My Name is Nell. Laura Abbot
implied the wedding night had been all anyone could hope for and vowed to return on every anniversary.
Couples. All of them. Made supremely happy by the Edgewater Inn. What could he possibly write? This was a place to be shared, but what was he doing? Nursing his wounds. How did he write about that?
Flicking through the book, he came to one particular entry where the margins were embroidered with small colored pencil drawings of a spruce tree, a dogwood blossom, the rocky cliff above the rushing river, and, at the bottom, a rainbow.
Brady smoothed the page with his hand and began reading.
A sanctuary. That’s what you’ve created here, and I will be forever grateful. I have been so alone. Unable to see a direction for my life. Not sure if there even is one. When you’ve loved and lost, doubt replaces hope, insecurity replaces confidence and you wonder who you are. Whether you can go on. Or even want to.
Looking up just in time to see the sun drop behind the dark curtain of mountain, Brady pondered whether he should continue reading. The words were too confessional, too emotionally raw—and threatening. Some other individual had come here full of the same thoughts and feelings.
Unable to help himself, he turned back to the graceful handwriting covering the page.
This time of quiet and contemplation has been a great gift, restoring my belief that no matter how severe the storm, rainbows can happen. Regardless of how desolate I feel right now, I have to believe that somewhere out there is someone for me. Someone I can trust. Someone I can love. When I find him, dear Sally, the two of us will come to the Edgewater Inn. Together.
Brady stared for the longest time at the signature. Simple. Bare. Exposed. “Nell.”
He stood abruptly and walked to the railing, peering at the grove of pine trees bordering the property. Nell, whoever she was, was more optimistic than he was. As if, like Dorothy, you could click your red-shod heels and suddenly find yourself on the other side of whatever hell you were in.
God, he hated his blatant, whining self-pity. If Nell, desolate and alone, had been willing to look for something better, why couldn’t he?
He leaned against a post. This attitude of his was downright depressing. He needed a plan—any plan—and at this point he didn’t give much of a damn what it was.
Absently he realized he was still holding the guest book, his forefinger marking Nell’s page. He opened it again and squinted in the dim light, just making out the line beneath her signature. “Fayetteville, AR, 1997.”
He carried the book back into his room and reread the entry. Several times.
A crazy idea entered his head. But no crazier than what he’d been doing. He needed a purpose. A direction. Short-term, this would work as well as anything.
Tomorrow, after he checked out, he would drive to Fayetteville to find this Nell, a woman who still believed in rainbows.
CHAPTER TWO
TOWERING ABOVE the broad expanse of lawn in front of Old Main, the landmark building of the University of Arkansas campus, were massive oaks and maples, their leaves hanging lifeless in the heat of the late August day. Patches of shade offered only the illusion of coolness. Brady paused, gazing across the sward where members of a fraternity gathered on the porch of their house to welcome a group of rushees. He envied them this carefree time of life. College. What would that have been like?
Once, long ago, he’d assumed that was his destiny. But that was before his mother died and his father hastily remarried. Before he rebelled against his father’s unreasonable restrictions and demands. Before he stood up to the old man, told him to take a flying leap and left home. On his own at eighteen. No enlightening classes, fall football weekends, frat parties or eager coeds for him.
All he had in his favor was a knack for computers, a willingness to work his butt off and a cold, simmering rage fueling his ambition.
He headed toward Dickson Street, an off-campus shopping area housing several watering holes. He needed a cool drink. He had thought his plan of starting his search with the university telephone directory was ingenious. The U of A was the town’s largest employer, so the odds of finding Nell on campus were better than average. However, after a day hunched over a table in the college library, his eyes were raw from reading endless lists of names. He’d found several Nells. When he’d called, one had turned out to be a secretary in the engineering department suspicious of his motives. Another was a graduate student who knew nothing about any Edgewater Inn. A third, who sounded like Minnie Mouse, asked him what he had in mind, then giggled coquettishly.
The tavern was an oasis in a frustrating day. He settled on a bar stool and ordered a cola. In a nearby booth, three barrel-chested young men were playing a chug-a-lug game. Brady’s lip curled. He wanted to knock their pitcher to the floor and demand to know if they were driving. Didn’t they understand their stupidity could lead to tragedy? He no longer had any tolerance for overindulgence.
Instead of acting on his instinct, he turned to the bartender and asked if he knew any women named Nell. “That’s kind of an old-fashioned name. Most of the chicks these days are Chelseas or Tiffanies, know what I mean?”
Yeah, he did. Besides, he wasn’t picturing Nell as a younger woman. More someone his age. Somebody who’d obviously lived through hurt. Then another thought hit him. What if Nell was older, maybe a widow who’d lost her husband after forty years of marriage?
He drained his glass. This was insane. Even if he found his Nell, how could he explain his actions? She might even accuse him of stalking. What was he hoping to find?
He signaled the bartender for another soda. What would Carl say if he could see him now, sitting in Fayetteville, Arkansas? Everywhere you looked in this town was a depiction of the butt-ugly razorback hog, the beloved mascot of the university. Yet the place had an appealing, slow-paced charm. He grinned sardonically. He had wanted to get away from the Silicon Valley. Well, he had certainly succeeded.
Nursing his drink, he noticed a local newspaper on the seat beside him. He picked it up and scanned the headlines. Zoning issues. School orientation programs. A public library forum. A controversy over pollution of the Illinois River.
As he started to shove it aside, out of the blue he recalled a seemingly vague remark Sally at the Edgewater Inn had made when he’d asked about Nell. “I can’t give out personal information about my guests,” she’d said. They’d been standing in the living room at the time, where one entire wall was lined with books. “Say,” she’d added, gesturing to the shelves as if changing the subject, “do you like to read? I do. Libraries have always been favorite places of mine. How about you?”
At the time he’d mumbled something about not having much time for reading. He remembered being irritated that she hadn’t given him any information about Nell. Now, though, he wondered. Maybe she had and he’d been too dense to realize it.
He drained his glass, then began reading the article about the library forum. In the final paragraph, he found what he was looking for. “August’s forum on Arab-Israeli relations will be moderated by Nell Porter.” He checked the date. Tomorrow night.
At last a genuine lead. He could blend into the audience and size up the latest Nell candidate.
He couldn’t believe he was thinking like this. What would he say if he ever found the Nell? “Hi, I think we have misery in common?” What kind of way was that to impress anybody? Why did he care?
There was another obstacle. Her entry was dated 1997. Six years ago. What made him think time had stood still for Nell?
Despite the harsh light of reason, he felt compelled to follow his search through to its conclusion. He would find Nell.
“DID YOU GET Abby off all right for her vacation with her father?”
To free her hands, Nell settled the phone against her shoulder and continued searching through her office file cabinet. “Yes, Mother. As usual, she trudged through