by Stuart, Anne
Sybil stared down at her gloved fingers. “It was Geoff,” she said.
“Geoff?” Emmie echoed. “Allison’s Geoff? The senator?”
“The youngest senator in the history of New Jersey, the bright star of the Republicans, the charming, handsome, brilliant Geoffrey Van der Sling. Yup.”
Sudden comprehension washed over Emmie’s face. “I remember. You went to school with him, didn’t you?”
“Yup,” she said again, her voice morose.
“And you hate him?” Emmie ventured. “I can’t see why. I mean he’s a tiny bit pompous and certainly more conservative than you are, but then, everyone’s more conservative than you are. What do you have against him?”
“Nothing.”
The word hung in the heated interior of the Mercedes. “Oh,” said Emmie, finally comprehending. “Now I remember.”
“Yup,” Sybil said a third time. “I had the biggest, most passionate, most desperate crush on Geoffrey Van der Sling that any adolescent has ever suffered through. I used to write his name all over my journal, I used to plan our wedding, I used to pick names for our children.”
“Sybil,” Emmie said patiently, and once more Sybil blessed the fact that of all her family, it was only Emmie who no longer called her Saralee, “you can’t still want him.”
“Of course not. As you said, he’s pompous, conservative and to someone like me, boring.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Sybil took a deep, shaky breath. “He didn’t remember me.”
“Should he have?”
“Of course not,” she said bitterly. “No one ever looked twice at me, then or now. Not with my sisters around. I worked with him on the school newspaper, I acted with him in the school play, I even joined the Young Republicans and managed his campaign for student council.”
“You joined the Young Republicans?” Emmie echoed, fascinated. “True love indeed.”
“I spent hours hanging on his every word, running his errands, doing his bidding. And he didn’t even remember me,” said Sybil.
“Okay, I’ll grant you, that stinks. But I don’t see why you’re running away because Geoff Van der Sling has a lousy memory. Unless you still want him, deep down inside.”
“I don’t want him,” she said firmly. “I wouldn’t take him on a silver platter. Maybe that’s part of my problem. I don’t care about him, I don’t want him, and I still feel absolutely lousy. It’s irrational, but all I want to do is get back to Vermont and hide.”
“Okay. And I don’t think it’s that irrational,” Emmie added. “It’s just one more thing to give you that absurd illusion of inadequacy.”
Sybil managed to conjure up a grin. “I love the way you put things.”
“That’s why you let me drive you to the airport,” she said, calmly making a turn in the midst of dense traffic that would have had Sybil tearing her hair. “I’m going to tell you something I promised Henry I wouldn’t.”
“What would your husband want you to keep from me? I’m hardly any danger.”
“We’ve had amnio on this baby, since I’m thirty-five. We’re finally getting a girl after two boys. And we’ve agreed. This one is Sybil.”
She stared at her in amazement, swallowing the sudden rush of tears that threatened to choke her. “But what about the others? Or shouldn’t you name her after Mother?”
“Not Rebecca,” Emmie said firmly. “Not Hattie, not Allison and not even Saralee. She’s Sybil, and she’s your godchild in another month. So cheer up. That’s better than marrying a senator any day.”
“You’re right,” she said, her voice husky with emotion that Emmie understood without her having to say anything. “And with Allison’s luck she might end up in the White House.”
“Poor thing,” Emmie agreed, commiserating. “Let’s count our blessings and see if they have any restaurants in the terminal. As usual, I’m starving, and your plane isn’t due to leave for another two hours.”
“Sounds good,” Sybil said. Reaching over, she patted Emmie’s huge belly. “You better keep my niece well fed.”
“Don’t worry,” Emmie said with a groan. “At forty pounds and counting, I’m keeping her roly-poly.”
THE PLANE WAS due to leave at three o’clock Sunday afternoon. Emmie finally headed back down to Princeton at five, they let the passengers board the plane at six, ordered them off at seven, put them on another at nine, and took off at eleven-fifteen.
Logan Airport was a madhouse. Planes were still flying in and out, skidding on the snow-slick runways, darting through the fog and swirling sleet, landing safely with all the passengers gripping their armrests and gritting their teeth. Sybil filed off with the others, thankful to be out of the claustrophobic plane for at least a few minutes before her connection to Burlington was ready to board. The airport was jammed with people, waiting for delayed and canceled flights, college students starting their Christmas vacation, skiers trying to get back to jobs. The loudspeaker was playing Christmas carols, with the same high-pitched, nerve-racking arrangements usually reserved for department stores, the kind that made people nervous enough to spend too much money just to get out of the place.
But getting out of Logan was no easy matter. They trying to keep the runways open, but the snow was heading north and more and flights were being cancelled. She didn’t relish bedding down in the terminal with a horde of college students on break, the decorations that festooned every available surface made her even crankier, and if Grandma got run owner by one more reindeer she was going to scream.
On top of that, there was Ransome Airways. She’d always had strong doubts about it, simply because of their name. Ransome reminded her of kidnapping, kidnapping reminded her of hijacking, hijacking reminded her of terrorists, and she never flew without feeling paranoid and uneasy. And their planes were much too small.
At least they weren’t crowded, either. They were merely a connector for one of the larger airlines, and tonight most passengers didn’t feel like making that connection. As she walked down the increasingly deserted corridors toward Gate 67A, she wondered if they’d make the flight for one passenger, or make her wait till they had more to fill up their tiny little plane.
The waiting area was dimly lit, a single clerk was standing behind the counter, waiting to check her in, and one lone figure was sitting over by the windows, staring out into the snowy night sky. They’d make the flight for two passengers, she thought in relief, proffering her ticket.
“Flight’s two hours late,” the clerk announced in a bored voice.
“Will we be getting out tonight?”
He stamped her ticket and handed her the boarding pass that read Number Two. “Who knows? Snow’s supposed to be letting up, but things are bad up in Burlington. Even if you can take off here, they may not let you land.”
“But . . .”
“Take it or leave it, lady. You want your boarding pass or you wanna arrange for a flight tomorrow?”
She surveyed the almost empty passenger area, the dim lights, the swirling snow beyond the plate glass. In her rush to get out of Princeton she’d left with only twenty dollars in cash, and she didn’t believe in credit cards. Even if she wanted a motel, even if they weren’t booked solid around the airport, there was no way she could pay for it.
Besides, she desperately wanted to get home. It would be worth sleeping in the airport, driving through a blizzard, just to get back.
“I’ll take it,” she said evenly. “Two hours, did you say?”
“At this point” was his discouraging reply.
“Thanks.” She walked into the waiting area, casting about for a suitable seat. The dark figure of the man had the prime spot, looking out over the landing strip, but she didn’t feel like making friends on such a dismal night, even though she wondered where in t
he world he’d found that delicious-smelling coffee.
Sighing, she sank down in the row behind him, rummaging in her purse for the novel she’d been reading. The man in front of her moved, but she kept her head down, not wanting to catch his glance, not wanting to encourage a no doubt lonely businessman looking for some distraction.
It didn’t do any good. She could feel his presence, see his shadow move around the seats, pause at the end of her row and then steadily advance toward her. She ducked her head lower, determined to ignore him. Really, she had no need to be nervous. The clerk was still standing there, still patently bored, and even if the man pounced there were plenty of security guards roaming the place. Even if no one was in sight, there were plenty of stranded passengers within screaming distance.
Besides, she wouldn’t have to resort to outside help. All she had to do was look up, fix the importunate giant with her most quelling Richardson glare, and he’d subside like a scurrying rat.
He sank down in the seat beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the long legs encased in expensive wool trousers, the handmade leather boots. At least it wasn’t a wino accosting her. Slowly she lifted her head, turning to glare at the intruder.
“Want some coffee?” asked Nicholas Fitzsimmons.
Chapter Thirteen
HIS FIRST IMPRESSION was that she looked like holy hell. There were shadows under her eyes, her face was pale and her mouth, as it dropped open in stunned amazement, was tremulous. She’d been crying sometime in the last twenty-four hours, crying a lot, or he’d miss his guess, and he wanted to put his arms around her and hold her, just hold her, until she lost that waif-like look and became the termagant he was used to.
Of course, he did no such thing. “Coffee?” he prompted again, holding out the cardboard cup. “It’s not bad for airport brew.”
She ignored it. “How did you know I was here?” It was an accusation, pure and simple.
Nick grinned. “There’s that ego again. I had absolutely no idea you’d be here. How could I? You told me you were going to Princeton, not Boston. And you weren’t supposed to be back till Wednesday. Why would I expect to find you stranded at Logan Airport at”—he checked his Rolex—“one-thirty in the morning?”
The spark of anger left her eyes, leaving her pale and deflated once more. “You’re right,” she said.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Do you want some coffee? And are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“No.”
“No coffee?” Nick echoed, puzzled.
She took the cup from his hand, took a deep swallow and managed a half smile. “No, I’m not going to tell you.”
Half a smile was better than none. “Don’t you want to know what I’m doing here?”
“I imagine you came home for a visit,” she said diffidently, clearly not caring. “This is where you’re from, right, even though you were living in England.”
Well, if that’s what she thought, it was fine with him. He’d flown back to Boston this weekend for the sole purpose of pushing Ray into finding something more about Leona Coleman. So far, everything he’d tried had turned up blank, but he had high hopes for James Longer man, 32650.
Ray couldn’t make any promises. Boston had a slasher loose, and every minute of computer time and every law enforcement professional were being called into play. As soon as he had a spare moment he’d get on it, and with that Nick had to be satisfied.
He looked at Sybil, thought for about a moment, then pounced. “I expect you went back to Vermont early, found out I’d gone to Boston and you came tearing after me.”
“Why in God’s name would I do that?”
At least he’d managed to get her interest. She was finishing his coffee, but that was a small price to pay. If she cheered up he might even tell her where the soft-drink machine was. “I can think of several reasons. One, you might be worried that you’d driven me away, so you chased after me to apologize and beg me to come back.”
Sybil managed a genteel snort. “Not likely.”
“Or you could have chased after me to make sure I stayed away.”
“A better possibility, but not worth my time and effort.” She set the empty cup down on the chair beside her.
“Or you could have missed me so much that you couldn’t stand it, and came after me to announce your undying love and to drag me into bed. I still don’t believe that love potion didn’t work.”
It was exactly the right thing to have said. Her backbone stiffened, her gaze sharpened and every trace of the woebegone elf vanished. “Fat chance.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I admit it doesn’t seem likely. You want to tell me why you’re here?”
“I don’t suppose I have any choice if you’re going to keep bombarding me with stupid suppositions,” she snapped. “It’s very simple—my family is a little . . . overwhelming, and I decided to come home sooner than I had planned. The only flight I could make had me change at Logan, so that’s what I’m doing.”
“Your family must be extremely overwhelming for you to take such a roundabout flight during a winter storm.”
“They are.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look at this from another angle,” he murmured, enjoying himself.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t you think it’s odd that we both ended up in the same place at the same time? Don’t you think it’s fate, or kismet, or somehow meant to be? I know how gullible you are—don’t you think this is a sign?”
“If it’s a sign, Nick, it says stop,” she warned.
“Maybe I think it says yield,” he said gently.
She closed her eyes and let out a long, weary sigh, one that still had the faint catch of distant tears on it. “Get off my case, Nick. It’s been a long weekend, a long day, and it’s not over yet.”
“Why don’t you end it, then? There are any number of motels around—you could spend the night and take the first plane out in the morning. The weather will be better and you’ll be more rested.”
“Can’t,” she said succinctly. “I don’t believe in credit cards and I don’t have enough money.”
“We could always share—”
“Shut up, Nick,” she said. “I’ve had a lousy, miserable few days and I’m not sure I can take much more.”
“What was lousy and miserable about it?”
She glared at him. “You never stop, do you?”
“Not often. What was lousy about it?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. My younger sister is marrying someone I had a schoolgirl crush on, but that’s just part and parcel of the whole thing.”
That little twinge in his stomach felt uncomfortably like jealousy. Except, of course, that he wasn’t the jealous type, never had been, never would be. “And you’ve still got that crush?”
“Of course not. Geoffrey is perfect, and perfectly boring. I think he’s just right for Allison—she’ll know how to handle him.”
“But you feel rotten anyway?”
“Yes.” Her nervous hands were wrinkling the trashy novel she was holding. “It’s irrational and stupid, but it just makes me feel more like an outcast.”
He reached out one large, strong hand to cover hers, to stop her fidgeting. To his surprise she didn’t jerk away. “Cheer up, Saralee,” he murmured. “You’ve got me.”
“Some consolation,” she grumbled. But her hand rested beneath his.
He stared at her for a long moment. Her profile was slightly averted, and his eyes ran down the line of her face, the short, slightly upturned nose, the warm brown eyes, the soft mouth and high cheekbone and the untidy mass of hair. He still wanted to put his arms around her, wanted to pull her into his lap and comfort her. It was an
odd feeling—he didn’t usually feel protective toward women, and someone as prickly as Sybil Richardson didn’t need a self-appointed protector.
“All right,” he said, “tell me which dowsing device you think works best: pendulums, L-rods, Y-rods or bobbers? Which sell the best, and why?”
He couldn’t have picked a better subject. Her swift, suspicious glance told him she knew he was deliberately distracting her, knew and appreciated it. “What sells best doesn’t necessarily work the best. It’s a judgment call, anyway. They all have their merits. Which do you prefer?”
“I don’t dowse.”
She stared at him in openmouthed amazement. “You’re kidding.”
“No. I can write, I can analyze, but I can’t dowse.”
“Everyone can dowse.”
“Not me,” he said flatly. “But I’m hell on wheels at mixing up potions.”
“The Arkansas bobber,” Sybil said firmly, “is an obscure but extremely effective device.”
He sat there, a faint smile on his face, as she proceeded to instruct him about every obscure dowsing device known to man. He noticed she hadn’t offered to teach him how to dowse, nor did she offer any of her own amazing success stories that most dowsers trotted out by the dozen. A sudden, delicious suspicion swept over him.
“. . . while Y-rods have been documented as far back as the tenth century—”
“Can you dowse?” he interrupted her.
She frowned. “I told you, everyone can dowse.”
“But can you?”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“How good are you?”
“If you want more research for your book, forget it.”
“I have enough interviews. I want to know how good a dowser you are.”
She glared at him, and for a moment he was afraid he’d blown all his hard work. Then a slow, rueful smile started in her eyes, moved to her lips and bubbled up into a laugh that was nothing short of enchanting. “Lousy,” she said. “Absolutely lousy.”
