Journey Of The Heart. Elissa Ambrose
builder in Jake knew that it would take more than cosmetic repairs to whip the house into shape. “You should probably open the place up,” he said. “Maybe knock down that wall in the hallway.”
“That costs money. If I do decide to keep it, I’m going to do only what’s absolutely necessary. The rest can wait. Not that I’d move back permanently, but it might be nice to have a hideaway. A home away from home.” A frown crossed her brow.
“And the problem is…?”
“You know what my childhood was like. This house doesn’t exactly evoke pleasant memories.”
In spite of her gloomy expression, he grinned. “They can’t all be bad. What about all those get-togethers you had, the ones you didn’t invite me to? What did you girls do at those hen parties, anyway? Besides man bashing, or at our age, boy bashing.”
“Correction. I did invite you, and a lot of other boys from school, but Aunt Tess wouldn’t let any of you into the house.” She sighed. “But I suppose this place will always feel like home, regardless of its condition or Aunt Tess. And you’re right. I did have some good times here, with Cass and Ellen…and Cynthia.” She averted her eyes when she spoke his first wife’s name. “But I feel my aunt’s presence everywhere. Home or not, this place can be downright eerie.”
“Maybe it’s haunted,” he said, trying to appear serious.
“This from the man who defines paranormal as ‘indefinable hogwash’? Am I to believe that your definition of reality now includes ghosts?”
“That’s why I’m in this line of work,” he joked. “I enjoy digging up ancient burial grounds for new homes, and all that sort of thing.”
Even though her eyes were laughing, she looked at him reprovingly. “Speaking of work, don’t you have a job to go to?”
“That,” he said, “is one of the perks in running your own business. I make my own priorities.” If only that were true. Although it was still early, he knew that his secretary would be frantic. Mary liked knowing where to reach him in case of an emergency. “And my first priority today is making sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine, really.” She lay back and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “I’m just a little cold.”
“Do you want me to make a fire? What about some brandy?”
“A fire in September? As for the brandy, it’s not even eight-thirty! I have to meet the lawyer today, and that’s all I need, for him to think I’m some kind of lush. Not that there’s any brandy in the house, anyway. You know how Aunt Tess felt about alcohol. But seriously, I would think you have something more important to do than baby-sit me. In the old days nothing could have torn you away from your work.”
“Well, the old days are gone,” he said.
His words hung in the air like fog, and an uncomfortable silence fell. The only thing that could be heard was the tick, tick of the seven-foot grandfather clock in the hallway, which had marked time for over a century, punctuating the lives of previous generations.
Jake rose from the couch. “Like I told you,” he said with forced brightness, “I get to set my own priorities. And right now, I intend to get something hot into you.” He headed off to the kitchen before she could even think about responding to what sounded like a double entendre. If she had never been married to him, she might have blushed.
“Do you still take cream?” he called from the kitchen.
“Yes!” she called back. “But I don’t have any!”
“What about sugar?”
“No sugar!”
“Where’s the coffeemaker?”
“There isn’t one! Make instant!”
“Where are the mugs?”
“In the cabinet next to the sink!”
Good grief, she thought, if he calls out one more time, I’m getting off this couch and taking over. She smiled to herself. He’d always been such a klutz in the kitchen. Like the time she’d been confined to bed with the flu and he’d insisted on making dinner. At first she’d protested, saying she couldn’t eat a thing, and that he should order a pizza for himself. No, he was going to take care of her, he said. A half hour later he returned to the bedroom, carrying a bowl filled with what looked suspiciously like canned soup. “Ta-da!” his voice rang out. The next morning when she ventured into the kitchen, she found pots and pans, bowls and dishes, knives, forks and spoons all over counter, in the sink and on the stove.
In spite of being sick, in spite of having to clean up the mess, she’d seen this as one of the good times. It was one of those rare times when he’d been there for her. And here he was again, fussing about in the kitchen, when she was feeling under the weather.
Here he was again, telling her what to do.
The phone rang on the side table next to the sofa. “Don’t move!” he called from the kitchen. “I’ll get it!”
“No, I’ve got it!… Edward! How are you?… I don’t know, at least another few days, maybe a week…. I have three weeks’ vacation, remember? Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time for a honeymoon. My vacation time starts all over in January…. What do you mean I’m a bum! You’re just jealous because you can’t take that much time off, as if you could tear yourself away from your practice for even a week…. Look, I’m a little busy at the moment. Why don’t I call you tonight?… Yes, the meeting with the lawyer, and afterward, lunch with Cassandra…. No, I haven’t forgotten the hospital dinner next Saturday. I’ll be back before then, Friday at the latest…. Yes, I know it’s a whole week away, but you’ll just have to survive without me for a little while longer. I’ve got to go now, darling. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up the phone.
“The guy in the picture, I presume,” Jake said formally, standing under the archway. He was carrying a tray with two cups of black coffee. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“And I presume you didn’t mean to snoop, either,” she replied tersely. “What were you doing, snooping around in my bedroom? You had no right to go in there.”
“I was looking for your body,” he answered dryly. He set the tray onto the coffee table, next to the sketchbook. “It’s ready, darling. But there was no cream, darling. You’ll have to take it black, darling. Where do you think you are? In a 1940s movie? When did Cassie become Cassandra?”
Good grief, he was acting like a jealous lover. It was almost comical—and ironic. He had always been so sure of her; it had never been the other way around.
He sat down beside her. “Look, I was worried about you. I thought you’d been hurt. But you’re right, I shouldn’t have snooped. And I’m glad you’ve found someone, really I am. It’s time you got on with your life. It’s time you forgave yourself.”
A warning bell went off in her head. “Excuse me?”
He held out his hand as if to ward her off. “Hear me out. I’m trying to bury the hatchet.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Go on…”
“Sometimes when I think about the past, I still get angry. I know it’ll take me a while before I can get to where you are now, but I want you to know, I forgive you.”
Their three years together came hurtling back, resurrecting resentment. “You forgive me? Just who do you think you are? If you got down on your hands and knees, I wouldn’t forgive you.” She took a deep, slow breath. “Tell me something, were we ever really married? Where were you all that time? I don’t mean physically. You were always there physically, that is, when you weren’t working—which was most of the time. But when you were home, it was as if you were looking right through me. The only time I ever had your attention was when you were telling me what to do and how to run my life.”