She had nothing in her evening purse but her keys and a five-dollar bill. She could only hope she’d left enough gas in the Volvo to see her home. It would be a close call.
The night air was cool against her skin, but she didn’t even dare go back for her evening cape. At least her car heater was strong—she’d be warm enough before she even crossed the Delaware River.
It took all her concentration to keep from speeding down the deserted roads. Each time the needle slipped past sixty she eased up the pressure of her sandaled foot. For one thing, she could hardly afford to be stopped by the police when she didn’t have her license with her; for another, the gas supply would be a near thing. She wasn’t about to stop at one of the few all-night gas stations wearing that indecent silk dress—she could only nurse her gasoline supply and pray to the unseeing god of Volvos that she make it home all right.
Fate was disposed to smile on her at last. She fell into the house with a gasp of relief, leaning against the inside of the kitchen door to drink in the welcoming ambience of the ancient house.
But it failed to come. Her eyes shot open again in sudden dismay, looking about her in bewilderment. Always before the house had seemed to stretch out welcoming arms, protecting her from the cruelties of the outside world. But that protection was gone, ripped away by Noah Grant and the events of the last few weeks, and particularly the last few hours. The house was no longer her haven, her protection, her safety. It was simply a house.
It was more than she could comprehend or accept at two o’clock in the morning. Shaking her head in silent denial, she made her way up the winding stairs, down the halls that suddenly seemed so empty. It would come back, she promised herself grimly as she collapsed fully clothed on her bed and pulled a quilt around her shivering body. It had to come back, that feeling of peace and belonging. But as she shut her eyes against the sudden stinging of tears, she knew through her exhaustion that it was gone for good.
WHEN ANNE FINALLY dragged herself out of her bed late the next morning the house was still silent and deserted. Never had its beloved halls felt so empty. A long hot shower did little to restore her equilibrium, and this time when the hot water ran out prematurely her reaction was a shaky annoyance instead of her usual tolerance. The stone floors were cold beneath her feet, but nothing could destroy her pleasure in the graceful lines of the old rooms as she made her way down to the kitchen. It was still a very beautiful house, she recognized sadly as she went through the ritual of brewing a decent cup of coffee. It simply wasn’t enough anymore.
By one o’clock there was still no sign of her errant family. A good thing she knew them well enough to have made quiche instead of a soufflé, she thought with a distant trace of humor, staring out into the slowly greening woodland that surrounded the old house. At times it seemed as if she had spent all her life waiting to feed her family.
She was curled up in front of the empty fireplace in the living room, having assiduously avoided the memory-ridden library for the past few weeks, when she heard several cars make their slow, tortuous way up the potholed driveway to the house. The downed oaks hadn’t helped the road, either, Anne noted with distant satisfaction as she sipped her sherry. It was Harvey’s, the best she could buy, and she left it out for her doubtless hung-over relatives. If there was any chance of her regaining some feeling of contentment, she was close to it now. The warmth of the sherry, the soft comfort of her oldest Levi’s and the often-washed flannel shirt all contributed to a transient sense of well-being. Just how transient it was was made abundantly clear to her when Noah Grant followed her family into the room.
Ashley was definitely looking the worse for wear. His other eye had almost equaled the first in swelling and color, so that he had to make do with only a tiny amount of vision out of the narrow slit. He leaned heavily on a cane, his face so distorted from the beating that Anne wouldn’t have recognized him. Proffy looked both uneasy and disapproving as his eyes met those of his elder daughter, and Holly looked downright nervous.
“No fiancés for lunch?” Anne queried brightly. “I expected both Wilson and Mrs. Morgan—there’s more than enough. Although I didn’t expect you.” Her eyes were turned with wintry effect on the unmoved Noah.
Ashley lowered himself gingerly into a chair, stretching one leg stiffly out in front of him. “Proffy’s sulking about my current condition, Annie,” he drawled. “Be patient with him.” He smiled faintly. “He’s also scared to death of you.”
Slowly Anne uncurled her bare feet. “Scared of me?” she echoed. “Why?”
“Guilty conscience, I suppose. It’s a good thing I don’t have a conscience myself, or I’d be feeling equally miserable. Put that sherry away, darling. It’s far too tempting, and I’ve sworn off it.”
“Why should Proffy have a guilty conscience, Ashley?” Anne inquired with a deathly calm.
“Didn’t you tell her?” Noah demanded, his voice rich with horror. “You told me she knew.”
“I haven’t had the chance.” Proffy’s defense bordered on a whine.
“I’m going to call Wilson,” Holly said hastily, dashing from the room. “See you at lunch.”
“All right. What’s going on?” Anne was surprised how level her voice could be. She could feel her world slipping away from her, and she knew it would do no good to try to catch it. She could only let it go.
Proffy continued to look guilty, refusing to say a word, and Ashley contented himself with a barely recognizable smirk. It was up to a furious Noah to tell her. Serves him right, she thought dazedly.
“We signed the papers for the house today, Annie,” he said gently.
“What papers?” Still that deadly calm. She could be quite proud of herself.
Proffy finally decided to bestir himself. “We had the closing on the house this morning before we came back. That’s why we’re late.”
“You’ve sold the house.” She could have been discussing the luncheon menu, she thought dazedly. “To whom?”
“The Allibet Foundation. They’ve been looking for a suitable artists’ center, centrally located between New York and Philadelphia. They’ll do a marvelous job with the house, Anne, pour all the money we could never afford into it.”
“I don’t think that’s what Anne wants to hear, Proffy,” Ashley drawled, eying her out of that swollen slit. “Do you, darling?”
“No. I want to know what Noah had to do with it.”
If anything, Proffy looked even more guilty, and he stared down at the carpet, once more abdicating responsibility. It was up to Noah.
“I’ve been negotiating with your family on behalf of the foundation. Wendell James is the chairman of the board and my wife’s father. He asked me to handle this as a favor to him and I agreed.” His words were clipped, expressionless.
The pain that had been strangely absent suddenly ripped through her with lightning speed. Noah saw her flinch, her mouth tremble with pain before tightening once more into a grim smile. “Well,” she said in that same calm, dead voice. “I suppose that’s that. I’ll serve lunch.” Slowly, gracefully she rose from the sofa, moving across the room without a trace of hurry, her emotions under iron control. As she passed Noah he reached out a hand toward her, then withdrew it as she turned that chill, cold face on him before continuing on her way to the kitchen.
She moved through the next hour with the liveliness of a robot, and her entire family eyed her with wary relief. She didn’t take a bite of the quiche, merely pushed it around on her plate, and no one else seemed particularly hungry, either. Proffy did his best to lighten the situation with what he fondly supposed to be cheerful conversation.
“We’re going to be here for another two months, Anne. That’ll give us plenty of time to organize the packing, decide what we’re going to take with us and what we’re going to sell. Noah tells me that the foundation would be more than happy to buy whatever of the furniture we don’t want to take with us. And we’ll be able to have the weddings in the rose garden in mid-Ma
y. It will be beautiful by then and a fitting farewell to the house, don’t you think?”
“It sounds charming,” she murmured quietly.
“I’m glad you’re being so reasonable about this, Anne,” he said, obviously much relieved. “I told the others they were making a mountain out of a molehill. I’m only sorry it didn’t work out with you and Wilson.”
“Yes, it would have made things tidier,” she agreed calmly.
“Listen, Anne, anything you want in this house you can have,” he said earnestly, her lifelessness slowly penetrating. “The Stuart painting, the Chinese Chippendale, the Duncan Phyfe chairs. I’m sure your sister and brother will agree with me that you have more claim on these things than they do.”
“Of course, Annie,” Holly said in a rush. “You’ve always loved the Constable landscape in my bedroom. It’s yours.”
Anne said nothing, smiling a faint, agreeable smile.
“I’ll tell you what, Anne. Why don’t you rest this afternoon, and make a list of things you want to take with you? Letitia and I want you to stay with us if you like, but of course there’ll be more than enough money for you to buy yourself a little condominium. Think how nice that will be—no repairs, no slogging in the mud, abundant hot water. You’ll love it.”
“Sure she will,” Ashley drawled.
“If you can’t say anything pleasant don’t say it!” Proffy snapped. “Anne is taking this all very well—don’t be upsetting her further.”
“He’s not upsetting me,” Anne said gently. “And I think I will take a nap. I’m really very tired. Will you excuse me?” Without waiting for a reply she rose. Noah hadn’t said more than a dozen words since the meal began, and whenever she had been forced to raise her head from her solemn perusal of her plate she would find his blue eyes on her, clouded with concern and caring. A concern and caring she knew to be completely false. She passed very close to his body, wishing she could summon the energy to tell him what she thought of him, the hatred to start throwing things at his beautiful head. But she was drained of everything, even hatred. With a faint smile in his direction, she left the room, heading down to the cellar of the old house.
She paused a moment to notice the cracked foundation walls, the moisture seeping in, the aging wiring she had just begun to replace, before heading toward the laundry area. It was fortunate she had just done several loads of laundry before leaving for Philadelphia—she would have enough to last her without making an incriminating trip up to her bedroom.
With calm, measured movements she stuffed the clothes into a clean trash bag and carried them back upstairs. The Volvo was parked just outside the kitchen door, and it took no more than three trips to fill the back seat with her clothes, her paints, an armful of books and her music. There was two thousand dollars in her savings account. She owed it to the carpenters who were still struggling with the slate roof, but this time it would be up to Proffy. He could take her share of the blood profits from the house to pay for it.
No one heard her as she stepped out into the late-spring sunshine, her sneakered feet silent on the damp spring earth, the electric coffee grinder under one arm. She could see the bright yellow heads of the daffodils lining the edge of the woods, smell the faint, heavenly scent of the hyacinths she’d planted two years ago by the kitchen window. To leave in spring was the cruelest cut of all, she thought wearily. Climbing into the Volvo, she rolled down the window to get a final whiff of spring before grinding the noisy old motor into life. And then she was off down the road, driving as fast as her car would carry her over the rutted driveway, the potholes tossing the car this way and that. When she reached the end of her mad dash down the drive her muffler fell off.
With a hysterical laugh at the absurdity of it all, she took off down the road with an unmuffled roar, unshed tears bright in her eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
Aunt Lillian was, at best, a mixed blessing. On the plus side, there was the seclusion of her small farm in southern Vermont, the security of knowing that although her family knew exactly where she was, they were far too intimidated by Aunt Lillian’s legendary temper to try to interfere more than once. Anne had the space and freedom to paint, to play the piano, even to cook. Unfortunately she only painted very pretty, lavender-hued, rain-drenched landscapes, she only played and sang lilting, mournful dirges, and everything she cooked she ate, swiftly adding ten pounds to her slender frame.
The drawbacks to Aunt Lillian’s hospitality were equally manifold. Lillian Westerby was, in actuality, Anne’s great-aunt, her mother’s father’s sister. She had been a suffragette as a teenager, a flapper in the twenties, a factory worker in the forties, a civil rights worker in the fifties and sixties. In the seventies, crippled from arthritis and filled with a profound disgust at the modern hedonism, she retired to her farm to raise chickens. What she’d done instead was raise hell. She was now on the board of selectmen of the small town, and she struck terror into the heart of every bureaucrat from Brattleboro to Burlington. She enjoyed herself tremendously in her troublemaking and relished having her favorite niece join her, even if it was to nurse a broken heart. Most of all she enjoyed prying into Anne’s past, exhorting her to seek a new life or, failing that, revenge. Her version of the facts was extremely garbled, since Anne steadfastly refused to discuss it, and she had to glean her information from the various disgruntled Kirklands.
“Heard the weddings went well,” Aunt Lillian cackled as she wheeled herself into the kitchen one morning. By afternoon she could get around quite well with a walker, but first thing in the morning her joints were too stiff and swollen to allow her much mobility. “Got a cup of that fancy coffee of yours?”
“Sure thing.” Anne slid off the stool and poured her aunt a cup.
Lillian took a deep, soulful sip. “Yes, it was a great success apparently.” She eyed her niece with a sly expression. “Even if it rained on them in the rose garden.”
At that Anne smiled with faint, unaccustomed malice. “Good,” she murmured, biting daintily into a freshly baked croissant. “They deserved it.”
“I still say we should have gone down there. After all, how often do your father and sister get married in one afternoon?”
“No, thank you.” She finished the croissant in two bites, reaching for another without hesitation.
“Still angry about the house?” Lillian queried shrewdly. “I would have thought you’d realized that was no life you were living. You always struck me as the sensible one in your family.”
“That’s me,” she said bitterly. “Sensible Anne, adrift in a family of peacocks.”
Lillian watched her out of troubled eyes. “They don’t realize how much they’ve hurt you,” she said. “You’ve always been a tower of strength for the bunch of them. I can’t imagine they’re doing very well without you.”
“A tower of strength!” Anne mocked. “You must be kidding.”
“Hell, no. You’ve been so strong all your life that the others have been happy enough to let you do everything. They’re learning that they have to take some responsibility now, and it’s good for them. Good for you, too.”
“Sure it is.”
“You never used to feel sorry for yourself, my girl,” Lillian snapped. “I may have to revise my opinion of you being the strong one in your family.”
“I don’t feel like the strong one,” Anne said quietly.
“And you never used to eat so much,” Lillian continued, ignoring the little pang of pity that filled her at Anne’s woebegone face. “Put that croissant down—you’ll burst your jeans at this rate.”
The goad had its intended effect, banishing her self-pity and replacing it with a healthy anger. Defiantly Anne shoved the entire croissant into her mouth. Lillian watched her with mixed exasperation and affection. “Though I did wonder if it’s the house you’re sulking about,” she added sagely.
“I’m not sulking.” Anne washed down the croissant with the last of her coffee. “I’m leading a very produ
ctive life.”
“And what does that productive life consist of? Driving a crippled old woman around, making up depressing songs, watching sad movies on television, and crying. Heavens, I even saw you cry over a baseball game!”
“It was a very touching game,” she defended herself weakly.
“And did I mention eating? I believe I did. First you won’t touch a speck of food for almost a week, and then I never see you without something in your mouth or well on its way there. If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were in love or pregnant.”
“Not pregnant,” Anne said morosely, having ascertained that fact the morning of the lachrymose baseball game.
“Thank heavens for small favors. Not that I wouldn’t welcome a great-great-niece or nephew, but I don’t think it’s the best possible thing for you right now. So you’re in love.”
“What? Strong, sensible Anne in love? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Tsk, tsk. That self-pity is cropping up again. Ugly emotion.” Aunt Lillian shook her grizzled white head. “Not that we’re not all prey to it every now and then, but it should be resisted most strenuously, Anne, dear.”
Anne reached for another croissant, caught her aunt’s glare, and withdrew her hand, settling for another cup of rich black coffee. Her jeans were getting a little snug, and she wasn’t in the mood for clothes shopping.
“So are you still in love with that dull stick your sister married? What was his name? Winston?”
“Wilson.” Anne allowed herself a small sigh at the absurdity of the thought. “No, I’m not still in love with Wilson. I doubt I ever was. I hope he and Holly will be very happy.”
“That’s good. You deserve someone with a little more fire than that stuffy old banker.”
“Lawyer,” Anne corrected, and the word sent an unexpected shaft of pain through her.