Carolina Mist

by Mariah Stewart

  Abby was still mulling over Belle’s impassioned words when she stepped onto the front porch to collect the day’s mail. A card from Sunny and Lilly, postmarked in some little seaside resort in Maryland, was the highlight of the morning. As she passed through the hallway, the sudden shrill ring of the phone startled her. Hoping it might be Drew, she jumped on it before it could ring again.

  “Ms. McKenna?” a woman’s voice inquired.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. McKenna, my name is Jacqueline Post. I’m with Post Associates in Dallas. I received your resume several weeks ago…”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Ms. McKenna, we have an opening with a firm here in the Dallas-Fort Worth area that would be perfect for you,” Jacqueline Post purred. Abby could hear her shuffling papers. “As a matter of fact, the company has asked that I invite you to fly down here on Thursday—at their expense, of course—for an interview. They are most anxious to meet with you. Are you available?”

  “Thursday?” Abby hoped her voice did not sound as much like a squeak to the woman on the other end of the phone as it did to her own ears. Abby cleared her throat. “I think Thursday is doable.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll have the plane tickets sent by overnight mail.” Abby could hear the woman’s smile through the miles of phone line. “The folks at Lance and Sherman will be very pleased.”

  Abby’s eyebrows rose involuntarily. Lance and Sherman was a major player in the financial world. “Can you give me an idea of the salary range?”

  “They’d be willing to start you at eight thousand a year more than you were making this time last year.”

  “Bonuses?”

  “Absolutely. And a benefit package to die for. Every conceivable bell and whistle.”

  “Well.” Abby forced an exercise of slow inhale followed by silent exhale. “Well, then. Please tell the fine folks at Lance and Sherman that I’m looking forward to Thursday.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll send the tickets along with directions from the airport and everything else you need to know. Why not plan to stay over? We’ll put you up in a hotel, and we’ll have dinner, and I can show you around the city,” Jacqueline Post offered.

  Abby paused, wondering if she should leave Belle alone overnight in view of the recent break-in. She declined, saying she had a commitment on Thursday evening.

  “We’ll do lunch, then,” the headhunter said agreeably before hanging up the phone.

  Oh, my stars, as Belle would say.

  Abby replaced the heavy, old black telephone receiver onto its base and sat herself down on the bottom step of the front hall stairs.

  A job. Not just any job. A job with a big firm. A big, stable firm. A big salary. A big future. Everything I wanted. Everything I’ve waited months for.

  Abby waited for the reality of this longed-for moment to sink in. Waited for the surge of joy and triumph to flow through her. Waited for the exhilaration to kick in. She tapped one foot on the shiny floor of golden oak and waited.

  Nothing.

  I am happy, she told herself. Of course, I am. This is exactly what I prayed for. The exact job. The exact kind of company. I’m thrilled. It just hasn’t hit me yet, that’s all. But it will. It will. Soon. And I’ll be kicking up my heels. Just as soon as this good news sinks in…

  Abby walked across the street to share her good news with Naomi. She found her friend in the backyard, watering newly planted seedlings.

  “Naomi, guess what?” Abby forced an excitement she still wasn’t certain that she felt. “I have a job interview on Thursday. In Dallas.”

  Naomi looked up at her as if Abby had just sprouted a second head.

  “Dallas? Why on earth would you want to go there?”

  “Because that’s where this job is, Naomi. Isn’t it great? The headhunter just called. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

  “Well, I’ll just bet Belle and Alex will both be every bit as overjoyed about this as I am, Abby,” Naomi pronounced evenly.

  “Alex will be. He’ll understand just what this means to me,” Abby said defensively.

  “And just what, may I ask, does this mean to you?” Naomi stood and folded her arms across her chest.

  “It means I can get my life moving again, for one thing.”

  “Moving where, Abby? Just where is it that you want to go that you think you can only get to by way of Dallas?”

  “Back into the business world. Back where I belong.”

  “Well, then,” Naomi said with little enthusiasm, “I guess I should wish you well, Abby. If that is where you want to be, I certainly wish you all the best luck on Thursday.”

  “Momma, Aunt Carole is on the phone.” Meredy popped her little head out the back door.

  “Okay, sugar. Tell her I’ll be there in a second,” Naomi called to her daughter, who slammed the screen door as she ran back to the phone to deliver the message. “I guess I’ll see you later. Let me know if you need a ride to the airport.” Abby stood among the long rows of fledgling sweet peas and lettuce and watched as Naomi walked, her back nearly as straight and stiff as her leg, to the back porch without a backward glance.

  Damn, Abby thought to herself as the door slammed for the second time in little more than a minute. Naomi is my best friend in this whole world. You’d think she’d be happy for me.

  With the very deepest of sighs, Abby started back home. Naomi’s reaction, she knew, would be a joyful noise compared to what Belle would say. Abby was wondering if it would be possible to make it to Dallas and back without telling Belle where she was going and why, when she happened to look across the road at the house directly in front of her, and smiled in spite of herself.

  Alex’s paint job had worked wonders. Gone was the gloomy facade that had greeted her when she first arrived in Primrose. The shutters, half of which had been hanging sideways off the front of the house, had been repaired, repainted, and rehung. Once bland white, they now gleamed forest green against the taupe clapboard. Thin painted ribbons of terracotta wound around the windows to lend a touch of warmth. The front door, freshly washed down and polished to enhance the grain of the wood, stood ready to welcome rather than to repel. The newly repaired porch with its tricolored railings had been just the right finishing touch. The once overgrown shrubs had been trimmed back to enhance rather than to hide.

  It looks so different now, she thought, admiring the house in its totality for the first time. I did that. Well, with Alex’s help. When I leave Primrose, at least I will know that I left this little piece of it better than I found it. At least I will have that satisfaction.

  I should start the ball rolling to sell it, she told herself. I should stop in to see Mr. Tillman when I go into town this afternoon. He said he could refer me to a Realtor. I might as well find out what this place is worth. Now’s as good a time as any. And I should find out if he can recommend an antique dealer. I will have to sell off so much of what’s here.

  Abby entered the cool of the front hallway and paused before going into the music room. The grand piano would have to go. She struck a few notes. It needed tuning. She stroked the satin finish of its top, recalling how Leila had so loved it. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see her great-aunt perched on the edge of the bench, her back ramrod straight, her once-auburn hair piled atop her head as she played with the slightest of smiles upon her face. The piano had been Leila’s salvation, she had once told Abby. It had been Thomas’s gift to her when, after a few months far from her beloved Montana hills, Leila began to exhibit signs of homesickness. He had hired the elderly Mrs. Langston to come to the house to give Leila lessons three times a week, hoping to give his wife something new, something different to cherish in her new life. Making music was a joy, Leila had told Abby, and she had played for nearly half an hour every morning from the morning of Thomas’s death until her own. She played for Thomas, she had said, songs he had loved to hear her play. It kept him near to her, she had told Abby, and was her way of letting him know that she
had never forgotten who had given her this precious gift of music.

  How could a price be placed upon such a piece? Abby wondered.

  She wandered from room to room, wondering how much she could afford to place in storage. Surely, she could not sell Aunt Leila’s dining-room set nor the Eastlake parlor set, with its tapestry upholstery (original, in mint condition), though it would fetch a handsome sum. Family portraits, large and small. China, silver, books. Needlepoint pillows worked by the patient fingers of her great-aunt or her great- great-grandmother. How could anyone other than family appreciate the connection between past and present generations?

  Abby sat on the caned seat of Aunt Leila’s desk chair and tapped her fingers on the flat surface of the old oak desk. She thought of all she had lost of herself that day so many years ago, when the auctioneer appointed by the estate had slammed his gavel to commence the sale of everything she had held dear. How could she bear to part with yet more pieces of herself?

  With a sigh of confusion, she peeked in on Belle, who was resting between the morning game shows and her soaps. Abby scribbled a short note telling Belle where she’d gone, then quietly left the house. The grocery shopping, which was normally done on Thursday, would be done today. And then, if she had time, she would stop in at Tillman’s office and get the name of that Realtor.

  There was, she knew, no point in putting off the inevitable.

  Mr. Tillman seemed pleased to see her.

  “Why, Miz McKenna, it’s always a pleasure,” he assured her after she apologized for having stopped in without an appointment. “Don’t you ever worry yourself about not having called first, my dear. I am always available to you.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she took the seat he held out for her at one corner of the big cluttered desk.

  “And may I congratulate you on the wonderful job you are doing on your home. Drove by there just last week— looks like a different house entirely. Remarkable what you’ve done there. The Cassidy house has always been one of Primrose’s premier properties, of course, but to see it restored to its former handsomeness… well, you are to be applauded. As a matter of fact, I said that very thing to George Hattersly—he is the president of our town council, you may recall—when nominations were being taken for the Most Improved Property award. I was happy to throw your hat, as it were, into the ring.”

  “You nominated my house for an award?” In spite of her mood, Abby brightened.

  “Absolutely. And between you and me, I feel certain you’ll walk away with the top prize. It’s the town’s way of thanking the residents who do their part to raise the standards, so to speak. To improve the appearance of the town by fixing up their own little part of it.”

  “I’m very flattered, Mr. Tillman,” Abby told him.

  And she was, though why this little bit of local news gave her such pleasure, she could not say. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, this is not quite in the same league as being offered a high-powered position with Lance and Sherman, Abby reminded herself.

  “So, tell me what I can do for you today.” He folded his hands neatly atop his desk and waited.

  “Well, actually, it was the house that I wanted to talk about.” She took a deep breath. “You had mentioned that ; you were acquainted with a Realtor here in town—I forgot to write his name down…”

  “You mean to sell the property, Miz McKenna? After all the work you have put into it?” Tillman said with barely disguised incredulity. He barely missed a beat before recovering to add, “Though, of course, that was the wise thing to do. Certainly increased the value of the house. I’m sure that you’ll be able to find a buyer in no time, and at a respectable price, at that.”

  He leaned over and hit the intercom.

  “Cerise?” He waited a second before repeating the name. “Cerise?”

  “She must be in the ladies room, Mr. Tillman,” a young voice responded. “Can I get something for you?”

  “Thank you, Andrea, yes. Please look up Artie Snow’s phone number and bring it in.” He turned back to Abby.

  “Artie Snow’s your man. I’m sure if anyone can find a good buyer for your home… thank you, Andrea…” Tillman glanced at the piece if paper before passing it across the desk to Abby. “Now, you be sure to tell Artie I referred you.” He winked.

  “I certainly will.” Abby rose, thanking Tillman for the information and promising to let him know when she left town.

  “And Miz Matthews will be going where?” he inquired as he shook her hand.

  “No decision has been made as yet.” Abby tried to appear nonchalant. “I want to see how my job interview goes in Dallas.”

  “I’ll bet you’re a shoo-in.” His eyes twinkled as he walked her to the door. “You keep in touch now, hear?”

  After smiling to assure him that she would do just exactly that, Abby followed the long hallway to the reception area. The remnants of a scent hung in the still air, evoking a memory both elusive and certain. It seemed as familiar to Abby as its wearer, and the suspicion nagged at her. Abby tucked the paper in her pocket and headed to Foster’s, where she hoped to find something to make an especially fine meal for Belle.

  There would be a lot to talk about over dinner.

  40

  All in all, Abby reflected wryly as she gazed out the window of the plane, it hadn’t gone so badly. Abby had told Belle she had a job interview in Dallas, and Belle had neatly folded her white linen napkin, dropped it with no small amount of ceremony onto the dinner table, looked at Abby with eyes that burned her very soul, then left the room and hadn’t spoken to Abby since.

  Abby knew that Belle’s pain was as much despair over her own plight as it was anger with Abby for even considering leaving Primrose. Following her unsuccessful attempt to have a rational discussion with Belle, Abby had called Alex’s office, hoping to catch up with him, but he’d already left for his own flight to Salt Lake City. She had hesitated about leaving a message, then declined. This was a matter that had to be dealt with in person. And she would do just that on Friday night.

  There was no reason why they couldn’t still see each other, she told herself as she watched the earth below grow ever more remote. Lots of people carry on long-distance relationships. And this way, they would both be doing what they wanted to do.

  You are certain that this is what you want to do, aren’t you? a tiny voice from within prodded.

  Of course I am, Abby assured herself as she smoothed the skirt of her red linen suit, last year’s power dressing.

  The silk shirt, once part of her daily uniform, felt foreign on her skin, and the jacket, even though it was slightly too large for her now, seemed to constrain her arms in a way it had never done before. Her black leather pumps bound her toes like the bindings wrapped around the feet of Chinese women in the last century.

  Abby had spent all of Wednesday trying to recapture her former executive image, taming her hair and patching her nails. Glancing down at her hands, she smiled. She’d never make it as a manicurist, but it was a vast improvement over the broken, unpolished nails she had before she had hit the drugstore in search of a quick cure. She hadn’t looked this polished and tidily corporate in months. She wondered why it all felt so awkward.

  The interview could not have gone more favorably if she herself had scripted it. The fine folks at Lance and Sherman had loved her and would, she was absolutely certain, offer her the job before a week had passed. Where, she had wondered as she rode to the airport for her return flight, was the sense of elation she had anticipated?

  Her flight had been delayed for four hours by a severe thunderstorm, and she’d called Naomi to see if perhaps she could look in on Belle. Naomi had already done that, she was told, since Primrose was experiencing some pretty severe storms, too. Abby had selected a novel from the paperback rack in the airport gift shop and taken a seat to await her departure. When her flight had finally been called, she boarded the plane, took her seat, and promptly fell asleep.

  The
drive to Primrose from the airport seemed to take forever, the effects of the storm readily apparent on every stretch of roadway. Whole trees had fallen, and entire sections of road were washed out with floodwaters. At several points along the way, Abby had to detour and take alternative routes toward the coast. It was with great relief that she made the turn off the interstate that led to Primrose.

  The storm that had already passed through must have been a nasty one, she thought as she turned onto Cove Road. It appeared that the entire town was without electricity. No streetlights illuminated the roads, nor were any lampposts lit. All was black as the deepest of nights. She eased into the drive at Number Thirty-five. Looking down toward the river, she could see nothing but the mist as dense as smoke from a deadly fire. Even the carriage house was lost from view. Abby backed the Subaru out of the drive and parked in front of the house, nearer the front door.

  As quietly as she could, Abby closed the car door. All of Cove Road—all of Primrose-—seemed to be wrapped in the thickest silence, as if all life had fled in the face of the storm. She tiptoed across the front porch, the key as eager for the lock as she was to get inside her house. From somewhere beyond the porch, a rustle in the shrubs set branches dancing as an owl or some other nocturnal being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck slowly stood up as her fingers fumbled with the key. She was relieved beyond words when the door pushed open without resistance, and she could leave the vague and dismal vapors behind her with whatever night creatures lurked about.