by Lisa Jackson
Amy nodded, but stuck close to her mother, eyeing the high ceilings and mantel as if she expected ghosts, goblins and an assortment of demons to fly down the chimney and, cackling evilly, snatch her away.
“You’ve done a lot with the place,” Ronni said as she stopped at the step leading down to the living area and gazed across the polished floors to the bank of windows stretching along the back wall. Beyond the glass, the lake, dark and serene, was visible through snow-dusted strands of hemlock and fir trees.
“We’ve still got a long way to go, though. I’d like to restore it the way the original architect would have liked it—well, as much as possible, and still bring it up to the local building code. But that’s going to take a while and now that Bryan’s laid up, all those father-son projects have become just father jobs.”
Her eyes seemed to search every nook and cranny, exploring the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, now empty, each stone of the large fireplace and every exposed beam in the ceiling. “It really is beautiful,” she said, placing her warm pan down on a small table and using an oven mitt as a pot holder. Running a finger along the time-smoothed banister leading to the second floor, she gazed up at the railing of the reading loft. “I remember when there used to be huge parties thrown here and my sister and I would hide in the shrubbery and watch expensive cars line the driveway.” She walked to the windows and stared into the chilly darkness where soft moon glow played upon the inky waters of the lake. “Sometimes the Johnsons would hire a singer, other times a piano player or a band and they always strung Japanese lanterns down the path and along the dock into the lake.”
“Dock?”
“It’s gone now,” she said. “No one’s brought a boat in here in years.” She cleared her throat, but a trace of sadness seemed to linger in her eyes. “Oh, well, ancient history.” She managed a smile as she grabbed the steaming pan again. “I’d better take this down to the kitchen or it’ll get cold.”
“I guess I’ll unload the van,” he offered, wondering what she had brought and feeling guilty that she had obviously spent not only time but money in her attempt to apologize and be neighborly. Somehow he’d have to make it up to her, but he doubted, from her reaction in the ski lodge earlier, that she’d take a check. “The kitchen’s down that hallway and through—”
But she was already on her way, walking swiftly along the corridor as if she was as familiar with this drafty old lodge as she was with her own snug little cabin. Her daughter was right on her heels, never letting Ronni out of her sight and sometimes glancing nervously behind her.
Travis stood at the door a second, watching her swing down the hall. Black jeans hugged her hips and a red vest and white blouse peeked out from beneath a short woolen jacket. A scarf was wound around her neck and her black hair bounced and gleamed beneath the lights. Her back was ramrod straight, her footsteps determined—a no-nonsense lady with a vulnerability that she tried so hard to hide. He wondered what it was about her that he found so very fascinating?
A cold gust of wind reminded him that he was standing in the middle of the hallway, gaping and practically drooling, like some sex-crazed adolescent with a bad crush. “Damn it all,” he muttered, not bothering with a jacket as he broke a trail through the snow to her van.
He was used to attractive, aggressive women. He’d met them in the workplace. Usually trim and sleek, always well-groomed and well-spoken, they could be bold and brash, or quiet and sedate, but they were all determined and came with their own agendas—hidden or otherwise. He’d dealt with them on a daily basis before and after his divorce. Some of the women were aggressive not only in their jobs but in their personal relationships, as well.
He’d been chased, propositioned and almost seduced by strong-willed women who, beautiful though they had been, hadn’t interested him. Nor had he been attracted to the few homebodies he’d met through mutual friends, often desperate women who looked at him as if he were an answer to their prayers—a wealthy man who could help them quit chasing after deadbeat ex-husbands for child support, a means to get rid of their boring jobs.
He’d never been tempted, hadn’t even started an affair that he knew would only end badly. In fact, he’d convinced himself that he was now a confirmed bachelor.
Until now.
Until he’d seen Veronica Walsh deal with his injured boy.
Until he’d seen how she handled her imp of a daughter.
Until he’d looked into those dark, knowing eyes that could penetrate all his defenses or twinkle with laughter.
She’d started to change his mind about women because she’d been so different. Strong, yet vulnerable, with a quick tongue and sharp wit. But there was something more, something deeper—a sadness—that touched him and made him feel as if he wanted to fold her into his arms and tell her everything would be all right. Hell, he was losing it. He didn’t even know her, for crying out loud, and here he was fantasizing about her.
The back of the van was stacked with boxes and sacks. For the love of Saint Peter, she must have spent a small fortune. His guilt started eating at him. She was a single mother and she couldn’t afford whatever it was she’d come up with.
Gritting his teeth, he carried in two boxes, then returned for four more sacks, which he set in the living room. He paused once to knock on Bryan’s door and let himself in. While the beat of some grunge band was throbbing through the room, Bryan was lying on his back lifting weights.
His son slid a glance his way when he turned the volume of the stereo down several decibels.
“Hey!” Bryan complained.
“You’re going to go deaf with this so loud.”
“Who gives a rip?” Bryan was still giving him the cold shoulder and hoping to back Travis into a corner of guilt so that he’d break down and let him spend some of the holidays in Seattle.
“We’ve got company.”
Bryan tried hard to keep his gaze flat and his expression bored, but he couldn’t quite hide the curiosity that rose to the surface.
“Ronni Walsh and her daughter.”
“The three-year-old you told me about?” Bryan pulled a face and pushed the weights off his chest.
“Actually, I think she’s four.”
“No difference. Still a little kid.” He lowered the bar.
Travis wasn’t going to argue with him. “Just put on a clean shirt, wash your hands and come into the kitchen. Ronni brought dinner.”
“Why?”
“I asked her to help us decorate the house.”
“Oh pleeease, Travis. You didn’t.” Again he lifted the bar and weights away from his body, his muscles straining.
“I did and it’s going to be fun.”
“Yeah, a blast,” Bryan grumbled.
“I’ll see you in five minutes,” Travis said and closed the door behind him. He could only hope that Bryan’s appetite, which had been phenomenal of late, would force him to comply so that they wouldn’t have to get into another one of their knock-down-and-drag-out arguments.
Delicious aromas drifted from the kitchen and as Travis pushed open the swinging doors, he found Ronni tossing a salad and Amy standing on a chair beside her. The table was already set. Two candles were already lit and dripping wax down the sides of old wine bottles. The flames reflected in dozens of flickering lights upon the mullioned windows surrounding the table.
“I hate cucumbers,” the little girl was saying.
Ronni wasn’t intimidated. “Too bad, I like ’em.”
“And I hate tomatoes.”
“Not tomatoes. These are red peppers, and they’re good for you.”
“Then I hate red peppers.”
“Fine, pick around them.”
“I hate salad.”
“I know, I know, but I don’t really care. You’re going to eat some, anyway.” Ronni blew her bangs o
ut of her eyes but looked up when the door creaked shut. With an exasperated smile, she said, “We’re in a negative mood tonight. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m used to it. Negativity seems to be a way of life around here these days. Remember, I told you it doesn’t get any better.”
“Thanks for reminding me.” She sprinkled an oil-and-vinegar dressing over the salad greens and he was taken with how natural it seemed for her to be bustling around the kitchen. “I assume Bryan’s joining us?”
“He is if he doesn’t want to be grounded for the rest of his life.”
“I’m here,” Bryan announced as he hitched himself through the swinging doors and scowled at the crowded room.
“Good. How’re you feeling?” Ronni asked.
“Compared to what?”
“Well, compared to, ‘Gee, I feel great, I think I could run a marathon,’ that’s a ten—”
He snorted derisively.
“Or ‘I feel so crummy—like I’ve been run over by a steam roller and I think I’ll curl up and die,’ that’s a zero.”
“About a minus six, okay?” he grumbled and Travis felt the familiar tensing of his jaw.
Ronni’s eyes glittered merrily. “Funny, you don’t look near death’s door, but then it’s been said that looks can be deceiving. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come over and exercise my horses, but, if you’re too sore—”
“Horses?” Bryan’s head snapped up.
“Mmm. Quarter horses. Loose Change—we call her Lucy—and Sam,” she said and Travis noticed the boy’s bored expression changed slightly. “Amy and I ride them whenever we get the chance, but it would be nice if someone came over on a regular basis. It doesn’t have to be right away, we’re doing fine, but in the spring when your knee’s healed and the doctor says it’s okay, it would help me out.”
Bryan glanced at his father, then rolled out his lower lip as if he didn’t really care. “It’s up to you,” Travis said.
“I’d pay you, of course.” She shot Travis a knowing look. “You could ride them around the lake over here, if your dad doesn’t mind.”
“Fine with me,” Travis said. “As long as the doctor agrees.” He could barely believe the transformation in his son. Try as he might, Bryan couldn’t hide his interest. Somehow, Ronni had known how to get through to the kid when no one else—teachers, school counselors and certainly not he—could pierce Bryan’s emotional armor.
Ronni screwed the cap back on the vinegar bottle. “We’ve got time, just think about it. Now, Amy, why don’t you show Bryan what we brought?”
The little girl scrambled off her chair and rushed to the refrigerator where she found a bottle of sparkling cider and hoisted it proudly into the air over her head.
Ronni placed the salad bowl on the table between the two candles. “We usually save this for special occasions like birthdays, Christmas and New Year’s, but I figured this was close enough since it’s the holiday season.”
“You like it?” Amy asked the teenager, her eyes round with anticipation.
“It’s okay.” A dismissive shoulder raised.
“Let’s open it,” Ronni suggested. “Bryan, why don’t you do the honors? And Travis, I brought a bottle of Chianti, it’s—”
“Got it,” Travis said, spying the green bottle resting on the counter and scrambling through the top drawer where he thought he’d placed his corkscrew. He pushed aside spatulas, spoons, a potato peeler and a wire whisk before he located the opener. “Here we go.” As Ronni placed the pan of lasagna and a basket of garlic bread on the table, he poured them each a glass. “It looks great,” he said and she grinned under the compliment.
“Let’s just hope it tastes as good as it looks!”
She didn’t have to worry. Everyone appeared to be hungry, and by the time the dishes were carried to the sink, most of the food had been devoured. Even Bryan, though trying to maintain an image of being cool and disdainful, ate as if he hadn’t seen food in a week. When they were finished, some of the tension had eased and Amy seemed to have forgotten that the house was supposed to be haunted and inhabited by all manner of creepy-crawlies.
“Bryan and I will tackle the dishes,” Travis announced and the boy didn’t bother hiding his shocked look.
“Women’s work,” he grumbled.
“You think so?” Ronni asked, amused.
“In Seattle, we had a maid—”
“I hate to be the one to tell you, kid, but we’re not in Kansas…er, Washington anymore.”
“What?” Bryan looked at his father as if he thought Travis had lost his mind.
“An old joke, comes from the movie The Wizard Of Oz, I think. Never mind, you’re too young, but the point is, as many of us males have learned rather painfully over the past twenty years or so, there is no such thing as women’s work versus men’s.”
“There should be,” Bryan argued.
Travis picked up his dish and carried it to the sink. “Okay, I’ll grant you that men and women are different, physically, mentally and emotionally, and there have been some heated debates on the subject, lots of tempers flared, but I believe deep in my heart that men, if they wanted to, could clean the dinner dishes just as well as their wives. If only someone would give them the chance,” he said.
His son rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, Travis. But maybe they don’t want to.”
Ronni couldn’t leave it alone. “Okay, okay, you two, bring out the white flags and declare a truce. Tonight I’m going to do you a favor, Bryan. Since you’re on crutches, I’ll cut you a break. You show Amy around and I’ll handle the pots and pans.” She glanced at Travis, half expecting him to argue with her, but this time he held his tongue, and Bryan, after looking at Amy and sizing her up, made good his escape, moving out of the kitchen faster than any person on crutches should. Amy, realizing she was about to be dumped, hurried after him.
“If he thinks he can outrun her, he’s got another think coming,” Ronni said fondly.
“Where did you learn to handle teenage boys?” Travis asked, studying her so intently that she wanted to squirm.
“I gave ski lessons for years. Dealt with all kinds.” She carried the plates and stacked them in the sink. “You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”
Deep furrows etched the skin between his eyebrows and he glanced at the door to the kitchen, still swinging slightly. “You know, there was a time I thought I could do anything. Didn’t matter what it was. Form a company, hit a baseball, climb Mount Everest if I wanted to. I guess I was a little full of myself.” Smiling in self-mockery, he shook his head and closed his eyes. “Damn but I was wrong. I never realized how trying teenagers could be.”
“You’ll work it out,” she predicted, turning on the faucets and listening as the old pipes squeaked and groaned.
“I hope you’re right,” he said, unconvinced.
The phone rang and Travis snatched the receiver. After a short pause, he grimaced, glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. “What time is it over there?” he demanded, then said, “I don’t think I even want to know.” He paused and listened, all the while his fingers clenching the receiver in a death grip. “No, no, he’s fine, Sylvia. Better every day. I told him to call…oh, please, don’t cry.”
Ronni recognized Travis’s ex-wife’s name and wished there was a way she could graciously back out of the room. She didn’t need to be a part of the emotional turmoil that was suddenly reeling through the room like a tornado.
“Pull yourself together, okay? I’ll get him. Hang on.”
All the animation had left his face. Turning on the heel of his boot, Travis stormed through the swinging doors and within minutes Bryan hobbled back through the room. His lips were pursed and his jaw tight. Before he could pick up the receiver, Ronni decided she didn’t want to eavesdrop on a
private conversation. Turning off the taps and grabbing a towel for her hands in one swift motion, she pushed open the swinging doors with her hips and nearly collided with Travis striding back to the kitchen.
“Oh…look, maybe this is a bad time. Amy and I can come back later.”
“No!” he nearly yelled, then let out his breath slowly. Touching her lightly on the arm, he said, “It’s just Sylvia. She’s into theatrics, and right now she’s ticked at me because I haven’t called her every day with a progress report on Bryan.”
“At least she cares—”
He cut her off with a look that silently called her a fool. “When it’s convenient, that’s when Sylvia cares.” He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then, seeming to think better of it, snapped his teeth together. “Forget the dishes, I’ll handle them later. Let’s start in on the rest of the project.”
“Okay, uh, I guess we should begin with a tree. You said that you and Bryan went out looking for one, but that—”
“It was a bust. A major bust. We ate dinner and by the time we were finished, it was too late. The lot was closed. Which was just as well, considering both of our moods.”
“Uncle Vic will help you,” Amy said.
One of Travis’s dark eyebrows quirked. “Who’s Uncle Vic?”
“My sister’s husband. He works at a lot in downtown Cascadia for a couple of his friends.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.” He started for his jacket just as Bryan appeared in the doorway. His face was red, his gaze distant as he leaned on his crutches.
“I think you’d better call Mom in the morning, Travis,” he said, biting his lower lip.
“Why?”
Bryan’s jaw tightened in a younger whisker-free imitation of his father’s. “Because she wants me to come to France.”
“What? For the holidays?” Travis muttered something under his breath. “That woman doesn’t know what she wants.”
“No, Travis,” he said and his voice quivered slightly. “You’re wrong. I think this time she’s serious. She says she wants me to come and live with her. And not just for a few weeks. She’s talking about marrying Jean Pierre and she wants me to move in with them. Permanently.”
