8
T
race
noted the speculative glances when he and Abby walked to a booth by the window
in Sally's. He wondered if she remembered that it was the same booth they'd
always chosen if it was available. He could recall a hundred different
conversations right here, dozens of lingering glances and even a few stolen
kisses when he'd squeezed in beside her, rather than sitting across from her.
Even though he wanted to do that right now, he opted not to rile her and slid
in on the opposite side of the booth.
Abby promptly hid her face behind the menu, which was quite a trick since
Sally's specials were listed on a blackboard and the menu itself was a single
laminated sheet of paper. People who came here regularly for breakfast and
lunch knew their choices without consulting either one. Weekdays the breakfast
special, for example, was always two eggs scrambled with grits, toast and bacon
or sausage. On Saturdays it was pancakes and on Sundays French toast. The lunch
specials rotated among burgers, tuna melts, Reubens, a crab-cake sandwich and
grilled cheese, all accompanied by potato salad or fries.
The desserts and pastries, however, were subject to Sally's whims. Trace had
noted on the blackboard by the door that today's was apple pie, something he'd
been hoping for since he knew it was Abby's favorite—or at least a close second
behind the yacht club's chocolate mousse.
"Do you know what you want?" he asked, after studying her, rather
than the menu, for several minutes.
"Just a small house salad," she said with a sigh.
"Come on now," he coaxed. "When was the last time you had a big,
juicy burger? With the twins starting to feel better, you'll work it off in no
time," he said, then quickly amended, "Not that you have anything to
worry about in the first place. You look as good as you did ten years ago.
Better, in fact. Though you were beautiful then."
"Are you through trying to dig yourself out of that hole?" she
inquired, her eyes dancing with amusement.
He grimaced. "Pretty much."
"Thank goodness. I will have that cheeseburger, though."
"Fries?"
She considered the suggestion thoughtfully, then shook her head.
"Which means you'll be stealing mine," he lamented. "I'll have
Sally double the order."
"I am not going to touch your fries," she insisted, then grinned.
"I'm saving the calories for pie."
Just then Sally approached. Unlike Ethel, she didn't seem the least bit
startled to see them or to find them together. Obviously her link to the
grapevine was in fine working order. "Two cheeseburgers, fries and apple
pie," she said, already writing it down before either of them could speak.
"No fries for me," Abby told her firmly.
"I'll just add a few more to Trace's plate, then," Sally said.
Trace chuckled at Abby's indignant expression. "Your reputation is pretty
much stuck in a rut in here," he told her after Sally had headed for the
kitchen. "It's one of the delights and annoyances of growing up in a small
town. Everyone thinks they can predict what you'll do, what you'll order and
who you'll be with."
"Which is one reason I'm so grateful to be living in New York," Abby
said. "I like the anonymity."
"Do you really?" Trace asked. "Over the years, I've found myself
missing this."
"Where are you living? I don't think you've said. Or rather where were you
before you came back here?"
"SoHo," he said, watching her expression closely. "I still have
my loft there."
Abby blinked, clearly startled. "SoHo? In New York?"
He nodded. "You sound surprised."
"I am. I thought you were probably living…" Her voice trailed off.
She shrugged. "I don't know, I guess I thought you were living closer to
here, maybe Baltimore or Washington."
"Nope. I've been in New York close to ten years now, practically as long
as you have. I figured you would have heard."
"I don't keep in touch with that many people from here," she said.
"Besides family, anyway."
"Not even Laila? You used to be close with my sister."
"We talk from time to time," she said. "But believe it or not,
your name doesn't come up. Sorry if that offends your ego."
"My ego can weather a few hits," he replied, though he wasn't
actually sure how many, and especially from her.
"What were you doing in New York? Will you have to find a new job if you
go back?"
"No. I pretty much take my work wherever I go. I do freelance design work
for several different ad agencies and some of my own clients."
For the first time since they'd encountered each other in his office at the
bank, she actually looked intrigued, maybe even a little impressed. That wall
she'd erected around herself when she was with him tumbled down. She leaned
forward slightly, clearly curious. "Would I recognize any of the work
you've done?"
"That depends on how much attention you pay to the ads you see in
magazines," he said. "I have some major-league clients." He
named several and enjoyed watching her eyes widen.
"Wow, I had no idea. I guess I never really thought you were serious about
any of that."
He gave her an amused look. "Even though I studied graphic design and art
in college?"
"I thought you did that primarily to annoy your father," she
admitted. "After all, you also got the business degree he expected."
"Because I figured knowing how to manage a business would never be wasted
and it was easier than fighting him," he said. He frowned at her. "I
told you all this back then."
"I guess I wasn't convinced you really meant it."
Trace was oddly hurt by her lack of faith in him. Hadn't she known him better
than anyone? How often had he confided his hopes and dreams to her?
"Why not?" he asked, suddenly edgy.
She hesitated. "Do you want the truth?"
"Of course."
"Even though you made it sound as if you were simply taking a pragmatic
view, I saw it as a sign that you'd never stand up to your father. Even though
I knew what you really wanted, I couldn't imagine you ever leaving Chesapeake
Shores or walking away from the bank."
Trace was stunned by her low opinion of his resolve back then.
"Sweetheart, I may come across like an easygoing guy, but I do have a
backbone. How could you, of all people, have misjudged me like that? I thought
you were the one person who really understood me."
She looked away, her expression sad. "Apparently I didn't."
"Is that why it was so easy for you to walk away? Did you think I didn't
mean a single word I said about us building a future together?"
She shook her head. "I thought you meant it at the time," she
admitted. "But I couldn't take a chance that you'd change your mind. I
knew exactly what I wanted and where I needed to be to get it. If…" Her
voice trailed off.
"If you'd trusted me and I'd caved in to my father's wishes, you would
have lost your dream, is that it?"
She nodded. "Pretty much."
Sally returned just then with their meals, but Abby pushed hers away. "I'm
not hungry anymore."
"Eat," Trace ordered brusquely. "I don't want to be accused of
ruining your appetite, too."
She seemed startled by his tone. "Why are you angry?"
"Because if we had just talked about all this ten years ago, things might
have turned out differently. Instead, you just ran off. Look at all the time we
wasted."
"You're wrong," she corrected quietly. "Don't you see, Trace, it
wouldn't have changed anything. I was too scared to take anything you could
have told me at face value. I think I had to be free to go after what I wanted.
It's true that I didn't entirely trust what you said, but I didn't trust
myself, either. I was afraid of how I felt about you and what I might do
because of it. If you'd asked me to stay here and wait until you could
straighten things out with your father, I might have done just that. We'd have
fallen into some comfortable rhythm and never moved on."
Trace didn't buy it. They'd both been stronger and more determined than that,
even if Abby didn't recognize it. "Oh, please," he scoffed.
"Just admit it, Abby, you never really loved me at all," he said
flatly, pushing aside his own meal.
"Yes, I did," she insisted. "I loved you." Her expression
turned sad. "It just wasn't enough."
The weight of those words settled in Trace's stomach like lead. "I need to
get to work," he claimed, tossing a few bills on the table. "That
should take care of lunch."
He'd just started away from the table when Abby said softly, "I'm sorry. I
really am."
"Yeah. Me, too." She had no idea how sorry. Because for the first
time he realized he'd never really understood her at all, either. All these
years he'd been carrying a torch for an illusion.
*
* *
When Mick arrived at the inn to tell Jess he was leaving, he
found her upstairs in the attic digging through an old trunk filled with nothing
but junk, as near as he could tell. Given the time crunch she was under to get
the place ready to open, it didn't seem to him to be the best use of her time.
"Hey, kiddo, what are you up to?" he asked, working hard to keep his
tone light, rather than voicing the criticism that was on the tip of his
tongue. He didn't want to ruin their recent rapport with a few careless words.
"I came up here to see if there was any way to turn this into another
couple of rooms and found this." She held up a dusty volume of what
appeared to be poetry. "Look at this. I think it might be a first edition
of Emily Dickinson poems. It's signed, too."
"That's great," he said, trying to feign enthusiasm.
Jess regarded him curiously. "Why do you have that edge in your
voice?"
"What edge?"
"The one that says you don't give a hoot about a book of poems and that I
shouldn't, either."
Mick regarded her incredulously. "You got all that from what I said?"
"I've had a lifetime to learn to interpret what you really mean. If you're
annoyed with me for some reason, just spit it out."
Mick hesitated. He really didn't want to end this visit to Chesapeake Shores on
a bad note with Jess. Anything he was likely to say, though, was going to do
just that. Still, how could he let her waste time and what amounted to Abby's
money dawdling over some dusty old book, no matter how rare it might be?
"I guess I'm just surprised to find you up here, when there are still two
or three rooms that need to be finished before you open," he said, trying
to choose his words with care, something he rarely bothered to do.
"I took a break, for heaven's sake. Is that a crime?"
Mick backed off. "Of course not. I just thought that with a deadline
staring you in the face—"
Jess cut him off. "I'm perfectly aware of our timetable and what needs to
be done," she snapped. "I don't need you over here supervising to
make sure I do my job. I suppose Abby sent you. Did the two of you sit around
and decide whose turn it was to keep tabs on me?"
"No one's keeping tabs on you," he said, his temper fraying.
"All anyone is trying to do is help you achieve your dream.
Yours,
Jess. Not Abby's and not mine. I'd think you'd be a little more grateful and
maybe work a little harder to be sure what Abby's doing for you doesn't go to waste."
To his dismay, tears welled in her eyes. "I really thought you were
starting to believe in me," she whispered, her chin wobbling. "My
bad. Instead, you've just been hanging around waiting for me to screw up. Well,
Dad, that's just what I do. I screw up, so you might as well go on back to
California knowing that I'm right on schedule for doing it again."
His annoyance drained away. "Ah, Jess, come on now. I never said you were
screwing up. Haven't I said how proud I am of what you've accomplished here?"
She sniffed. "Yes, but that doesn't mean you believe I can actually pull
this off."
"Of course I do," he insisted. "But you do have to stay
focused."
"By never leaving here? By never taking five minutes to do something
else?"
He hunkered down in front of her and clasped one of her hands in his. Hers was
ice-cold and rough from all the work she'd been doing to fix up the inn.
"Tell me this, then," he said quietly. "How long have you been
up here in the attic?"
"I don't know. A few minutes or so."
"What time was it when you came up here?" he persisted.
"I don't know. Nine-thirty, maybe ten o'clock. Not that long ago."
"It's after noon now."
She regarded him with dismay. "I had no idea."
"That's exactly what I mean. Once this place is open, you'll have plenty
of time for poking around in the attic or anything else you want to do, but
losing a couple of hours now, when there's painting to be finished…" He
shook his head. "You can't afford that, Jess. That's all I'm trying to
tell you."
She sighed heavily, her expression contrite. "I'm sorry I overreacted.
You're right." She stood up and brushed the dust from her hands.
"I'll get back to work right now."
"I could help for an hour or two," he offered. "Then I have to
leave to catch my flight."
She stopped in her tracks. "You're going back to California?"
Mick nodded.
"I thought you'd be here, at least till the opening."
"I'll come back for that," he promised. "There's no way I'd miss
it. And if you need anything in the meantime…" He saw the resigned
expression settle on her face and bit back a sigh. "Just call me if
there's anything you need, okay? I can send a crew over here to help you finish
up if you need it. All you have to do is say the word."
"No," she said stiffly. "I can handle it."
Mick studied her with regret. It seemed they were destined to end this on a
sour note, no matter what he said now. Whatever progress they'd made in the
past few days had died. He'd killed it with a few pointed comments meant to
help, comments she'd taken to heart and viewed only through the prism of their
past relationship. It seemed unlikely there was anything he could say now to
fix that.
Again, he offered to help with the painting, and again, she turned him down.
"I'll see you in a few weeks, then," he said. When he tried to hug
her, she held herself stiff. "I love you, Jess." He forced her chin
up, so she had to meet his gaze. "I love you," he repeated.
"I know," she whispered.
The flat, sad look in her eyes told Mick she didn't believe him. Not entirely.
And as far as he could see, there wasn't a damn thing he could do to convince
her.