Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances) (20 page)

Here she stood, on the border of uncharted territory. For too
many years she'd hidden away, buried her heart. Now, oddly,
this complex giant of a man had found a way to reach her. Did
she want to meet him halfway? Because if she did, she'd have
to be honest with him. About her past, who she used to be.

She had to tell him. Tonight.

"Lyn?" he prompted.

Still pondering her own dilemma, she hesitated. "Umm . . ."

"Ace won't be there for dinner," he said suddenly, reminding her of the topic of their conversation. "He'll probably be
wining and dining some poor unsuspecting girl with stars in
her eyes. At least, that's what Kerri-Sue believes. But he's usually back around ten, if that works for you. And since I have
Ski-Hab accommodations, all the local restaurants offer delivery. Anything you want, from Alpha-Bits to zeppoles."

Alpha-Bits and zeppoles?

He'd rehearsed this speech. No one came up with AlphaBits and zeppoles at the drop of a hat. Which meant, despite
his "only if you're okay with it" speech, he really wanted her
to agree to his request.

She thought back to their last dinner, also a take-out meal in
a private location. The scene with the soupspoon took center
stage in her mind, followed by his comment moments ago about
getting "Norm," and the mental lightbulb clicked on. He still
wasn't comfortable in public with his prosthesis.

Her heart wept for his insecurity, and she blinked to clear
sentimental tears from her eyes. Offering him her brightest
smile, she exclaimed, "That sounds perfect, actually. Not the cereal or the sugared dough balls, but maybe we could come
up with something in between?"

Relief eased the tension lines around his eyes, and his confident grin returned. "Order anything you wish. If the restaurants around here don't have it, I'll have it flown in for you."

Doug held her hand as they strolled through the miniature
village of boutiques and art galleries that separated the ski area
from the slopeside lodgings. Evening had already devoured
the last slice of sunlight. Replicas of carriage lanterns on
arched steel poles illuminated the walkways in a soft lithium
glow.

In honor of the upcoming holidays, decorative evergreens
planted in waist-high wooden hogshead barrels twinkled with
the glow of white fairy lights. Instrumental Christmas carols
played from speakers hidden in artificial poinsettia plants and
fiberglass deer. Roasting chestnuts cloaked the more natural,
clean sting of snowy air.

"Every time I walk through here, I feel like breaking into a
chorus of `It's a Small World After All."' Doug cocked his
head in her direction. "You know? From the ride at Disney
World?"

With a wistful smile, she nodded. Yeah, she easily understood the comparison. Cedar A-frame buildings with open gingerbread scrollwork and Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs over the
doorways were supposed to make the tourists think of some
rustic Scandinavian ski town. But since Lyn had spent oodles of
time in rustic Scandinavian ski towns, she thought the architects
had simply taken every quaint detail from a dozen different
mountainous areas and created a mishmash. Or some weird
Hollywood version of Alpine life. The Sound of Music meets
The Sundance Film Festival.

She stared at a young couple standing in front of a glassenclosed case of gears that boasted the ability to create a sou venir from a coin. Put in fifty-one cents and get back a flattened
bit of copper with a vacation scene stamped into it. Judging by
the way the woman stood with her hands on her hips and her
companion's equally combative stance, the two couldn't agree
on what scene should be pounded into their penny.

She shook her head. Hmm ...

On second thought, most of the tourists had the same point
of reference as the architects. So she bit her lip and swallowed
her distaste while she walked through this little homage to the
almighty dollar. One thing life had taught her-don't sweat the
small stuff.

"Have you ever been to Disney World?" Doug asked.

She shrugged. "Sure. I took my niece, Becky, when she was
six or seven."

Despite her conversational tone, the memory punched her
in the gut. After Michael was born, she'd offered to take Becky
on vacation as a favor to April and Peter. At least, that was
what she told anyone who asked. She had taken Becky off their
hands so they could figure out how to deal with Michael's
problems. But the truth, which Lyn had suppressed for years,
was far uglier.

April had announced her pregnancy around the time she
and Marc had learned the severity of his cancer. Envying her
sister's good fortune, Lyn couldn't bring herself to find a sliver
of happiness for April. Unfortunately, Michael's birth, and the
devastating diagnosis, left them all reeling. Guilt pounded
Lyn's conscience day and night. What if her negativity had
brought this massive misfortune on April and Michael? Unable to face her sister, or the poor infant who'd borne the sting
of her jealousy, Lyn had swooped in to take Becky out of town
without ever stopping at the hospital to see her new nephew.

Yet, a few years later, when Lyn kept her vigil at Marc's
bedside in Sloan-Kettering's intensive care unit, who showed
up first to lend support and an extra pair of hands? April. Who
came every day, brought food, offered to run errands, and generally became the shoulder for Lyn to cry on? April. April with
the heart wider than an ocean. Dependable, reliable, endlessly
forgiving April.

"Something wrong?"

Doug's question snapped Lyn into the present, to the village
square beneath the Black Forest-style clock tower, where she'd
released his hand and stopped to stare off into space. Into the
past.

"No. I'm fine." At his continued scrutiny, she shook off the
bitter memories with a violent shiver. "Just cold."

"Come on." He took hold of her hand again, squeezed her
fingers. "Let's duck inside one of these shops for a minute."

He pulled her toward the etched glass door below a red-andgreen-striped awning that bore the name Bear Necessities. Since
he seemed in no rush to release her hand, she sidestepped to take
the lead. She turned the latch and pushed open the door. With
a tinkle of sleigh bells, they entered the shop. The smell of turpentine nearly knocked her to her knees.

Around them, like an ursine dragnet, stood hand-carved
wooden bears. Hundreds of them. The thick dark sculptures
reflected every possible moment in a bear's daily life, from first
yawn and stretch to curling up for sleep at the end of a grueling
day in the forest.

Doug stopped to gape at a ten-foot bear on its hind legs, front
paws stretched upright and mouth opened to reveal sharp, pointy
teeth. "Do people really buy these?"

Lyn bit back an indulgent laugh. The tourist market made
little sense to those who lived in the real world. "Yes. Burt Jennings, the sculptor, makes quite a good living from this store
alone. He also does ice sculptures. In fact, every year he creates a Winter Wonderland in town to raise money for Ski-Hab.
It's amazing. Giant angels with wings that form arches over the
cobblestone path. You walk beneath those wings and it's like
you've stepped into another world. Forget Disney World. There
are fairy tale castles guarded by toy soldiers, nutcrackers, ballerinas dressed up to perform Swan Lake. All carved out of
blocks of ice. We should take a ride over there after dinner. It'd
be worth whatever grief Ace gives us, trust me."

She practically bounced on her toes in anticipation. Honestly, she couldn't help herself. Something about the intricate
designs Burt carved in ice, glimmering under the night sky and a few thousand watts of light, brought out the wondereyed child in her.

"We could go now if you're not in any rush to eat," he suggested. "You think your favorite taxi driver's available?"

Even the mention of Larry wouldn't dim her excitement. "If
he's not, one phone call will make him available. Fair warning, though. He's sort of sweet on me. Once he sees us together,
he'll grill you into revealing all your secrets. Make sure you're
good enough for me."

"I think I can handle it." He tilted his head and studied her.
"You really are the small town darling, huh?"

She flipped her hair over one jacketed shoulder. "I guess so."

"Ever been to the big, bad city, Lyn?" The lilt in his tone
suggested he teased her.

The big bad city? If he only knew how many big bad cities
she'd visited, competed in, and slept in. She was a veritable
George Washington of the ski circuit. But the acidic memories scalded her throat and tongue.

Dropping her gaze to the dirty nutmeg-colored carpet at her
feet, she swallowed the pain. "Which one? I've been to lots of
cities. Montpelier to check out other bed-and-breakfasts, Boston for the symphony, even New York a few times for the theater. But none are home. Not like here."

As if he sensed she needed a subject change, he released her
hand to grab the manila price tag that dangled from a string
tied to the hulking bear's left paw. One quick glance at the
number in bold black marker and he sucked in a breath, then
winced. "Work with me here a sec. Suppose I wanted to buy
this thing."

She did a double take. Him? "Why?"

"Well," he replied, "I was just telling Ace yesterday that the
one thing missing from my apartment in New York is a giant
ferocious-looking bear."

She laughed. God, how he made her laugh!

"What?" He cast her a quizzical glance, eyes wide and brows
raised in mock confusion. "They're very popular in Manhattan. Bears are the new low-tech burglar alarms. I hear the
mayor's ordered two for Gracie Mansion."

"Funny." She tilted her head, studied him from a new angle,
noted the twinkle in his eyes, like fireworks. "Nope. Uh-uh.
Sorry. You don't strike me as the bear sculpture type." From
day one, she'd never considered Douglas Sawyer as bear
material.

"Oh? And what type do I seem to you?"

A wolf, maybe. In fact, she might even consider commissioning Burt to design one of these sculptures for her, a prince
emerging from a wolf pelt. But she'd never admit that to him.
Instead, she ran her palm over the head of a bear with a fish
dangling from its jaws. "A phoenix?"

He shot a gloved index finger, pistol-style, her way. "That's
a Ski-Hab answer."

She paused, her hand resting between the bear's ears. "A
Ski-Hab answer?"

"Yeah. It's one of those nice little platitudes you and the SkiHab staff say that's supposed to encourage the whiners like me
to keep trying, keep fighting the good fight."

"I never called you a whiner." But she did think it when
she first saw him. If the squirmy reaction in her feet didn't
betray her, the rush of heat flooding her face was bound to
give her away.

He chucked her under the chin. "Judging by the color in your
cheeks, I'd say you're feeling guilty. You shouldn't, you know.
I'm excelling at the whole Ski-Hab experience, thanks to you
knocking some sense into me. Kerri-Sue says I'm the best student she ever had."

Kerri-Sue told every student that, but Lyn kept that comment locked behind a smile.

"How did you get involved with Ski-Hab? Did you have
someone close to you in the program?"

She picked up a small carving of a bear floating in a blue
glass lake, stroked a fingertip over the rounded brown belly.
Doug had just provided her the perfect opportunity to open up
and explain how the program wouldn't exist without her. Because of who she was. Or who she had been. But old habits died
hard, and the words stuck in her throat.

Instead, what came out was, "I have a friend whose son was
the first participant."

"Really? Who was he?"

Aaron Bascomb, Mrs. B's only son. But she didn't feel right
discussing his story without permission, so she shrugged with
a careless air. "A guy who grew up here. Came home from the
first Gulf War missing a leg. A bunch of us worked with him
to give him back some level of independence. When the skiing not only got him used to his prosthesis, but also improved
his outlook, Richie Armstrong decided we had to continue the
program for others. The rest, as they say, is history."

His face fell. Did he know she had something to hide? If he
suspected anything, he didn't contradict her. He simply took
her hand again. "I'd say we're reasonably warmed up. Let's go
find that cab"

She shook her head. "No. You want a chance to change and
get Norm. So let's head to your condo first." Give me a chance
to find some courage. Find a way to tell you the truth before
the lies become insurmountable. "We'll eat and then hit the
Wonderland."

"Whatever you say," he replied. "Tonight, you're in charge."

Lyn didn't know if that made her dilemma better or worse.

For the rest of the walk, she remained deep in her own worries. She had to tell Doug about her past. About Brooklyn Raine.
But how? And when? She'd never divulged this information
before. Not to anyone who mattered. Most people either knew,
like Mrs. Bascomb, or didn't, like most of the soldiers in SkiHab, who were probably still in diapers when she was at the
height of her celebrity. Doug was an anomaly.