Housebound

by Anne Stuart

  “Almost as bad as a banker. I hold no brief for lawyers,” Lillian announced, chuckling to herself. The terrible joke brought a fresh searing through Anne’s heart, as unwillingly she imagined Noah’s diabolical appreciation. “You know, I’d hate to think of you settling for anything less than you deserve,” Lillian continued, oblivious to Anne’s flinch.

  “It doesn’t appear that I will.”

  “Not if you keep on this way. You’ve got to do more with your life than sit around baby-sitting an old woman and eating yourself into a stupor. You either have to go after your lawyer and tell him you want him, or forget him and find someone new. You can’t spend the rest of your life moping.”

  “I told you I couldn’t care less about Wilson!” Anne shot back, reaching for a croissant.

  Lillian smacked her hand, and the croissant crumbled into a flaky pile onto the plate. “I’m talking about the other one, you ninny! Noah, isn’t that his name?”

  Anne stared at her, openmouthed. “Who told you?”

  “Who do you think? You’re a big-mouthed family. Proffy, Holly, even Ashley made sure I knew all about it. I just wish you’d tell me your version of the story. Their three versions were confusing, to say the least.”

  “What’s the use? It’s all ancient history by now.” Very daintily she licked her fingertips and picked up a few stray crumbs from the plate.

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  “Darling Aunt Lillian, I’d really rather not discuss it.” With her usual lithe grace Anne slipped off the kitchen stool, carrying her refilled coffee mug with her. “I’m going to finish this out on the porch.”

  “Put on some shoes!” Lillian shouted after her. “It’s still cool out there. I don’t want to have to nurse you through pneumonia along with your broken heart.”

  “I do not have a broken heart!” Anne yelled as the screen door slammed shut behind her.

  Lillian, never content to let a young upstart have the last word, wheeled herself over to the door. “And what do you have planned today, missy?”

  “I’m going to repair the east wall of the stables. The bottom boards have been resting in the mud and they’re rotted through.”

  “You’re the best carpenter this place has seen in many a year,” Lillian admitted grudgingly. “Not to mention plumber and electrician. You ought to do something with all that experience.”

  “Like what? I can’t really see me building condominiums in Bennington,” Anne said, digging her toes into the cool spring earth beneath her.

  Lillian’s eyes softened for a moment as they surveyed her niece’s bowed head. “We’ll see. I wouldn’t be surprised if something could be found for you to do.”

  “I have plenty to do. When I’m finished with the wall, I’m going to fix the overhead light in the pantry, and then I’ll probably work on my music for a while.”

  “Saints preserve us!” Lillian moaned. “That song is enough to make a Pollyanna slash her wrists.”

  Anne grinned over her shoulder. “Okay, I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon eating.”

  “Strong is one thing, Anne Kirkland, stubborn is another,” Lillian grumbled as she wheeled herself away.

  Anne leaned back, sipping her rapidly cooling coffee, contemplating Lillian’s words with a distant interest. The strong one in the family, was she? She had never felt less strong in her entire life. She felt weak and miserable and unhappy, and totally incapable of doing anything to stir herself from the miasma that had settled over her when she left New Jersey.

  Even the glories of the late Vermont spring couldn’t shake the massive depression that had engulfed her. The smell of the damp earth, the daffodils poking their heads through the fresh green grass, the warmth of the sun on her shoulders, all should have contributed to the easing of the hard knot that lodged between her breasts. But they brought no more than a faint, fleeting smile. Lillian was right, of course. She could only spend so much time hidden away in Vermont, keeping herself busy with a dozen useless projects. But she still couldn’t decide where she could go, what she could do.

  Edmund Jolles had begged her to return to the small publishing house in Bucks County whenever she felt like it, had also promised her glowing recommendations if she wanted to find an editing job elsewhere. But still she sat, eating too much, singing dirges—much to Lillian’s disgust.

  Because, of course, Lillian was absolutely right. Despite Anne’s years of possessive love for her pre-Revolutionary War farmhouse, what really tore her apart was Noah Grant’s betrayal. The loss of her home and her family’s deviousness were nothing compared to the loss of Noah Grant.

  Not that she’d ever had him, she mused. Nialla had him firmly chained to her memory, chained by guilt and love, and Anne couldn’t begin to guess which was stronger. From the very first Noah had warned her, as obliquely as possible, that he was nothing but trouble. Why hadn’t she believed him? Why had she made the incredibly stupid mistake of falling in love with him anyway? And why couldn’t she find even a scrap of comfort in the peace surrounding her?

  Sighing, she drained her coffee, rose and went in search of more croissants.

  NOAH GRANT SHOULD HAVE been enjoying his freedom. He was walking away from the law firm that had employed him for the last six years, the firm that had just offered him a partnership if he’d stay, that had treated him as well as anyone could expect to be treated. He was walking away without a backward glance or a single regret, heading toward a future that was, at best, nebulous.

  He still couldn’t quite figure why he thought being a public defender in a thriving Connecticut city would be any more rewarding than finding tax dodges for obscenely wealthy corporations. Maybe he was just nostalgic for the past, for the year he’d spent doing the same work for the City of New York. He’d had a sense of purpose then, a feeling of involvement that had been lacking for too long. He wanted that feeling back; he wanted life back. He’d been only half alive for too long, half of him in the grave with Nialla.

  Nialla was gone now, had been since that night at the Elgin Hotel less than a month ago. No longer did she hover at his shoulder, dark eyes reproaching his anger. He remembered her with love and sorrow, the rage absent now, but she was fading fast, not much more than a sweet memory.

  He had a new ghost now, one that was going to prove much harder to exorcise. He had steeled himself for the Kirkland weddings, determined to back Anne into a corner and force her to listen to him. He had been in a white-knuckled panic during the drive down to Lambertville, and all for nothing. Anne was gone, and it had taken nothing short of threats to get her address from the disapproving Wilson.

  Not that it had done him any good. The old dragon who had taken her in steadfastly refused to put her on the phone, to relay his messages, to give him any help at all. It wasn’t the slightest bit encouraging to realize that Lillian was sympathetic and longing to be helpful. Her opinions were strong on the subject—Anne needed time and distance, and she didn’t need to be bothered before she could make up her mind what she wanted.

  It took him a while before he realized that Lillian was willing, even eager to be an ally. But only on her terms. In the meantime the summer stretched in front of him, bleak and hot and empty without her. His time would be filled with starting the new job, dealing with the vagaries of apartment life while his house was being built. And when the weekends proved too long he would go out to the ocean and work on the rambling cottage his architect brother had designed for him. His hours would be filled with activity, and his life would be empty.

  He could always ignore Lillian’s warnings and drive up to Vermont. There were times when he thought that if he didn’t see Anne soon he’d go crazy. But his regret always stopped him.

  When it came right down to it, he had a hell of a lot of nerve, he told himself with weary self-disgust. He’d spent the three years since Nialla’s death dodging commitments, dodging love. He’d tricked Anne, in effect lied to her, and offered her nothing. And now that he’d changed
his mind, decided maybe he could offer her more than just a short, sweet affair, he had the colossal gall to hope she’d welcome him with open arms.

  He didn’t deserve her. And the least he could give her was the time she needed. If in the end she decided to listen to him, it would still take her a long time to forgive him his betrayal in taking the house from her. If she ever would. And if he had to suffer while she came to terms with it, then that was his deserved penance. But it seemed to be taking forever.

  “YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE to leave,” Lillian announced abruptly several nights later. Anne looked up from the lugubrious Russian novel she was wading through with a question in her shadowed eyes.

  “Driven you nuts, have I?” she questioned calmly, trying to still the little spurt of panic that clutched at her stomach. She wasn’t ready to make decisions, to face the real world as yet. She knew she had to, sooner or later. But later would have been much more appealing.

  “I’ve survived worse,” her aunt replied dryly. “No, it’s you I’m thinking of. Your family is descending, almost en masse, to try to drag you back to New Jersey. Apparently the task of packing up a century’s worth of accumulations is more than Proffy and Holly can manage.”

  “And they want me to come back and help?”

  “Knowing your family, I expect they want you to come back and do it all,” Lillian replied. “Holly said they were going to throw themselves on your mercy.”

  Anne snorted, closing the turgid novel with a snap. “That’s like asking someone to assist at his own execution.”

  “Well, you can’t really blame them, can you? After all, you’ve never told them no before. They think you’re Superwoman, with nerves and heart of steel. It’s only natural they think they can talk you into anything without you doing more than blinking.”

  “Not this time.”

  “So I told them. But they’re coming anyway, and I think you should be gone when they get here.”

  “Is that who’s been calling all the time?” she asked, not really curious.

  Lillian smiled faintly, refusing to answer. “When can you be ready to leave?”

  “Whenever,” Anne replied with a shrug. “I’ll have to decide where to go, though.”

  “That’s the best part.” Lillian looked quite pleased with herself. “I’ve been busy the past few days. I’ve found you a job.”

  “I don’t need a job.”

  “You do, and you’re going to take it. I went to a lot of trouble arranging this for you, and I’m not going to have you turn up your nose at this and make me look like a fool,” Lillian snapped. “Besides, it’s right up your alley.”

  “I’m not interested in editing at the moment.”

  “The hell with editing. I’ve gotten you a construction job.”

  “What?”

  “A friend of mine is building a house on a stretch of oceanfront property in Connecticut. It’s a simple, almost experimental affair. Lots of passive solar heating and other such newfangled ideas. He wanted to build it himself but things have gotten a little out of hand with his work. He’s got a new job, so he’s had to hire helpers. You’d be working with Sam Oliver during the week, and the owner would come out and putter on the weekends.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “Absolutely not. I had the devil’s own time convincing Sam to hire you. He usually makes do with a couple of teenagers during the summer, but his usual boy has gone into the army and he’s been having trouble finding someone else. He said he was willing to give you a chance.”

  “What about the owner? How does he feel about women’s work?” Despite her initial dismay the idea was beginning to appeal to her.

  “Oh, he doesn’t care—he leaves it up to Sam. I don’t think you’d even run into him.”

  A sudden absurd suspicion flared into Anne’s admittedly paranoid brain. “Who’s the owner?”

  “Fellow by the name of Matthews,” Lillian lied without batting an eye. “You’ll like it down in Wilbury, Anne. I’ve visited when I was younger—a perfect little New England village, looks more like Maine than Connecticut. And Matthews is building right by the sea—you can take a swim on your lunch break.”

  “You think I won’t do it,” Anne challenged the older woman.

  Lillian smiled serenely. “I don’t know anymore what you’ll do. You’d be crazy not to jump at the chance. You could room at the local boardinghouse and have a peaceful summer doing good hard physical labor that will leave you too tired to brood. Get a good tan and a feeling of accomplishment, and then come fall you can look at life from a different perspective.”

  “You take a lot for granted, Aunt Lil.”

  “I was counting on your still having a lick of gumption beneath that mournful exterior. Was I right?”

  Anne hesitated for only a moment longer. There had been no word from Noah, no message. Not that she’d expected anything, she maintained stoutly. But an apology, no matter how feeble, would have been something. Lillian’s badgering was well founded—she had spent far too much time mourning a lost cause.

  “You were right, Aunt Lil.” Getting up from her perch on the comfortable old sofa, Anne crossed the room and pressed a kiss against her aunt’s papery cheek. “Thank you, Lillian. I’ll miss you.”

  The old lady’s eyes misted. “I’ll miss you too, darling. You write me from that place. And don’t let Sam Oliver push you around. He knows his stuff—you couldn’t work for a better man. But he has a tendency to be a mite autocratic. Not to mention sexist.”

  “Sexist? Then why in the world is he hiring a woman construction worker?”

  Lillian grinned. “Because the fool man never could say no to me,” she said with deep satisfaction.

  Anne stretched to her full height. “Well, whatever his misgivings, I’ll make sure he doesn’t regret this. I think you may have saved my life, Aunt Lil. I’m going to love this.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Love was not the operative word, Anne thought later of her first few weeks as a laborer. Exhaustion, frustration, annoyance, discomfort and a rough satisfaction were more accurate. Sam Oliver had proven to be cut from the same cloth as Aunt Lillian—opinionated, irascible, with a warm heart beneath that grumpy exterior. He was also an incredible craftsman, and his demands on Anne, even from the first, were phenomenal. Every nail had to be nailed at the exact angle called for, every measurement had to be done three times at least to be sure of its exactness. Even with something as fast-moving and rudimentary as framing the rambling modern house was accomplished with a care for details. Anne both dreaded and anticipated the more exacting finishing work when it came along. If Sam would put up with her. And despite his vociferous complaints, she could tell that on occasion he was not displeased with her work.

  The first week was a disaster. Her stamina for the rough physical labor of hauling two-by-fours around was limited to four hours a day. By the second week she found she could push herself to eight hours, and by the end of the month her pace for the twelve-hour working days Sam favored almost equaled his.

  Her soft, lean arms grew lovely muscles, her pale skin first burned in the bright early summer sunshine, then turned a deep golden tan. The worst part of the whole experience, Anne mused, was early June, when the mosquitoes were at their worst. She was roofing then, the hot sun beating down on her, and all the odoriferous Woodsman’s Fly Dope couldn’t keep the little monsters from feeding on her succulent flesh. They left Sam’s leathery hide completely alone—”too tough for ’em,” he said smugly. That night when she looked into the mirror, her face blistered from the sunburn, swollen from a thousand and one mosquito bites, she burst into tears. But a good long soak in a baking-soda-filled bath and a sound night’s sleep, and she went back to the roof with the resignation of an early Christian martyr, determined to do her duty no matter what the cost.

  June slipped into July, and the house began to assume some shape. Sam and Anne would work all week long—framing, sheathing, roofing—and then have
the weekend off. Anne grew to hate those weekends. For the first part of them she was content to walk along the tourist-crowded streets of the little town, to hike along the ocean, to lie in the sun and read something a bit more cheerful than Russian novels. But as Sunday lengthened and her body rested, the events of the spring would return and she recalled with a pang of regret Noah Grant’s laughing blue eyes in his dark Gypsy face. She never slept well on Sunday nights, and when she did her dreams were of Noah and she would wake, bereft once more.

  Her least favorite job on the whole house was the wall of windows facing out toward the sea. Each sliding window had weighed in at several hundred pounds, and despite her newly formed muscles she was exhausted by the third one. “I sure the hell hope Matthews is going to appreciate this house,” she said, panting, one Friday afternoon late in July as they settled the window into place. “It’s going to be hard enough giving this up after we’ve worked so hard on it. I just hope he has the sense to love it, too.”

  “Pretty possessive, aren’t you?” Sam drawled, tapping the corner of the window against the frame with just the right amount of force. “You forget that he comes and works on it every weekend.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. His work isn’t as good as yours is—I can always recognize anything he’s done.”

  “Nobody’s as good as me,” he replied, a calm statement of fact. “Not even you, young lady. But he does a good enough job, for all that.” Which was high praise indeed, given Sam’s high standards. Praise that even a jealous Anne had to admit was deserved. “If you’re going to keep building houses, you’re going to have to let go, Annie.”

  “Even if I don’t build houses I’m going to have to learn to let go,” she said darkly.

  “We all have to, sooner or later,” Sam agreed, setting the window in place with a few short perfect taps of his hammer. “You want to help me with the last one, or could you use a trip into town about now?”