Читать книгу Her Favorite Husband - Caron Todd - Страница 12

TUNNELED UNDER THE covers the next morning, Sarah silently replayed the phrase Ian had used. Good to see her?

He’d actually said that. Written it, anyway, and writing it was worse. He’d had time to tear up the note, time to write a better one.

Good to see her, Sar. He’d thrown her out after great sex, and affectionately shortened her name.

How had she landed herself in this mess?

By ignoring a very important prefix, that was how. Ex-wives didn’t go to bed with ex-husbands. That was what ex meant.

But with Ian, look, don’t touch had never been an option.

The moment her body had gone into overdrive in that House of Taxidermy they called a bar, she should have headed straight back to the airport, alarm bells ringing.

She couldn’t, though. She’d already started to wonder about her choices where men were concerned, and when she’d seen his photo and byline in the paper her questions had moved front and center. What was she doing, embarking on relationship after relationship? Was it time to try again? Were she and Ian done? Really, forever and truly, done?

An odd thing to wonder after ten years, but the tumbling into bed, the complete and absolute wonderfulness of that, said no.

The turfing out said yes.

Maybe she’d expected too much from one short trip. As if she could stand in front of him and all answers would be revealed. As if he was some kind of oracle.

You dropped everything.

He’d said it so harshly, and cold went the eyes, on went the clothes. Why was he like that, leaping to judgment? “Dropped everything,” in that tone, as if she’d abandoned a child or left someone marooned on a cliff. Was that what he thought of her?

She didn’t care what he thought of her.

She did care, but she couldn’t change it. Couldn’t change him.

Muffled through the covers, she heard the room telephone ring.

Ian. She knew it right away. A mortified, shamed and sorry Ian. Haggard from tossing and turning all night—even more than she had, because he was the guilty one. She had only been unwise.

If he apologized, she would pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. Note? You’re worried about that? Heavens, I was glad to see you, too.

She reached outside the comforter, felt around on the bedside table for the receiver and with as little banging against clock and lamp as possible, pulled it into her cocoon.

“Hello?”

“Good morning!” The voice on the other end was cheerful and wide-awake, medium deep. Not Ian. Oliver. “What a grumpy sounding woman. It can’t be the lovely, vacationing Ms. Bretton.”

She threw back the covers to see the clock. Eight? That meant it was seven at home. “Is something wrong? Is Jenny all right?” Jenny was her little mutt, rescued from an animal shelter a couple of years ago and living like a queen ever since. “Oh, Lord, not a car—”

“Jenny’s fine,” Oliver quickly reassured her. “Missing you, but hale and hearty. She’s here by my desk, cocking her head every time you speak.”

“Poor girl.”

“She’s not cocking it sadly. Curiously, that’s all.” His voice faded and Sarah heard him croon to the dog, saying ridiculous things about it being Mommy on the phone, yes, Mommy, who was far away….

“Stop it, Oliver. You’ll embarrass her.”

Sarah was coming to grips with two facts—one, that her demon lover hadn’t rushed to beg her forgiveness and two, that in another corner of her life she was something other than an idiot. In the eyes of some, in a faraway renovated gingerbread house, she was a capable, professional woman.

“What’s going on then, if you’re both fine? Why are you at work at this hour?”

“Pup needed to go out—did you mention how often and how early her physical needs dominate? I don’t think you did—and our walk took us past a coffee shop. Once we had a latte and a double chocolate glaze, there was no going back—”

He broke off, then, with a change in tone, got to the point of his call. “Hate to bother you, Sarah, first day of holidays. There’s a complication and I think you’ll want to know about it.”

She wriggled higher in the bed so she could sit straighter. “What kind of complication?”

“An Elizabeth Robb kind.”

There were never any complications from Liz.

“She sent an e-mail this morning at 4:00 a.m. her time,” Oliver added, “a panic hour if there ever was one. She claimed she hasn’t started the book.”

“I know. That’s what we’re going to talk about when I go to Manitoba. She was bound to get blocked eventu—”

“This year’s book,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“She hasn’t started this year’s book.”

Sarah got out of bed and paced as far as the phone cord allowed. “The one in the spring catalog?”

“That’s the one.”

“What does she mean, not started?”

“She means no paintings and no text.”

“You’re kidding.” Liz hadn’t said a word about having trouble with this year’s book. Although now that Sarah thought about it, she hadn’t said the project was going well, either. “Slowly,” she’d said, in a don’t-bug-me tone. “Does she mean she’s not happy with the paintings and text?”

“I’m afraid not. I called her as soon as I read the e-mail and asked her to send an attachment of whatever she’s done. It isn’t even an outline, Sarah. It’s doodles.”

The news was starting to sink in, but it was still hard to believe. “Any clue from her about what’s wrong?”

“She said there was no book, and went to change a diaper.”

“Send me the outline, would you? I’ll look at it over breakfast. And Oliver? Give Jenny a hug and a biscuit for me?”

“Already done.”

“Thanks. Thanks for taking care of things.”

“You’d do the same. You will do the same, I promise. Have fun.”

“Sure. Always.”

Sarah hung up and sat staring at the telephone. Maybe the outline was more complete than it looked at first glance. Maybe an old book could be reissued with added story and illustrations. How about an alphabet book? Liz must have tons of drawings on hand, enough to take a child from A to Z….

The phrase dropped everything kept trying to muscle into her thoughts.

IAN PACED FROM THE telephone to the window.

He didn’t like feeling in the wrong. She was a grown-up. She made the choices she wanted to make.

He paced some more.

Okay, right. What happened was his choice, too. Every minute from the time she’d walked into the lounge had been an invitation, but every minute he’d stayed was like saying yes. He couldn’t argue his participation had been halfhearted.

It was his hotel. That was the thing to keep in mind. She’d encroached on his territory. Saw the article one day, arrived in town the next…how sensible was that? And for what? To play? He was here to work. Six columns, six weeks. It was a tight schedule and he needed to focus. No distractions, not even Sarah.

Especially not Sarah. They’d written “The End” on their story, not “To Be Continued,” not “Tune In Next Decade” for more of the frigging same.

He downed some coffee and a cereal bar, then went through to the shower. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be late for his first meeting of the day. He’d booked half an hour with the Mountie who headed the Diamond Protection Service. Cops might be our friends, but annoying them seemed like a bad idea.

When his sluggish brain didn’t switch from Sarah’s soft, pale skin to interview questions, he turned the tap cooler, then all the way to cold. It woke him up and got him out the door in no time flat.

A COFFEEMAKER SAT ON the desk near the window. Sarah fit a pouch of an unknown roast into the filter basket and filled the reservoir with water. While it dripped, she scanned the file Oliver had sent.

An outline, no. Doodles, yes.

A spot above her eyebrow began to throb. She rubbed it and tried to feel only concern for Liz’s welfare. After a book a year for fifteen years—all of which seemed to end up in every library, school and child’s bookshelf in the land—what could have happened to sink this one? Painting and writing were Liz’s life. They were all she wanted to do.

Or had been, once upon a time long ago and far away. Before she moved back home to Manitoba from Vancouver, before she married her pumpkin farmer, before they started their family. Liz wouldn’t be the first woman to sink under the weight of domestic bliss. Clearly, she needed a hand.

When Sarah tried to call she got a busy signal, so she went back to her e-mail program, hoping to catch Liz online. After a couple of false starts in which she either sounded accusing or unreasonably cheerful she typed:

In a bit of a predicament, are you? Don’t panic! We’re here to help. We’ll talk about it more when I see you, but why not give me a head start understanding the problem? Oliver said there aren’t any paintings yet. You told me once the images help you see the story. Don’t they usually come first?

Sympathetic, she hoped, the question about images a sprinkling of breadcrumbs, the beginning of a path out of the forest. But firm.

By the time she had dressed and put on eyeliner and mascara, there was still no answer from Liz. Sarah took an apple from the side pocket of her suitcase and went out to the balcony, crunching.

She could see the city center, busy with cars and pedestrians. Closer to her, a rocky outcropping extended into a chilly-looking lake. Clusters of small buildings climbed up and down the rock, some apparently teetering on the edge. That must be the Old Town. Ian had written about it, rough shanties built by prospectors during the 1930s gold rush.

To the east, the water went on forever. To the north, beyond the city, green and rust-colored growing things stretched into the distance. In an austere way, it was beautiful.

She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about the north that got to her. Not as a direction, not as a place. Maybe, like New York in the song, as a state of mind? It pulled at her. Could it be actual magnetism, the North Pole using its power?

Her worries took a couple of steps back. She wanted to get out there, see the town and the lake close up. Explore, for real.