Close to You (7 page)

Seven

A
LLIE WALKED INTO HER ROOM
at the farm-cum–boutique B and B they were overnighting at and tossed her small bag onto the bed. Three hours of freedom before dinner lay before her. One hundred and eighty whole minutes of not having to talk Tolkien, think Tolkien, or fake a deep, abiding, and eternal love for his writings.

Exactly what she needed, since by dinner everyone would be so excited by the next day's private tour of the Hobbiton movie set it would consume every conversation. It had already started. The hour-and-ten-minute flight from Wellington north to Rotorua had never felt so long as Elroy and Esther had grilled her on everything their day at Hobbiton would hold, even occasionally switching to Elvish. Whether they did this for fun or to test her, she wasn't sure. She'd passed with flying colors, of course. Actually, she'd held back to allow them to retain some pride in their abilities, when the truth was, next to her fluency, their amateur attempts were like a toddler's first sentences as compared to Shakespeare.

Back in the day, she'd applied to write her PhD thesis in Elvish with an English translation. She would have, too, if the university had been able to find three people willing and able to grade it.

Allie sighed as she tugged her boots off her feet. She was glad her thirteen-year-old self who had fallen in love with Middle-­earth as the ultimate escape from her mother's never-ending disapproval and disappointment couldn't see what she had become. Who would've guessed that a job that required her to sleep, eat, and breathe Tolkien would be her undoing?

Oh, she missed academia. For all its flaws, petty politics, and the change in people's expressions when they realized she wasn't a “real” doctor, it had been a good life. Not to mention that having the impeccable timing of studying Tolkien while the
Lord of the Rings
movies were filming had resulted in the conversion of what her mother had previously deemed to be a “completely useless degree” into something that had made her not insubstantial sums as a consultant. Most of which she currently couldn't touch, thanks to the guy she'd thought was her Aragorn, but who had turned out to be more like the Dark Lord of Mordor.

The smartest girl in the room had turned out to be the dumbest in terms of the things that really mattered.

Shrugging off her traveling uniform of black pants and Southern Luxury Tours–branded shirt and jacket, she slipped into a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting top. The weather was warm but the clouds rolled above, threatening rain. Hopefully those who had decided to tour the farm would finish before the heavens opened.

Pulling her laptop from her carry-on, she luxuriated in the fact that the biggest task ahead of her was the decision as to
whether to catch up on
Downton Abbey
or go really classy with
The Bachelorette
.

Flipping open the computer, she eased herself onto the cloud-like king-size bed and cracked open a Pepsi from the minibar. As she was about to select what to watch, her phone rang.

Why? How did her mother always manage to have a sense for the absolute best moments to ruin?

She stared at her phone, doing its little vibratey dance on her bed cover. There was absolutely no doubt that if she answered it, the resulting conversation was going to leave her in a bad mood. The only question was whether it would be a one or a ten on the Veronica scale.

But if she didn't, she would ring and ring and ring until Allie caved and answered.

Sighing, she swiped her phone on and lifted it to her ear. “Hello, Mother.”

“Hello, Allison. What part of the country are we traipsing around today?”

“Rotorua.”

“Urgh. Horrible smelly place. Don't know how you can bear it.” Said the woman who had her face plastered weekly with stuff that smelled even worse than Rotorua's famous sulfurous mud pools.

“Once you get used to it, it's really not that bad.” She'd take a bit of smell over whatever toxins her mother had bubbling away any day.

“I'm sure.” Her mother's tone indicated she was sure of anything but. “And how are you, dear?”

Allie's radar started blaring a big red warning siren. The only time her mother used any kind of endearment was when she wanted something. Combining it with a question about
Allie's general well-being meant it was going to be something truly horrible. “No.”

“No what, dear?”

Double endearment. The last time it had been used was almost two years prior, when she called to “suggest” Allie give the ring her grandmother had bequeathed her to Susannah because her sister really wanted it and Allie “didn't exactly have use for it anymore.” She didn't even want to think about what her mother wanted now. “No to whatever it is you're about to ask me to do.”

She wasn't usually this abrupt, but her mother had managed to have the impeccable timing to call right when Allie's well of patience had run dry. If she'd waited until after
The Bachelorette
, she probably would have found a much nicer daughter at the other end of the line.

“What makes you think I'm about to ask you to do anything? Can't a mother call her daughter for a chat?”

Normal mothers, yes. This one? No. “Sure, what shall we chat about?”

A pause at the other end. No surprises there. Her mother could talk the leaves off the trees at a social event when she thought it was worth the effort, but when it came to her own children, she wouldn't have a clue where to start. She cleared her throat. “Actually, since you mentioned it, there was something I wanted to ask you.”

Allie braced herself.
Don't react. Whatever it is, don't react. Breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Whatever she says, you are Zen. You are a leaf floating on a gentle breeze—

“How would you feel about removing your father from the board of your grandmother's trust? All it would take is a majority vote.”

An expletive slipped out before Allie could stop it.

“Allison Marie!”

Allie clamped her mouth shut and forced herself to breathe through the red mist that had settled around her vision. When she trusted herself to speak, her voice came out clipped, controlled. “Mother, I'm not entirely sure what alternative reality you've decided to reside in, but he's the most competent trustee out of all of us.”

Not that this was even the question. Her father's big mistake had been to be caught having an affair in such a fashion that her mother couldn't ignore it and was now punishing him through whatever avenue she could conjure up short of public shaming. And not that Allie was in any way, shape, or form pro-­adultery, but she did have some sympathy for him. She imagined he would have found a warmer bed for the past thirty-­something years if he'd shared it with the iceberg that sank the
Titanic
.

Not to mention she knew her mother had engaged in at least one—ahem—“liaison” during their marriage. Like that was something Allie ever wanted to think about. As far as she was concerned, the fact that one child had sprung from her parents' union, let alone two, was right up there alongside Jesus turning water into wine as far as miracles went.

Frosty silence was all that was coming from the other end. Veronica James-Shire was not a woman used to being told no.

“I am not being your piggy in the middle and Susannah shouldn't be either. You and Daddy can sort out your marriage however you like, but none of those options involve including me.”

“You always take his side.”

Allie stayed silent and let the accusation roll over her. Her mother didn't even want to think about what it would look like if Allie took her father's side. With the things she knew, she
could write an affidavit that would make her mother's immaculate bob, blow-dried twice a week at the most exclusive salon in town, stand on end.

“Don't you care how humiliated I was? I've spent thirty-five years raising his children and supporting his career and this is what I get?”

Allie sighed. “I'm not taking anyone's side. I never have and I never will. You are both my parents and I love you equally. But this is between the two of you.” She had used the lines her shrink friend, Jillian, had provided so many times over the years, they now tripped off her tongue automatically. “Now, is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Actually, yes. You really upset your sister with that comment you made about Derek helping them with Grant's campaign.”

What had possessed her to even ask? Done. She was done, done, done with this discussion. She reached back into the barrel of conversational tricks Jillie had provided. “That's between Susannah and me. If she's upset and would like to talk about it, she has my number.”

Silence at the other end. Excellent. “Okay, well, if that's all, I need to go. Good-bye, Mother.”

It took every ounce of control she possessed for her to set her phone down on her bed. It probably wouldn't survive another high-impact wall adventure. Then she picked up her pillow and held it over her face so she didn't scare the animals outside her window with her screams.

Eight

T
HE RAIN HAD BEEN NICE
plump drops when Allie marched out of her room but had turned into the stinging, pelting kind that seemed to be coming from all directions. It slapped her cheeks and hit her eyes like little needles, making it almost impossible for her to see where she was going, in spite of the fact it was only midafternoon.

After being propelled by her self-righteous fury down dirt tracks crisscrossing the farm for a while, she decided to take a shortcut across a couple of back paddocks to get back to the house. Unfortunately, her alternate route turned out to be the longest possible way to get from point A to point B, since what it appeared to lack in distance, it more than made up for in difficulty.

Everything she was wearing was soaked through. And it was all going to have to be dried again by morning. That was going to take a miracle.

Her foot skidded against the sodden grass and she only just managed to throw her body to keep herself remaining upright.
Changing approach, she started sliding in her boots, the way she used to propel herself on roller skates when she was eight. Hopefully that would be more stable than her current futile attempts at walking.

She couldn't believe it. Her mother was such . . . such a . . . Her mind tried to form the appropriate words but failed. Now it wasn't just rain, but tears that blinded her. Stupid, pointless tears. They always were when it came to her mother. Veronica was never going to change, never going to be any different. Allie didn't know why she kept hoping maybe one day she would be.

She'd always played by the rules. Had always done what was expected of her. Been the quiet, reserved one who never gave her parents any trouble, head too buried in a book for her to find any attraction in the hijinks her peers were up to.

Her biggest teenage scandal had been her quitting her parents' lifeless church, where people only went to be seen by others. From her mother's reaction, you'd have thought Allie had started frequenting a street corner of ill repute.

So of course, the one time she did the unexpected, the one occasion she threw caution to the wind and followed her heart, it turned out to be her personal equivalent of the Chernobyl disaster.

Meanwhile, Susannah, who had spent her teens flitting between the wrong guys and borderline illegal activities, was now the golden girl for marrying the most boring man alive.

Her thoughts scattered as her legs flew out from underneath her and she landed heavily on her backside. Which wouldn't have been catastrophic if she hadn't managed to finally lose her footing at the top of a slope, which she was now shooting down like an Olympic bobsledder.

Oh no. No. No. No. No. No.
The rain suddenly parted like the Red Sea before Moses, revealing what waited for her at the bottom. A swamp. A dark, muddy, oozing swamp.

Digging her heels and fingers into the ground, she attempted to stop, or at least slow, her flight. Nothing. If anything, her Waterloo seemed to approach even faster.

She hit the bottom, her legs plunging into the thick mud, arms whirling as she floundered for a few steps in an attempt not to go face-first into the cold, stinking mess.

The dark, thick mud slipped over the tops of her boots and down her legs. Struggling to get her legs free, she only seemed to succeed in getting them even more entrenched in their position.

There was no way she was losing these boots. Not when they were almost new and had cost her the better part of three hundred bucks. Even if she was sure what was currently filling them up contained a significant proportion of animal poop.

The more she fought, the more she got stuck. Unbelievable. This entire tour had been nothing but a disaster from the beginning.

Planting her hands on her hips, she surveyed her surroundings. The rain had eased, allowing her to at least peer through it to see . . . absolutely no one. No one within yelling distance, anyway.

She must look ridiculous. Short redhead stuck in mud up to her thighs. She patted her back pocket. Phone was still there, though probably destroyed after her little backside ski down the hill. Not that she had anyone to call—especially since she'd neglected to load the farm's phone number into her contacts.

Ten minutes passed. No sign of anyone. Or anything. Which was the only blessing in this exceptionally ugly disguise, since she'd developed a phobia of cows on a school trip when she was
five years old and one sneezed on her. To date, the most disgusting experience of her life.

Allie stared down at the mud settling around mid-thigh height. Might be time to consider relinquishing the boots and freeing them after all. Leaning down, she grabbed her right leg just above the mud line and tugged, trying to loosen her foot. Nothing. The nasty gooey mud now occupying the space between her leg and boots was as effective as a vacuum seal.

Blowing her hair out of her face, she considered her predicament. Only one option came to mind, as hateful and unthinkable as it was, if she didn't want to be stuck here for the foreseeable future.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket, half hoping it would be broken so she wouldn't have to go through with it. But sure enough, it was fully charged and one hundred percent functional.

Scrolling through her contacts, she picked out the one she needed. The only reason she had it was the company policy requiring guides to have the mobile numbers for all customers, if they had them. Which only three had provided. The ­Germans—who were currently in Rotorua enjoying some cultural activities—and, of course, Jackson.

Putting the phone to her ear, she listened as the line bounced to the States and back again, and prepared to eat some humble pie.

* * *

J
ackson almost didn't answer his phone, especially when he saw it was a blocked number. He maintained a general policy that if someone didn't want him to know who was calling, he didn't feel particularly obliged to talk to them.

Besides, after spending an hour wandering around the farm, pretending to be interested in the native flora and fauna of New Zealand, he was relishing the silence of an empty room. Even if it did provide way too much space for his mind to work itself into knots about what he'd already done to lose character points in the Louis tally of life.

The only reason he took the call was because it served as a valid distraction from his latest attempt at
Hobbit
cramming, which was proving to be a fruitless exercise, as the more he learned, the more he realized he didn't know. Not even Stephen Hawking could have conquered learning, in a few hours, what many people spent their lifetimes obsessed with.

“Hello?”

“Jackson?”

The voice was familiar. “Yes?”

“It's Allison.”

He knew the name should mean something to him, but all neurons were obviously not firing. “Allison, hi.” Hopefully whatever she said next would provide some clarity.

“I'm kind of . . . stuck.”

Well, that didn't help at all—now so was he.

“Okay.”

“I was walking back to the house and I slipped down a bank and I'm in some mud and I can't get out.”

Things were starting to connect, but not fast enough to beat his mouth, which decided to bypass his brain. “Sorry. Who is this again? Are you sure you've got the right n—”

An icy tone he was intimately acquainted with rang down the line. “Ha ha. Don't worry about it. I knew calling you was a bad idea. I'll find someone—”

“No, wait!” Finally, it all clicked together in a blaze of light and a choir of angels singing. “Where are you?”

“In the paddock behind the house. I can see the main barn from where I am.”

“And you're stuck in mud?”

“That's what I said, Einstein.”

A smile slid across his face. He was probably never going to get this opportunity ever again. “Okay. I'll come, but first I need you to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Jackson, please come and rescue me.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Fine. Jackson, please come and rescue me.” The sarcasm in her voice was so thick you could have eaten it with a spoon.

He pivoted his body and placed his feet on the floor. “Hmmm, I think I'm going to need it to sound a little more genuine than that.” Especially after she'd spent the entire day taking great pleasure in his misery.

A few seconds of silence, then: “Jackson, please come rescue me.” If he hadn't already been sitting down, the sultry tone probably would have put him on the ground.

He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “That's much better. I'll be there soon. Wait. Give me your number in case I can't find you.”

She reeled off a list of digits that he scrawled down on the pad on the bedside table to put into his phone. “Okay, see you in a few.”

Flipping open his suitcase, he pulled out his running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a T-shirt and got changed quickly, throwing
on a rain jacket over the top. Not even a damsel in distress warranted him rushing out to some mud pit in his nice clothes. Especially since he didn't know when he'd be able to afford more.

Walking out of the main building, he found the large barn and was over the fence into the back paddock within a few minutes. The heavy downpour that had pounded his window earlier had abated to a drizzle and he looked around, the farm boy in him automatically seeking any livestock that might take offense at his presence before he went any further. Nothing, save for a few sheep in the far corner who hadn't so much as raised their heads to look at him. The countryside rolled into the background, a patchwork of lush green that wouldn't have been out of place on any postcard.

Walking past the back of the barn, he cupped his hands around his mouth. “Allison? Allie?”

“Down here.” Her voice came from a good hundred feet away.

Jogging, he crested the curve in the field and pulled up short at the sight below him. Dr. Allison Shire. Stuck in mud up to her thighs, but the top half of her as immaculate as if she were taking high tea in a hotel. At least the front, anyway.

She peered up at him, her dirt-caked hands landing on her hips. “What? Are you just going to stand there staring?”

He let loose a slow smile and pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket as he walked carefully down the slope. “Actually, I was thinking a few photos might be in order.”

“Don't you dare!”

“Oh, c'mon, the great Dr. Shire in need of rescuing? A guy needs proof of this or no one will ever believe him.”

“Jackson Gregory, if you so much as even think about tak
ing a photo, I'll . . . I'll . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized she was in no position to threaten to do anything. She threw up her hands. “Fine, do whatever you like. Take hundreds of photos if that makes you happy.”

Well, it wasn't going to be as enjoyable now that she'd given up the fight and taken all the fun out of it. “You're a real killjoy, you know that?”

Something in her face changed. “It may have been mentioned before.”

The vulnerability in her expression caught him off guard, left him unbalanced in multiple ways. He shut it down before he could dwell on why.

“Okay, let's see what you've gotten yourself into here.” He looked around. The ditch running between the two small hills was probably damp at the best of times, but the rain had turned it into a fifteen-foot-wide mud pit, from which emanated the unmistakable whiff of animal poop. Wicked. “You really can't move? At all?”

She shook her head and made an attempt to lift first one leg, then the other, managing maybe an inch before the bog sucked them back. She was not helped by her heavy jeans and, he was assuming, boots of some description.

He steeled himself. This could help solve a few of the problems he was facing. He just needed to be a big enough jerk to make himself go through with it. “So I was thinking we could arrange some sort of quid pro quo. A business proposition, if you will.”

A wary expression crossed her face. “What do you mean?”

He gestured to her. “Well, you need my help and I happen to need yours.”

Her jaw sagged. “What kind of guy negotiates with a girl stuck in a swamp?”

A desperate one. And one who would still get her out, even if she said no. She just didn't need to know that.

Allie folded her arms in front of her, brown smearing the front of her previously unblemished cropped jacket. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Louis is going to scrutinize my every move on this trip. I need you to help me however you can. Especially when it comes to
Lord of the Rings
and
Hobbit
stuff.”

She eyed him. “You really know absolutely nothing about Tolkien, do you?”

Jackson shifted on the soft ground. He had to do whatever it took to succeed at this. And there was no way he had a chance at convincing his uncle to invest in him without some serious help. And if he didn't do that, he could kiss saving the farm good-bye.

What did he care if she thought he was the world's biggest oaf, anyway? She already did, so it wasn't even a change from the status quo. “I know more than I did a few days ago. But no, you're right. Compared to the rest of you on this tour, I'm as good as illiterate. So what do you think? Do we have a deal?”

She shot him the kind of glare that could take down the grid. “If you think I'm going to help you con an old man, you can take a flying jump.”

“Okay, then. Have a nice night.” He turned and started walking away.

Silence from behind him. She was really going to do it. Let him leave her there. He hated to admit it, but it showed character. More than he'd seen in all of the women he'd met in L.A. put together.

He reached the top of the rise without Allie so much as breathing loudly. Glancing over his shoulder, he glimpsed her with arms crossed, not even looking in his direction.