Nine

“Allie? Alllllllieeeeeeee!” Macy’s strong voice floated through her home’s open windows to the rose bed where Allie worked.

Allie laid aside her miniature spade, rocked back on her heels, eyed the new rosebuds, and sighed. After lunch Macy had been stricken with “the worst headache of the century” and just had to lie down. Of course, that was only after Allie asked her to help with the rosebushes and to pick up her own sons from school this afternoon. Since Allie’s Mercedes was being serviced, she assumed Macy would agree to pick up Barry and Bart and give Allie a break. No deal. Macy had simply insisted Allie use her Town Car to pick up the twins.

“Out here, Macy!” Allie stood and dusted her gloved hands against each other. “Right where I said I’d be,” she grumbled under her breath and slipped off the gloves. Allie tilted her face toward the sky, arched her back, and enjoyed a good stretch. March had come in like a heavy-breathing monster. A fresh gust of wind whipped Allie’s hair in all directions and shoved at the rosebush’s limbs. Frowning, Allie pushed one of the climbing rose shoots back through the trellis behind it.

“You guys need to stay put,” she admonished.

“There you are,” Macy said as she rounded the brick home’s corner. Her dark hair mussed, she yawned and covered her mouth with her fingers. “You’re still out here?” she questioned. “How can you work so long?”

Allie checked her watch and noted one thirty. “It’s only been a couple of hours.”

“That’s forever!” Macy glanced around the flowerbed. “And I can’t tell you’ve done a thing.”

Allie cleared her throat and eyed the twenty-one rosebushes that decorated the house’s west garden that separated Macy’s home from the guesthouse. “Well, I’ve dug around half the roses, weeded, fertilized, and sprayed them for fungus and aphids.” She pointed toward a collection of bottles and boxes near the brick border. “Other than that,” she wryly added, “I haven’t done a thing.” She shrugged.

“Oh. Well.” Macy languidly eyed the roses and toyed with the tie on her lounging pants. “You must be ready for some herbal tea, then. We’ve got blueberry.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Allie said, nearly staggered with Macy’s offer. Her younger sister hadn’t even lifted a finger to help Allie carry her suitcases in when she arrived for her stay last month.

“Good, then,” Macy replied. “I’ll have some, too.” She stroked her temple and turned toward the house. “I’ll be in the den when you get it made,” she added over her shoulder. “And don’t be too long. Remember, Charlie’s fishing today. You have to leave at two thirty to pick up the boys from school.”

Allie rolled her eyes as she watched her younger sister stroll around the home’s corner. I should have known! During the last month the old childhood patterns had resumed. Macy put on her “I’m the family baby” face and was perfectly content to allow the next eldest sister to do everything for her. Of course, when their mother died, the whole family had fawned over “the baby” because she was “only twelve.” Those years had irrevocably ingrained the patterns.

Atlantic Beach is calling my name, Allie thought. Even being bossed around by Evelyn and watching Penny Clayton make eyes at her father would be a relief compared to acting as Macy’s slave. Thankfully, Macy did have a part-time yardman and full-time maid and cook. Otherwise, Allie would have changed her name to Cinderella and been done with it. While dusting the soil from the knees of her capri pants and the front of her cotton shirt, she resigned herself to the inevitable. Macy was never going to change.

Within fifteen minutes, Allie balanced a tray laden with a crockery teapot and two matching cups and walked down the hallway to the spacious den. Her sister had just finished having the home redecorated, and the champagne-colored carpet gave the whole house a new smell. Macy sat in the corner of the sofa reading the suspense novel she had started that morning. She never looked up. She was already halfway through the thick book. Allie deduced Macy must have read rather than take the nap she vowed she needed to relieve the headache.

With Macy’s head slightly bent, her lips pursed in concentration, her hair now swept into a ponytail, Allie caught a glimpse of the little girl she once had been. Allie’s heart softened; her irritation vanished. Even with all her faults, Macy was still her sister, and Allie would die for her.

“Here you are, dear,” she said as she slid the tray onto the coffee table. “Blueberry.” Allie poured the two cups full of tea.

Macy never responded.

Allie stirred a packet of sweetener into her tea, picked up the cup and saucer, and settled on the cream-colored settee near the window. As was the whole house, this room was decked in the latest fashion. Everything intricately matched, from the cinnamon-colored walls to the same shade in the floral drapes to the replication of the settee’s coloring in the wool rug. Amazingly, Macy’s illnesses never stopped her from ordering new drapes and furniture when the urge struck.

Sipping her sweet tea, Allie stared beyond the home’s wraparound porch to the lane that twined through scenic woods, past the Grove’s mansion, and ultimately to the highway. While the last month hadn’t been perfect, country life had been therapeutic for Allie. She’d found a special rock near the creek where she spent an hour a day in prayer, meditation, and Scripture reading. On that rock Allie had poured her heart out to God and found an inexplicable peace about leaving her home behind.

Frederick Wently was a different matter altogether. Regardless of how often she prayed for God to ease the memories his recent visit had awakened, there was no relief. If anything, Allie was more haunted than ever by the what -ifs. And the last kiss they shared blazed through her mind with the potency of only hours gone by, rather than years. She gulped her tea and winced against the hot liquid as it hit the back of her throat.

A flash of white near the wood’s edge snared Allie’s attention, and she welcomed the sight of a doe bounding through the trees, her white tail twitching as she fled. Allie had a grain trough behind her house that attracted many deer, and she thought she recognized the doe. She abandoned the disturbing thoughts of Frederick in favor of the doe’s beauty. Atlantic Beach . . . the sand and the sea . . . didn’t hold half the appeal as the deer, her rock, the stream, and the whippoorwills that serenaded her at sundown.

The deer disappeared through the woods and stirred a covey of quail in its wake. As the birds flurried in all directions, another movement gained Allie’s focus. A group of people strolled down the tree-lined lane. Allie immediately recognized Macy’s svelte sisters-in-law and pleasingly plump mother-in-law. In the middle of the animated trio sauntered a man who strongly resembled . . .

“Frederick!” Allie exclaimed, and her cup clattered against her saucer as she leaned forward. “But it can’t be!”

Deciding all her pining was making her hallucinate, Allie closed her eyes, shook her head, and reminded herself that her brother-in-law, Charlie, was tall and had dark hair. He had gone fishing after lunch in the family lake behind the Grove mansion. His walking back home with his mother and sisters was something he’d done scores of times—especially when Martha Grove wanted to invite Macy to dinner.

In the midst of the closed-eyed reasoning, Allie reminded herself that the man she saw didn’t walk or look like Charlie in the least. In the face of that logic, she convinced herself that her aching heart was superimposing Frederick’s image upon Charlie . . . just as it had filled her dreams with images of Frederick every night since he’d arrived at Elton Mansion with the Cosbys.

Certain of her verdict, Allie opened her eyes, fully expecting Charlie Grove. What she saw was Frederick Wently. She blinked hard. Frederick again. She looked away, and darted her gaze back to the man. And again he was Frederick.

Allie could deny the truth no longer. Frederick Wently was walking toward the house with Louise hanging on one arm and Helena on the other. And the way Martha was ogling him, she was as smitten as her daughters.

“It is Frederick!” Allie croaked and scrambled to stand. Her teacup tilted and jostled a puddle of purplish-brown liquid into the saucer. Somehow she managed to plunk the teacup back onto the tray without losing a drop. She looked down at her soiled work clothes and smoothed her hands over her hair. Allie touched her face and figured she probably looked like a shiny-nosed wench.

Her attention shifted to Macy, still riveted to her book.

A slow tremble assaulted Allie’s knees. “Macy, there’s—there’s a man coming,” she rasped and shook her sister’s arm.

“What?” Macy’s distant focus shifted to Allie.

“Your mom and sisters are coming with a man,” Allie stated.

“With a man?” Macy shrieked and looked down at her lounging pants. She twisted toward the window and leaned forward. “Oh my word!” Macy stroked her ponytail. “You’re right! I need to change and fix my hair.” She jumped up and dashed toward the hallway before Allie had the chance to breathe. “Let them in, will you? Tell them I’ll be right down!”

“But—but—” Allie helplessly watched as Macy disappeared down the hallway. She’d have loved to slip to the guesthouse to freshen up before having to face Frederick. The last time she saw him she hadn’t exactly been supermodel material, but at least she hadn’t been dirt-smeared and windblown.

A lump formed in her throat. Her eyes stung. She looked heavenward. “Help!” Allie begged before hustling toward the brass-trimmed mirror hanging near the fireplace. One glimpse and she groaned. Forget sneaking to the guesthouse to freshen up. As bad as she looked, she needed to disappear for good. Dirt streaked her chin. Her nose and cheeks were sun-bitten, her hair, wind-licked. After shoving desperate hands through her hair in a sad attempt at finger combing, Allie rubbed at the dirt on her chin. The smudge refused to budge.

Frantically, she zoomed to her teacup, snatched a paper napkin from the tray, and dunked it into the hot tea. Back at the mirror, she sponged the dirt away and prayed there was no purple left to deal with. Thankfully, the dirt vanished and her chin remained purple-less.

The doorbell rang. Allie jumped and dropped the napkin. She kicked it into the corner and scurried from the den toward the entryway. When she was ten feet from the front door, Allie stopped, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and willed herself to emit a calm persona. By the time she turned the knob, Allie was committed to feigning complete composure.