Читать книгу Return to Rosewood - Bonnie K. Winn - Страница 10

Birdsong floated through the open bedroom window, the curtain stirring in the morning breeze. Still unaccustomed to the small-town sounds of her youth, Samantha yawned. Arms stretched out elbow to elbow, hands rubbing still sleepy eyes, she halted at a new, unexpected sound.

Hammering. Or shooting?

Something was peppering the house. From the sound of it, nails or bullets must be hitting nearly the entire place.

Reaching toward the end of the bed, she grabbed a sweatshirt. She pulled it over her flannel pajama top and levered herself out of bed. Wheeling to the front door, she pulled it open. Still not oriented, she craned her head, looking for the source of the noise.

“Morning.” Bret spoke from her right, standing off on the grass.

“What are you doing?” She tried to see, but couldn’t push herself over the threshold.

“Porch ramp.”

She gestured behind into the house. “You offered to help with the kitchen. Why—?”

He looked pointedly at her stuck chair. “And if there’s another fire?”

“Institutionalize me.”

“You can’t afford it.” Bret’s somber face loosened for a moment and he flashed the same wide grin she remembered. He hadn’t changed that much since college. Sun-streaked brown hair, year-round tan, dark eyes that had always seemed full of laughter. If he’d aged, it was only to the good. No longer a youth; all the harder edges of manhood suited him.

“I’m putting the ramp over here so when you’re on your feet again, you can use the steps.” He shot more nails into the wood structure.

Samantha wasn’t a quitter, but she’d heard enough of the doctors talking when they consulted to know what her chances were. Amazing how candid they were when under the assumption the patient was asleep. It’d been the only way to find out anything. Asking questions hadn’t gotten her anywhere.

Bret jumped up on the side of the porch, his tall, muscled form scaling it easily. Before she guessed his intent, he grasped her arm rests, then pushed the chair back. “I ordered a threshold adapter—two, actually. Until we get your kitchen fixed, you’d better plan on breakfast at the café. Why don’t you get ready while I finish up?”

Shaking her head, Samantha grabbed the wheels and rolled backward. “No!”

Puzzled, he frowned. “What?”

“And announce to the entire town that I’m here?”

“How long do you think you can hide?” He gestured toward the houses flanking hers. “You’ve got relatives and friends in Rosewood. You plan on never leaving the house? Never answering the door? Or the phone?”

“My parents put the phone on suspend.” It was a weak defense, but the only one she had.

Bret tapped a booted foot on the porch.

“Okay. So I didn’t completely think the plan out.” Samantha glanced down at her lifeless legs. “But I’ll figure out something.”

“You’d have a better chance of folks not spilling your secret if you tell them first. People around here don’t appreciate being lied to.”

She swallowed. “I do know how Rosewood works.”

His eyes darkened further. “You sure about that?”

Between them, he’d always been the logical one, the most grounded. Certainly the one most connected to Rosewood. “Looks like you think I don’t have any claim to my hometown.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Few days.” It had been an excruciating trip, managing first the plane and then the bus ride on her own. She couldn’t even handle the small suitcase she’d brought along. Some strangers had taken pity on her, helping open doors occasionally. But she’d already wearied of pity while she was in the hospital. It wasn’t any more palatable because she needed help. And she’d hated having to enlist the Carruthers to pick her up at the bus station, then struggle to get her wheelchair through the back door. They’d been disapproving, believing she should contact her parents immediately. Ridiculously, she felt on the edge of tears again.

“How are you getting groceries? Supplies?”

She shrugged. Hunger wasn’t her problem. “Mrs. Carruthers keeps bringing over food. I told her not to.”

“Have you eaten breakfast?”

Sam shook her head.

“I didn’t think so.” He glanced at his watch, then pulled his eyebrows together in an annoyed crease. “Rosewood’s a hard place to keep a secret. Just having lights on in the house has probably gotten someone talking.”

Weary both physically and emotionally, she felt like a wound-down clock. Overwhelmed, under-equipped. Neither was her style. Now it was her fate.

A short time later, Bret pulled into the parking lot of Conway’s Nursery. All the lights were off; none of the displays were set out front. Peter, his assistant manager, hadn’t opened yet. And it was a good thirty minutes past opening time. Bret slid out of his Blazer and stomped across the lot.

As he singled out the building key, Bret noticed that the door didn’t look firmly closed. He stepped back a few inches. The sign indicating whether they were open was flipped to Closed. Pushing on the door lightly, it opened. “Peter?”

Silence.

Bret glanced back at the parking lot, which was empty. Peter always drove to work. Turning on the inside lights, Bret could see that the ledger was laid out on the main counter. Peter was supposed to have closed up the previous evening, which meant locking the ledger in the small office.

Heading to the back of the shop, Bret didn’t need long to see the office wasn’t locked, either. A too familiar anger grew. Peter had been slacking off more and more. And it was at the worst possible time.

The recession hadn’t spared Rosewood. People didn’t consider plants a vital necessity. As receipts shrunk, Bret had been forced to rethink his business plan. He’d offered retirement packages to his three oldest employees. That had left him with Peter, whose redeeming quality was superior horticulture knowledge, and two young women who had agreed to share one position.

However, as each woman found a full-time job elsewhere, they’d left. And, now it was just Bret and Peter. Unfortunately, Peter had taken the changes as a permanent job guarantee.

Grabbing the phone, he punched in Peter’s number. It rang and rang. Bret slammed the phone down hard enough to make the base rattle.

Just then he heard Peter’s old Camaro screech into the lot, the low underside scraping on the driveway as it did every day.

Bret gritted his teeth as Peter took his time dragging into the store.

Peter paused to flip the sign on the door to Open.

“Turn it back.”

Surprised, Peter frowned. “It’s time.”

“It’s past time.”

Shrugging, Peter yawned. “No customers.”

“If anyone had come when we’re supposed to be open, do you think they’d wait around until you decided to show up?”

Peter sighed, a long-suffering sound that told Bret that he wouldn’t listen. Certainly wouldn’t change.

“We’ve talked about this…I don’t know. What? More than a dozen times now?” Bret raised his voice. “You’re constantly late. Last night you didn’t bother to put the ledger in the office. Not that it would’ve mattered. You didn’t lock the office or the front door.”

Peter stared at the floor, clearly bored.

“Consider yourself on probation.”

“Probation?” Peter looked genuinely shocked, then amused. “You going to have the rest of the staff take over?”

“I’d do as well running the place by myself. At least I wouldn’t lead the wolf to the hen house.”

“Hen house?”

How such a dimwit could be so talented with plants mystified Bret. “Just worry about your probation. Ninety days. Clean up your act or you’re out.”

Anger flashed in the man’s muddy-colored eyes and he pinched his lips together.

Bret waited to see if Peter would save him the trouble and quit.

Instead, Peter picked up his scruffy backpack and stalked off toward the office.

Bret remembered his promise to Sam that he’d pick up breakfast at the café. “Just a minute.”

Peter slowed down, but didn’t come to a complete stop.

“I’m going out for awhile. Anything comes up, you can reach me on my cell.”

“Whatever.”

Regretting hiring the man for the thousandth time, Bret turned the sign on the door and headed to his apartment over the shop via the outside stairwell. Employing Peter had been a favor. One of his older customers, Val Gertenstal, had convinced Bret that although Peter wasn’t a people person, he was a genius with plants. When they’d been fully staffed, Peter’s odd ways hadn’t mattered, since he worked in the cultivating area. Now that he was expected to help on both sides of the business, every ugly thorn was showing. And sticking into Bret’s hide.

Once inside his apartment, Bret grabbed a cooler. Neighbors would eventually deluge Sam with casseroles and anything else she needed. Just as soon as the truth came out about the extent of the fire.

Frowning, he wondered if she really had changed that much. She’d always been as honest as they came. Even though it had ripped out his heart, Sam had been truthful about why she’d left years earlier. Their priorities hadn’t meshed. Words he would never forget.

By the time Bret got back to her house, Sam was staring out the large bay window in the living room. Always independent, she had to be chafing at all the constraints.

He moved the dining room chairs away from one side of the table so Sam would have easy access. “You’d better get over here if you don’t want cold eggs.”

She continued to stare out the window.

“Let me rephrase. I don’t want cold eggs, so get a move on.”

Startled, she pivoted, then stared.

“Chair isn’t going to roll over here on its own.” He set the Styrofoam cups of coffee on the table. “You still take sugar?”

“Uh, yeah. One.” She reached slowly to move the wheels.

“Eggs are all scrambled. Thought that was easier. Della put in bacon, sausage and I don’t know what all.”

“Della’s still at the café?”

“Yep. And still telling me to eat my vegetables.”

That edged out a smile as Samantha neared the table. “Guess she thought we ought to eat something besides French fries.”

“A potato is a vegetable.” Watching, he saw her glance at the food.

The arms of Samantha’s wheelchair fit easily beneath the century-old mahogany table. Although the house was Victorian, the furnishings were Edwardian and simpler in nature. They had been passed down along with the house. Samantha’s mother, Joyce, had added her own touches—particularly her love of collectibles, lots of collectibles. Still, the house hadn’t changed that much since it was built, aside from updates to the kitchen and bathrooms. But Bret suspected it was far different from Sam’s New York style.

The waitress had sent along a stack of real plates and silverware. “Della said we can return this stuff whenever.”

“So she knows?” Samantha asked in a small voice.

“Have to start somewhere. How ’bout calling your uncle later?”

Samantha ducked her head. “It would hurt his feelings if he heard from somebody else.” Her father’s brother, Uncle Don, and his family had always been close to hers. Joyce, an only child, didn’t have as many relatives. “I’ve made a real mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Not yet.”

The self-pity faded from her eyes. “Gee, don’t hold back. Say what you think.”

“You already know what I think.”

She sniffed the delicious aroma of fresh biscuits. “Hard to miss.”

He handed her a biscuit on a small plate. “We have enough condiments to open our own café.”

Her fragile hand shook as she picked up the biscuit and took a bite. Even though Sam had always been petite, she’d also been physically strong and active. It shocked him that she was so thin it looked like the breeze from a hand-held fan would blow her over. As she concentrated on her biscuit, Bret took the opportunity to scoop some eggs onto her plate.

“I’d forgotten how good these are.” Sam took a second tiny bite of the warm, buttery biscuit. “Almost as good as my mom’s.” She glanced down at the eggs on her plate. “I can’t eat all that.”

“Then how do you expect to get better?”

Sam lifted her chin. “I don’t.”

“Yeah.”

“I made my peace with it.”

“Right.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “Don’t trip over your empathy.”

“Don’t intend to. You have to want to get better.”

Her eyes suddenly blazed, something he remembered well. “You think I want to be in this chair?”

Bret reached for the bacon. “You’re not doing much to get out of it.”

She gulped back a deep breath. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never used to be a quitter. The Samantha I knew would be doing everything she could to walk again.”

The blaze faded. “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me anymore.”

“So that’s it? You can’t afford rehab so you’re just giving up?”

“What do you suggest I do? Rob a bank? Might be a little problem with the getaway.”

The old Samantha was still there. She just didn’t know it.

Samantha twisted her hands together as she waited nervously for her Uncle Don. He’d been shocked to hear she was back in Rosewood, but he’d also sounded excited.

Bret had stayed to work on the ramp. He had told her flatly he wasn’t leaving until the ramp and a temporary threshold adjustment were finished. She’d almost forgotten how bossy he could be. Sam wished he would stay until her family came and give her a little moral support. Which was totally stupid, since he was clearly trying to leave as fast as he could. He’d been pounding in nails as if he had a tornado at his heels.

Not wanting to sit in front of the large bay window looking like a waif, she’d chosen to wait in the living room. Still, she could hear the rumble and lift of voices outside. Her uncle hadn’t come alone. Nor did he make it through the door first. Her cousin and best friend, Rachel, ran inside, not stopping until she was inches away. Her hug was as unexpected as Samantha’s tears. Get a grip.

Then she saw matching tears on Rachel’s face. An overwhelming need to give in to her own assailed Sam.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us.” Hoarse with emotion, Rachel ignored her own tears as she brushed Samantha’s away.

There was no explanation she could offer.

Rachel’s mother, Trudy, came inside, her movements stiff. With her arthritic arms outstretched, she saw Sam and her face began to crumple.

Don, the last one inside, shook his head. “What’s this? A weeping convention?” A few long strides and he was next to her with a hug as well.

When the tears subsided, Samantha faced them all. “I didn’t mean to exclude you. I…just hadn’t thought out what it would mean coming back here.”

“This is your home.” Don, only two years older than her father, Ed, looked nearly enough like him to be his twin. “You never have to think out coming home. But we’d like to make things easier for you.”

Although he was wise enough to hide his pity, Samantha knew it was there. “But that’s just it. I don’t want anyone to take care of me…to worry.”

“It comes with the territory. Rachel contends she’s an adult who can live her own life. I suppose she’s right, but it doesn’t stop us worrying. That’s what family does.”

The years away from Rosewood had dimmed her sense of family, what the connections really meant. But ever since her brother, Andy, had died….

Sniffling, Rachel playfully punched her dad’s arm. “You’d think I was twelve years old.”

“Don’t believe otherwise,” Trudy advised, wiping her own face. “As far as your father’s concerned, you’ll always be twelve.”

Don glanced in the kitchen. “Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

“But—”

He held up one hand. “Bret filled me in before he left. I’m no carpenter, but I’ll do what I can. You’ll get plenty of help from your friends and neighbors.”

Samantha felt she’d been gone too long to expect anything from them. But that was how Rosewood worked. People pitched in together. They might be a dying breed, but the small town’s citizens believed in neighbor helping neighbor.

“I thought your dad was being extravagant when he told me he planned to keep the utilities on,” Don continued. “Said a house slowly disintegrates when it’s left closed up.”

“He knows how much the house means to Mom.”

Don nodded in agreement. “Oh, and Miss Leeson comes in to clean twice a month. You’d have given her a heart attack.”

The complications were multiplying. “Uncle Don, you can’t tell Mom or Dad.”

He pursed his lips.

“Promise…please?”

Reluctance swamped his face, but he finally nodded. “As long as you’re okay. That changes and the promise is off.”

Samantha knew she was lucky he wasn’t already dialing the phone. “Thanks.” The emotional reunion was exhausting. Had it only been months since she could trek for hours on end hunting a new species? Traveling to South America, Asia, pushing through the rain forests and jungles as easily as walking from one room to another. Now she was exhausted from sitting and talking a few minutes.

Rachel noticed. “Mom, Dad, we’re wearing Sam out.”

“But we just got here!” Trudy protested.

Don took her arm. “Rachel’s right. Sam, we’ll leave for today, but we’ll be back. Often.”

Touched, again she felt the threat of tears. Not a crier, she hated the weakness. “Thanks, Uncle Don.”

He clasped her shoulder. “You’ve got a lot to deal with, Sam. Remember you don’t have to do it alone.”

Not sure whether her voice would warble, she nodded.

Her Aunt Trudy looked as though she was ready to start the waterworks again, so Samantha dredged up a smile.

Rachel leaned close. “Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll get those legs working again. And you’ve got my cell number. I don’t care if it’s three a.m., you need something—call.”

Samantha returned her cousin’s hug, and kept the smile on her face until they were gone. Then she stared at her legs. She couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t tell anyone. There was no hope. No chance. Not unless there was a miracle. And she’d stopped believing in those the day Andy died.