by Webb, Peggy
Unconsciously she twisted the ring on her finger.
"If I can get a plane out, I'll leave tomorrow."
He tilted her chin upward with the tips of his fingers. "Is that what you want to do?"
"It's what I have to do."
o0o
They stood together at the airport. Beyond the jetway the plane waited that would take her to New York. A lassitude overtook her, and Ann wanted nothing more than to sit in a quiet corner and not move for the next few days.
"Annie, look at me." She did, and what she saw in his eyes stole her breath. "This is not good-bye."
"I have to go back, Colt."
"You'll return."
As quickly as it had come the lassitude vanished, and in its place was a spitfire who had gone through hell and back and who had come out fighting.
"How do you know that? Just because we both dreamed the same dream doesn't mean we're connected."
He tucked her hair behind her left ear. "We did dream the same dream, Annie. We still do."
The announcement came over the loudspeaker. "Last call for Flight 365 to LaGuardia."
"When the floodwaters recede, you'll be back to Windchime House to claim what's yours . . . and I'll claim what's mine."
He kissed her then, a long, lingering kiss that made her heart lurch and her toes curl under. She turned quickly from him so he wouldn't see her tears.
And when the plane lifted toward New York, she could see him still, a tiny speck, shading his eyes for one last glimpse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rob was waiting for Ann at the airport. She felt like a traitor as she walked into his arms.
"Ann, my God. I can't believe you're finally home."
"I can't believe it, either."
He bent down, and she turned her face slightly to the left so that his kiss landed on her cheek.
"It's good to be back, Rob."
Why was it that everything she said felt like a lie? In many ways she was glad to be back—glad to be out of danger, glad to be returning to her studio, to her work.
He gathered her bags and hustled her into a limo. Though he could well afford it, it wasn't like him to be so extravagant.
"I decided to give you the royal treatment. Hurricane victim returns, triumphant. Reunited at last with her lover."
Ann's smile vanished. Memories bombarded her, flashing between past and present—a sunlit bed in the French Quarter, the wedding gown in a dusty trunk in the attic, Colt sleeping with one arm thrown over his head, Colt taking them safely from the flooded attic, Colt seeing her off at the airport in Pensacola.
Ann leaned her head against the soft leather seat and closed her eyes.
"Tired?" Rob said.
"Very."
He patted her hand. "Don't worry, darling. I'll take care of you."
She kept her eyes closed. The last thing in the world she wanted was Rob taking care of her and all that statement implied.
"That's very sweet of you, Rob, but I would be terrible company this evening. All I want to do is go back to my apartment, take a bath, and crawl into bed."
He couldn't hide his irritation. "I had planned a lovely dinner at Carmine's. I thought you'd want some good Italian cooking after that deep South diet. What is it? Redeye gravy and biscuits?"
"Not everybody eats that way. Believe it or not, some people in the South are actually health conscious."
"Now, Ann. There's no need to get huffy. I was only teasing."
"Sorry, Rob. I guess I'm not in the mood for teasing.”
She wasn't in the mood for anything, at least not with Rob. As the limousine whizzed through the streets of New York, she studied his profile. Handsome with a strong jaw and a Roman nose, the premature gray at his temples giving him a distinguished look, he was the kind of man that single women sought out at cocktail parties. Any woman would be happy to be in Ann's shoes.
Then why wasn't she happy?
She was too tired to ponder the reasons. Sighing, she turned her face back to the window.
Rob reached for her hand. Ann remembered another hand she'd held, a strong, suntanned hand belonging to a man who had the power to turn her inside out.
From the bag at her feet came the faint sound of ticking—Felix the Cat, Colt's gift to Annie, to mark time until we meet again.
"We'll talk tomorrow," she told Rob.
o0o
The dinner bell clanged, echoing across the pasture to the edge of the woods where Colt stood. With a hammer in one hand and nails in the other, he lifted his head and listened.
He didn't need a bell to tell him it was dinnertime. His stomach was doing a good job of that. He held the wire in place and drove the nail home, then surveyed the length of fence. Bethany had done some damage to his ranch, mostly to fences and roofs, and he'd spent the morning making repairs.
The bell clanged again. Weary, Colt mounted Warrior and raced to the house. Pete was in the sunny kitchen dishing up red beans and rice.
"You look like hell," Pete said.
"I don't feel much better."
"It's no wonder. Out all hours helping folks clean up after Bethany, then running from can till can't getting this ranch back in shape. What're you trying to do? Kill yourself?"
"Just trying to get the job done, that's all."
And stay so busy he didn't have time to think. If he thought about Annie in New York with Rob, he'd drive himself crazy.
"There's more to it than that, and I suspect it has something to do with Windchime House and Ann Debeau," Pete said.
Across the kitchen table, Pete gave him an expectant look, but Colt didn't bite.
"Three days is a long time to be trapped in an attic with a beautiful woman."
There was another pregnant pause, but Colt kept eating his food.
"A lot can happen in three days," Pete said hopefully.
"Yep. A lot can happen."
In three days a man could learn that it was possible for a woman to get tangled up in his heart with a single look, that hearts intertwined could remain that way for a lifetime and beyond.
For a while there was no sound in the kitchen except the scraping of forks against plates and a contented sigh as Pete dredged his corn bread through the remains of his dinner and took that last satisfying bite.
Hands crossed on his belly, Pete leaned back in his chair.
"When's she coming back?"
"She didn't say."
Pete left off prying for a while to give Colt what he called the once-over. Though his eyes were rheumy with age, he had no trouble at all making Colt feel as if Pete were seeing right through him. And he had an uncanny knack for getting to the heart of the matter.
Ever since her plane had lifted toward New York, Colt had asked himself the same thing. When was she coming back? Was she coming back?
Pete refilled his coffee cup and looked beyond Colt to the darkening sky and the first star of evening that shone through the kitchen window.
"I never get tired of this view," he said.
"I feel the same way. A man could do worse than spend his life riding his land with the wind in his hair and a good horse beneath him."
Pete gave him a piercing look. "He could do better, too."
Silent, Colt refilled his own coffee cup.
"Did I ever tell you about Erma Jean?" Pete had a horror of falling into the habit of repeating himself that plagued most people his age, and so the look he gave Colt was anxious and hopeful at the same time.
"No, you didn't."
"I thought not." Pete nodded, satisfied. "Erma Jean was the prettiest little thing in Alabama, blond hair and silvery eyes and silky skin. She put me in mind of a fine Alberta peach. Met her at a barn dance. We fell in love at first sight."
"What happened?"
"She married another man and moved to Florida."
"Was it because of me?"
Colt had been a scared five-year-old when he'd come to live with his daddy's older brother. Nightmares used to wake him
up, and he'd sit up in bed, sweating and shaking, his mouth open but no sound coming out as he replayed the scene on the polo field when his daddy toppled off Spirit Dancer and his mother had run screaming onto the field, right in the path of thundering hooves.
Pete would reach out and tuck Colt close, then tell him stories about his daddy's childhood until he fell asleep.
"Had nothing to do with you," Pete said. "It was a long time before Caleb and Vivien died." He steepled his fingers, remembering. "I had too many things I wanted to do, too many horses to train, and I thought Erma Jean would wait forever. She didn't."
Colt didn't ask why Pete had never found anybody else. Now that he'd met Annie, he knew.
Pete lowered his bushy eyebrows as he stared at Colt. "It gets mighty lonesome in a bed all by yourself."
How well Colt knew. A vision of Annie came to him, asleep on the chaise longue with one hand resting under her cheek. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed not to go to her and gather her in his arms.
"Yes, a man can get lonesome," Colt said, then picked up his hat and rammed it on his head.
"Where are you going?"
"Fairhope. The Crockers are going to need help."
And after the Crockers, the Gibbs, then after them the Rakestraws, and on and on until one fine day Colt would look up and Annie would be back in Windchime House, back where she belonged.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Surrounded by the tools of her trade—wheels, globs of clay, pots of glaze—Ann felt more at ease, more confident and not nearly as scared as she'd been the previous night as she lay in her bed and came to a decision about her future.
Barefoot, wearing jeans and a white shirt with the tail hanging out, she sat behind her potter's wheel turning a delicate vase while Rob perched on the edge of the sofa underneath the skylight.
"Do you have to do that?" he said, nodding toward the wet clay taking shape underneath her fingertips.
"Yes. I have to do this."
"I thought you wanted to talk."
"I do, but I feel more comfortable talking here in my studio."
"I don't know why we couldn't have had this conversation over dinner. I was thinking of the Vegetarian Paradise in Chinatown. Or even in my apartment, where we could relax in the hot tub."
Still dressed in his suit and tie, he looked out of place in her cluttered studio and uncomfortable besides. But he didn't betray himself by so much as a blink of his eye. He didn't even loosen his tie.
Ann concentrated on a delicate maneuver on the wheel, then lifted her gaze to him.
"What I have to say is not easy, Rob."
"Look, I know you were tired when you came in last night. I understand. Believe me." He picked up a hand blown blue glass ball from the coffee table and tested its weight, then set it back down. "I think you're still tired and overwrought, and whatever you have to say should wait until you've fully recovered from the trauma of what happened to you down South."
"I don't think I'll ever fully recover, Rob."
He left the sofa to squat beside her wheel, one hand on her knee.
"We'll get help for you, darling. There are some very good psychologists who specialize in these matters."
"I don't need a psychologist. I need time."
"I agree. Time will help, but a trained professional can make all the difference between full recovery and partial."
She cut off the wheel, wiped her hands on a towel, and covered his hand with both of hers.
"You are dear in so many ways."
He was intuitive enough to hear more than the compliment in her voice.
"Don't say anything else, Ann. Not yet. Give it some time."
"That's exactly what I plan to do."
Restless, uncertain, and more than a little scared, she left the wheel to pace her studio. Pottery pieces she'd created lined the shelves, and she paused to run her hands over them, taking courage from the graceful lines and the cool surfaces.
He was a powerful presence behind her, a man whose arms had held her close at night, a man who had charmed her with stories of his childhood and earned her respect with the conscientious way he treated his clients, each case as if it were special.
Ann twisted the ring on her finger, wondering for the hundredth time if she were making a mistake. Rob caught her from behind and pulled her close, burying his face in her hair.
"God, I've missed you."
She waited for something to happen to her—anything—shivers, sparks, joy. But she felt nothing except a mild comfort.
"Let's go to your bedroom, Ann."
"No." She gently pulled herself free, then faced him with her chin up and her heart full of resolve. "There's no easy way to say this, Rob. All I know how to do is to be perfectly candid. I can't go on with our engagement."
She pulled off the ring and pressed it into his hand. He studied the large diamond, his jaw set.
He shoved the ring into his pocket. "What happened down there?"
"I don't like your tone or your implication."
"You didn't answer my question. You were holed up in that attic for three days with a man. Exactly how did you pass the time, Ann?"
"Am I under oath, Counselor?"
"Okay." He held up his hands. "Maybe I deserved that. But you have to admit that your actions coming right on the heels of that dramatic rescue add up to more than coincidence."
Ann dropped her face into her hands, suddenly tired of everything. She could feel his anger pulsing across the space that separated them.
"Nothing happened," she said, lifting her head. "Not what you're thinking."
His mouth grim, he waited. Ann tilted her chin upward a notch.
"We played chess and checkers and took turns checking on the water level outside our window. We ate cold pastries and canned Viennas and drank cold coffee."
Memories flooded her, and she took a shaky breath.
"That accounts for the daylight hours," he said.
Not quite, but the letters were too personal to share with Rob. And the old clock with its incredible magic.
"If you're asking whether we had sex, the answer is no. But not because I didn't want to." She tilted her face so she could look him squarely in the eye. "I wanted Colt Butler, Rob. I was engaged to you but I wanted another man, and that's why I didn't let you come to my bed last night and that's why I didn't sleep a wink and that's why I'm ending this engagement. It's not fair."
"To whom, Ann? To me or to him?"
"There are three people involved here, and an engagement that is not real and true is not fair to any of us."
"So now that the engagement doesn't stand in your way, you're going to him?"
"I can understand your bitterness . . ."
"You can't possibly understand." Rob raked his hand through his hair, a gesture she'd never seen him use. "I spend years working so I can make it to the top of the heap, hardly taking time to eat, let alone have a social life. Then I find the perfect woman, plan the perfect life . . . And suddenly this."
He made a slashing motion across his throat. "No, Ann, you don't understand."
He strode toward the door, anger echoing in every step he took.
"Rob, wait." She caught up to him, put her hand on his arm. "I didn't want it to end this way."
"You're the one who ended it, Ann." Some of the fight went out of him, and he leaned against the door. "What did you expect of me?"
"I really don't know. If it makes you feel any better, the answer is no. I'm not going back to Alabama. At least, not for a while."
"What will you do?"
"Work, recover, think."
He studied her, and for a moment his face softened. But the interlude was brief.
"I wish I could say call me if you change your mind, but I can't. I don't believe in second chances, Ann."
"I do," she whispered, but he didn't hear her. He was already out the door.
Charlotte Ann and Anthony flashed into her mind, whirling in a slow, sweet tan
go of love.
Ann raced to the window and watched as Rob climbed into his car. Suddenly she thought of a dozen things she'd wanted to say to him—you're a good man, take care of yourself, someday you'll find a woman who will love you the way you deserve to be loved.
Ann left the window, wet her hands, and went to her wheel. The clay felt alive, and for a while she lost herself in her art. She knew who she was. Ann Debeau, Brooklyn, New York, twentieth century.
o0o
The stars spread across the sky, and a moon as big as Kansas peeped through Ann's window. Without warning she smelled jasmine, saw the intricate carvings on the iron balcony in New Orleans, heard Anthony's laughter, felt his hands on her skin.
And she was torn in two.
The wheel wobbled, the piece tilted, and the delicate vase she'd been shaping turned into a heap of clay.
Ann leaned her head against the cold clay and cried.
o0o
There was activity at Windchime House. Colt braked his car, made a sharp turn, and raced up the driveway. Trucks with logos crowded the lawn, and carpenters, plumbers, painters, and roofers swarmed over the house.
Parking beside a van with CROFT PLUMBING on the side in red letters, Colt went up the front porch steps. A man in green coveralls was coming out the door.
"I'm Colt Butler."
"I know who you are." The man spat a stream of tobacco over the railing. "Seen your picture in the paper."
"I see you're cleaning up the place."
"Yep."
Colt's insides were humming with excitement, but he knew better than to barrel up to Windchime House and start asking questions. That wasn't the way things were done down South. If you wanted to find out something, you had to take a roundabout approach.
He surveyed the work that had already been done on the front.
"It looks good," he said. "First class."
"Yep. Work's comin' along."
"Ann Debeau's bossing the job herself, I guess."
"Nope." The workman spat once more, then turned back to Colt, a twinkle in his eye. "The lady's in New York, if that's what you're asking."
"Much obliged."
