Out in the Country (13 page)

“It’s not that there was even anything between us,” she said with a sniff, “but I just feel like such a fool somehow.”

Lynne rose from the table, clearing the empty mugs and teapot. “What you need,” she said, “is a break. That distance you haven’t found yet.”

“Thanksgiving is in a few weeks,” Molly said. “I suppose I can rest then.”

“Why don’t you come to Vermont?” Lynne suggested. “It’s always nice to get out of the city, and I’d certainly love your company.” She paused. “No pressure, of course.”

Molly made a face. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more supportive of the bed and breakfast thing,” she said. “I’ve been the typical self-absorbed twenty-something.”

“You’re excused.” Lynne smiled. “This once.”

Molly grinned, feeling happier and lighter than she had in days. “I’d love to come to Vermont for Thanksgiving,” she said.

“Everything smells so much better here,” Lynne said as she stepped out of the car. The sky was cloudless and blue, the ground lightly dusted with snow, and the air was sharp and pure..

“Of course it does,” Jess replied as she slipped out of the passenger seat. “Anything smells better than New York City.”

“Touché.” Lynne grinned. She was so glad to be back, far happier than she’d even expected to be. Now that Agnes MacCready’s appeal had been rescinded, plans were steaming ahead. She had meetings scheduled all week, and a painting party on the weekend.

“Who will come to that?” she’d asked John when he’d rung her last night. He’d started calling her quite regularly during her week in New York, and she found she looked forward to their little chats.

“You’d be surprised,” he told her. “This is Hardiwick, remember? We all pitch in, and besides, there’s not much to do on a weekend night.”

Lynne laughed. “And after we paint we can sit around and watch it dry.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Now as she entered the house, she felt its warmth and familiarity surround her like an old blanket even though the heat was turned off and the rooms were draughty and cold. “Let’s get a fire going and the kettle on,” she told Jess. “Then we can decide a plan of attack.”

Attack felt like the right word, she realised several days later, her mind swimming with the endless lists and questions and details she was constantly forgetting.

She’d met with Ed Tyson, the architect, about renovating the upstairs bedrooms to make room for several ensuite bathrooms and then Tyler Starkey, a banker and loan agent from Vermont State Bank to finance it. She and Jess had gone to Burlington and Rutland to look at fabric swatches and carpet samples, and Jess had been in touch with several wholesale suppliers about stocking the kitchen.

“Do you think we can be open by spring?” Lynne asked one evening as they sat in front of the fire, drinking coffee and, as always, discussing the plans for the bed and breakfast.

“I think we could make it for Valentine’s Day,” Jess said with determined optimism. “Offer a special.”

“That’s only three months away, Jess!”

Jess shrugged. “We’re painting this weekend, and you said the bathrooms would be done by Christmas. We get the advertising in the papers and magazines--”

“Make a website, and don’t forget fire codes and inspections.”

“I suppose John reminded you of that.”

Lynne nodded ruefully. “And health inspections too, for the kitchen.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “We can do it.”

She looked so cheerful, so full of health and happiness, that Lynne couldn’t help but grin. She was glad to see her friend so animated again, as if life had been breathed back into her. And perhaps it had.

“All right,” she agreed. “We can.”

That weekend at least a dozen townspeople showed up armed with brushes and tarpaulins to paint the downstairs of the house. Lynne organized them all into painting teams, and Jess provided a spread of cider, homemade doughnuts, and little quiche tartlets.

“Very classy,” Mark Sheehan murmured as he took a spinach and roquefort quiche. “And delicious too. Are you trying to put me out of business?” His eyes sparkled as he took a bite of the quiche, and Jess busied herself with fanning out napkins, unable to meet his eyes. “You haven’t rung,” he continued, lowering his voice. “I was hoping you would.”

“To exchange recipes?” Jess asked, glancing up. She felt her heart begin to hammer at the serious look in Mark’s eyes.

“Yes, but more just to see you.”

His words seemed to fall into the stillness, and Jess couldn’t reply for a moment, too unnerved by his easy candour. “Mark,” she finally said, “you don’t even know me.”

“And I’d like to.” He raised his eyebrows, his eyes glinting. “Is that okay?”

“I don’t know,” Jess admitted. “I mean, yes, of course it is, but--” She stopped and Mark filled in for her, his voice gentle.

“You’ve been hurt. I know.”

“How do you know?” Jess asked, her eyes wide, and Mark smiled wryly.

“You mentioned something along the lines of an engagement that didn’t work out, and frankly, Jess, you haven’t exactly been the friendliest woman I’ve ever met.” His smile took the sting out of his words, but Jess was still a little bit hurt.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been off-putting--”

“Good thing I like a challenge.”

She bristled; she couldn’t help it. “Is that all you see me as? Because--”

“Hush.” Mark laid a finger against her lips, and Jess jerked back instinctively. She glanced around, but everyone had left the kitchen to start painting. They were alone. “Will you please promise not to take offense at everything I say?” Mark asked softly.

“I can’t promise anything,” Jess replied, smiling a little bit. “I don’t know what you’re going to say.”

Mark grinned back; his smile, Jess thought, was devastating. “What about what I
do
?” he asked, and then leaned in to kiss her.

CHAPTER SIX

Jess barely felt the brief touch of Mark’s lips against hers before she jerked back out of both instinct and self-protection. She felt herself flushing to the roots of her hair, and put her fingers to her mouth, amazed and a bit embarrassed by how obviously affected she was by what was clearly a simple kiss.

“Should I say I’m sorry?” Mark asked wryly, one hand shoved in the pocket of his trousers. Jess shook her head and dropped her hand to her side.

“No... I don’t know. I didn’t expect--”

“I know you didn’t.”

Jess closed her eyes in an attempt to gather her wits as well as her courage. “I don’t think I’m ready for this, Mark.”

“I’m a patient man.”

She opened her eyes and gazed at him in helpless confusion. “Why?” she whispered. Mark looked genuinely nonplussed.

“Why?” he repeated. “Why what?”

“Why me?” Jess asked, her voice low. She winced at the look of compassion on Mark’s face. He reached out a hand to lightly skim her cheek.

“He really did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Jess shook her head, impatient now. “Well, yes, he did, I suppose. But let’s be honest. I’m forty-six--”

“I’m forty-four.”

“I’m older than you?” Jess pretended to look horrified. “Come on, Mark. A man like you--well, I don’t mean to sound sexist, but the truth is it’s easier for men in their forties. You could have some pretty young thing--”

“Pretty young things are overrated,” Mark returned dryly. “They tend to be insipid and frankly, dull.”

Jess opened her mouth to argue, and then just as quickly shut it. Was she actually arguing
against
Mark’s interest in her? Was she that insecure or just suspicious? Either way, she was suddenly weary of fighting, of doubting. “Fine,” she said. “But you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Definitely not,” Mark murmured. “I’ve been warned.”

The sleepy note in his voice made Jess’s nerves skitter again and she took a step back. From somewhere in the house a burst of laughter erupted, and the merry sound acted like a gunshot. Jess jumped a little. “I need to go.” Mark merely raised his eyebrows, and she babbled on, “Everyone will wonder where I am--Lynne--”

“I’m sure Lynne is fine,” Mark said, sounding amused, “but by all means, go if you want to. Like I said before, I’m a patient man.”

Jess nodded jerkily, her heart starting to hammer, and almost reluctantly--and yet also with a frightened sense of relief--she tore her gaze away from Mark’s gentle smile and hurried from the room.

Clutching an armful of essays, her overstuffed bag slung over one shoulder, Molly skidded to a halt as she entered the staff room and saw Luke standing by the coffee machine.

“Oh, I didn’t--”she began, and stopped.

Luke smiled easily, taking a sip from the styrofoam cup he held. “Didn’t want a cup of coffee? I don’t blame you. This stuff is terrible.”

“Right.” Molly hitched her bag higher on her already aching shoulder, and the movement caused the essays to slide from her grasp, the papers fluttering to the ground in a shower of 8” by 11” confetti. “Oh, no--”

Luke crossed the room, stooping to pick up one of the essays. He scanned the paper and read, “Was Langston Hughes a political poet?” He glanced up, his smile as wry and sardonic as ever. “’Explain, using examples from at least three different poems.’ Ambitious, newbie.”

“As you could see, of you’d read further, they’re up to it,” Molly returned a bit sharply. She held out a hand for the essay, and after a moment’s pause Luke handed it to her, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side.

“Fair enough. Would you like some of this wretched coffee?”

“No, thank you.” Molly turned away, concentrating on organizing her papers into a more manageable pile. A few weeks ago Luke had asked her out for coffee--she couldn’t help but feel the sorry little sting of disappointment that all he was suggesting now was the school’s sluggish brew. No doubt it was because of the lovely Alyssa she’d seen on his arm. And yet even as this resentful realization took root, another, guilty thought took its place. She shouldn’t even care about Luke and his glamourous girlfriend. There had never been anything between her and Luke; for heaven’s sake, she had a boyfriend. A boyfriend who wanted to be her fiancé, who was right now waiting for her answer--

Molly closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the rush of thoughts and emotions she couldn’t quite name. For the last week she’d pushed it all to the dark, cobwebby corners of her mind, marked those thoughts ‘to deal with later’ and tried to get on with the business of being a teacher.

Luke moved closer, so she could feel his presence behind her, like a looming shadow that made awareness prickle between her shoulder blades. “Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did you talk to Tonya? About the stealing?”

“Yes.” Molly shoved the pile of papers into her overfull bag and turned to smile briskly at Luke. “It was a good conversation.” Actually, it hadn’t been. It had been awkward and painful and both of them had ended up far too close to tears, Molly for the hopes she had for Tonya dashed so suddenly and utterly, and Tonya because she was afraid of being reported and expelled. In the end, the girl had apologised rather sullenly, and their impromptu afternoon sessions had ended. Molly could only assume she really hadn’t been that interested in poetry--at least not as interested as she was in the contents of Molly’s wallet, which she returned, minus the forty dollars that had been already spent. Molly didn’t care about the money; the loss of her young, naive hopes had been far more bitter.

“And?” Luke prompted. Molly shrugged, not wanting to go into it. She’d cried on Luke’s shoulder once before. She didn’t feel like doing it again. Or rather, she acknowledged with a silent sigh, she did, but she wasn’t about to put herself in such a ridiculous and revealing position.

“It’s dealt with. It’s fine.” Her eyes sparked as they met his, silently willing him to end this conversation. To leave her alone.

Luke met her gaze, his usually brilliant blue eyes clouding. “Molly, are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad at you?” Molly asked, fiddling with her bag again. Luke placed a hand over hers, warm and strong.

“That’s a funny answer,” he murmured, “because it’s not even an answer. It’s a question. And I know from eight years’ teaching that when someone answers a question with another question, it’s either because they don’t know the answer or they don’t want to give it.” His fingers tightened briefly over hers. “So which is it?”

Exasperated, Molly pulled away. “Luke, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve had a really long, busy day, and frankly I’m exhausted. I just want to go home.” She turned away so he wouldn’t see her face, for she felt sure the expression in her eyes would make her words a lie. She was tired, and she did want to go home, but she certainly knew what Luke was talking about.

“Fine,” he said after a moment. “I just thought we had more of a relationship--”

“A relationship?” Molly repeated sharply. She turned around, the question she’d been dying to ask for a week tumbling from her lips--her heart--before she could stop it. “Is Alyssa your girlfriend?”