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ZELDA PHONED JAKE AT five-thirty that afternoon to ask if he could bring a bottle of wine to Annie’s Welcome Home Dinner. “It’s good to have her home, even if it’s just for a little while. Isn’t it, Jake?”
He chose not to answer that question, but he did reply that, yes, he’d be there at seven o’clock, and, yes, he’d told his father to come. A few minutes later, he murmured a polite goodbye and ended the call.
He tucked his cell phone into his hip pocket and remained standing in the open doorway of the carriage house for a few minutes longer, staring blankly at the field of new hay on the other side of the gravel drive. From the milking barn farther up the drive came the restless mooing of the cows. A soothing whistle was heard in reply—his father, telling the “girls” in his old, familiar way to be patient and wait their turn for the afternoon milking.
Jake took an impulsive step outside before stopping to reconsider. His father and brother could handle the chore without him. They had for years. Besides, the anger that still coiled like a poisonous snake inside of him would only agitate the herd. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension that had him feeling like his head was clamped in a vise.
After meeting with the subcontractor who was responsible for the insulation on the new housing development, he’d spent the remainder of the afternoon attacking the mountain of paperwork that had piled up on his desk over the past couple of weeks. But he’d barely made a dent in it. His thoughts had kept straying to the events of a few hours earlier, replaying them over and over, scrutinizing every word and expression and gesture.
Annie was home.
Just for a few days, but that was a few days longer than her last two visits. She’d been here for only one day for her grandfather’s funeral, less than three hours for Ethan’s wedding. Before that, she hadn’t been to King’s Valley in three years.
He’d known she’d be coming here for Matt and Gracie’s wedding. He’d mentally prepared himself for her visit. But he hadn’t been prepared to see her a day ahead of schedule. And he hadn’t expected her to come alone. The call from Ethan had shot a jolt of alarm through his system. Annie’s typical impulsiveness shouldn’t have surprised him. She’d always done just as she pleased. His alarm had quickly turned to fresh anger as he recalled the chilling, disdainful way she’d dismissed his entreaties at their last meeting.
That anger had accompanied him to the bus depot, and it had merely intensified upon his first glimpse of her. If it hadn’t been for the rare emerald color of her eyes and the unforgettable fullness of her lush, wide mouth, he would scarcely have recognized her. She’d looked bad at Ethan’s wedding. Today, she appeared ready to blow over from the slightest gust of wind. Her waist-length, chestnut brown hair had lost its luster. Her flawless complexion was paper white, emphasizing the purple shadows under her eyes. Her cheekbones stood out too sharply on her oval face. Her clothing, a black sweater and blue jeans, hung loosely on her petite, skeletal frame.
He’d been torn by a mad desire to shake her hard and hold her close at the same time. The little fool. Then she’d said hello and smiled a smile so cool, so unemotional, so mechanical, that his anger had boiled like a vat of roofing tar, and he’d just wanted to wipe that smile from her face.
Or kiss if off of her.
It hadn’t helped a short while later to find her talking with that guy in the vacant space next to the thrift shop. It was going to be an art gallery, she’d said. And he’d instantly been swept back to that time a year and a half ago when he’d come to visit her in New York and had met the man she’d described as her employer and mentor, Maxwell Fischer. That memory still left an acid taste in his mouth.
Annie was home, dammit. Zelda was wrong about that being a good thing. It wasn’t. He’d meant what he’d said to Annie seven months ago. He really did. He was done with her. He was. He was moving on. He had moved on. He could face her across the dinner table tonight and deliberately ignore the fact that she now looked like a dull reflection of her former self. What she was, what she’d become was of her own doing. He’d tried to help her. He’d tried to reason with her. And she hadn’t listened.
Let her suffer the consequences.
So, he would go to this dinner while what he really wanted to do was join the construction crew at the Stumble Inn and toss back a beer or three.
He reluctantly abandoned that idea and headed upstairs to take a shower.
Mina had done the weekly housecleaning yesterday. When he’d moved into the carriage house six months ago, he’d told her not to bother cleaning the small bedroom above the space he’d converted into his office. But arguing with Mina was like thumbing his nose at a category five hurricane.
The air held the lemony scent of furniture polish. As usual, Mina had run the vacuum through his room and dusted, but making the bed and picking up his clothes was his responsibility, not hers, as she’d often reminded him since he was a boy.
He removed his watch and set it on the maple dresser near his bed. There were other items on the dresser, carefully dusted by Mina and returned to the exact spot each had always occupied. Among the items was a globe-shaped piggy bank his father had given him one long-ago Christmas, a couple of bottles of cologne—one that he’d purchased himself, the other a twenty-first birthday gift from Annie nine years ago. It was almost empty. He kept it because the cut-glass bottle had an interesting shape. There was also a ceramic bowl he’d made in kindergarten that served as a catchall for the odd assortment of items he collected in his pockets each day. Presently, it held several loose keys, a book of matches advertising a local seafood restaurant where he’d taken a prospective client, toothpicks, paper clips, a pair of red dice and one blue agate marble.
Beside the bowl stood a black and white photograph in a silver frame. In the photo, a young woman posed beside a horse, one of the woman’s hands resting on the saddle horn, the other planted on her hip, her face laughing into the camera. It was his mother. He’d been seven years old when she’d died in a riding accident. Sometimes the scent of lavender or the sound of tinkling laughter triggered a faint memory of a woman with silver-blue eyes, just like his own, and black hair, glossy like the ebony keys on a piano.
He placed his wallet beside the photo, pausing for a moment to trace his index finger along the frame. Then, reluctantly, he flipped the frame over. Taped to the back was a strip of photos taken at a booth at the county fair. Four shots, each one depicting Annie and himself in a different pose, all silly, all with their faces pressed cheek to cheek. They’d been taken the summer she’d turned eighteen.
At one time, he’d had the photo-strip taped to the dresser mirror. Seven months ago, he’d tossed it into the trash, only to retrieve it minutes later. That’s when he’d taped it to the back of his mother’s photo. He didn’t look at it that often anymore. With a scowl of self-disgust, he set the frame down and opened the top drawer of the dresser. Retrieving a fresh pair of underwear and socks, he slammed the drawer shut and strode into the bathroom.
Half an hour later, he entered the main house. He cast a brief glance in the beveled mirror beside the door and straightened his tie. His fingers stilled on the knot as a vision of Annie’s teasing smile invaded his memory. He felt her hands brushing against his, nudging them out of the way as she adjusted his tie. He was a senior in high school again, getting ready for a sports awards banquet and a fourteen-year-old Annie was there to approve his attire. “I don’t know why you were chosen to play quarterback, Jake,” she teased softly. “You don’t even know how to tie a tie.”
Now he shoved one hand through his hair and twisted away from the mirror. Aggravated strides carried him into the kitchen. His father was there, washing his hands at the sink.
Tom Lancaster gave his son an assessing look. “Leaving already? I thought the dinner was at seven.”
Jake shrugged. “Thought I’d get there early to visit. Nate’s come up from the city. I haven’t seen him in a while.” He strolled over to the pantry and glanced through the assorted bottles of wine there before selecting a Sonoma Zinfandel he knew to be Zelda’s favorite.
His father grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and sat down at the table. That man took a long pull before heaving a weary sigh. “I’m looking forward to Matt taking over the dairy when he gets back from his honeymoon. I think I might do some traveling myself. Got my sights on Tahiti first.” He smiled. “Yep. Me on a beach, beer in one hand, a shapely island girl in the other.”
Jake chuckled. “Don’t let Caryn hear about it.” Caryn Stevenson taught history at King’s Valley High. She’d been his father’s “lady friend” for close to ten years.
His father arched one eyebrow. “I just might take her with me. Now that Matt’s getting married, and you’re heading in that direction, I figure it’s time I tied the knot again.”
“You’ve got my blessing. But what makes you think I’m heading in that direction?”
“I’ve heard the rumors about you and that Darlene Wilson who works at the bank. Aren’t they true? You’ve been dating her for almost four months. Tongues are wagging.”
Jake smirked. “Let them wag.” He tucked the wine bottle under his arm and headed for the back door. “See you over there.”
His father’s next words brought Jake up short. “Matt tells me Annie arrived this afternoon.”
“Yep.”
“Is it true you picked her up from the depot?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t think you were going to speak with her again.”
Jake gave his father a level look. “I can be civil. It’s only for a few days.”
His father studied him over the rim of the beer bottle. “You two used to be tight. Like paper and glue. I only had to know where one of you was to know the other wasn’t far behind.” He grinned. “I remember the time you both decided to paint one of my milk cows brown to see if she’d produce chocolate milk. Old Daisy had you both trapped in a stall for over an hour. You were laughing like lunatics when your brother and I finally came to the rescue.”
As if on cue, Matt strode into the room, tugging off his cotton, plaid work shirt. Younger than Jake by one year, he was slightly shorter than Jake and with a stockier build. He was the persona of the all-American, dirty-blond, blue-eyed, hardworking-and-damn-proud-of-it country boy. His eyes, set in a typical expression of mirth, ping-ponged from his father to his brother and back again. “Hey, what’s this? Not ready yet? Dinner’s at seven, Dad. Can’t keep my Gracie waiting.” And then he was through the hallway door and racing upstairs to take a shower.
Jake shared an amused look with his father. “I’ll see you in a bit,” Jake said. He lifted the bottle of wine in a salute and headed outside.
It was the first week of May, and the days were getting longer. The sun was just touching the tops of the eucalyptus trees as he cut across the west field towards the creek, taking the well-trod footpath that wound through the trees towards the gully. He’d walked this path hundreds, if not thousands of times, but never in such a sullen mood as the one he was in now. He had about the length of two football fields to pull himself together before he faced the McAllister clan. Before he had to face her.
His stride shortened as he reached the narrow wooden footbridge that crossed the creek which was now full from the spring rains. Just beyond the footbridge, the creek widened into a deep pool. He stopped in the center of the bridge, set the bottle of wine down on the rough planking and propped his elbows on the top rail.
How many times had he and Annie stood in this same spot, just so, gazing down at the water? How often had they skipped stones or had boat races or sat, their bare legs see-sawing over the ledge as they talked and laughed or just simply listened to the country quiet? It was at this very spot, all those years ago, when he’d fallen in love with Annie McAllister...