Summer Shadows (33 page)

She sank into his chair and placed her feet on the railing like he did when he wrote. The only problem was that his legs were a lot longer than hers, and the position wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it looked when he assumed it. Sighing, she dropped her feet to the floor, leaning her head against the chair back.

She rested her hands on the folder containing her letters. It took all her self-control to let the missives rest quietly in her lap. She wasn’t going to read them again. Why inflict more pain? Besides, she knew them by heart.

She longed to tear them to shreds, run across the beach, and throw the confetti of hatred into the water. It would swirl away, deteriorating, disintegrating, disappearing into the vastness of the sea. She would be safe once again, an ordinary woman, a common woman, not the subject of a campaign of invective.

She sighed. If only it were that easy.

She opened the folder, feeling like someone with a hangnail that she couldn’t stop fiddling with, even though each time she pulled on it, there was more pain.

Oh, Lord, what am I going to do?

In her mind’s eye she saw Nan’s expression as she handed over the second letter. Nan might have dealt well with the first letter, but two? What if there were more? Abby shivered. Who could hate her so much? Who would make such grave and specious accusations?

There was also Mr. Martindale to worry about. He seemed unable to imagine that someone was lying. Not that Abby blamed him. She would no doubt question anyone who was the object of such allegations too, especially if she didn’t know that person as Mr. Martindale didn’t know her. He was chairman of the library board. He had a responsibility to the library, to Seaside, to every child who came there. He should be concerned if an unfit person might be working for him.

But I’m not unfit! I’m not! I’m Yours, washed clean in the blood of the Lamb. I’ve never done anything like those letters suggest. Oh, Lord, I’ve only got one reputation. What happens when it’s ruined?

Unstable. Questionable influence. Those accusations were bad enough, but “touched my child inappropriately”? It defied the imagination that someone would write that about her. She was the good girl, the obedient one, the conscientious one, Miss Goody Two-shoes.

Oh, Lord, You know I’ve never been anything but appropriate around the kids. You know I love them. You know I’m not a danger to them in any way. You know—

Tears came again, and again she let them fall unchecked. She sniffed, gasped, all the while trying to be quiet so her mother upstairs couldn’t hear if she happened to come outside onto the porch.

Oh, God! I don’t deserve this! Haven’t I gone through enough?

She lowered her face to her hands, letting self-pity run riot in her heart.

For all of two seconds. Then the face of her PT, Helene the Horrible, appeared.

“Come on, Patterson. Push through. You can do it. Remember, it’s either pain or failure. What’s your choice?”

But, Lord, do I have to be so intimately acquainted with so many different kinds of pain?

She grabbed the hem of her full gauze skirt and scrubbed at her face, drying the tears. Any mascara that remained after this last crying spell got lost in the material’s colorful pattern. She sniffed a time or two, studying the skirt, then shook her head. She might use it as a towel, but she couldn’t bring herself to use it as a handkerchief. She settled for sniffing and swallowing.

To stop herself from becoming more maudlin and falling headfirst into the Slough of Despond, she picked up some of the typed pages on the floor. She’d tidy up Marsh’s workspace for him. At the same time, her eyes would have a chance to lose some of their red before she dealt with her mother. She straightened the papers into a neat pile, then began to arrange them by page numbers. Without thought she began to read.

Abby grinned. She liked it when a hero and heroine stood toe-to-toe. It made a book fun, seeing how their original antipathy was resolved. But what modern heroine wore a sidepiece?

She glanced at the top of the page. It read: Winslow/West,
Showdown at Frost Spring
, p. 77.

Showdown at Frost Spring?
It sounded like a Louis L’Amour title or something from Colton West. Her father’d be happy to read this. He loved Westerns. He never failed to ask her if a new Colton West title had appeared yet.

“I’m the children’s librarian, Dad. I don’t know about Colton West.”

“Ah, baby, he’s the best. The very best.”

She had seen a couple of TV movies made from Colton West books, but that was because Dad had practically forced her and Mom to watch with him. She had to admit she enjoyed the shows, but that was as much because of Rick Mathis as the story itself.

Wait a minute
. Abby’s eyes darted back to the header. Winslow/West was noted as the author. Not just Winslow. Not just West. Winslow/West. Marshall Winslow and Colton West? A Colton West heroine could wear a sidepiece.

Did Marsh read West’s novels for him before publication? Critique them?

Or—astonishing idea—was Marshall Winslow actually Colton West? Eyes narrowed, Abby nodded. If Marsh were Colton West, it would explain a seminary professor having a house on the beach. Didn’t movie companies pay big bucks to option a book? It would also explain the hours at the computer.

But why the secrecy? Because seminary professors didn’t write Westerns? But why didn’t they? Especially ones as complex and theocentric as West’s novels were.

A car door slammed out on the street. Abby jumped. Marsh was home. She straightened the papers again, setting them in a neat pile on the little table. She folded her hands and tried to look innocent. Another car door slammed.

A voice called from upstairs, “Is that you, Abby, dear?”

Abby grimaced. She wasn’t up to seeing her mother yet. Her eyes still felt hot from the crying, and she could tell they were still swollen. Mom would pounce the minute she saw the evidence of tears. Then she’d begin that relentless, persistent questioning that made Abby crazy. In no time she’d find herself tucked into bed, pouring her troubles into Mom’s oh-so-patient listening ear.

No! She’d run away from home to avoid just such scenarios. She would not walk into the fiery furnace if she didn’t need to. She’d stay here cowering in Marsh’s Adirondack chair until he returned or until she felt more able to cope, whichever came first.

“Abby, dear?” Mom called again, louder this time, as she walked across the porch above. Abby stared upward, following her mother’s progress with her eyes. Mom walked to the landing. “Abby?”

Then to Abby’s horror she began descending the steps. Panicking, wishing herself as invisible as the emperor’s new clothes, Abby glanced wildly around.

A wooden bin about four feet high and two feet deep stood by Marsh’s sliding doors. Presumably it held beach supplies. In a mad dash, Abby threw herself into the L formed by the bin and the wall
it rested against. Mom couldn’t see her there. She sat, back against the bin, knees drawn up under her chin, purse and folder clutched in her arms.

Mom’s steps continued down the stairs. Abby closed her eyes like a good little ostrich, burying her face in her lap. If she couldn’t see Mom, then Mom couldn’t see her.

“Abby?” Mom walked down the drive to Abby’s car. “Where are you, dear?” Abby could hear the bewilderment in her mother’s voice. Grimacing at her own foolishness and cowardice, Abby leaned her head back against the storage bin and opened her eyes. She looked up directly into Marsh’s curious face as he watched her from the other side of his sliding door.

And she had thought her eyes hot from crying. The flame that scorched her at the embarrassment of being caught hiding like a three-year-old put the mere flush of crying to shame.

“Abby?” Mom, her voice sharp with concern, was now approaching Marsh’s porch. Her footsteps sounded like the footfalls of the guards come to take the condemned man to the gallows, and Abby was that man. Disaster was imminent. All that was missing was someone calling, “Dead man walking.”

Marsh must have heard Mom too because he opened his sliding door, stepping out. What he would do or say, Abby had no idea. She leaned her head against the wall and prepared to die of embarrassment and shame.

“Mrs. MacDonald, hello.” Marsh stopped beside Abby. He didn’t look down or acknowledge her in any way. He just stood, leaning a hip against the bin. When she turned her head toward him in surprise, she had an up-close, unimpeded view of his hairy legs below his tan shorts. And hairy they were too.

“I’m looking for Abby,” Mom said, walking onto the porch but stopping at the edge. For once Abby was glad Mom didn’t like Marsh. She wasn’t likely to get too close to him. “Have you seen her?”

“What time was she due home?” he asked, avoiding the lie.

“After an appointment with Celia,” Mom said, her voice perplexed. “Her car’s in the drive, so she must be around here somewhere.”

“She likes to take walks on the beach, doesn’t she?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Don’t worry yourself, Mrs. MacDonald. She’ll come home when she’s ready.”

“But this isn’t like her at all.”

“Admittedly I haven’t known her as long as you have, but it sounds just like her to me.”

Mom sniffed. So much for Marsh’s opinion. “Abby has always been the most cooperative of people. She’s never caused me trouble before.” She stressed the
before
.

Abby shook her head. The clear implication was that if she was causing trouble now, it was all Marsh’s fault.

“I think she moved here with the idea of being her own woman, didn’t she?” Marsh asked politely. “Doing spontaneous things might well be part of her new game plan, sort of like Celia Fiennes.”

Abby blinked. He was dropping names now too? And Celia, no less. Abby had always liked her, though even thinking about her thirteen thousand miles on horseback, rating travel opportunities in Renaissance England, tended to make her bottom sore.

“Who?” Mom asked as she walked farther onto the porch. Abby’s heart tripped, and she tried to squeeze closer to the wall.

Marsh took a step forward, his right foot kicking out as he moved, sending Abby’s gauze skirt flying into her face even as his bare foot connected with her shin. Abby grabbed the skirt, realizing with horror that it had draped itself out onto the floor when she hid. What a nit she was! Had Mom seen the material puddled there?

In her distress she lost part of the conversation. When she picked up the thread again, she realized Marsh was defending her.

“Celia began her travels in Olde England as a lark. She was spontaneous, like Abby longs to be. Don’t you worry about her, Mrs. MacDonald. She’ll show when she’s ready. In the meantime, I suggest you eat now rather than wait. It’d serve her right if she missed your wonderful cooking while it’s fresh.”

“You don’t understand.” Mom’s voice was strained. “I worry about her.”

“Why? She’s an adult.”

Mom sniffed, unhappy with Marsh’s challenge. “You don’t understand what it’s like to be a mother and see your only child almost die.”

“True enough,” Marsh agreed. “But that was three years ago. She’s fine now.”

“It’s like yesterday,” Mom said. “And she’s not fine.”

Abby sighed. That was the trouble. Mom did think it was yesterday, and she did still see her as unwell.

“Um,” Marsh said. “I hope you don’t mind too much, but I must disagree with you. I think she’s quite well. In fact, I think she’s very strong, stronger than many.”

Abby’s heart warmed. To have someone believe in her as she was, especially with her cowering here like a quivering rabbit hiding from a marauding fox, was so wonderful!

Mom didn’t quite harrumph, but she came close. Abby didn’t move as she listened to the tap-tap-tap of Mom’s steps as she stalked away. She must have been miffed because she stomped up the steps in what was for her a fit of temper. Abby followed her footsteps overhead and heard the swish of the sliding door opening and closing. Then silence from above.

Silence on this porch too.

Abby sighed, then sighed again. Her mother was upset, and Marsh must think she was an idiot, all scrunched up behind the bin, even if he did stand up for her so eloquently.