.”
“Actually, it would depend on whether he was a Democrat or a Republican.” Both men laughed. “But I know what you mean,” Seth said. “This is a small town with an old-fashioned attitude. Don’t get me wrong. Gossip’s the lifeblood of the place, especially if you live here, but if you want to be left alone, nobody’s going to bother you.”
Rod looked up from his coffee. “Am I getting a message here?” he asked pleasantly.
“You mean, do I know who you are?” Seth grinned. “Sure. You’re a skier who just happens to be a doctor in his spare time. Does that about sum it up?”
“It sure does,” Rod said, and Seth could almost see him relax.
They bumped into each other on the slopes again. The second time around, Rod said he’d heard Seth was a carpenter. “And a guy who makes damned fine furniture,” he added. “I’m staying at Twin Oaks. I admired a walnut table in the entry hall and Clint Cooper told me it was your work.”
Seth nodded. “Yeah. That piece came out pretty well.”
Rod smiled. “Clint told me you’d say something like that, but he says the truth is, you’re good.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, it’s not immodest to admit it if you’ve got talent.” The men’s eyes met and Rod grinned. “The danger is in letting the rest of the world know it.”
They shared a chuckle, talked some more, and then the doctor mentioned he’d been looking at an old ski chalet with a fantastic view. It was for sale but it needed a lot of work. He described the location and Seth said he knew the place.
“I’ve seen it from the road. From what I’ve heard it’s sound, structurally, but the inside—”
“Is a disaster.” The doctor sighed. “Yeah, I know. Dark, old, boxy. But there’s nothing around here that has a view to match it. The sun just about lights up the top of the mountain. And I feel…comfortable, I guess, in this town.” He paused. “I’ve been giving some serious thought to buying the place and rebuilding it. Gut the interior, get rid of all that dark stained pine and put in—”
“Beech and maple. Draws the light right in.”
Rod raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Exactly.” He sipped his coffee, then tapped his fingers on the table. “Could you drive over one morning and tell me what you think?”
Seth smiled. “My pleasure.”
They’d made an appointment for this morning. Seth had already cruised by the chalet a couple of times, getting the feel of it, and ideas had started coming. As many as could, anyway, until he saw the interior. He’d jotted them down in his notebook and was eager to discuss them with the doctor.
There was still another hour and a half until it was time to meet Pommier. Thankfully, the little guy with the sledgehammer had gone from trying to bash his way out of Seth’s skull to merely tapping at it, so why stand around?
Seth drained the last of the coffee, rinsed the mug and put it in the sink. There were things he could do before he left. He could start stripping the finish from the old cherry rocker he’d picked up at a garage sale. Work on the chest he was making for his bedroom. Drive out to that farm near New Ashford, see if the owner had made up his mind whether or not he wanted to take down his barn and sell the hand-hewn beams and weathered old siding….
Who was he kidding?
He grabbed his jacket and keys and hurried out to his truck. There was only one thing that really needed doing this morning, and he damned well was going to do it.
* * *
GINA MONROE SAT at the old maple table in her kitchen, elbows propped on its scarred surface, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of herbal tea. On impulse, she’d taken the day off from her job as a teacher at the local elementary school. Now she watched with satisfaction as her daughter tucked into a stack of blueberry pancakes she’d sworn she could never finish when Gina served them to her ten minutes earlier.
Wendy forked up a mouthful dripping with maple syrup and melted butter. Gina smiled at the look on her face.
“Good?”
Wendy chewed, swallowed and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “No,” she said, straight-faced. “I’m just making a pig of myself to keep you happy.”
Gina grinned and thought how wonderful it was to have her little girl home again. It was the same thing she’d been thinking for the last two days.
“Seriously, Mom, these are incredible.”
“Well, we had a great blueberry crop last summer,” Gina said modestly. “Your father couldn’t keep away from the pick-your-own place just north of town.”
“Is it still there?”
“Mmm-hmm. And Daddy bought boxes and boxes of berries. I made blueberry pie, blueberry tarts, blueberry vinegar, blueberry liqueur—”
“Whoa. Blueberry liqueur? That’s a new one.”
Gina smiled as she rose and went to the counter. “Your father gave me a course in herbal cooking as a birthday gift last year.” She spooned some fresh herbs into an infuser and filled her mug with water from the kettle. “More coffee for you?”
“Yes, please.”
She topped up Wendy’s cup. “I have some pancakes left. Would you like a couple more?”
Wendy groaned and held up her hands. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Just one, maybe?”
“Honestly, I’m full.” Wendy pushed back her chair. “I’d almost forgotten what an American breakfast was like. That was absolutely delicious.”
“I’m glad. Oh, don’t get up, sweetie. Let me get those dishes. You just sit there and take it easy.”
Wendy shook her head, collected her dishes and took them to the sink. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I got back.”
“It’s all I want you to do.”
“I’m not an invalid, Mother.”
“Well, of course you aren’t. I just enjoy fussing over you.” Gina made a face. “And now I’m in trouble.”
“Huh?”
“You just called me `Mother.’“ She took two cake plates from the cupboard and put them on the table. “That’s always a danger sign.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”
“See? Now I’m `Mom.’“ Gina smiled as she took out forks and arranged them on fresh napkins alongside the plates. “`Mom’ is good. `Mother’ is a warning,” she said, opening the oven. The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted out. “You ready for some coffee cake?”
Wendy stared at her mother. “No. Yes. Is it that sour cream cake you used to make?”
“Uh-huh.”
“In that case, maybe a sliver…and what in heck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you and the Mom-Mother thing.” Gina took the cake from the oven and put it on the table, then closed the door with her hip. “`Why must I wear my galoshes, Mother?’“ she said in a little-girl voice. “`Why must I do my homework now, Mother?’“ She laughed at the perplexed expression on Wendy’s face. “Ever since you were tiny, I was `Mom’ when you were happy with me and `Mother’ when you weren’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I didn’t know I was that transparent.” Wendy hesitated, watching as Gina sliced the cake. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap just now.”
“I know you didn’t, sweetie.” Gina looked at her daughter. “And I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You just need to remember that I haven’t had the chance to fuss over you in a very long time.”
“I know. And I really love having you fuss. I just…I guess I confused it with you thinking I wasn’t up to doing things for myself, and I’m not very good at letting people help me.”
“Not good? Dear, you bristle like a porcupine, but I’m not surprised. You always were so fiercely independent. It’s what got you into trouble your very first day in kindergarten.”
Wendy smiled. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yes. I’ll never forget it. Your teacher cornered me when I came to pick you up.” Gina’s expression softened at the memory. “I’d just gone back to teaching. I was doing half days, paired with a new teacher. She took mornings so I could be home with you in the afternoons.”
“Uh-huh. I remember.”
“Anyway, I came to get you. And your teacher—”
“Mrs. Barrett.”
“Right. Sally Barrett said she hated having to tell me, but you’d walloped some little boy.”
“I didn’t!” Wendy laughed. “I don’t remember that at all.”
“Well, it’s true. Seems he’d been crying. Lots of the kids were. First day away from home and all that… Anyway, this poor little guy wanted his mother. You were sitting next to him and you were crying, too.”
“I definitely don’t remember that! I loved kindergarten.”
“Yes, you did. But that very first day, you were teary-eyed, the same as the other children. Sally said the little boy looked at you—for comfort, maybe—and you said, `What are you looking at?’ or words to that effect, and he said he was looking at you because you were crying, and you said—”
“Oh, wow.” Wendy giggled and covered her face with her hands. “It’s coming back to me. I said he was a baby and he said if he was a baby, so was I, and—”
“And,” Gina said, putting slices of cake on their plates, “you hauled off and hit him.” She grinned. “Then he really had something to cry about, poor kid. Anyway, Sally Barrett read you the riot act. So did I. And when your father came home and I told him what had happened…”
“He said I’d done a bad thing.” Wendy’s lips twitched. “Then he picked me up, lifted me high in the air and said I was some piece of work.”
