Laura Abbot (5 page)

He stood motionless, studying her as if he could see into the depths of her soul. “Does it still hurt that much?”

She knew she couldn’t lie to this man she had loved enough to risk everything. “Yes,” she whispered. Then, gathering her voice, she completed the thought. “But it doesn’t have to hurt Laurel.”

D
USK WAS FAST APPROACHING
and storm clouds were massing when Laurel crossed the state line into West Virginia two weeks later. She kneaded the knots of tension in her neck. She was both eager and apprehensive to share her news with her parents. Undoubtedly they’d be disappointed she wasn’t settling closer to home, but they’d always stood behind her, encouraging her to test her wings.

The Gift Horse purchase had gone through smoothly and quickly, and since leaving Belleporte, she’d managed to pack up her Columbus apartment, store most of her belongings and give her notice to the co-op. In addition to training her replacement there, she would spend most of December calling on artisans to arrange a line of supply for her store before coming back here for the holidays. Then, in January, she’d be back in Belleporte. She whispered the name under her breath. Musical. Magical.

In all honesty, it wasn’t only Belleporte that was magical. Her memories of Ben—delightful and unsettling—had caused her more than a few restless nights. After Curt, she’d temporarily sworn off men. Ben was the first to cause her to rethink that decision. Besides the obvious attraction, she admired the way he’d leveled with her about The Gift Horse. She’d even begun to think of him as a man she could trust.

At Clarksburg, she left the turnpike and meandered toward Elkins. As night fell, the first drops of rain splattered her windshield, and the road became slick as oil met water. She craned forward, watching for familiar road signs and landmarks. Only a few more miles now.

Turning onto the private gravel road, she downshifted, then jolted over the mile and a half to its end. She parked beside the detached garage housing her father’s workshop. The downpour soaked her as she ran toward the cabin, burdened by her laptop computer and overnight bag.

Flanked by Dylan and Fonda, the family dogs, her parents waited in the doorway. Laurel set down her luggage and found herself engulfed in a group hug, the scents of wet dog hair, wood smoke and cedar welcoming her home.

She drew back to study her parents—her father’s ruddy complexion, keen gray eyes and trimmed beard; her mother’s curly black hair drawn back in a braid, her makeup-free skin still flawless and her brown eyes luminous, magnified behind granny glasses. Although laugh lines and a few gray hairs hinted at aging, they both looked vital. “It’s so good to be home.”

“We waited dinner for you,” her mother said.

Her father picked up her bags and carried them inside, putting them down by the staircase. “All of your favorite foods, posie.”

Laurel smiled at the familiar endearment. She’d been named for the mountain laurel, and he’d been calling her “posie” ever since. “Does that mean vegetable soup, biscuits and blueberry pie?” She knelt to greet the dogs, who nearly knocked her over in their enthusiasm.

“All of the above,” her father said, as her mother turned away to the kitchen, wedged in one corner of the great room. He helped Laurel to her feet, then led her to the woodburning stove. “Here. Take some of the chill off.”

She leaned toward the heat, rubbing her hands together. Then she turned around and spread her arms. “I’ve been so excited to get here.” Her mother continued busying herself with the meal preparation. “Can I help, Mom?”

“It’s under control. Relax and visit with your father.”

Laurel settled in the bentwood rocker. Fonda immediately put her head in Laurel’s lap, demanding attention, while Dylan sprawled at her feet. Noel made small talk about the weather and his latest furniture project, but Laurel’s thoughts wandered. When should she tell them? Now? After they ate?

Over dinner, her mother kept up a monologue about the weaving prize she’d won at the fair, about Noel’s job teaching woodworking at the college in Elkins, about— It finally registered with Laurel. Her mother wasn’t behaving normally. She was usually the one full of questions. The one who listened thoughtfully before finally commenting, her graceful hands punctuating her remarks. She was never the “entertainer.” But tonight she seemed on edge about something. It was odd, too, that neither had asked about her progress locating a site for The Gift Horse.

At one point Laurel ventured, “I have some interesting news for you about my store.”

Instead of looking up, eyes dancing with curiosity, her mother bowed her head and drew a hand across her brow. “Can it wait, honey? I want to hear all about it, but I’m developing a blinding headache. Maybe tomorrow?”

Laurel noticed her father’s surreptitious glance in her mother’s direction. “Are you sure you’re all right?” she said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

“We’ll clean up the dishes, Pat,” Noel offered. Then, turning to Laurel, he added, “But we most certainly want to hear your news.”

Laurel observed a tiny frown etch itself into her mother’s forehead. “Go on to bed, Mom. I want you fresh for my big announcement, anyway.”

After her mother left the room, Noel handed Laurel a dish towel. “You’re sure you’re not disappointed about waiting?”

“It’s okay, Dad. My surprise can keep.”

But later that night, snuggled into bed in her old room in the loft, listening to the rain pelt against the tin roof, she admitted she had been disappointed. She understood the delay, but it had taken the edge off her excitement. It was almost as if her mother hadn’t wanted to listen. But why? Because she knew Laurel hadn’t chosen a West Virginia site? Surely her mother was prepared for that. Was there something else going on? The thought nagged at her until she finally muttered to Fonda, snoring on the rag rug beside her bed, “What’s the matter with me, Fonda? I need to quit imagining things.”

Yet just before she closed her eyes, she had the sure sense that whatever her parents’ reactions to her announcement tomorrow, they would seem anticlimactic.

P
AT SPOONED PANCAKE BATTER
into the sizzling skillet, then fixed her eyes on the cloud-shrouded mountains out the kitchen window. They’d always been a source of strength. Comfort. Today they mocked her.

Noel stamped his feet at the kitchen door, then entered with a blast of cold air. He hung his lumberjack-plaid coat on a peg and came into the kitchen, where he sidled up behind her and put his arms around her. She leaned into him, feeling the wiry strength of his body, his beard tickling her cheek. “Nothing’s happened, Pat. Nothing at all.”

“But if—”

He turned her in his arms and smothered the rest of her sentence against his shoulder. “No
ifs.
Even if we learn she has settled on Belleporte, to her it’s just another town.”

“I know, but—”

“We need to be excited for her.” He cupped her face in his work-roughened hands. “All we’ve ever wanted is for Laurel to be self-sufficient, decent, happy. And she is. This is
her
dream, darlin’. We need to do everything we can to encourage her in it. If that means Belleporte, so be it.”

Pat took one of his hands and drew it to her lips. “Of course I want the best for her. I’m overreacting, aren’t I? Maybe it isn’t Belleporte.”

He chuckled in that warm way of his that she had loved from the first day she’d met him at the university. “You said it, not I.” He took the spatula from her hand. “You heat up the syrup. I’ll finish the pancakes.”

A few minutes later Laurel came down the stairs, wearing jeans and a red sweatshirt, her dark curls damp from the shower, her scrubbed face glowing. “Is there anything better in the morning than the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes? I don’t know how I could be hungry after that great dinner, but I am.”

Noel handed her a mug of steaming coffee, then took his place at the table. “Rest well?”

“Like a log. Once I got to sleep.”

Placing the platter of pancakes before Noel, Pat sat down. “Problems?”

Laurel took her customary chair between them. “No, just excitement. I can’t hold it in any longer.”

“We’re all ears,” Noel said, giving Pat an encouraging nod.

“Okay, here goes. Trumpet blare! I am the sole proprietor of The Gift Horse, a charming cottage in beautiful Belleporte, Michigan.”

Her daughter’s exultation was almost too much for Pat to bear. Her worst fear was realized. “B-Belleporte?” she managed to stammer.

As if to deflect Laurel’s scrutiny from her, Noel clapped his hands. “That’s wonderful!”

“Oh, Daddy, I so hoped you’d be happy for me.” She looked then at Pat. “And you, too, Mom.”

Knowing she had to say something, Pat calmed her breathing. “If you feel good about this, that’s what’s important.”

“Start at the beginning,” Noel said. “Tell us everything.”

Laurel did, but Pat could barely concentrate on her daughter’s words. Of all the places Laurel could have chosen. Her path to Belleporte sounded so innocent, even fortuitous. And she was clearly in love with the rustic house on Shore Lane and the village ambience. Pat couldn’t look at Noel. She knew the Mansfield cottage, just as she knew the shops, the gazebo, the beach. With her fork she moved the soggy pancake around on her plate, but she couldn’t swallow a bite.

Finally Laurel ended with “…and I’m moving there the first of January to get everything set up.” She grinned engagingly. “Before then, though, I want to place orders with my two favorite suppliers. Mom, I’d love to sell your table runners and place mats, and, Dad, everyone will expect a shop called The Gift Horse to sell Eden-made rocking horses. What do you say?”

Pat covered her mouth with her napkin. When she drew it away, she tried to smile for Laurel’s sake. “We’d be honored.”

Laurel sat back and looked from one to the other. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Tears threatening, Pat shoved away from the table and let the dogs out. Fog had settled on the mountains, obscuring her view. What irony! She felt lost. As if her whole adult life had been built on the shifting mist swirling in front of her, beneath her, around her.

I
T WAS ANYTHING BUT
a white Christmas, Ben observed from his mother’s front porch. Blue skies, temperatures in the low 50s, with only a soft breeze off the lake. He shifted his armload of packages and knocked, wondering if he’d be heard over the din of family conversation. His sister Bess, her husband Darren and their two boys had driven in from Grand Rapids, Brian was bringing a girlfriend, Terry had two college buddies in tow, and that didn’t count Megan, Mike and Ben himself.

His mother, dressed in emerald-green, answered the door and greeted him with a kiss. “Merry Christmas, Ben. We’d about given up on you.”

With his free arm, he hugged her. “It took me longer than I thought to wrap these.” He gazed at the gifts he was holding. “And even then, they look none too professional.”

“It’s the thought—”

“—that counts.” He joined her in the familiar refrain, but sensed his mother’s gaiety was forced. Understandable. The family had made a point of rallying this year, knowing their first Christmas without their father would be rough, especially on Mom.

“How are you doing today,
really?
It’s got to be tough without Dad.”

Biting her lip, she shrugged helplessly.

He embraced her again. “I know,” he murmured. “I miss him, too.”

“Hi, Ben!” Megan, her red curls caught up in a ponytail, hurried toward him, eyeing the packages. “Did you bring me something?”

He yanked on her hair. “You’re shameless. Here, help me with these.”

Together the three entered the living room. Bess’s boys sprawled on the worn carpet, playing with their Santa gifts. The contents of their emptied Christmas stockings were strewn all over the floor. Ben added his presents to those under the tree, then made the rounds greeting everyone. Brian’s guest was a blonde wearing too much makeup. Terry’s friends turned out to be exchange students from South Africa. Terry thrust an eggnog into his hand. “Cheers, big brother.”

Ben raised his cup, then settled back to observe the festivities. Even Mike seemed caught up in the holiday spirit. When he opened Ben’s present, a gift certificate for an online music store, he cracked a wide grin. Amid the usual array of books, ties and socks, Ben was touched by his mother’s gift to all of her children—a framed reproduction of the photograph of their dad in his Air Force blues.

The Christmas dinner went well, with only one spilled water glass. Predictably his mother teared up when she asked him to take his father’s customary place at the head of the table. But Bess’s youngest saved the moment by blurting, “How can you be the grampa now, Uncle Ben? You don’t got gray hairs.”

Just when Ben decided that Christmas was, indeed, about “peace on earth, good will to men,” things fell apart. First he stumbled on Brian and his date in the kitchen and overheard her whispering petulantly, “Please, haven’t we put in enough time here? All this family stuff is starting to bug me.”

Then Terry cornered him, making sure their mother couldn’t overhear them. “Ben, can you help me out? I need three hundred bucks for the plane fare to my lab partner’s wedding over spring break. No way can I ask Mom for any more.”

“What about your job? Aren’t they paying you?”

“Yeah, they pay me, but I’m barely making it. I wouldn’t go except I’m a groomsman.”

Ben sighed. “Stop by the office. I’ll write you a check.”

By the time he got back to the kitchen, his mother was elbow-deep in soapsuds while Megan and Bess were loading the dishwasher and drying the china and crystal. Ben untied his mother’s apron and escorted her to the rec room door. “I’m taking over. Get down there and enjoy your grandchildren.”

She ruffled his hair. “You’re a good man, Ben Nolan. And I’m taking the credit.”

Ben took his post beside his sisters, wondering whether the holiday meal was worth the mounds of dishes, pans, platters and glassware. He worked quietly, listening to Bess and Megan chat about Megan’s work on her high school yearbook. When Megan’s cell phone rang, Ben couldn’t help noticing his sister’s blush as she studied the caller ID and then disappeared in the direction of her bedroom.