Читать книгу Wedding at Wildwood - Lenora Worth, Rachel Hauck - Страница 12

“Don’t open the door!”

Isabel stood in the dark bathroom at the back of the house, watching through the red glow of the safelight as the picture she’d taken of Dillon developed in a chemical bath. If her grandmother opened the door now, the picture would be ruined. “I’ll be out in a minute, Grammy.”

“It’s not your grandma,” a deep masculine voice said through the closed door.

Dillon.

Isabel almost knocked over her whole tray of developer. “Just a minute!” Taking a deep breath, she checked the timer, then stood back to see the emerging picture of the man who’d kissed her not two days ago, and who’d kept her awake thinking about him since then. With quick efficiency in spite of the flutter in her heart, she lifted the picture out of the developer, then dropped it in the stop bath for thirty seconds. Another minute in the fixer, then a good wash for a couple of minutes, and the picture was done.

But the knocking at the door wasn’t.

“Hey, you getting all dolled up or something?”

“Or something,” Isabel retorted as she clipped the finished picture up on the clothesline she had extended across the cracked tub. “I’m working.”

“Sorry, but that excuse won’t wash. It’s a pretty summer day and I have a hankering to take a walk down to the branch—with a pretty woman by my side.”

Isabel stared at the picture of Dillon, her smile bittersweet. She’d captured his spirit as he stood there looking up at Wildwood. And somehow, since then, he was coming very close to capturing her heart. She’d have to be very careful about that. She wasn’t ready to admit that Dillon had always held her heart.

Blinking, she called out, “Couldn’t talk anyone else into it, huh?”

“Right. You seem to be the only woman around these parts willing to put up with me.”

Opening the door just a fraction—she surely didn’t want him to see that picture of himself—Isabel pasted an indulgent smile on her face. “You have such a unique way of asking a woman for a date, Dillon.”

Dillon stood back in the small hallway, his eyes sweeping over her face, his half grin teasing and tempting. “And you, dear Isabel, sure have a way of looking as refreshing as a tall glass of lemonade. How do you do that?”

Ruffled, she lowered her head and crossed her arms around her chest, sure that she looked raggedy and drained from working in her makeshift darkroom all afternoon. Conscious of her faded cotton T-shirt and old shorts, she asked, “Do what?”

“You look different now, you know,” he said instead of explaining himself. “I think it’s the hair. You never wore it long before.”

She left the bathroom and moved up the hall to the front of the rickety old house, running her hands through the swirls of loose curls falling away from her haphazard ponytail. “No, I didn’t. Mama made me keep it cut. Said it was too much of a handful, what with all these waves and curls. I hated wearing it short.”

He caught up with her in the kitchen. “So you let it grow.”

“And grow,” she said as she turned to hand him a glass of iced tea. “I guess it’s silly, wearing it so long—”

“No, it suits you.”

“Thank you,” she said, acutely aware of his eyes on her. “I think it’s probably more of a personal statement than a fashion decision.”

“The rebellious daughter doing what her parents didn’t approve of?”

She nodded, then lifted a brow. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“I am one,” he agreed. He set his now empty glass in the wide single sink and held out his hand. “C’mon, Issy, let’s go for a long walk.”

Stopping, Isabel stared across at him. “You called me Issy.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell me you don’t allow people to do that anymore.”

“No, it’s just that…no one besides you and my immediate family even knows about that horrid nickname.”

“Issy, Issy, Issy,” he teased, his grin widening.

Isabel’s breath lifted right out of her body. She had forgotten what a lethal smile Dillon had. Maybe because she remembered his smiles being so rare. Coming up for air, she said, “Dilly, Dilly, Dilly,” as a retort.

“Oh, boy. I should have never reminded you.”

She took his hand in spite of all the name calling, very conscious of the rough calluses on his fingers. “I really need to finish developing that roll of film.”

He gripped her fingers against his. “It’ll keep.”

He led her out the back door. The late afternoon air was ripe with the scents of early summer. Peaches growing fat on nearby trees, lilies blooming in her grandmother’s carefully tended flower beds, roses drifting like rich cotton candy in the warm summer breeze. How could a woman resist such a day? Isabel believed God saved such days for special times, when people needed them the most.

She sure needed one. But with Dillon? How was she supposed to resist him and the sweet summer air, too?

“Who let you in, anyway?” she asked, looking around the yard for her grandmother.

He let go of her hand to turn and walk backward in front of her, much in the same way he used to do when they’d walk home after getting off the school bus. “I saw Martha on the road. She was headed to the Wedding War Room to help Mama with her dress. Told me to come and keep you company.”

“How very thoughtful of my dear old grandmother.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I thought so. Took her right up on her suggestion.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I’ve made a few calls, done my work for the day.”

Catching up to him, she asked, “And just what is your line of work these days?”

He turned serious then. “I run my own company, so I can set my own hours.”

“Really?” Surprised at this revelation, she asked, “What sort of company?”

As smooth as the flattened red clay underneath their feet, he changed the subject. “I don’t want to talk about work. I want to enjoy what’s left of the day.”

Isabel sensed his withdrawal, remembered it all too well from their years of growing up together. “Okay. You want to be irresponsible and play, right?”

He gave her that classic Dillon salute. “Right. It’s what I do best, or so they tell me.”

She didn’t miss the sarcasm or the tinge of pain in his words. But she wouldn’t press him to talk. That had been one of the things between them way back when, that is, when he hadn’t been ribbing her or pestering her. Sometimes, they’d just sit quietly, staring off into nowhere together.

“Race you to the branch,” she said, her long legs already taking off, her baggy walking shorts flying out around her knees.

Dillon was right on her heels. Just like always.

The branch was a shallow stream of clear, cool water that ran through a pine-shaded forest toward the back of the estate. The path to get there took them through the rows and rows of cotton just beginning to bud white on ruffly green vines.

“Eli and his cotton,” Dillon said, the note of resentment in his voice echoing through the trees. “Our ancestors raised cotton on this land, but we quit growing it years ago. They say cotton’s making a comeback, though. A good moneymaker, I reckon. And Eli sure likes his money.”

“Is that so wrong?” Isabel questioned as she settled down on the same moss-covered bank she’d sat on as a child. “I mean, do you resent your family’s wealth?”

Dillon snorted, then picked up a rock. With a gentle thud, he skipped it across the water, then plopped down beside her. “No, I don’t resent my family’s wealth. Thanks to my mother, I certainly spent my share of it before I settled down. It’s just that Eli puts money and prominence before anything else.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not anymore.”

Isabel glanced down at him, her heart skipping like the rock he’d thrown earlier. He looked so at home, lying there on a soft bed of pine straw in his faded jeans and Atlanta Braves T-shirt. She hadn’t realized until this very moment how much she’d missed Dillon.

And he chose that very moment to look over at her, his eyes meeting hers in a knowing gaze that only reminded her of his kiss, his touch, his gentleness.

“You’re pretty, Issy,” he said, his voice as low and gravelly as the streambed.

To hide her discomfort, she said, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am surprised,” he admitted, his gaze moving over her face. “I don’t remember you being so attractive.”

No, he didn’t remember much about her, Isabel thought. Even though he’d seen her every day of their growing up years, Dillon had taken her existence for granted. To him, she’d always be the poor kid next door. A fixture in his mind, just like his precious wildflower patch. Well, the wildflowers were the same. But she wasn’t.

She looked away, out over the flowing water. “I don’t remember me being so attractive, either. I was all legs and teeth.”

“Not anymore,” he said as he lifted up on his elbows. “I mean, you’ve still got legs, that’s for sure, and when you smile—well, you have a pretty smile.”

“Thank you, I think,” she replied, her words lifting out over the breeze. “I guess the braces paid off after all.” She took a long breath to retain some of her dignity. If she looked at him again—

“I like your lips, too.”

That did it. “Dillon,” she said, jumping up to move away, “are you deliberately flirting with me?”

He rolled over on his stomach, a lazy grin stretching across his swarthy face. “Well, of course. And if you come back over here, I intend to kiss you again.”

She moved farther away. “No. We can’t do this, Dillon.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

He sat up then, brushing his hands together to scatter the pine needles he’d collected. “No, I honestly don’t know why not. We’re adults now, Issy. And no one can tell us what we can and can’t do.”

Isabel walked to the water’s edge, then looked down at the sparkling stream where a school of tiny minnows danced in perfect symmetry. “But…we’re still us, Dillon. I’m still the poor farm girl, and you’re still the rich second son.”

He came up in one fluid movement, then pulled her around to face him. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t still feel that way.”

She looked up at him, wanting to touch him. But she didn’t. “I do. Because it will never change. I wasn’t ever good enough for you. And I never will be good enough for you.”

Dillon’s expression changed from perplexed to resolved. “I’m sorry, Issy. I never realized you wanted to be good enough for me. You see, I always thought it was the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

He came closer then, his eyes boring into her. “I always figured you didn’t think I was worth your trouble. I never thought I was worthy of anybody’s consideration around here.”

Touched by his admission, Isabel reached a hand up to his face. “You never bothered to find out about me, Dillon. You never took the time to consider me.”

Dillon stared down at her, seeing the hurt mixed with pride in her misty green eyes. If she only knew….

He placed his hand over hers, then brought their joined hands down between them. “Is that why you’re fighting me now? You think I’m just playing with you, the same way I played with you when we were kids?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Dillon dropped her hand, then turned to stalk a few feet away, the honesty of touching her too much to bear just yet. Playing it cool, he chuckled. “Yeah, maybe I am, at that. Maybe I’m just bored and restless and, maybe I don’t really want to be here.” Shrugging, he said over his shoulder, “Yep, you sure got me all figured out.”

Hearing the resentment, the anger, in his words only made her more determined to keep things clear between them. “I’m just being honest, Dillon. I didn’t want to come back here, either. But I promised Grammy and Susan.”

“That was noble of you.”

Stomping over to him, her hands jammed into the deep pockets of her shorts, she said, “Look, I’m here for the same reasons you are. We’re both here out of a sense of duty and obligation.”

“Speak for yourself. As for me, I just wanted to come home—just for a little while.”

Something, maybe that slight inflection in his voice that made him seem so vulnerable and lonely, brought her head up and made her want to understand him. “Because your mother asked you to, right?”

“Right. But, hey, everybody knows Dillon Murdock doesn’t have a sense of obligation or honor. And I certainly don’t know what duty means, now do I? I’m just bad ol’ Dillon, enticing a pretty girl to the woods like the big bad wolf.”

She’d wounded him. Somehow, she’d cracked that uncaring, cynical veneer. And what she saw there in the shimmering depths of his eyes tore her heart apart. “Dillon?”

He looked up just in time to see the sorrow in her eyes. “Don’t, Isabel. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your pity.”

“Dillon.”

He lifted a hand to stop her from coming to him. “No, you’re right, Isabel. This is a bad idea—you and me. You’re right to have doubts about me.” With that, he shrugged again, then gave her a bitter smile. “I guess I was just lonesome. I guess I just thought we could talk.”

Completely confused, she said, “Then why did you tell me you wanted to kiss me again?”

“Just flirting,” he said, his face blank, his tone indifferent. “Won’t happen again.”

“Okay,” she said as she hurried to catch up with him. Behind them, the sun was snuggling up against the tree line. Another beautiful summer sunset. Isabel wished she had her camera. She also wished Dillon didn’t walk so fast. “Listen, if you want to talk, that’s fine—”