The House On The Creek (25 page)

“Where,” Abby had to pause and then clear her throat again. “Out of town where, exactly?”

“Scottsdale.” The woman didn’t even hesitate. “Scottsdale until the thirtieth. But then he’ll be out of town again. He’s an appointment in Virginia.”

“Don’t I know it.” She hoped she didn’t sound bitter, or naive. The man had never promised her monogamy. And hadn’t she been the one to tell him to back off?

He had a right to find comfort where he liked.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. I mean, thank you. And Happy Thanksgiving.” She set the phone very carefully in its cradle on the wall, and then kicked the baseboard hard.

“Something wrong?”

The singing in the other room had quieted and she hadn’t noticed. Jackson stood on the kitchen threshold. Chris leaned against the man’s hip, and peered under his elbow.

“Miscommunication.” She felt herself snarl and didn’t care.

“We came for more pie,” Jack said.

Her son looked worried so she forced a smile. “You both should have pie coming out of your ears.”

“Nah.” Chris said, “We jumped around some until it settled. Now we’ve room for more.”

“And whip cream,” Jack added.

“And whip cream.” Chris ducked through the doorway, and stuck his head into the refrigerator.

Jackson met Abby’s stare across the room. She shook her head once in warning, and went to get clean forks.

Her cell ran early the next morning as she fed sticks into the small wood stove meant to keep the house warm.

“What is it?” She almost dropped a small log on her foot, and cussed aloud.

“Abigail.” He slow, sweet drawl made her stomach flip. “You sound all riled up. Roll out on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

She closed the stove with a bang, and stood with her back against the growing heat. “I thought you were out of touch until the first.”

“I am,” Everett replied. He sounded easy, comfortable. As though it had been only a day and not nearly two months since their last conversation.

Abby hated him for it.

“Lovely crisp weather in Scottsdale. How about your neck of the world?”

“Snow up the ying yang.”

“Perfect. Couldn’t be better. A white Christmas will fit the bill nicely. Snow is good. And what do you think of my lights?”

“They’re too much.” She took a breath. “Windsor’s actually been reporting in?”

“Of course. Sure about the lights?” He sounded disappointed.

“Positive.” Suddenly she felt dizzy and light, ready to dance and sing. He had been paying attention, after all. “The Twelfth Night candles will do the job. You don’t want to overdue. Trust me.”

“I do.” The connection hissed, and Abby worried that she’d lost him. Her heart thumped fretfully until another question purred across the line. “How about on the gazebo?”

“What?”

“The lights,” Everett said. “Put my lights on the gazebo.”

Crazy joy bubbled to foolish tears. She swallowed them and rolled her eyes at the cracked plaster ceiling. “I thought you wanted a traditional colonial Christmas.”

“I did. I do. I also want my icicle lights.” He sounded so put out that she had to laugh. “Something humorous?”

“No.” And because the laughter felt good, she relented. “If you’re so enraptured with the lights, we might find a way to use them. Not on the house. Maybe the gazebo. No promises, but I’ll think about it.”

“Thank heaven for small graces. Vivian said you called Seattle last night. Anything wrong?”

“Vivian.” So easily he’d managed to make her forget she wanted him dead.

“My housekeeper. She said you sounded upset.”

“No.” She felt blood rise in her cheeks, and tried to keep the tremble of embarrassment from her voice. “No. Nothing. It was just...Thanksgiving. And Chris misses you.”

He stayed silent for so long she thought she’d have to feed more tinder into the stove.

“Abby?”

“Yes?”

“I miss you, too.”

She found herself sitting on her knees on the floor, stove forgotten.

“I’m too busy to miss anyone.” She sounded so aggrieved she almost convinced herself. “And lately I seem to be spending more time on the phone with your meddling agent than I am working on your house. Party’s only days away, Ev.”

“I know.” He was as calm as she was jittery, and the realization made her want to yell.

“I’m hanging up, Everett. I’ve got to meet with a florist about your greenery in half an hour and I haven’t had breakfast.”

“One second.”

Abby heard the distant sound of shuffled papers. She gritted her teeth. “Everett.”

“I’m landing in Richmond, nine o’clock the night of the first. Pick me up?”

“Do I have to?”

“Please.”

As easily as that her irritation vanished. “Richmond. Nine o’clock. I’ll try.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then, because the sound of his voice made her chest ache with a longing she didn’t want to acknowledge, Abby snapped her phone shut and sent it spinning away across the floor.

The meeting with her florist took less time than Abby had budgeted. She took the extra twenty minutes and drove out to the Creek. The winding road had been cleared of snow, but was still bumpy and slick.

She drove carefully, keeping her eye on the road and her foot on the sluggish brake pedal. When she turned onto Everett’s drive the vibrations eased, but not enough. She made a mental note to put a call into a clearing service and schedule ice removal for the extent of the party.

She didn’t need intoxicated drivers playing bumper cars in front of her perfect creation.

And it was picture perfect, she thought as the Mercedes slid to a halt and she studied the colonial. Fresh white snow covered the front lawn and the flower beds and much of the roof. The temporary miniature evergreens she had planted on either side of the drive looked as if they sprung naturally from the earth and not hidden planters. A single Twelfth Night candle glowed in every window. Tiny icicles hung from the eaves in glistening spirals, reflecting the afternoon light.

“And he wanted icicle lights,” Abby grumbled as she stepped into the cold. Snow crunched beneath the soles of her boots, and she had to hug herself against chill air. “He’s got the real thing.”

She marched up the drive and climbed the front steps, one hand on the iron rail. She’d have to remember to ask the service to deice the stairs. It wouldn’t do at all if a guest slipped on slick brick and took a tumble.

Through panes of glass on either side of the front door she could see the vague red shadows of the poinsettias she’d set in the entry way. Tomorrow they’d be joined by swathes of evergreen mistletoe. The florist had promised delivery at 8AM sharp.

Abby didn’t unlock the front door. Instead she stood on the top step, and turned to look back over the yard. She felt as though she were standing smack in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting. The snow across lawn looked so very fresh.

She had to ignore a gleeful urge to run back and forth across the white expanse and leave a trail of zigzagging footprints.

No. Everything had to stay pristine and perfect, at least until Everett had a look at the miracle she’d managed. Abby knew he would be happy with the results. She’d given him everything he had asked for and much more.

“He’d better be pleased. He’d better be knocked right out of his shoes.”

She discovered she had the edge of a thumbnail in her mouth, and yanked her hand away. She’d been chewing her nails voraciously lately. It was a habit she scolded her son over, and she needed to stop.

It was Everett’s fault, driving her batty. Damn the man.

“You’re hopeless, Abby Ross.” She considered her ragged thumbnail.

A flash of red shot in a streak across the edge of her vision. Abby lifted her head, and then held her breath.

A cardinal, scarlet and royal, danced on air just above the snow. The bird swooped over the lawn several times, and then settled on a bare branch just across the asphalt.

The cardinal added a final bright spot of perfection to the paradise Abby had built on Edward Anderson’s faulty legacy. She wished in vain for her camera.

The bird stayed on his branch for another fifteen minutes, waiting as the sunlight warmed and the icicles began to drip. Abby stood just as still, waiting with the bird, worries forgotten, until a cloud passed over the sun, and the cardinal stretched his wings and dove from his perch, and cut away into the afternoon.

Chapter Seventeen

EVERETT HAD PREPARED HIMSELF
for light and color and an abundance of festive details. He’d had in the back of his head pictures from magazines and imagines of Christmas at the White House or the grand holiday celebration at Carter’s Grove.

Two beautiful old houses, done up elegantly for the winter. He had supposed Abby would treat his own old house to much of the same elegance.

But the truth of the matter knocked those preconceived images, along with every sensible thought, straight from his skull.

Elegance abounded, yes. All the festive details he could hope for. And the furnishings she’d chosen were certainly tasteful and period enough to grace the pages of any magazine. But she had added something more. Something he’d never noticed on those White House tours, or on elementary school field trips to plantation homes.

She’d added a...feeling. A feeling he couldn’t quite pin down, couldn’t quite name. Homey, maybe. A sense of welcome and belonging. The promise that, no matter how lovely the over stuffed chairs, no matter how stylish the pewter knickknacks or how extensive the greenery, a person would always find a warm nook to relax in, a comfy chaise to share with a book.

And there would always be something carelessly comforting simmering in the kitchen.

The house had room enough for any number of visitors, but she’d taken something cold and made it beautiful. Made it ready. Ready for family, clients. Children.

A cat, Everett thought foolishly as he touched the shining banister. A cozy house needed a cozy cat.

God help him, Abby had turned the place into a home. And he was afraid he had fallen in love with the old man’s drafty monster. Oh, he had been halfway there, he supposed. He’d seen the potential over the summer.

But this was different. Full of furniture and easy clutter, the rooms were newly welcoming. Already he longed to take a nap on the parlor sofa in front of the fire she had just set to crackling. Sit down to supper at the new dining room table. Explore the wine cabinet and sideboard.

Look to see if those were real presents under the tree in the dining room, under the tree in the master bedroom, under the little fir in the corner of the kitchen.

And then there was the library. She had stocked the library with books.

It wasn’t the sort of house one rented out between summers. It was the sort of house one lived in, loved in.

Oh, yes, he’d fallen in love. In a matter of minutes he’d tumbled to.

Because he saw Abby in every room of the house, in every piece and detail, in every painting and fabric and rug. He thought he’d prepared himself. He was wrong.

“So.” She stood with her back to the fireplace, warming her hands with seeming indifference, but he didn’t miss the slight furrow between her brows. “You’ve gone quiet. What do you think?’

Everett left the banister and walked into the front parlor. He fingered the tapestry wings of an armchair. He couldn’t find the right words, the complimentary words he knew she expected, he couldn’t quite untie his tongue.

Shaking his head, he abandoned the chair and stood alongside the twelve foot Douglas fir that stood twinkling in the center of the room. Fingering a bundle of needles, he inhaled. The entire house smelled of the Christmases he’d never had.

“You don’t like it.” She sounded very professional. “All right, then. We’ve still got time. Not much. But some. What do you want changed?”

He shook his head again. And then, glancing down between his feet at the velvet tree skirt, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Are the presents real?”

“What?”

“Are the presents real? The gifts beneath this tree? And the ones upstairs? The tree in the kitchen?”

Abby paced from the hearth to his side and then back again. She was nervous, he thought, and somehow that realization made him breathe a little easier.

“The ones beneath this tree are party favors. One for each guest. As per your instructions, through that monster you call an assistant. The ones beneath the kitchen tree are door prizes. For the games you wanted planned. Again, through your assistant, who is not only a monster but a tight ass-”