All Through The House (22 page)

"But let's not count on it."

"Hey, I used to be the pessimist in this
partnership."

"We both know how much is riding on this."

"Yeah, that mausoleum you call home," John said.

Funny, Nate thought, that wasn't what had jumped into his
mind. He'd spent more time these last couple of weeks here at the office and
less at the house. He'd become...detached. Why, he wasn't sure. He loved the
old house; why should that be affected by how Josiah had felt about him? All he
had to do was remember the warm relationship he and the old man had had those
last two years before Josiah's death. Maybe they hadn't been father and son,
but they'd damned sure been friends. Josiah had known Ed wouldn't keep the
house, even if he was family. He'd hoped Nate would buy and restore it. He
could still do that.

So why wasn't he sure he still wanted to? Was it Abigail?
Did he need her to make any place home?

He didn't know. All he was certain of was that the Irving
House seemed very big and empty these days. Even the ghosts were quiet. Had he
imagined them from the beginning, conjuring a connection with a family that he
had so desperately wanted to be his?

Maybe so. But he didn't miss them. He wasn't kidding when
he'd told Abigail he would burn the place down if that would bring her back.
No, the Irving House didn't feel like home anymore. Not without Abigail.

*****

After fielding the fifth question about the new development
that afternoon, Abigail hung up with a feeling of satisfaction. She was
garnering just the reaction she'd hoped for: excitement, curiosity, and
interest from potentially serious buyers.

Grabbing her purse, she headed out. "Meg," she
called, "I'm gone. I want to stop by the development on my way home to see
how the houses are coming along."

Meg waved from her office. "Okay."

It was after five, and Abigail found the site deserted. She
drove up the newly paved street to the hilltop house, now framed in. A
skeleton, she thought, without its flesh. Stepping carefully in her high-heeled
sandals, she wandered through the house, trying to imagine the kitchen here,
the library there. After a week of drizzly weather the summer haze had been
washed away and the mountains were clear tonight. Standing in what would be the
living room, Abigail gazed past the raw slope below to the forested, dark-green
foothills and the jagged mountains rising above them.

With a view so spectacular, how could she fail to sell this
house and all the others? She felt good about her strategy and how it was
paying off. Once houses started going up in any number, she'd be so busy here,
she and Meg would need to take on another agent or two. It was about time,
anyway. There was only so long they could work the hours they had.

Nate's challenge was one of the best things that had ever
happened to her, she thought with renewed satisfaction. She was showing herself
what she was capable of accomplishing. And, by God, she would show him, too.

Or, did he not need showing? The thought popped into her
head, catching her by surprise. Abigail hooked one arm around a stud and leaned
against it while she continued to gaze blindly at the sweeping view.

Had Nate really challenged her? Or had he tried to show her,
as explicitly as he knew how, that he respected her ability? Was Meg right? Had
she been a fool, losing Nate's love because she was afraid to lose herself?

She made herself follow the inevitable path. She had
compared Nate with James, how fairly she didn't know. What she had never done
was compare the woman she was now with the wide-eyed twenty-two-year-old who'd
married James. Why hadn't she realized that she was a different person now from
the young, shy, unconfident girl who had mistaken possession for love? She had
seen echoes of James's behavior in Nate's because she was afraid. But would
James have ever been attracted to the strong person she now was?

Abigail knew the answer. Her very appeal to James was the
innocence that allowed her to admire him, that made her too unsure to fight
back. He had circumscribed her life not to be cruel, but because he feared to
let her grow, knowing that she would clearly see the painful insecurity he
struggled to mask.

Oh, yes, she knew the answer. James would never have been
attracted to a determined, independent woman. Never in a million years. Nate
was.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the rough
stud. Although it hurt, she made herself go on.

Was there one more difference between the two men? James
would never have given her the time and space to think, to come to terms with
her feelings. With his silence, had Nate done that.

Or had she dealt one too many wounds? What was it he'd said?
I don't know if I want to marry a woman who has to think about it. He had given
her another chance, the day he offered her the "plum." After her
response, could she blame him if he'd given up? Or, worse yet, if she had
killed his love?

Well, she couldn't expect him to come to her again. It was
her turn now. Did she have the nerve to call him? To strip herself bare and
say, I was wrong, I love you?

Would he care?

She had to try. Abigail hurried to the narrow plank that
took the place of stairs and edged down it. She’d call him now.

Behind the wheel, Abigail groped through her purse and came
up empty.  Oh, lord.  She had a memory of setting her phone down on the console
in her office – where she’d apparently left it.  She drove faster than she
should down the hill and barely paused at the gate, where the entry posts were
half finished, the dirt below them still bare. She and John had talked about landscaping,
maybe tulips and daffodils for spring, but now Abigail suddenly thought, roses.
Old roses. Big sprawling shrubs with magnificent, fragrant blooms. And lavender
and hollyhocks. Some boxwood topiary? That's what they needed, the elegant
garden of a country estate to match the houses. Nate would like that.

She was trying to distract herself so that she couldn't
think about what she was going to do. She was so afraid that his voice would be
cool, indifferent, that he would say, "I'm sorry, Abigail, but it's too
late." That he would no longer love her.

The only thing she managed to distract herself from was her
driving. She realized that, too late, when she began the turn onto Two
Twenty-eighth and saw the speeding car bearing down on her.

The next second, the world splintered and turned black.

*****

Abigail couldn't get out of her car. She hurt, but
distantly, as though it were happening to someone else. She tried to lift her
left arm and couldn't. Her right hand shook, but with it she managed to wipe
sweat— no, it was bright red, blood—from her forehead. Oh, God, she thought, I
didn’t put on my seatbelt.  She saw the other driver get out of the car. He
came over and peered anxiously in at her, and she thought she heard a voice say
something about calling an ambulance.

The ambulance came an eternity later and bore her on a
backboard to the hospital. By now she knew it was her head that hurt, her arm.
They X-rayed her and eventually gave her a shot for pain.

"Concussion," the doctor murmured. "And a broken
arm. You were lucky, Mrs. McLeod."

She suddenly tried to struggle up. "What time is
it?" she asked in alarm.

The doctor glanced at his watch. "6:45. Children?"

"Yes, a four-year-old in day care. I'm supposed to be
there by six," Abigail said desperately.

"Is there someone you can call to pick your son or
daughter up?"

She was momentarily flummoxed. Her stomach was revolting and
her head hurt and her vision swam. It was hard to think.

Her mother was gone for the weekend. For a minute, she
couldn't remember where, and struggled against her brain, which seemed to be
moving as slowly as molasses. Reno. That was it. A senior citizens' group had
gone to make their fortune on slot machines.

Meg? Hadn't she said something about going out? It wasn't
Meg whom Abigail wanted to call anyway.

"Is there a phone?" she asked.

"Can we call for you?" the nurse asked.

"No, I'd better."

In the end they brought her a phone. She threw up, rinsed
her mouth with water, and called Nate.

Thank God he was home. Her voice was wavery when she said,
"You in the business of helping maidens in distress?"

"Abigail?"

"Yes, it's me," she said, vaguely aware how silly
she sounded. "Nate, I was in a car accident. I'm at the hospital—"

He interrupted. "How badly are you hurt?"

"I guess I have a concussion and a broken arm. I'll
survive. I'm not the problem. It's Kate..."

His voice changed. "She was with you?"

"No, thank goodness. The thing is, she's still at the
baby-sitter's. I was supposed to pick her up at least a half an hour ago. Can
you possibly go get her? If you could just stay with her until I can get in
touch with Meg…."

"Give me the address and I'm on the way. Can you call
the baby-sitter to let her know I'm coming?"

Washed with relief, she said, "Yes, of course.
Nate...thank you."

"No problem. And Abigail...if you really want Meg, go
ahead and call her. But if not, I'd be happy to stay with Kate. Will they let
us visit you tonight, do you think? Kate's going to be scared. She'll want to
see you."

"Oh, Nate...." Tears rolled down her cheeks and
she felt weak in the aftermath of her worry.

"Did you think I wouldn't be here for you?"

Abigail sniffed. "No, but I don't deserve you."

Nate made a rude sound. "Knock it off or you'll scare
me. This doesn't sound like you."

She laughed weakly. "I don't think you'd better come
tonight. I don't know when they're going to put a cast on, and...I hurt and I'm
dopey, and I'd probably upset Kate even worse if she did see me. I'll probably
be able to come home in the morning, though."

"We'll be there to pick you up," he said, in a miraculously
strong, warm voice. "Call the baby-sitter, love. Then take a nap."

Abigail did call, then let herself drift. She felt...safe,
at least. Love, he had called her. Did he still mean that? Or was he more
worried about Kate than her? After all, his willingness to help didn't mean he
still wanted to marry her.

What if he didn't? What would she do? But Abigail was
suddenly too tired to worry anymore. She would find out soon enough. Right now
her eyelids were too heavy.

The rest of the evening and night passed in a dreamlike
state. Or perhaps nightmare was closer to the truth, since Abigail's head
throbbed as though a brass knocker were pounding her temple. She could almost
see it, one of those heavy lion's heads, like the Irving House had.

She felt alive again by morning, if still miserable. The
doctor stopped by at an unearthly hour and decided she could go home if she had
someone to wait on her. "I'll phone my mother," she said, and he
nodded.

"Good. Don't overdo."

Nate called to find out when to come, and then Abigail dozed
again. Even so, when Kate and Nate appeared in the doorway, some instinct made
Abigail open her eyes. She pulled herself up against the pillow and her head
threatened to explode. Gritting her teeth, she smiled at her daughter, whose
eyes were wide and anxious.

"Mommy?" Kate whispered.

"I'm okay, honey. Come here and give me a hug. I could
use one."

The little girl flung herself across Abigail, jolting the
cast and reminding her that her arm hurt, too.

"You're hard," Kate said, lifting her head.

"Look what your mom's got." Abigail tapped the
cast. As her daughter inspected it, Abigail lifted her gaze to the tall man
standing silently beside the bed. One side of his mouth tilted up in a smile so
tender, her heart flipped over. It flipped again when she saw the intensity of
fear in his gray eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked roughly.

"Nothing a couple of days and some aspirin won't
cure."

His gaze touched on her bandaged head. "No seat
belt?"

She wrinkled her nose. "I'm afraid not."

"Mommy!" Kate said in a shocked voice. "You
always make me wear my seat belt!"

"I was in a big hurry," Abigail said ruefully, wishing
her head would quit pounding. "Pretty dumb, huh? You can bet I won't
forget again."

The four-year-old nodded solemnly, apparently absolving her
mother of guilt. "Were you coming to get me? You were late. You were so
late Mrs. Fisher tried to call you."

"I was on the way to pick you up," Abigail agreed.
And to call Nate.

Satisfied, Kate asked, "Can I write on your cast? You
know Kayla from my preschool? When she had a cast, everybody got to write on
it."

"You can be the first," Abigail said, and kissed
Kate's soft dark hair.

"How about me?" Nate reached out to smooth curls
back from Abigail's forehead. For the first time she thought about how she must
look in a hospital gown and bandages, but something in his eyes told her Nate
didn't care, hadn't even noticed, how pallid she was. "Can I put one of
those hearts with an arrow through it?" he said, "I could write 'Nate
and Abigail forever.' "

Was he trying to tell her that he still felt the same, or
was he joking? She searched his face, but then Kate bounced experimentally on
the edge of the bed and Abigail had to close her eyes against the pain that splintered
her head.

Suddenly she felt the weight lifted from the mattress.
Abigail pried her eyelids open to see that Nate held Kate.

"Kate-who-rhymes," he said softly, "we'd
better let your mom get dressed if she's going to come home with us."

Home. With him. It sounded heavenly. "I can hardly
wait," Abigail said.

"Good." His smile creased his cheeks and warmed
his eyes. "I'll call the nurse to help you. Come on, short stuff, let's
see if we can find a pop machine."