• • •
ALANA CLOSED THE
library’s front door and locked it. Mrs. Battle clocked out just after three, but Cody hung around after Alana pointed out that as long as he wasn’t in school, he might as well make a dent in his community-service hours. Arms laden with her purse, tote, and laptop bag, she opened the back door of her A4 and set her bags on the backseat. After a deep inhale, she took off her coat as well. Late afternoon spring sunshine gilded the tops of the trees and cast long shadows on the street, and the air held a faintly sweet scent she didn’t recognize. After a few moments, she decided it was the smell of blossoming, sap pulsing through winter-iced trees to produce and unfurl buds. Spring in Chicago had a smell all its own, but spring was far too delicate to overcome concrete and exhaust.
The scent would be even stronger when she got out of town, which was exactly what she intended to do. Lucas wanted her aesthetic opinion on the kitchen, and she didn’t want to tell him that decorating wasn’t her strong suit. Her mother did all of that and went for ultramodern. But Lucas’s tiny jewel of a house deserved a better kitchen than the one it had. It was small, yes, but the right countertops, perhaps some built-in shelves in the wall behind the door, and a brighter color scheme would make the space feel airy, even beautiful.
With that in mind, Alana planned to make a pilgrimage of sorts to Brookhaven, form and function and beauty rocking tranquilly on the rolling prairie a few miles outside of town. Marissa Brooks had restored the grand house in a way that honored its period feel without sacrificing modern conveniences and comfort. She’d been to Brookhaven almost weekly since Chloe Nichols had bought the house and opened a yoga studio and retreat center, and Brookhaven’s new owner had become a friend.
She carefully backed out of the library director’s parking space and turned right, heading for County Road 12 and Brookhaven. On the edge of town she passed Cody, walking along the shoulder, hands shoved in his pockets, the book tucked under his arm. As she approached, he turned and stuck his thumb out. She pulled over next to him and rolled down her window.
“Hello, Cody.”
His wary expression closed off. “Keep driving, Miss Wentworth.”
“I’m going to Brookhaven,” she said. “Your house is on the way.”
“It’s a couple of miles out of your way. I’ll catch another ride.”
If this boy walked home from town, he’d burn off all the calories from lunch and then some. “A couple of miles isn’t much,” she said, and reached across the car to open the door. “Get in.”
“No, thanks.”
“Get in or I’ll tell Chief Ridgeway you’re hitchhiking. Which is illegal in South Dakota.” Or so she hoped.
“It’s not illegal.”
“Then it’s just stupid.”
His eyes narrowed and a dull heat a completely different shade from the healthy color of exercise in fresh air crept up his face. “I can take care of myself,” he sneered.
“I’m sure you can,” she lied. “But today I’m going to give you a ride home because I’m going that way anyway.”
“And you’ll rat me out to Ridgeway.”
“
Chief Ridgeway
, and yes I will.”
He jerked the door open and thudded into the passenger seat, muttering something under his breath Alana chose to ignore. She checked her mirror and merged back into traffic.
“Fasten your seat belt, please.”
After a moment’s hesitation he did, his expression sullen. Hands fisted in his coat pockets he stared out the window, keeping his face turned away from Alana. Content to ride in silence, Alana drove through the deepening twilight, bypassing the turnoff for Brookhaven on County Road 12 and continuing another mile east.
“You know where you’re going,” Cody said.
“I’ve driven the bookmobile when Mrs. Battle has a doctor’s appointment, so I learned some of the country roads,” she explained. Suddenly Mrs. Battle’s willingness to give up bookmobile duty made more sense.
He snorted, and turned to look at her. “You drive the bookmobile,” he said.
The bookmobile was in a renovated school bus. “I do,” she replied. Technically, she should have a commercial driver’s license to drive such a large vehicle, something she hoped would escape Cody’s attention, but if she didn’t make the weekly rounds to the four other tiny communities in the county, the residents went without books. Not to mention the hassle of extending loans due to expire. “As long as I don’t have to back up, I’m fine.”
A single light in the distance grew larger, then resolved into two windows in a double-wide trailer. Cody didn’t say a word as she turned into the rutted tracks forming the driveway. Weathered skirting sagged from rusted bolts, and the television blasted from the interior, loud enough for Alana to hear it through the screen door and inside the heavily soundproofed Audi. A plastic turtle sat off to one side, sand and a scratched plastic shovel spilling onto the grass.
Cody fumbled along the arm of the passenger door until he found the correct button to unlock the door. Three little kids piled out of the trailer’s door, tumbling down the rickety steps and swarming around her car. He shoved open the door and swung out those long legs, the light from the open door cutting his cheekbones into unnatural angles.
It was a long, long walk from this house to the library.
The five-day forecast flashed in her brain. She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I can come pick you up tomorrow morning,” she started. “The low tonight is—”
He shook her off and got out of the car. “Not necessary,” he said.
“Cody—”
“Just go.”
She expected the door to slam with enough force to rock the car on its axles. Instead, it closed gently, almost respectfully. He picked up two of the kids under one arm and hoisted the oldest into the other. Each of the kids got a kiss.
She shifted into reverse and backed down the ruts, the car jouncing as she did. Cody stood in the darkness beside the rectangular light cast on the dirt in front of the door, watching her go. Only when she was back on the road did he climb the steps and open the screen door.
She backtracked to Brookhaven. The house loomed black and angular against the twilight sky, a swath of stars spread over the prairie as she drove up the wide, arcing driveway to park in front of the grand double doors. She paused for a moment. This was the kind of house she was supposed to live in, grand enough to make a statement about the position she was supposed to have in the world, big enough for the role she was supposed to have as the highly educated, capable-in-her-own-right political hostess for David. It was beautiful and stately and perfect for a Wentworth, exactly the kind of house she’d go home to when she went back to Chicago. If she felt more at home in the tiny house she rented from Lucas than she did in Brookhaven, much less Chicago or the Hamptons or Nantucket, she could fix that. She could learn to make Chicago and the Wentworth Foundation her home. After all, no one would really trade the life of a Wentworth for the life of a small-town librarian.
Like Lucas’s grandmother’s roses, carefully tended and nurtured in harsh conditions, she would bloom where she was planted: in Chicago, in a hundred years of family service, not in Walkers Ford, South Dakota.
Brookhaven’s new owner, Chloe Nichols, had moved right in and opened the retreat center, where residents could come and stay for any length of time from overnight to several months. At the moment, only the upstairs bedrooms were available, but Chloe had plans to build small cabins in the meadow that sprawled from the backyard to the creek running through the property. She had slowly but surely made her mark on the big house. Carefully piled stones lined the driveway, and the sailing ship figurehead was gone from the third-story balcony, replaced with a string of Buddhist prayer flags. Wind chimes sounded above the entryway. Alana rang the doorbell, not sure who would answer. Chloe had three retreatants at the moment, but Chloe herself pulled open the door. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she wore yoga pants, thick socks, and a green fleece pullover zipped to her chin.
“Come in, come in,” she exclaimed, leaning in for the cheek kiss Alana automatically returned. “How are you? Would you like some tea?”
“I’d love some,” Alana said, and followed Chloe through the main room to the kitchen.
One of Brookhaven’s unique architectural features was Japanese-style sliding walls. Chloe had closed off the great room to form a meditation-and-yoga studio space lit by south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows. A scattering of zabutons and zafus ringed the simple bench where Chloe led guided-meditation sessions, and at the other end lay yoga mats, blocks, and bolsters for yoga classes. Alana got the sense that the house found these changes amusing, rather like a dowager duchess supremely confident in her status and therefore utterly unconcerned with changing fashion.
The kitchen, however, was a gorgeous homage to the house’s heritage. Marissa had included modern conveniences like granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, but she’d kept the cabinet doors and the original slate floors.
“Do you mind if I take a look in the servants’ quarters?”
“Not at all,” Chloe said as she ran water into an electric kettle.
Alana stepped through the connecting door into the empty space. Chloe was living in the master suite, but until she built her cabins on the meadow, was renting the servants’ quarters to a long-term residential student. Marissa had painted the kitchen cabinets a soft gray with pink undertones that reminded Alana of sunrise over London. She’d used brushed silver handles, but Alana thought Lucas’s kitchen would look prettier with gold. So much light streamed into the room. Hints of gold would pick up the sunlight and make the room feel bright, open, welcoming.
Back in the kitchen, Chloe was opening a cabinet. She removed a gleaming Japanese teapot and two ceramic cups. “So why the sudden interest in my kitchen?” she asked as she arranged everything on a mother-of-pearl-inlaid tray.
She’d claimed Brookhaven with ease, Alana noticed. My kitchen. “Lucas wants to redo the kitchen in the house I’m renting and asked me for input. This is the nicest kitchen in the county, so I thought I’d start here.”
“Some of the houses on the golf course have gorgeous kitchens,” Chloe pointed out as she offered Alana a wooden box containing a selection of loose-leaf tea pouches.
“I don’t have much time. Lucas wants to buy supplies tonight. Anyway, those houses have a cookie-cutter feel to them,” Alana said, looking around again. She chose a pouch of white orchard tea and handed the box back to Chloe. “Marissa had a gift. In Chicago she had owned her own design firm.”
“New York, too,” Chloe admitted. “Where is she now?”
“She left Hawaii a few weeks ago on her way to San Diego.” She focused on Chloe, pouring water over the tea leaves. “So. Tell me the latest.”
Single women who relocated to rural areas were a rare commodity, and one in high demand with farming or ranching bachelors. Chloe was slender, lithe, with big brown eyes and a wide-open smile, one on display as she set a cup in front of Alana. “The latest is Henry Marsden.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He ranches a few miles out of town. We’ve been out three times in the last two weeks.”
“And?”
Chloe’s brown eyes sparkled over her tea. “Not so fast. Your turn.”
Alana shrugged. “I had Lucas over for dinner.”
“And?”
“And . . .”
Both dark brown eyebrows lifted toward her hairline, a question Alana answered with a nod. “It’s about time.”
“It’s a mistake,” Alana said. “I’m going home in a few weeks.”
“So? Why does that make it a mistake?”
Because in Alana’s experience, the kind of shell Lucas carried around formed over an unshakable piece of grit in the soul. Even the wounded ones could still get hurt.
Mistaking her silence for confusion, Chloe went on. “He’s hot,” she said, using her right hand to tick off points. “He’s single,” she said, adding her index finger to her thumb. “He’s right next door. He’s a cop.”
Alana stopped her. “Don’t say it.”
“You’re a librarian.”
“We’re a cliché.”
“Nothing wrong with being a cliché.” She sipped her tea, then lifted her pinkie finger to complete the list of five reasons why Alana should make a mistake with Lucas. “And it’s not really a mistake if there’re no consequences. Which there aren’t, because you’re leaving in a few weeks.”
Somehow it didn’t seem that simple. “That’s all very true,” Alana said. “How’s business?”
Chloe pursed her lips. “Good. I’m talking to organizations in Brookings and Sioux Falls about using the house for company off-sites, and to churches and spiritual directors who need space to run weekend retreats. I can pay the mortgage coaching disillusioned corporate employees looking for somewhere to strategize about their next steps, and I’ve got regulars coming to yoga classes. That’s enough.”
Alana thought about her mother and stepfather’s definition of
enough
. Once Freddie married Toby, her mother’s expectations would turn to Alana in a way they never had before.
“Are you happy with how things are turning out?”
“I thought I wanted a big life. Money, power, prestige, influence. Turns out I’m happy with a very, very small life that’s saturated with meaning.” Chloe set her empty cup down. “Let’s take a look through the rest of the house. Every room is so unique, and you never know when an idea will strike your fancy.”
5
L
UCAS BROUGHT THE
Blazer to a halt in front of Tanya’s cabin. Her rusted-out Ford pickup sat at the end of the ruts serving as a driveway, but that didn’t mean she was home. Last he heard, the truck needed a new transmission. Smoke was rising from the chimney, so odds were better she was home. Or she might be out tramping along the creek winding through the prairie waves toward Brookhaven, deceptively small on the horizon, all straight lines and sharp angles against the spring blue sky. The moment Tanya stopped loving the outdoors was the moment Lucas checked her into a treatment center. Again. Because treatment didn’t work the first time, or the second time, or the other times she tried on her own and Lucas wasn’t supposed to know about.