“To Ben?” Abby protested, suddenly cautious. “I just met him today.”
“No, I mean…otherwise. You’re not married…?” When Abby shook her head, Patsy raced on eagerly. “Grab him! He’s gorgeous!”
“Patsy—”
“No, I’m serious! You make a great-looking couple.”
“This is a jury!”
“He’s brilliant,” she went on as though Abby had never spoken. “Do you know that he’s a college professor? He didn’t say where, and I had to all but pry that much out of him, but you should have heard the discussion he had with Bernie about the caste system in India. Does he ever have facts at his fingertips!”
Abby had no doubt about that. “It sounds like your dinner was a little more interesting than mine. Who’s Bernie?”
Barely stopping for a breath, Patsy was fast proving herself to be the antithesis of the other jurors. “Bernie is Bernie Langenbach. He was the first juror sworn in. Poor guy’s been here since the day before yesterday! He owns a restaurant in White River Junction.”
“How about you, Patsy? What do you do?”
For the first time, the blond-haired woman spoke slowly, but it was only pride that weighted her words. “I work for the Eastern Appalachian Company designing skiwear.”
“You design it? That’s fantastic!”
Patsy nodded. “I enjoy the work.” Then she grew more mischievous. “And it gives me an excuse to stay near the slopes….”
Something in her eyes told Abby that her interest wasn’t purely in schussing. “Okay,” Abby grinned, liking Patsy more by the minute, “Let’s have it. Who is he?”
Smiling gaily, Patsy leaned closer. “He’s a ski bum and he’s the most wonderful guy in the world! I mean, he’s smart and funny, and is he ever a good-looker!”
“But can he ski?” Abby asked, holding her expression sober only until her friend laughed aloud.
“Can he ski?” She rolled her eyes heaven-ward. “When he comes down that mountain, it is something to behold,” she breathed in near reverence. Then, in the instant, she started up again. “Boy, was he annoyed when he found out I couldn’t talk with him.”
Now the story sounded familiar. “He doesn’t like talking through an interpreter?” Abby asked, tongue in cheek.
“Not…a…bit!” Patsy loudly sucked in her breath, then let it out with similar gusto. “And do I love that possessiveness!”
Abby dissolved into gentle laughter. “You’re amazing, Patsy. A change from the very staid folks I ate with tonight.”
Sitting back in her chair, Patsy grimaced. “You mean Dean didn’t thrill you with his opinion of the economy?”
“Uh-oh. You’ve heard it too?” It was slightly conservative, at best.
“Twice now. And Richard—he usually picks up with his plug for tourism. You know—it’s a good thing that the rich are getting richer so they can afford to ski in these mountains. I hope you didn’t try to argue with him,” she added her warning, but it came too late.
“As a matter of fact,” Abby moaned, “I did suggest something about all those other people who might like to ski—”
“And he clammed up?”
“Not another word.”
Patsy nodded. “That seems to be the pattern. It’s as though they’re frightened of discussion. Not your Ben, though.”
“He’s not my Ben, Patsy. For all I know he’s got some little coed stowed in his cozy condominium.” All he’d said was that he’d been married once; he’d never ruled out a current lover. “And besides, I’ve got my own hands full just now.”
“You do?” Patsy gleamed. “Tell me about him.”
But before Abby was able to say a word, Nicholas Abbott approached. “Abby? You’ve got a phone call. It’s your fiancé.”
“My fiancé?” Who else? “But I can’t talk, can I?”
“Grace is just finishing up with another call. She said she’d be glad to help you out.”
Not quite sure if she wanted to be helped out, particularly given her annoyance at Sean’s audacity, she hesitated.
“He says it’s important,” Nicholas added apologetically.
Sighing, she nodded. There was always that chance that Sean did have a question relating to the work she’d be missing during the next few weeks. She’d hardly given a thought to that, what with the events of the day, and she felt suddenly guilty. “Thank you, Mr. Abbott. I’ll be right there.”
Nicholas Abbott was barely beyond earshot when Patsy whispered hoarsely, “Your fiancé? Are you really engaged?”
“Not on your life,” Abby murmured, standing and squaring her shoulders. Then she took a deep breath. “And I intend to tell him as much right now,” she began boldly, only to be interrupted by Patsy’s droll reminder.
“You mean, you’ll have Grace tell him as much?”
“Uh-oh…well, yes. I mean, he knows we’re not engaged and he’ll have to realize that declaring himself my fiancé won’t get him through any more directly!”
Patsy rose to walk beside her. “Go get ’im, Abby,” she drawled when they reached the lobby.
Abby frowned and mumbled a low, “And here I thought I’d be free of all this…” as she spotted Grace in the office behind the desk, replacing the receiver from a call just completed. Then, her anger momentarily suspended, she watched Ben Wyeth nod his thanks to the court officer and head her way.
His brow arched roguishly. “Fiancé?” he taunted her in that soft drawl of his, and she knew he was about to add another clue to the puzzle. But before she could correct the misconception, he had nodded in salute and passed her on his way to the front door. She watched him helplessly, not quite sure why she felt so bothered, finally blaming it all on Sean as she took her turn with Grace.
When she emerged, there was no sign of Ben either on the front porch, where she’d assumed he’d been headed, or in the living room, where a handful of the others were sitting. Somehow she couldn’t face joining them. With a sigh of defeat, she retreated to her room.
An hour later she sat propped against the headboard of the king-size bed wondering what to do with herself. Had she been at home, she would have read or listened to music, perhaps reviewed some notes for the following day’s work. Now her mind was on the following day, but its focus was a very different kind of work.
It was only natural to be apprehensive, she told herself. After all, everything was so new. And Sean hadn’t helped things with his argumentativeness. Even Grace had begun to despair toward the end of the call, after she’d explained the rules to him several more times. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand them, simply that he wouldn’t accept them. But that was his problem, Abby mused, shifting her feet to the floor and standing.
She paced slowly to the window, then turned, finally sinking back into the cushioned armchair nearby. From the minute she’d seen this room, she’d liked it. Tucked up on the third and highest floor of the house, it had the same charm as the rest of the inn, perhaps even more with its dormer windows and tiny alcoves. Even now, as her eye wandered from bed to wall to dresser and rug, she felt totally at home and comfortable.
How had the others fared, she wondered idly? Did they too have handcrafted quilts on their beds, regional artwork on their walls, fresh flowers in the vases on their small sitting tables? This room was a palette of lavender, blue, and white. Were the others the same?
Against her better judgment, her mind wandered to Ben. Where was he now? Had the rooms been assigned in order of arrival…in which case he might be next door? She listened for any sound that might come from either of the adjacent rooms…. Nothing. Perhaps her neighbors hadn’t come up yet. More probably, she decided with a frown, they were in bed. What about him…?
With a soft exclamation, she jumped up and crossed the room to the nightstand by the bed. Within seconds, she had the front desk on the phone. Yes, the jurors were to be woken at seven. Oh, she wanted to run earlier? No, that was no problem. Ray would be going out at six. Was that all r
ight with her? Fine, then; she’d get her wake-up call at ten before the hour. Was there anything else she wanted? A warm drink? An extra blanket? No? Well…good night, then.
When, after an hour of dropping notes to her family to tell them of her whereabouts, Abby finally fell asleep, her mind was filled with a myriad of thought fragments, not the least disturbing of which were about one Benjamin Wyeth, the caste system in India, and a nagging sense of something she’d forgotten.
That was it…the “J.” Benjamin J. Wyeth. Dredged from her memory bank, it came to her the instant she awoke to three short rings of her phone. Benjamin J. Wyeth. It had to have been over a year now since his book had come out. She recalled Andre mentioning it one Saturday as he’d placed copies of it on the shelf. She hadn’t seen it again, but then she hadn’t looked. What was it on…not India…China, perhaps?
The question helped to keep her awake as she threw on her running suit, laced up her sneakers, and headed downstairs, wool hat in hand. Halfway down the last flight, her foot wavered…then continued more slowly.
“Morning,” she said softly, testing a smile. It was a poor facsimile of the one she might have produced had it been two hours later. Usually she ran alone, with no one to witness her slow awakening. It was small solace that the others seemed as groggy.
Ray nodded silently, as did the juror named Brian. It was the final member of the running team, though, on whom Abby’s attention stuck.
“All set?” he asked, his hair boyishly mussed and more sandy-hued in the morning’s pale light.
“All set,” she breathed and fell into step with the men as they moved toward the door.
Ray, the court officer-cum-runner, seemed most concerned with the female he had on his hands. “You run often, Miss Barnes?”
“It’s Abby…and yes. Every morning.”
They were on the front steps and descending. “Good. Why don’t you and Brian move on ahead. I’ll take up the rear with Ben.”
Given her choice, Abby might have arranged things differently. She certainly hadn’t expected to find Ben running, though in hindsight she should have suspected as much. He was too broad in the shoulder and too narrow in the hip to lead an inactive life. And since he’d been the first thought in her mind when she’d awoken that morning, this unexpected rendezvous might have been a boon. But then, she reasoned by way of consolation, she wasn’t much up for talking yet. The sun had barely edged over the horizon, and she still had her own waking up to do.
Tugging the wool cap in place to ward off the morning’s nip, she indulged in her usual stretching exercises before straightening to find all three men watching her.
“Is…is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious as she looked from one face to the other. But her look turned to one of challenge when she recognized the male appreciation in their regard. “Don’t you all limber up?”
“Not quite…that…way,” Ben dared to reply, his hands on his hips, his eyes twinkling.
Ray wasn’t as bold. “Let’s go,” he mumbled, waving Brian off.
Abby continued to stare at Ben for a final moment’s censure before turning and starting out. “You know the way?” she asked Brian, who nodded curtly.
“Did it yesterday,” was all he said. His eyes were on the path ahead, his concentration fully on his running.
Following his lead, Abby immersed herself in her own thoughts as she ran, much as she did every other morning. She found her pace and kept it, breathing evenly, pleased to find that with her lighter weight and more petite frame she kept stride with Brian easily. If these three thought they’d leave her behind, she reflected in amusement, they’d be in for a surprise. That very element of pride gave added bounce to her step.
The inn fell from sight as they wound through the trees on a path that seemed tailor-made for their purpose. Abby quickly saw the truth to Grace’s claim that the jury’s accommodations were ideal for recreation. Here there was no fear of contamination from the public. Not once did she catch sight or sound of civilization. There was only the rhythmic slap of running shoe against pavement, the occasional sound of breathing, and, most delightfully, the morning sounds of the woodlands on either side.
Confident of her ability to run a six-minute mile, Abby used her watch as a measure of distance. Brian kept several paces ahead, seeming to know just which way to take at a crossroads, leading them in a general figure-eight pattern that was nearly the mile itself.
The sky grew lighter with the birth of the day just as Abby grew increasingly awake and aware of what that day would bring. One part of her would have been very happy to burrow in a mossy nook in the forest and then rejoin the runners at the same point tomorrow. But that was the coward speaking, she chided, knowing that her better part was filled with a subtle excitement.
And then, of course, there was the knowledge of Benjamin Wyeth pacing himself a distance behind. As the mile count rose from three to four, then to five, she grew increasingly distracted by that thought. Pride kept her from looking back; indeed, from the competitive angle, she was pleased to stay ahead. If only he weren’t looking at her all the time.
As though summoned by her thoughts, Ben moved forward. “Not bad…for a girl,” he quipped, falling into stride beside her.
Abby caught her breath and looked sharply up, prepared for battle. But his smile was so sincere that her flare of indignation fizzled. Contriving a frown, she simply shook her head in exasperation. If the truth were known, her usual limit was the rapidly approaching six-mile point. It occurred to her that she might soon be out of her league. Best she should concentrate on holding her pace steady.
But Ben’s concentration was more inclusive. “Does your fiancé ever run with you?” he asked with nonchalance.
So much for steadiness, she mused as her pulse raced faster. Had that been on his mind all night…or was it an innocent question? A quick glance at his expression failed to enlighten her.
“Nope.”
They ran a little farther.
“You told me there was no one.”
She waited until they’d crested a small rise. “There isn’t.”
Had she looked at him then, she might have seen him nod at the logic of it all. She had to wait somewhat longer for his verbal response.
“What’s a fiancé?”
With a will to revenge the disquieting fact that he’d had free scrutiny of her for the past forty minutes, Abby ran on some before answering.
“In this case,” she spoke between breaths, “it’s a man who insists on making a pest of himself.”
“Ahhhhhh…” He saw the light.
Simultaneously, the inn loomed ahead. The runners slowed gradually before reaching the front steps, each seeking his own walkaround, letting his legs readjust to a more natural pace. Coming to a full stop at last, Abby grasped the sturdy wood railing and stood for a minute to catch her breath. Then she pulled the wool cap from her head, thrust both hands through her damp hair to comb it back over her shoulders, and sat down to cool off before going inside.
Ben promptly slid down against the opposite railing and watched as first Brian then Ray excused themselves and disappeared. Then he straightened one leg, bent the other at the knee and leaned back.
“You’re not engaged,” he stated, looking at her askance.
“Nope.” Angling forward at the waist, she grasped her calves and carefully flexed the sensitive muscles of her lower back. Her face was buried against her knees so that she was unaware of movement until she felt a pair of hands on her back. Then she jumped in alarm.
“No,” he gently pushed her down again, “Hold still. Let me see if I can do something about that stiffness.”
“How did you know it was stiff?” she asked, but her voice was muffled against her running suit.
“That little move a second ago. You stretched pretty gingerly.” Homing in on precisely the spot, his thumbs began a circular kneading that brought a helpless moan of relief from Abby. “Feel better?”
“Does it ever!” she exhaled slowly.
“Does your back always bother you when you run?”
“Uh-uh…. Only when I stop.”
“Very funny.”
Abby might have laughed had it not been for her growing awareness of his fingers—not only those thumbs that pressed and rubbed, but the others, four on each side, that seemed to round her middle and stake their claim. There was nothing laughable about their strength, nor about their exquisite gentleness. And her eyes were no longer shut, but rather wide, wide open.
Suddenly Ben leaned forward. “I think that’s about as much as I can take,” he mused on a husky note. When she turned her head instinctively, she found his within inches. And his message couldn’t have been more clearly broadcast than it was in the smooth quicksilver of his eyes, the manly lure of his mouth, the absolute earthiness about him.
An Irresistible Impulse Page 4
