Carolina Mist (19 page)

“What do you mean?” Alex looked back over his shoulder, puzzled.

“I just meant, like the last time you stayed here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Last time you were here, you came downstairs and went into Thomas’s study. I assumed you were looking for something to read.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Alex, you did. It was around two in the morning. I was on the couch in the morning room, and I heard you.”

“Abby, if you heard someone come down those steps at two in the morning, it was someone else. I slept like a log both nights, and I fully expect to sleep as well tonight. Gran, you’re not taking late-night strolls around the house, are you?”

“Of course not.” Belle brushed the suggestion aside with the wave of her hand. “Perhaps, Abigail, you were dreaming.”

“I don’t think so.” She frowned. Hadn’t she heard him on the steps? Hadn’t she heard the study door open and seen the faintest bit of light?

“Well, if you catch me sleepwalking, just turn me around and point me back to my room.” Alex yawned again and headed toward the stairs, leaving Belle to finish her cobbler and Abby to wonder just what she
had
heard that night as she huddled under the afghan in the parlor and pondered the fates that had brought Alex Kane back into her life.

23

A
bby sat on the top step of the back porch and swished the last bit of coffee slowly around and around in the bottom of the cup while trying to decide if she wanted a second cup and, if she did, whether she should call Naomi to see if she had a few minutes to come over and join her on the steps on this fine afternoon to savor the first elusive scents of the promise of spring. Recalling that Naomi would be at the library with Sam for the Tuesday afternoon story hour, Abby sighed and with some reluctance splashed the remains of the coffee onto the grass. She stomped her sneakered feet against the step to dislodge bits of drying mud before going back into the house. She rinsed her cup and checked in on Belle, who was snoozing comfortably with her beloved pup on her lap.

Smiling at the cozy scene, Abby pushed the red power button on the remote control to turn off the television. If she worked steadily over the course of the afternoon, she told herself, she could finish painting the last of the windows in the right front bedroom. Then tomorrow, perhaps, she could paint the walls. Maybe a light pink, she reflected as she opened the front door to check the contents of the mailbox. The very palest strawberry-pink. With a touch of white lace at the windows and the quilt on the old maple bed, the room would be certain to charm prospective buyers.

She flipped through the mail—advertisements for a new pizza place out on the interstate, the electric bill— pondering Naomi’s suggestion that she paint an old dressing table white, then trim the top and sides with tiny stenciled roses. Could she really spend so much time to personalize one room, when she could go on to the next?

The next stop on Abby’s agenda would be the sitting room off Belle’s bedroom. Perhaps a true and sunny yellow in there, she mused, then recalled that at some point over the past few years, the gutters had leaked, allowing water to seep in around the window. The sill would have to be replaced—Alex would have to do that—before the painting could be done.

Movement from the driveway caught her eye, and she turned just as a figure disappeared behind the huge rhododendron at the corner of the house. Abby crossed the porch and peered around the side of the house, but dense shrubs obscured her view. She hopped down the steps and crossed the lawn to follow the curve of the drive to the back of the house.

What, she wondered at the sight of the unexpected visitor who strolled casually toward her backyard, was Alex doing there in the middle of the week?

At her approach, he turned toward her.

Of course, it’
s not Alex,
she realized.
This man is stockier and not so tall. And they look nothing alike. How could I possibly have thought
…

“Hi.” The stranger smiled.

“Is there something I might help you with?” she asked somewhat warily.

“Is this your house?” He started toward her.

“Yes.”
It’s the walk,
she realized.
He walks like Alex.

“Lucky you.” He was still smiling pleasantly. “It’s quite a place.”

“It certainly is.” Abby returned the smile slowly, still cautious. Primrose had few tourists. Could this be a prospective buyer?

“Funny how things look so different when you’re a child,” he mused, and stepped back, as if to gain better perspective.

“Oh, did you grow up in Primrose?” Abby relaxed slightly. A Primrose boy returning home.

“No,” he told her. “And as far as I know, I was only here once, with my mother. And I was very small at the time.”

He continued to walk the length of the house slowly, as if
taking in every inch of the building, a curious Abby watching his every step.

“I apologize,” he said, as if it had just occurred to him that he was in fact intruding upon her property. “I am so sorry. I should have knocked on the door and asked if I might wa
nder a bit. Forgive me, Miss?…”

“McKenna. Abby McKenna.”

“Drew Cassidy.” He smiled with the utmost charm and extended his right hand to clasp hers warmly.

“Cassidy? What a coincidence. The name of the family who built the house was Cassidy.”

“No coincidence at all.” Drew shook his head. “Thomas Cassidy was my grandfather.”

“What did you say?” Abby was certain she had misunderstood.

“I said, Thomas Cassidy was my grandfather.”

“How is that possible?”

“Because he was my father’s father. Is there something wrong?”

She stammered. “Thomas Cassidy was married to my great-aunt. They had no childr
en, so I don’t understand…
”

“Obviously, my grandmother and your great-aunt were not the same person,” he confided with apparent amusement.

“Oh. Of course.” She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I wasn’t aware that Thomas had been married before he married Aunt Leila.”

“He hadn’t been, as far as
I
know,” the young man told her. “From what I understand, he and my grandmother never married.”

“What?” Abby exclaimed, thinking of the portrait of the serious-looking Thomas that stood on Aunt Leila’s bedside table. “Why, whoever would have guessed?”

“My mother told me that my father had said that his mother was a stage actress, from Chicago,” Drew told her as they walked toward the back of the house. “The story goes that my grandfather was head over heels in love with her,
but she refused to give up the stage to marry him. They quarreled, and he left Chicago for some trip or other. Apparently, by the time he returned, she had left the city— pregnant with my father, though, of course, Thomas couldn’t have known that—to go to stay with her sister in Dayton, Ohio. Apparently, sometime later, my grandmother relented and sought Thomas to let him know that he had a son, but by that time, he had married and settled down. I guess she had too much pride to come knocking on his door. Or so goes the story as related by my mother.”

“And Thomas never knew he had a son
…
”

“No. He never did.”

“How sad.” Abby shook her head. “Then your father never knew his father.”

“Apparently not. My father died when I was very young, so I never really knew him, either.”

“And your mother?”

“I’m not certain. I haven’t seen or heard from her in many years.” Then, as if to provide some explanation, he added, “I’m afraid things fell apart for my mother after my dad died. I was in foster care for many years.”

“I’m sorry,” Abby said. “Do you have sisters, brothers?”

“I was an only child.”

“I know exactly how you feel.” Abby sighed, feeling a sudden kinship with this stranger. “My parents died ten years ago. I was an only child, too.”

“Then you know what it feels like to have absolutely no one.” His eyes flickered, and he looked away, down toward the carriage house.

“I do.” She nodded, then corrected herself, thinking of Bell
e
and Naomi and the world of love that had begun to envelop her since she had come to Primrose. “At least, I did. I can’t say that I feel quite so alone as I once did.”

“I’m glad for you,” he said with seeming sincerity.

“Would you like to see the house?” she offered.

“Would I ever
! But, really, Miss McKenna…
”

“Abby.”

“That’s very generous of you, Abby, but really, I would not want to impose.”

“Are you kidding? We’re practically related. Come on, Drew.” She gestured for him to follow her toward the back porch. “We’ll give you the downstairs tour and a cup of coffee. I’m afraid the upstairs is pretty well disrupted right now.”

They stepped into the kitchen, and Drew looked
around as if studying every corn
er and cranny.

“I wasn’t back in this part of the house when I was here as a child,” he told her. “Just in the front hallway.”

“Looks pretty much like any kitchen built in the mid- to late eighteen hundreds,” Abby noted. “Give me a second, I’ll throw a pot of coffee on.”

“Abby, don’t go to any trouble.”

“Don’t be silly, it will only take a second.” She filled the pot with water and poured it unceremoniously into the top of the coffee maker. “What brings you to Primrose? Obviously, you wanted to see the house, but, I mean, why now, after all these years?”

“I was passing through the Raleigh-Durham area on business.”

“What business are you in?”

“I sell athletic equipment to colleges. I made a stop at Duke, looked at the map, and saw that Primrose was just a few hours away, and I thought, what the heck. I sure didn’t
expect to find family here…
well, not family, I realize that,
but
…”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Abby said to ease his discomfort. “Now, Drew Cassidy, how do you take your coffee?”

Before he could answer, a low growl followed by a shrill bark emitted from the end of the short hallway leading to the morning room.

“Oh, Meri, it’s okay,” Abby called over her shoulder. The dog proceeded with the greatest of caution toward the stranger, grumbling all the while, even while she sniffed with deliberation at the fingers of the hand he held out to
her. When Drew attempted to pet her, she snapped and fled with a yelp back down the hallway.

“Meri, you can be so rude sometimes,” Abby called after the little dog. “Did she bite you?”

“No, no.” He tried to smile. “I think she just wanted to assert her authority. Little dogs do that sometimes. I think maybe it makes them feel like big dogs.”

“She normally doesn’t do such things.” Abby frowned. “I hope she’s not going to turn snappish. We haven’t had her but a few months. And she’s very protective of Belle.”

“Belle?”

“Belle Matthews,” Abby explained as she refilled an empty sugar bowl and set it on the table. “She was Aunt Leila’s best friend for years. She lives here with me.”

“I see.” He nodded.

“She’s a lively old sprite, I must tell you.” Abby searched in the refrigerator for the cream, which had managed to become lost behind a bowl of pudding. Belle had apparently sought and found a second dessert after lunch.

“I’m sure you appreciate the company.” Drew watched as Abby poured a cup of coffee and offered it to him.

“I do,” she agreed. “Well, if you’ll come this way, we’ll begin the two-dollar tour.”

Abby led the way from the kitchen through the swinging door to the butler’s pantry which opened to the dining room.

“This is lovely,” Drew noted. “So many beautiful old thi
ngs…
”

“I doubt much has changed since the first Cassidys moved in,” Abby said.

“That’s quite a collection of silver,” he noted, nodding in the direction of the sideboard. “Don’t you think you might be pushing your luck, leaving it all out in the open, in full view of the window?”

“Normally, most of it is in the sideboard, rather than on top of it,” she told him, “but I did some polishing a few nights back and just didn’t get things put back.”

“Well, you could be inviting a theft. Anyone looking through that window”—he nodded to their left—“would
be blinded by all this.” Drew gestured toward the row
of
gleaming bowls and pitchers and candle holders.

“I never thought about it.” Abby shrugged. “The last burglary in Primrose proper was, let me see, I think Colin said it was about four years ago.”

“Colin?”

“The chief of police.” Abby pointed toward Cove Road. “He lives across the street.”

“The police chief lives across the street?” he repeated.

“Yes. In Belle’s old house.”

“Well. That’s
…
convenient.”

“It is. He and his wife are close friends of ours. Mine and Belle’s. They took very good care of Belle between the time Aunt Leila died and the time I arrived in Primrose.”

“Well, that’s all well and good. But I’d still put those away. You never know who might be poking around.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said.

She led him into the hallway, and he stood very still for a long moment before seeming to position himself inside the front door, as if he had just entered the house. She watched him, puzzled. A frown of confusion passed across his face. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“What? Oh, no. No. Of course not. Everything seems so different, that’s all, from the way I remember it.”

“Well, you were only
…
how old did you say you were when your mother brought you here?”

“Three or four, I guess. Still, I just seemed to recall
…”
He appeared to be struggling with something, looking to his left, toward the wall where the small marble-topped table stood. “But I’m sure you’re right, of course. Things always seem so different when you’re small. I’m sure that’s it.”

“This is the music room.” She gestured for him to follow her to the left. “Aunt Leila’s baby grand. Which she played for half an hour every morning. For Thomas. Even after he
died.”