All Through The House

by Janice Kay Johnson

  "That house has loads of charm," Abigail said, looking over his shoulder. "It needs work, though, I won't kid you about that. It does have a new roof...."

  "I can do the work," he said, and his wife nodded happily.

  "You can get lots of square footage for the money, then. Three bedrooms, and I like the neighborhood. This one," Abigail leaned forward and turned the page, "is a little more, a hundred and thirty-five. Can you go that high?"

  They eyed each other and nodded.

  "I think it's an excellent buy. Twenty-year-old split level, nice private yard...."

  She ended up showing them three houses and steering them to a woman at a mortgage company with whom Abigail often cooperated. There was no point in letting them get too excited about a house until they—and she—were sure what they could afford. House hunting was sort of like sitting down to a big meal: people's eyes were often bigger than their pocketbooks.

  Nate appeared at one o'clock sharp with a sandwich from the deli under one arm and two sturdy brown cardboard rolls under the other.

  Abigail met him at the door to her office. He winked at Lisa, the receptionist, then kissed Abigail lightly on the cheek. She actually felt herself blushing as she shut the door behind them. This was getting ridiculous.

  When he dropped the two rolls on her desk, she hazarded, "The elementary school?"

  "Nope, but I'll bring that next time if you're interested."

  "I'd love to see it," she said. "After all, Kate'll be going to school there, you know." ,

  "Hey." His expression was arrested. "So she will. Assuming...."

  "Ye of little faith," she murmured, and he gave a hearty laugh and swept her into a passionate embrace.

  Of course, Abigail melted. When he let her go, flushed and trembling, she retreated behind her desk to her seat and sank into it. Looking up, she met his eyes, which held a glow that quickened a pulse already racing.

  "You remember the first time I came here?" he asked, voice low and rough.

  Abigail nodded.

  Nate braced his hands on the desk and leaned toward her. "You looked at me just like that," he said. "Your eyes were dreamy and your mouth was soft and I knew I had to kiss you."

  "Now you have," she managed.

  "Now I want to keep kissing you." His gaze lowered to her mouth with sensuous intent. "I may never stop," he whispered, just before his mouth covered hers.

  "Unfortunately," he straightened at last and she opened heavy lids to see a smile flicker at the edges of his mouth, "I'm getting too old to do it in this position."

  Her laugh felt good. "And here I was just deciding you really are a romantic."

  "Nah." He grabbed a chair, pulled it up to her desk, and slumped comfortably into it. "I was a romantic when I was sixteen. Wrote poetry, which, thank God, I didn't keep. I was madly in love with Rebecca Hechtlinger, who...." He stopped.

  "Who?" she prompted.

  "I was about to be sexist."

  Abigail wrinkled her nose. "Go ahead. I'll let it pass this once."

  He opened the clear plastic container and took out his sandwich. "Well, Rebecca was a year older than me. A senior, who actually went out with a junior! Rebecca liked jocks. One for every season. I was it during football. Since I didn't play basketball…. Nate shrugged and took a bite.

  "Baseball?"

  He swallowed, then produced a devastating grin. "I was a hell of a baseball player."

  Abigail rolled her eyes. "Okay, so what's in here?" She nodded at the cardboard rolls.

  His face brightened and he set his half-eaten sandwich back in its container. "Have you met my partner yet?" When Abigail shook her head, Nate said, "We'll have to have dinner some night." He popped the top of one carrier. "We've bought some land up toward the Heights. Section on Two Twenty-eighth that's just been logged."

  "You mean the ridge above it?" Abigail leaned forward. "It has an incredible view."

  "That's the one. We're planning a development. Two-and-a-half-acre lots, nice homes. There'll be a community stable and indoor riding arena down on the flat part. Anyway, these are the plans for the first few houses." He spread a sheaf of large, heavy papers flat. The top one was a drawing. The house depicted was beautiful, as distinctive as Abigail could have hoped for. Rather than copying the Victorian style, complete with turrets, that had been in vogue here in the Northwest, Nate had used the vernacularism of the early twentieth-century arts and crafts style. Others, she saw as he spread the heavy drawing paper across her desk, combined elegance with a graceful sweep of wraparound porch, or simplified the stolid dignity of Georgian revival. Abigail would have happily moved into any of them.

  "They're glorious," she said simply.

  "Do you think so?" He looked as vulnerable as a boy, and as lacking in confidence. Stunned, she realized that he needed her approval. He must believe in himself to come as far as he had, she thought. But the scars left by his childhood had to go deep.

  "I love them," Abigail said, tracing the line of a Mansard roof with her fingertip, but surreptitiously watching him. "I think...this one the most." She drew the drawing from beneath several others. It represented a relatively simple farmhouse style given distinction by fine details: cornices and porch railings and the modern angle of dormers, not to mention the tall windows that must flood it with light.

  "Yeah, I like that one, too." He tilted his head and studied it, then finally sighed. "Well, we've been stopped in our tracks with this sewer situation. Damn it, we were promised permits before we went this far, and now they slam the door in our faces. They're talking about not allowing construction for a year. Next thing we know, it'll be two." He shook his head.

  "Surely it won't be that bad."

  Nate began rolling the sheaf to insert the drawings back in the cardboard containers. "I'm just being a pessimist today. I never have liked waiting."

  "The school."

  "Yeah, the school. They keep putting off making a decision. Then there's the house." His gaze locked with hers. "And you."

  "Me?" Abigail said, rocked with surprise. "What do you mean?"

  "You looked pretty scared the other day. You don't like what happened, do you?"

  "I...." She faltered, stopped. "It was so sudden."

  "Come on, Abigail." His expression was impatient. "You knew the first time I kissed you that we'd end up in bed together."

  "No," she denied heatedly. "And I sure didn't expect us to end up on the floor!"

  "Hey." He leaned back in his chair, a ghost of a smile in his eyes. "We were having a second youth. Impetuous, passionate...."

  "Stupid."

  The smile was gone. "What in hell does that mean?"

  "I'm just not ready!" she almost wailed.

  "Well, I am. Abigail...." He stood up and circled the desk to draw her to her feet. When he saw that she had no shoes on, amusement mixed with the tenderness in his smile. "I want some time just with you," he said huskily. "Can I have that?"

  She was weakening, his touch and his smile and her own need conspiring to flood her with warmth. "I...I don't know."

  "This weekend," he said, lifting one hand very slowly to capture a bundle of curls and wrap them about his fingers. "I can get a friend's sailboat for the weekend. The weather's perfect. Remember what I told you about the San Juans? We could find a few secret coves, fly with the wind, rock to sleep at night in each other's arms..." His voice was so low, so deep, it had a texture she could almost touch. Not plush but Berber, soft enough not to hurt and rough enough to scrape every nerve ending.

  She found herself nodding docilely. "Yes," she whispered. "If Kate can stay with her grandmother...."

  He made a sound in the back of his throat, a growl of satisfaction, and bent his head. Just before he kissed her, he said under his breath, "I can hardly wait for those nights."

  *****

  Abigail's mother was delighted to have her granddaughter for the weekend, with the result that Abigail found herself Saturday morning, dressed in jeans
and windbreaker, leaning against the teak railing of a long, slim sailboat moored at the marina at Shelter Bay near La Conner. Using the motor on the back, Nate eased them through the long slough under the arching orange bridge, past the rickety old docks and shops of La Conner, and out into the bay east of Anacortes.

  Abigail still hadn't decided in late afternoon whether she enjoyed sailing, though there had been exhilarating moments. Nate took the boat around the northern tip of Anacortes, across the ferry lanes toward Decatur and Shaw Islands. A huge green-and-white ferry boomed its deep warning as it crossed their wake in the open, choppy blue water. The unfurled sails, bright red and blue, snapped and swelled with the breeze. Abigail learned to duck, and duck again, as the polished boom swept across the boat when they tacked to take advantage of the wind. Though the day was warm and clear, she became soaked by the salt spray as she leaned against the tilt of the boat.

  She loved the smell of the Sound, however, and the wind against her face as they sliced cleanly through the water. But for the sails and the slap of water against the hull, there was a magnificent silence that allowed her to notice the cry of a gull that followed them in hopes of a handout and the distant keen of another ferry horn. And she loved to watch Nate in his element.

  He wore a pair of baggy blue pants, the legs rolled up above his ankles. With a white polo shirt that clung to broad shoulders he looked satisfactorily nautical, though his feet were bare and his hair rumpled and damp with sea spray. It was the joy on his face that gave Abigail the most pleasure, however. Until now she hadn't realized how guarded his expression usually was. Now she saw happiness in its simplest form; he smiled and laughed easily, and his lean face had relaxed until he looked younger.

  Most of the sails were furled now, so that the boat moved slowly through deep rock channels, almost close enough to touch the slabs of granite and basalt that tilted into the green water. Coves sheltered clusters of houses and gentle pasture; other houses clung to exposed points. The islands were cloaked in the dark green of fir and cedar and spruce trees, those at the water's edge gnarled by the wind. Islands too tiny for houses made obstacles for the sailboat to tack around; small intriguing coves and passages tempted them into exploration.

  The sun was sinking now to the west and Nate steered the Swallow between the protective arms of a long, narrow cove. Land dropped so sharply here into the Sound that it was uninhabited. Abigail drank in the silence, the shadows of dusk creeping across the mirror-smooth water. Nate's voice startled her, perhaps because the scene was so utterly peaceful.

  "Tell me about your husband."

  Nate's question was unexpected, though Abigail had known he would eventually ask it.

  "What do you want to know about him?" she asked warily, leaning over the railing to trail her fingers in the cold water.

  Securing the last small sail to the spar and lowering an anchor, Nate talked over his shoulder. "What did he do for a living? What kind of a man was he?"

  "Um." She wished she know how much Nate really wanted to hear. He sounded elaborately casual. Was he just curious, or did he feel threatened by her past? "James was tall, dark-haired, elegant. A trial lawyer," she said. "Appearances were important to him. I met him when I first started selling real estate. He'd made an appointment with someone else in the office, but I was at the desk when he came in."

  "Love at first sight."

  She shot a glance at Nate, who half sat on the railing. The purple shadows of dusk were advancing, and he was indistinct in the failing light, a darker presence, a sardonic voice.

  "Something like that," Abigail agreed stiltedly. Perhaps because she couldn't see Nate well enough to contrast him with James, memories took on a stronger hue. She saw the elegantly dressed man with slick dark hair and blue eyes who had strolled in and stopped just in front of her. He had smiled very slowly, and though she saw the predator in him she had been flattered. And more flattered yet when he had asked her to his law firm's Christmas party and to dinner with well-bred, well-to-do friends. James McLeod had money and influence, neither of which had ever been in touching distance in her life. The possession of those had given him a sexual aura helped by his tall, sleek body and astonishingly blue eyes. She had always thought of a cat when she looked at the man who became her husband. He moved like one, silently and gracefully, and was equally fastidious. His wardrobe was flawless, the furnishings of the condo she had sold him the finest, chosen by a fashionable interior designer. She must be perfect, too, because she was a reflection of his image.

  "You're an extension of me," he had said warmly, and she had been young and foolish enough to be flattered by that, too. The truth was that she was a possession chosen by him. The day she gave him her hand in marriage she was no longer a person in her own right.

  "What kind of man was he?" she mused now. The boat rocked almost imperceptibly on smooth dark water that lapped at the rocky shore. As softly, Abigail said, "James was self-confident and yet horribly lacking in confidence. Incredibly charming, even charismatic. Very bright. On the surface he had principles. I remember admiring them, him for standing up for what was right. In practice, though…." She shook her head. "And underneath his polished surface was a great deal of anger."

  "Did he take it out on you?" Nate no longer sounded casual; to the contrary, his voice was almost belligerent. He didn't like the idea, Abigail could tell. He didn't like her ex-husband.

  "Not in the way you mean," she said. "Our marriage failed because...." She hesitated. How to explain? How to tell him of the suffocating cotton-wool she'd been wrapped in? How to explain what it felt like to know you no longer existed? At last she settled for only part of the truth. "He wanted me to be something I wasn't. He made plenty of money, so he thought I shouldn't work. He picked my friends, my clothes, our entertainment. And...he didn't want children."

  "He doesn't even want to visit Kate." Nate's incredulity echoed Abigail's. That beautiful child with her father's bright blue eyes. How could he not care?

  "That was the last straw. Once I knew I was pregnant, a part of me was withheld from him. He didn't like it," she said simply. "He liked it even less once she was a living, breathing, screaming baby."

  Nate muttered something under his breath she guessed was an obscenity. They sat for a moment in silence, separated by the width of the boat and by the lives that had led them here. Abigail waited with some apprehension for what Nate might say next. James would have liked her not to have a life before him. He'd have been happier if she were brand-new from the shelves of I. Magnin. Would Nate feel the same?

  "Sounds like good riddance," he said finally.

  "To put it mildly," she agreed.

  After another brief silence, Nate said, "Well, do you want to cook or shall I?"

  Relaxing with a rush, Abigail said, "That depends on what we're having for dinner. If it's hot dogs, I'll cook. Chicken cordon bleu is all yours."

  She could hear his smile though she couldn't see it. "Crab salad."

  "The crab is fresh out of the Sound, of course."

  "Fresh out of Olson's Grocery Store, actually. Hamburgers, courtesy of the same source. Corn on the cob, and blueberry pie, which, I'll have you know, I actually made myself."

  "No kidding." Abigail stood up and staggered like a drunken sailor now that the boat didn't move underfoot. "How about if I take the hamburgers, you make the salad?"

  "Deal," Nate agreed. He stood, too, and met her at the hatch to the small cabin. "Come here," he said. "I think I need to kiss you."

  She wrinkled her nose at him. "You think?"

  "I know," he said huskily, and bent his head.

  In the taste of him and the feel, Abigail found some confidence that she wasn't walking down the same road she'd taken once before. If nothing else, the way she looked right now would have put James off. Her hair was a snarled mess, her nose was surely sunburned, her clothes were damp and crumpled. All that, and she had just finished telling Nate about the other man who had once shared her be
d. Amazingly, he still wanted her.

  His kiss was controlled, but edged with real desire. What had started as gentle contact deepened, and his hands shaped her to his long, hard frame. She murmured and moved closer, managing to tread right on his bare toes.

  Nate wrapped his hands around her hips and effortlessly lifted her off. Warm light from the cabin showed her his crooked smile. "Hey, are you so impatient you have to climb all over me?" he teased.

  "If the only way to get your attention is to step on your toes..." she retorted.

  His voice dropped a notch, losing the amusement. "You don't need to be anywhere near that drastic. A smile'll do it every time."

  How could she resist smiling? Since he couldn't resist kissing her, dinner quickly lost priority. Nate lifted his mouth from hers long enough to steer her down the steep steps, though he bumped his head in the process. He seemed to feel it was a small price to pay for the feel of her fingers in his hair and the soft sympathy in her voice.

  "Kiss it and make it better," he suggested roughly.

  Abigail's smile dawned again and she said, "You and Kate."

  "But does she thank you as nicely?" Nate unzipped her windbreaker and his hands cupped her breasts.

  "Well, that's a matter of opinion," Abigail said breathlessly.

  He eased her T-shirt up. "No fair. You're prejudiced."

  "Mommies usually are," she agreed, unthinking, then would have given anything to take the words back.

  But he didn't react visibly, and said only, "She's lucky." Then, hoarsely, "I'm lucky."

  He had found the catch of her bra and released her breasts, then pulled her shirt over her head. Abigail's head fell back and she moaned when Nate's thumbs flicked her sensitive nipples.

  "Hey, no fair," she complained faintly.