Carolina Mist

by Mariah Stewart

  Abby turned up the radio, which was tuned to the country music station she recently discovered. At first, she’d listened only because it was the only station without static. Soon, however, she grew accustomed to the flavor of the songs and the voices that sung them and found herself turning it on every day as she worked. She developed a true fondness for

  Patsy Cline, learning every word to every song, which Abby sang aloud at the top of her lungs.

  Good-bye, Motown. Hello, Memphis.

  She and Patsy were wailing “Walking After Midnight” when she sensed his presence without having heard his footfall on the worn oak steps. She turned on the ladder in disbelief just as he crossed the threshold.

  “Little Abby McKenna.” He grinned with true delight as he crossed the room in three strides and reached up to pluck her from her perch. “All grown up.”

  “Alex?” She blinked her doubting eyes.

  Ohmigod, it’s true. Listening to country music nonstop for two days does cause hallucinations.

  The strong arms of her hallucination spun her around the room.

  “Alex?” she repeated again, somewhat dumbly.

  “Abby, you look wonderful. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.” The spinning stopped, but he did not release her. “You look just like you did the last time I saw you. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Her head was buzzing loudly, swirling as if some giant whirlpool within her threatened to pull her under. She pushed her hands against his chest to distance herself from him while she sought to compose herself and hush the roar between her ears. After so long, he was suddenly too close too soon.

  “Abby, you always were just a wisp of a girl.” He reached down to touch her hair. “Now you’re a wisp of a woman.”

  Flakes of wallpaper fluttered around her like a dusty halo.

  “Ah… I’m afraid I’m a bit of a mess.” She flushed, knowing what she must look like. “You’ve caught me completely off guard. If I’d known you were coming…”

  “Gran didn’t tell you?”

  “You mean Belle knew?” Abby’s eyes widened. How could Belle have neglected to tell her?

  “Alexander?” A woman’s voice—not Belle’s—called from the top of the steps.

  “Oh.” Alex looked momentarily over his shoulder. “In here, Melissa.”

  Melissa?

  Abby’s hands dropped to her sides as the young woman strode into the room, one eyebrow rising in frank curiosity as she viewed the scene before her.

  “Melissa Pendleton, this is Abby McKenna.” Alex turned Abby around with his right arm still around her. “Abby was my very best buddy for many years.”

  “How very nice for both of you.” Melissa extended a patrician hand in Abby’s direction as her eyes tried to size up both Abby and her importance—past and present—in Alex’s life.

  Abby smiled woodenly as she in turn sized up Melissa, whose red silk shirt and black crepe slacks were distinctly out of place in the wreck of the partially stripped room. Abby slid one sneakered foot self-consciously toward the other, painfully comparing her rumpled and dirty self to the carefully made-up, beautifully manicured, and perfectly coifed Melissa. Stubby-nailed fingers sought solace in the pocket of ripped jeans. There was no way to hide the hair, short of draping a drop cloth over her head.

  “Abby’s aunt owns this house,” Alex explained, oblivious to the two women’s mutual albeit silent assessment of each other. “She and my grandmother have been best friends forever.”

  “Really.” Melissa was relaxing. She had scanned Abby’s appearance and had clearly labeled her no competition.

  Abby’s cheeks burned, and her ire began to rise as she sensed Melissa’s blatant dismissal.

  “Where is Leila, anyway, Abby?” Alex asked.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” Abby groaned. How long did Belle intend to carry on this silly charade?

  “Abigail?” Belle called from the bottom of the steps. “Meredy and her little friends are here to sing carols for us. Please do come down for a moment.”

  Abby tossed her hands up in exasperation. What was the point in beating around the bush?

  “Leila is dead,” she announced flatly as she headed for the door, “and has been for months.”

  She left Alex standing in the middle of the room, his jaw hanging open halfway to his knees.

  14

  “I think we had better talk about this.” He leaned against the counter as Abby prepared to chop carrots. She could have bounced the entire bag off the top of Belle’s head for inviting Alex—and therefore Melissa—to join them for Christmas dinner without telling Abby she had done so. “Just what is going on here? What happened to Leila?”

  “Leila died in September. She left the house to me.” Abby was clipped and to the point.

  “So you’ve been here since September?”

  “No. Only for the past month.”

  “The past month?” He leaned closer. “Who was taking care of Gran between the time Leila died and the time you got here?”

  “Naomi looked in on her every day. And brought food over for her, and ran her errands, did her laundry…”

  “Are you saying that my grandmother lived alone in this big house for two months by herself?” he asked incredulously. “Abby, how could you have let her stay here alone?”

  “How could I have let her stay here?” She slapped the carrots loudly on the counter. “How could I have let her stay here? Where the hell were you? How could you have let her stay here?”

  “Up until four weeks ago, I was in Boston. I didn’t know.” He was wide-eyed that she would assume that he would permit his elderly grandmother to live alone in this huge old house.

  “Well, neither did I.”

  “How could you not know? It’s your house.”

  “How could you not know? She’s your grandmother.” She spat the accusation back at him.

  “Nobody told me Leila was dead.” His brown eyes crackled with angry sparks, his voice rising defensively.

  “Nobody told me Belle was living here.” Abby went him one octave higher.

  They stood almost toe to toe, in the same stance, hands on hips. Only their difference in height prevented them from being nose to nose.

  “Abby, Miz Matthews asked me to tell you that she’d like you to serve tea soon.” Melissa peered into the kitchen, making no effort to conceal her small pleasure at having found the two of them in obvious disagreement.

  “Oh, did she now,” Abby snapped.

  “Yes, she did.” Melissa clearly enjoyed the opportunity to pass along the orders. “Oh, and she said for you to make a fresh batch of scones. Buttermilk scones, she said specifically. My momma had a cook that made the best buttermilk scones in Georgia. Now, you do put raisins in yours, don’t you, Abby?”

  “Yes,” Abby hissed.

  “Well, I was just checking, no need to get huffy,” she purred sweetly as she turned her baby blues on Alex, who was still glaring at the back of Abby’s neck. “Alexander, I’d sure like that little walking tour of this quaint little town right about now.” Melissa looped a hand through his arm possessively and tugged seductively at his shirt sleeve. “Unless, of course, Abby’d like some help with tea.”

  “I do not need help.” Abby turned her back abruptly and made a pretense of searching in the cupboard for the bag of flour.

  “How much time before tea?” Melissa asked sweetly.

  “Forty-five minutes to an hour,” Abby said flatly, refusing to turn around.

  “That should be plenty of time. Come on, then, Alex. I want to walk down to that cute little town square we passed on the way in.” She guided him toward the door.

  “Abby.” He spoke her name crisply, as if being forced to. “We will finish this conversation later.”

  “Count on it.” She tossed the words over her shoulder like a well-aimed fastball.

  “Come along now, Alex,” Abby mimicked Melissa’s drawl when she had heard the front door close. “I’m just
dying for you to show me around this cute little ole town, Alex.”

  She measured flour, baking powder, and baking soda into the bowl, muttering in exaggerated imitation, “Now, Abby, Miz Matthews would like her tea soon. And fresh scones, Abby. Buttermilk scones, Abby, which couldn’t possibly be near as good as my momma’s cook’s were. Now, you do know enough to put raisins in, don’t you, Abigail?”

  Unsalted butter was cut with her fingers and dumped into the flour mixture.

  “What the hell do I look like, the downstairs maid?” Abby snarled.

  Actually, she knew, that was exactly what she did look like. Her hair was a tangle, and her sweatshirt bore streaks of paint and strips of gummy paper. The knees were out of her jeans. She recognized the painful contrast to Melissa’s impeccable clothes, her carefully groomed hair, each blond strand of which lined up perfectly with the one next to it. Abby hadn’t had a good haircut in six months. Melissa’s nails were perfectly manicured. Abby’s were blunt little stubs worn down by weeks of scraping and painting and cleaning. Melissa’s bearing and self-confident demeanor announced that she was a woman who knew her way around a boardroom. She had “Serious Suit” stamped all over her.

  Abby sighed with misery.

  I used to look like her, she wanted to shout.

  I used to be her.

  Tears stung her eyes as she furiously slapped the dough for the scones onto the baking sheet. After all these years, why did he have to show up here today? And why did he have to bring Melissa, who, six months ago, could have been my clone? Of course, these days, I look more like “Hazel” meets “This Old House. ” He, of course, has to look like a Gap ad. Abby had not failed to notice how great he looked in

  perfectly casual wool tweed slacks. A yummy soft sweater of misty brown that set off his eyes…

  Get a grip, Abigail, she sternly chastised herself. This is the same man who had the utter gall to yell at you because his grandmother was left alone here for months.

  Her temper continued its steady rise until it forced its way from between her clenched teeth in a semi-growl.

  “You betcha we’ve got things to talk about, buddy boy.” She slammed the oven door. “You bet your sweet ass we do.”

  Abby set up the tea table so that Belle could serve her guests when Alex and Melissa returned from their walk, allowing Abby time to check on the turkey before running upstairs to shower and change. Grumbling as she washed the sticky paper from her hair and arms, cursing aloud as she picked through her clothes, the early morning’s sense of peace on earth, goodwill toward man had definitely made a hasty departure. Blinded with anger, she tripped over the sneakers that sat where she’d dropped them in the middle of the floor, then stumbled, stubbing a toe on the iron bedpost.

  “Damn!” she yelled, hopping to the bed, where she sat on the mattress and rubbed her throbbing toe.

  Taking a minute to calm down, she forced herself to take deep, slow breaths as she assessed the situation. She thought back to her days at White-Edwards.

  What had been her strong suit as an up-and-coming executive?

  The ability to define a problem, evaluate the possible solutions, and formulate an aggressive and rational game plan once the most expedient resolution had been identified. She pulled one leg up under her on the bed, leaned forward slightly, and focused on the present situation.

  The problem is that I am virtually stuck in this house with no money and no job. I cannot sell this house or otherwise get on with my life as long as Belle is here. I need Alex’s help if I want to be free to leave Primrose at any time in the near future. Alex has to take responsibility for his grandmother. Therefore, Alex must become my ally.

  The solution was really quite simple, she reasoned. First, she would calmly and rationally make Alex aware of her dilemma. Surely, he would be sympathetic to her plight, once he knew. It followed that he would then recognize his own part in the eventual resolution of the situation. All she had to do was get his attention and keep it long enough to explain the facts of her life.

  Of course, she would have to neutralize Melissa.

  Abby flushed, recalling how Melissa had seemed to effortlessly and obviously stamp “No Competition” across Abby’s forehead.

  What had she done at White-Edwards when she had vied with one of her peers for a particular account? Had she rolled over and played dead? Adopted the role of shrinking violet?

  Hell, no.

  She’d looked to her strengths and always—but always—was better prepared than her opposition.

  Abby rose and studied herself in the mirror. She pulled her hair back and caught it with a wide gold barrette, allowing wisps to fall in curls around her face. She applied makeup with the concentration of a soldier readying for battle. She slipped into a dusty-green silk shirt and matching short skirt, then hunted through her shoes, which had been confined to a suitcase since she arrived in Primrose. The taupe suede heels would be perfect. She hunted in another suitcase and found the green and gold leather belt she always wore with the outfit. As a finishing touch, she pinned Belle’s gold butterfly slightly below the left shoulder and accented her ears with big gold button earrings before stepping back to assess herself.

  Take that, Ms. Melissa.

  Abby smiled confidently at her reflection and plotted her strategy.

  A superb dinner—Alex has always loved to eat—served with charm, here in the bosom of his childhood.

  And if that doesn’t work—she grinned as she unfastened the top two buttons of her shirt—there’s always cleavage.

  15

  Belle was a bundle of emotions at the dinner table, torn between the delight of once again presiding over a beautiful holiday feast, the joy of having her grandson and Abby reunited as she had so carefully plotted, and the distraction of Melissa’s unexpected—and unwanted—presence.

  That Melissa made no effort to hide the fact that she had her sights on Alex disturbed Belle to her core. The woman was brash and obvious, anyone could see that. Why wasn’t she home with her own family, instead of here, intruding on Belle’s holiday?

  Alex and Abby were supposed to have fallen into each other’s arms, found each other again. Then she, Belle, could live here, happily ever after, surrounded by the warmth of love that comes only when you are securely fixed in the bosom of your family. She intended for Abby to become family, just as she and Leila had long dreamed, and to be surrounded by a swarm of great-grandchildren before too long. Who was this Melissa person to threaten her dreams, her security, her future?

  “Now, Marisa,” Belle addressed her from the head of the table, “what do you think of our little town?”

  “It’s Melissa, Miz Matthews.” Melissa smiled charmingly as she accepted the plate of salad from Abby’s hands.

  “Oh, of course.” Belle shook her head slightly, as if to imply that she was a bit absentminded.

  “And to answer your question, it’s positively adorable. Just like what you’d read about in the travel magazines. You know, those articles about those little places tucked away off some side road. Those little, undiscovered villages that time seems to have forgotten.” Melissa fairly gushed—the sweet Southern belle at her best. “It’d be just delightful here in the summer, I’m sure, with the water so close and all the big tall trees. I do hope Alex’ll bring me back next summer. If y’all’ll have me, of course.”

  Belle ignored the ploy for a return invitation and smiled at her grandson. “Alexander, do pour a little of that lovely wine into my glass.”

  “Abby?” he offered without looking at her. “More wine?”

  “Not just yet, thank you.”

  There was a terseness to their voices, some underlying tension that was barely discernible, but Belle had not missed it. Oh, dear. She sighed anxiously.

  “Alexander, you hadn’t told me that you’d be bringing a friend along with you today.” Belle decided to get to the bottom of this woman’s presence the easy way.

  “Oh, I hope it’s not an intrus
ion.” Melissa feigned a concerned expression. Belle pretended not to have heard.

  “Well, we’re both sort of stuck in Hampton this week, working on a case, and since there are depositions scheduled for tomorrow, I thought it would be nicer for Melissa to spend Christmas here rather than alone in her hotel room.”

  Abby removed the salad plates, fighting the urge to allow the last bit of dressing to slide from Melissa’s plate onto her black crepe lap.

  “And tell me again what you are doing in Hampton, darlin’? I thought you said you were working in Boston. Or Baltimore… someplace that started with a B. Though Hampton’s so much nicer. So much closer.” Belle smiled gently. Melissa wasn’t the only one who could play the Southern belle.

  “The firm has opened a temporary office in Hampton to handle a rather sizable case that requires a lot of work. It was easier and less expensive to simply rent office space there temporarily and send a few attorneys in to handle the work than to have us traveling back and forth.”

  “And what is this big case?” Belle sipped at her wine.

  “Maybe you heard about the Alden Boatyards fire?”

  “Was that the one where so many people were trapped in the warehouse and couldn’t get out? So many were burned?” Abby asked as she placed the platter of perfectly golden turkey on the table.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Our firm represents the manufacturer of the heater that was involved.”

  “Alexander, would you carve?” Belle motioned for Abby to pass the ivory-handled knife and fork to Alex.

  Abby repositioned the platter in front of him, and he took the carving knife from her hand.

  “It’s been a long time since I did this,” he mused. “I remember Gran and Leila giving me lessons one time on a roast chicken. I must have been all of ten. I couldn’t hold the bird still and cut it at the same time.”

  “I remember that.” Abby laughed. “It was Belle’s birthday, and Leila had such a fine dinner party for her and her friends.”