With a smile and a brief incline of his head, he stepped through the velvet curtains into the hallway beyond and disappeared. Gwyn stared after him, still wondering, shoulders tingling from the touch of warm, strong hands as he’d settled her coat into place.
Chapter 2
Gareth Connor fished the car keys from his coat pocket as he stepped out of the theater and into the cold Canadian November. That had been quite the experience in there—rather like tangling with a small tornado, albeit far more pleasant. Shaking his head at his own lingering smile, he turned up the collar on his wool coat and skirted a puddle on the sidewalk.
He’d almost introduced himself, but after her initial start of recognition, she’d seemed content to withdraw into her own little world. It had actually been quite a novelty for him, sitting beside a stranger who hadn’t behaved as if they were best friends. His smile turned rueful. For that reason alone, he should have introduced himself. A woman who didn’t fall all over him was downright refreshing.
And a woman who didn’t fall all over him and who looked as good as she had...
He’d ended up ignoring much of the play in favor of watching her work, barely visible in the dim light of their shared box. Her hair had fascinated him. A wild tangle of spirals that she’d tried—and failed—to tame with a clip. Until the full set of house lights had come on at the end of the play, he’d had to guess at its auburn color. He’d been strangely satisfied to find his guess accurate. Not because he was right, but because auburn suited her so well. Rich, untamed auburn.
And blue eyes. Laughing blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when she wrinkled her nose at her finished sketch.
And skin the color of—
A sudden, icy blast of wind sliced through thoughts he had no business having. Rounding the corner of the theater to the parking lot, he pulled out a pair of gloves and tugged them on, putting the woman out of his mind. As intriguing as the encounter might have been, he had other concerns right now.
A raindrop splashed onto his cheek and he put up his hand to wipe it away. God, what a time of year to be visiting this part of Canada. Trust Catherine to move all the way across the Atlantic to this. Sometimes he wondered if her choice hadn’t been just a little bit spiteful...
He shrugged off the thought. None of that mattered anymore. He was here now, they were both adults, and he had too much at stake to start analyzing motives or leveling accusations. Far, far too much at stake.
Very soon, they would talk, he and his ex. They would talk, and they would settle this once and for all. And then...then he would see. Just as he wouldn’t analyze motives, neither would he jinx the outcome with too many expectations.
Patience, Connor. You’ve waited this long, you can last a few more days.
Long strides brought him to a blue sedan, one of a handful of cars left in the lot. He inserted a key in the lock, then paused. A few spaces away, headlights glowed faintly from a car that held no occupant. His mind returned to spilled pencils and auburn hair. Another smile tugged.
What were the chances?
***
Gwyn saw her car’s dying headlights the instant she entered the parking lot. Her heart dropped to her rapidly chilling toes. Oh, no. No, no, no.
She couldn’t have.
But she had, and the faint click when she twisted the key in the ignition, unaccompanied by even the tiniest turn of the engine, confirmed it. She groaned, swore vehemently, and groaned again. Her breath fogged in the chill.
She folded her arms across the steering wheel and rested her head against them. She pictured the overdue auto-club membership form nestled in the ‘to-do’ basket on her desk at home. A groan escaped her. Maybe she’d rename the receptacle the ‘too-late’ basket when she got home. If she got home.
And it was a big if.
With significant payments from three clients sitting in the same too late basket, she’d temporarily maxed out her credit card and bottomed out her checking account. A tow truck to give her a boost would cost a fortune that didn’t exist in an obtainable form just now. Ditto a cab to take her home.
Heck, she’d even arranged to pay Kirsten with a check, on condition that her babysitter not cash it until after Gwyn made it to the bank tomorrow.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to think calmly through her options. Sandy always went out for drinks with the cast after a performance, and she didn’t own a cell phone, so she’d be no help. Alex and Elaine, Kirsten’s parents, were away for the weekend, and—
A tap on her window made her turn her head. She stared in disbelief at her former seatmate. His mouth tipped upward at one corner and he motioned for her to roll down the window.
“Problems?” he asked.
She bit her lip, loathe to admit her idiocy. Then she sighed. “I left the lights on,” she said. “You wouldn’t happen to have any booster cables, would you?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I have a cell phone, though.”
She held up her own. “So do I, thanks.”
“Have you called a truck?”
“No. I’ll just catch a bus home and have my neighbor drive me over to collect the car tomorrow.” At least she had that much money with her. She hoped.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Yeah, right. Absolutely certain she wanted to spend the next three hours trying to travel the short distance across the Ottawa River to the Aylmer sector of Gatineau on the buses’ roundabout Sunday routes. Oh well, at least it would give her ample time to reflect on how much of a ditz this incredibly good-looking man must think she was.
She mustered a weak smile. “Thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome. Goodnight.” He took a couple of steps away, then swung back to face her again. “You wouldn’t like to get a cup of coffee, would you?”
“I beg your pardon?” She stared at him. She knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t help it. She was too stunned to be polite.
“Coffee,” he repeated, the thread of amusement back again. “Hot, black...I’m sure you’ll recognize it when you see it.”
“I-I-” Gwyn stammered. The bus, dinner for the kids...oh, heck, why not? What was another half hour added on to how late she’d already be? Even if he turned out not to be the real Gareth Connor, she’d have one heck of a tale to go along with Sandy’s gift. She took her keys out of the ignition, picked up her uncooperative shoulder bag, and exited the car.
“Coffee would be nice,” she said, and held out her hand to him. “I’m Gwyn Jacobs.”
“Gareth Connor,” he replied, accepting her handshake.
Gwyn’s heart gave a mighty thud, knocking most of the air from her lungs. All right, so women like her did sit beside famous actors in obscure Ottawa theaters. She collected herself, withdrew her hand, and said with what she considered remarkable aplomb, “I thought I recognized you.”
“I wasn’t sure if you did or not.”
“I think it was more a case of not believing my own eyes,” she said, her voice wry. “Canterbury Theater in Ottawa is a little out of the way for you, I’d think.”
He smiled and shrugged without giving a direct reply. “There’s a bistro across the street. Shall we?”
She held up her cell phone. “Give me two seconds to call my babysitter first. I need to let her know I’ll be late.”
Gareth Connor’s eyes flickered at the word babysitter, but he said nothing, merely moving a few steps off to wait for her.
Gwyn made a quick call to ask Kirsten to reheat yesterday’s leftover macaroni and cheese casserole for dinner—and to assure her she’d make it home sometime before the kids went to bed. Then, ending the connection, she took a deep breath and joined her coffee companion, the real live Gareth Connor, on the sidewalk.
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Acknowledgements
Writing a book is never truly a solo effort. Somewhere, behind every writer, stands a team of indispensable people who have helped along the
way, and I would like to give special thanks to some of them for their support and help in the writing of Abigail Always.
First, to my husband and youngest daughter, who suffered through my absence as I scrambled to meet my deadlines over the Christmas holidays. I know I wasn’t around very much for a couple of weeks, and I’m so very grateful that you hung around waiting for me to re-emerge from my office.
Next, to author ‘Nathan Burgoine, for opening my eyes to the need to reflect the diverse tapestry of life in my novels—and for his valuable advice on how to do it right (I hope I did!).
To my team of beta readers, who performed above and beyond on this book, meeting an insane deadline and still managing to give invaluable feedback. Bridget Connors, Karen Tanruther, Olga Gontarczyk, and Emily Nord—you guys truly rock!
And last but never least, the people who have my back when it comes to production: my editor, Laura Byrne Paquet, who fit me into her schedule mere days before a Mexican vacation(!); my cover designer Natalie, who continues to wow me with her vision and her ability to intuit my own; and my interior designer Clara Stone, who is just downright fantastic to work with.
You are all awesome. Period.
About the Author
Like all romance writers, Linda Poitevin is a firm believer in happy-ever-afters, but she also knows how hard you have to work at relationships sometimes. She tries to reflect that in stories about people who live, laugh, cry, and love just as hard as they can in this crazy life we all share—people who are as real to her as she hopes they'll be to you.
Linda lives outside Ottawa, Canada's capital, where (in her other-than-writing life) she is a wife, mom, friend, avid gardener, walker of a giant dog, and keeper of many (many!) pets. She also writes dark urban fantasy under the name of Lydia M. Hawke.
You can find Linda on her website at LindaPoitevin.com (sign up for her newsletter there to get book updates!) or shoot her an email (she loves to hear from readers!) at [email protected].
Other Books by Linda Poitevin
Gwynneth Ever After
Forever After
Forever Grace
Always and Forever
Shadow of Doubt
Also writing as Lydia M. Hawke
Sins of the Angels
Sins of the Son
Sins of the Lost
Sins of the Warrior
Abigail Always Page 27
