A Small-Town Reunion

by Terry McLaughlin

  Tess frowned at something in the scene below and took a sip of her soft drink. “When are you and Maudie going to the city to pick up your gown?” she asked Charlie.

  “Wednesday. In the middle of the week, in the middle of the busiest season of the year, for cryin’ out loud. How much sense does that make?”

  “Considering that you may have to find someone to make some last-minute alterations,” Tess said, “it makes a lot of sense to get the dress as soon as possible.”

  “I can hardly wait to see it.” Addie stood and stole a glance at the bar. “You are going to give us a sneak preview, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on.” Tess pulled Charlie to her feet. “Let’s go inside and scout through the parlor and dining room. I want to make sure we have enough seating for the shower.”

  THE SIZE OF THE CROWD and the activities of the Fourth of July garden party should have been enough to keep Dev’s radar from zeroing in on Addie, but it wasn’t. He knew she’d watched the kids’ sack races and sampled one of Julia’s teriyaki chicken skewers. He noticed her chatting with Quinn and fussing over Toni Hulstrom’s new baby. He was aware of the moment she’d left the terrace and disappeared into the house with Tess and Charlie.

  He wondered what they were up to and how long they’d be up to it.

  He’d managed to stay away from her for five days, but with every passing hour, his need to see her—to talk with her—increased. She was a part of this place, a part of his life here. And he missed her.

  At one point he’d decided to wander past her and exchange a quick, casual greeting. If he didn’t find a chance to talk to her before she left, she might assume he was avoiding her—and wouldn’t that hurt her feelings? But one warning glance from Tess had sent him in another direction.

  He stood near the horseshoes pit, pretending to watch the match underway and to listen to Karl Bern’s theories on fish bait. Dev wondered if anything short of leaving Carnelian Cove would end his growing obsession with Addie, and that fact was ticking him off. He didn’t want to leave, not until he’d made more progress with his writing. Not until he’d figured out where his story was headed. Or where his research might lead him.

  He didn’t want a lot of things, he told himself as Courtney Whitfield waved and sauntered his way, but they kept getting shoved in his face.

  “Dev, you scoundrel.” Courtney leaned in and angled her cheek against his in one of those near-miss kisses that set his teeth on edge. Her breath smelled of the margarita in her hand and her breasts pressed against his arm like pillows. “How nice it is to see you again after all these years.”

  “Is it?”

  Courtney’s features sharpened as she laughed off his comment. “It certainly is. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

  “I haven’t been hiding. You found me.”

  “So I did.” She lifted her glass to her lips and delicately licked the salt encrusting the rim. “What have you been up to?”

  “This and that.”

  “Ah. A man of mystery.” Her smile widened, and she sipped her drink. “I love a good mystery, myself.”

  He gazed over the top of her head, scanning the crowd for Addie.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve been up to?” Courtney moved to his side, facing the horseshoes game. Moved closer. “You might be surprised by the answer.”

  Dev ordered himself to be polite. For five minutes, anyway. “Surprise me, then.”

  “I’m divorced.”

  No surprise there.

  “Four years, now. And I’m working in a dress shop—Lulu’s, on Second Street.” She paused for another sip. “Part-time, for now. I’m hoping to learn enough about the business to open my own.”

  He spared her a noncommital grunt and waited for the next bit of information.

  “I never thought I’d run my own business,” she said, turning to face him. “Did you?”

  “I don’t run a business.”

  She tilted her head to the side with one of her charming social laughs, the kind of perfectly pitched trill that sent chills up his spine. “Honestly, Dev, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were going out of your way to tease me.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you know me as well as you do.” He caught a glimpse of Tess—and the daggers she was aiming his way—and wondered whether being polite was worth the trouble.

  Where was Addie?

  “We go way back, don’t we, Dev?” Courtney raised an impossibly tanned hand flashing with polish and jewels to rearrange her lush black hair over her eyes. And then she let her hand fall, brushing her fingertips over his forearm in a touch that was casual, brief and loaded with meaning. “Further back than either of us would like to admit.”

  “I don’t mind admitting how much distance I’ve put between myself and certain things.”

  Once again, annoyance flashed across her features before she regained her composure and poked out her lower lip in a pretty pout. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to be in a hurry to leave us again. Jack Maguire said you’d be sticking around until the end of summer.”

  “That’s right. Until after the wedding, anyway.”

  “I can’t believe Charlie Keene is getting married. And to a man like Jack.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, she’s…” Courtney’s pout took on a nasty edge. “It’s a surprise, that’s all. She never seemed the marrying type.”

  “Jack’s lucky she waited for him.”

  “Oh, yes,” Courtney said, dripping with generosity. “I’m sure they’ll both be very happy.”

  Courtney flexed one of her ankles, swiveling her foot on the heel of her silvery sandal and passing her polished toes over the tip of his shoe. “Are you going to the anniversary dance at the club?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.” There was Addie—over by the barbecue, chatting with Ben Chandler and Maudie Keene. And sparing him the occasional glance with one of her shuttered I’m-ticked-but-I-don’t-want-to-show-it expressions.

  “You should.” Courtney leaned in, whisper close, keeping things confidential. Intimate. “I’m on the events committee this year, and I can assure you it’s going to be a fabulous evening.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re still a member, aren’t you?”

  “I have no idea.” Still watching Addie, Dev caught the flicker of misery in her eyes as she stole a glance at Courtney. Addie waved goodbye to Ben and Maudie and headed up the hill, toward the house.

  The hell with avoiding Addie, thought Dev. The hell with them all—Tess, and Charlie, and Geneva and Lena and everyone. The hell with his conscience, too.

  “Well, if you’ve let your membership lapse,” Courtney said, “I could—”

  “Thanks. Here.” Dev pulled her glass from her hands. “Let me get you another one of these.”

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart?” She slipped her hand through his arm as he led the way across the lawn and toward the bar. “You’ve always been a perfect gentleman.”

  But Courtney’s sticky lie about his manners wasn’t a strong enough adhesive to keep him by her side. While she gave her order to the bartender, Dev made his escape.

  AFTER A QUICK TRIP to the powder room to lock herself away from the crowd for a few minutes and splash some water on her face, Addie wandered through Chandler House. She paused in the doorway of the morning room, where Tess had dragged Charlie for one more consultation on wedding-shower décor. Addie leaned a shoulder against the jamb, trying to picture Charlie enjoying her party. Instead, she remembered Courtney Whitfield stroking her blood-red nails down Dev’s sleeve.

  Addie checked her watch. Hours remained until the fireworks would start, but she doubted she’d stay for the celebration. Coming here had been a mistake; leaving early would fix it.

  She decided on a detour to the entry hall to study the two undamaged windows. And as she climbed the stairs, the end-of-day sunlight seemed to make the wavy glass shimmer and her
troubles ease.

  Cool marble steps, warm wood tones, plush carpet, hushed echoes—she’d once loved pulling the feel of Chandler House around her like an elegant ball gown. Now she paused on the landing to brush a fingertip along smooth veins of lead. Topaz and emerald, sapphire and ruby—her private collection of precious gems. She’d need all her skill to make the repairs to the missing windows, to make the new pieces seem as though they’d always been part of the picture.

  A part of the picture. Seeing Courtney Whitfield flirting with Dev had reminded Addie she’d never have a real place in his world.

  She stared at her hand as she drew it from the window—short, naked nails and a bandage wrapped around yesterday’s nick. She glanced at her thin cotton blouse, plain linen pants and simple sandals—inexpensive basics from a local discount store. She ran her fingers through her serviceable ponytail and tried to remember the last time she’d had the ends trimmed.

  No wonder Dev hadn’t been back to her shop in a week.

  With a sigh, she turned to leave. And found Dev slouched against the wall at the foot of the stairs, one long leg stretched over the bottom tread, barring her path.

  She hesitated, squeezing the handrail, and then continued to descend. Surely good manners would force him to shift out of her way. But as she neared the spot where he sat, motionless, she remembered Dev had never been one to let manners dictate his behavior.

  “Are you going to let me pass?” she asked.

  “Eventually.”

  She was tempted to wait him out, but after a few seconds she grew impatient. “What do you want?”

  “Now there’s a dangerous question.” He looked up at her, and his bland expression gave no clue to his intentions or emotions as he patted the tread beside him. “Have a seat, and I’ll think of a decent answer.”

  A few minutes ago, the silence in the house had felt welcoming and secure. Now it seemed to close in on her like a trap. “I should go back outside.”

  “Is someone waiting for you out there?”

  She recognized the faint trace of pain beneath the sarcastic challenge of his tone. It reminded her of a lonely boy left to entertain himself. A sensitive boy trapped at the center of family battles. Rather than answer, she slowly lowered herself to a tread above him. “There’s more comfortable seating in other rooms.”

  “I’m sure there are hundreds of comfortable chairs in dozens of rooms.” He bent the leg that had blocked her way, resting his hand over his raised knee. “But this is more private.”

  “Do we need privacy?”

  He didn’t answer, and after some time had passed, she realized he’d chosen to ignore her question. Uneasy with his brooding silence, she searched for a way to fill it. “What would you like to discuss?”

  “I’m not in the mood for a discussion. Or an interview.” His lips thinned in a scowl. “I just wanted to talk with you. It’s been a while.”

  “Yes, it has. Nearly a week. But I suppose you’ve been busy.” She regretted her words as soon as they’d escaped. Hadn’t she just been thinking he had no good reason to seek out her company? “Sorry.”

  “That always was a bad habit of yours. Apologizing,” he added when she gave him a quizzical look.

  “I’m only being polite,” she said primly.

  “Spreading a layer of snotty attitude over things isn’t an improvement on the automatic-apology routine, but I think I like it better.”

  “And comments like that would explain why it’s been a while since our last conversation.” She reached for the handrail, intending to pull herself up and step right over him.

  “Wait.” He grabbed her wrist. They both froze. And then his fingers tightened and his thumb brushed across the sensitive spot inside her wrist in what might have been a tentative caress before he released her.

  Had it been a caress?

  “We don’t need to go through the motions with the small talk,” he said. “Do we?”

  She forced herself to relax. She didn’t want him to see that his opinion mattered. Or that the way he’d sought out her company meant so much. Far, far too much. She’d wasted years waiting for these things, years craving his attention—his touch. She’d spent years resenting him—and berating herself—for it all.

  He was right—the two of them were years beyond the small-talk phase. “No,” she told him, settling back into her narrow seat. “We don’t.”

  “Good.” He tipped his head to rest against the wall and shut his eyes. “I ran out of social conversation about an hour ago.”

  She stared at the black lashes fanning over his tanned cheeks. Such ridiculously long, nearly feminine lashes, an amusing contrast to a stern, masculine landscape.

  “About those apologies,” he said. “They’re not about being polite. Not really.” He opened his eyes and rolled his head against the wall to face her. “Are they?”

  “Why are you bothering to ask me?” She flapped a hand at him. “It’s your theory.”

  “And topic number one bites the dust.”

  Her lips twitched as she suppressed a smile.

  “Okay,” Dev said. “Topic number two. Let’s try things we have in common—plenty of those. A memory. Remember Bud Soames?”

  “Your partner in crime.”

  “A few.” He flicked a glance at her from beneath those dark lashes. “There weren’t as many crimes as people seem to think.”

  “Memory is a tricky thing.”

  “Yeah.” He frowned. “Makes me think I used to like living here.”

  “Didn’t you?” Addie leaned forward. “Ever?”

  She told herself it was only her imagination that his features softened as he stared at her. And that she could see the hint of a wistful smile in his eyes. Because whatever she thought she’d found, it disappeared a few seconds later.

  He looked away, toward the massive entry doors. “I didn’t have a choice, did I?”

  “Kids don’t. That’s one of the things that makes them kids.”

  “Do adults have any more choices, I wonder?”

  “Is that what you were doing, sitting in here all by yourself?” She traced a pattern on the carpet. “Contemplating your choices in life?”

  “I don’t need to go off somewhere by myself to do that.” He studied her again with that odd intensity, as if trying to look deep beneath her skin to her very core. “Where do you go to do your thinking?” he asked.

  Her finger moved around the edge of a fanciful curling vine. “I don’t spend a lot of time doing that kind of thinking. I’m too busy working, most of the time.”

  “Ah, yes. Your shop.”

  She searched for a trace of sarcasm in his tone before she caught herself falling into the old, defensive patterns. Dev wasn’t judging or teasing. And he had seemed genuinely interested in her business last week when he’d stopped by.

  “I don’t mind working so hard,” she said. “I love making pictures with glass. When I took my first stained-glass class, something fell into place for me. Like the way glass pieces click into place when they’ve been ground to fit.”

  She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Someone once told me that if you can find a way to make a living doing the thing that makes you happy, you’ll have a happy life.”

  His brows drew together. “Now there’s something to think about.”

  “What about your writing?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Does it make you happy?”

  “Sometimes. But I wouldn’t count on it making me a living.”

  “I remember the story you wrote about the old lighthouse on the point,” she said. “The one that won that award—what was that? The award from The Cove Press. I loved that story,” she added when he didn’t respond. “Would you show me another of your stories someday?”

  “Yes,” he said after a long pause. “If you’d like.”

  The tall case clock in the study bonged the hour, and someone in a distant room laughed. A slice of ruby-red light sli
d over the back of her hand like a wound, and she turned up her palm and curled her fist to capture it inside.

  They should go. She wanted to stay.

  “What were you going to tell me about Bud Soames?” she asked.

  “I’ve been remembering a day when we were both seniors. I was in my car, out in the student lot, moving toward the exit. And then I saw you.”

  He stared at the hall as if he was gazing into the past. “You were standing on that strip of grass between the lot and the street, holding a big stack of books. And you were watching me.”

  She remembered that day. It seemed she could recall any day that had included Dev. She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t see her, and waited for him to start again.

  “I was going to stop beside you. I had my hand on the button to lower the window and ask if you wanted a ride home.” He turned to face her. “I wanted to talk with you.”

  “What would you have said?”

  One side of his mouth twisted in a half grin. “There’s another habit of yours—always cutting right to the heart of the matter. Why waste time on small talk when you can skip ahead to the tough questions?” His smile faded. “Why are you so tough on me, Addie?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ADDIE RESTED HER CHIN on her knees. There were so many answers she could give to Dev’s question, but it would be easier to invent one. Easier on herself, perhaps, but unfair to Dev. “Maybe I’m trying to level the playing field,” she said at last.

  He sighed and shook his head. “I wish you didn’t feel at such a disadvantage.”

  Disadvantage. Sitting here with him, like this, it seemed odd to consider the advantages she’d had over this handsome, wealthy, talented man. She’d had a mother who loved and sacrificed for her child, for one. “I’m not sure ‘disadvantage’ is the right word,” she said.

  “Maybe not.” He paused and rubbed his hand over his knee. “On that day—that day Bud climbed into my car—I wanted to talk with you like this. The way we’re talking now.”

  In her imagination, she was back on that soft, grassy strip again, watching him drive toward her. The books were heavy, the edges of the binding biting into her arms as a tickling bead of sweat moved down her spine. Panic mixed with anticipation as she realized he was looking her way, slowing his car.