Rachel Lee (5 page)

Eight days. If Hardy was to have any chance of responding to this, she had to get the papers to him right away.

But even as she jumped up from the bed, ready to dash out into the blizzard once more, a thought yanked her back. If she did this, Witt might never forgive her.

Her pulse racing, she flopped onto the bed and stared at the cracked ceiling, thinking about that. It was all well and good to believe that Witt ought to forgive Hardy. The police had blamed the drunk driver for the accident, and Joni couldn't understand why Witt persisted in believing Hardy was responsible-except that Hardy wasn't supposed to be seeing Karen, and if Karen hadn't climbed out the window that July night, she would probably still be alive.

But Karen was dead, and Witt honestly believed that Hardy was responsible. There was, she supposed, a possibility that Witt was right. Maybe he knew something about what had happened that she didn't. But it was more likely, she believed, that he simply needed a scapegoat, and since the drunk driver hadn't survived the accident, Hardy was the only person left to blame.

Taking this proposal over to Hardy would be seen as a betrayal. Witt might never forgive her. But then she decided that was ridiculous.

Witt always forgave her. He would be mad, sure, but he would forgive her once she explained.

Explained. It occurred to her that maybe she'd better be able to explain this to herself before she tried to explain it to Witt. Common sense dictated that she just stay out of this. It wasn't her problem, nor was it her feud--as Hardy had made patently clear since their talk that night at the hospital. He was still avoiding her like the plague.

But it was her problem, she decided. She loved Witt, and she liked Hardy. It pained her that Witt had carried such anger all this time.

It meant that he wasn't healing.

Karen would want her to do this. She believed that in her soul.

They'd been like sisters, especially after Joni moved to town, sharing everything--their hopes, dreams and feelings. Sharing Witt as a father, and Hannah as a mother. Sharing Hardy's friendship, although only Karen had dated him.

Karen wouldn't like to see her father so bitter and angry, and she wouldn't like Hardy to miss this opportunity. There was not a doubt of that in Joni's mind. Karen, had she been here, never would have allowed this state of affairs to continue for so long.

But Karen wasn't here, and Witt was. She hated to have Witt angry with her and always had. She loved him so much that she wanted to be perfect for him, although it was an impossible goal.

And sometimes, dimly, she realized that she'd spent the last twelve years trying to replace his daughter for him. Maybe it was time to grow up and accept that she couldn't replace Karen, and that she had to live her own life as she saw fit.

Sitting up, she went to the closet and pulled out a small photo album she kept on a shelf beneath a stack of sweatshirts. Almost all the pages were empty, but that was because she only had a half-dozen photos of Karen.

Oh, Witt had shoe boxes full of pictures of his daughter, but these photos were special. These photos had been hers and hers alone, taken with a cheap camera that hadn't lasted beyond a couple rolls of film.

In retrospect, she wished she'd photographed Karen more often, instead of wasting film on scenery. But she hadn't guessed what was going to happen.

So here they were, her six private memories of Karen. The first snapshot, her favorite, showed her and Karen sitting on the bleachers at the high school football field. They had both laughed and acted silly that afternoon at football practice, full of the high spirits and joy of youth! " Hardy had snapped that photo of them just before practice had started. She could still remember how he had looked all suited up for the game, holding her silly little camera in his big hands.

The next photo, one she would never, ever let Witt see, was of Hardy and Karen. Snow was falling, and the flash had bounced off it, giving the couple in the photo a dim, background look. But they were holding each other, hugging, their faces pressed close as they grinned into the camera.

Where the first picture always made her smile in memory, this one always made her ache.

They had been so young. So sure that the world was their oyster. All of them. And maybe it had been, only instead of finding pearls they'd all found lumps of coal.

Her throat suddenly tight, Joni closed the album without looking any farther. She knew the photos by heart, anyway. She'd wept over them on enough cold, dark nights, lying up here, unable to believe that Karen was truly gone.

There was such a feeling of unfinished business, but not just for Karen, who had died. Lately she had been thinking that they'd all somehow gone into stasis since Karen's death. As if they were in some kind of emotional suspended animation. All of them: Witt, who had never recovered from his grief; Hannah, who . who just seemed to be getting through the days. Herself, who always felt as if she was just marking time. And Hardy, who, as far as she could tell, hadn't even dated.

They were all unfinished lives, and for so long none of them seemed to have taken any real steps to move forward emotionally.

Karen wouldn't have liked that. And it was time, Joni decided with a stiffening of her shoulders, that someone pushed them past their frozen emotional states.

Scooping up the request for bids, she tucked it under her baggy green Shaker sweater and set out on her personal mission to thaw the glacier that had swallowed them all.

"Where are you going?" Hannah asked as Joni passed her in the living room. "Supper's almost ready."

"I won't be long," Joni replied, not even breaking step. "I just need to run over to ... Sally's. Back in a sec."

"Be careful out there. It's getting really bad."

No kidding, Joni thought after she'd tugged on her parka, hat, mittens and boots, and stepped outside. It had been bad enough when she'd come home from work, but now the wind was blowing so hard that ice crystals stung her face, and the street lamp two houses down was nothing but a glow in the snow hidden night.

If she'd had to go either up- or downhill to get to HardyX house, she would have stopped right there. But he lived three blocks over on a cross street, a level run. She could make it.

The night was mysterious and threatening, the whipping snow hiding the landmarks, making the world look unfamiliar. Leaning into the wind, squinting against the stinging snow, she slipped and slid down the drifting street. The sidewalks, caught as they were between two deep snowbanks, were already filled with the snow they caught, and the going was easier on the street. There was no traffic at all to give her any problems.

It was so lonely out here. There was something about being out in the middle of a snowstorm alone that left her feeling cut off and solitary to her very soul. The little bits of warm light that reached her from the street lamps and the glow from nearby windows only made her feel lonelier somehow.

She'd always felt this way on cold wintry nights, walking down darkened streets with no other soul in evidence, but tonight was even worse than usual, as if all the empty places in her heart were filled with a cold, whistling wind she couldn't ignore. Nor could she shrug off the feeling.

Hardy's house was just another one of the small Victorians lining the streets in this part of town, but unlike the rest, his was a showplace renovated through his own hard work and skill.

Even back in high school, Hardy had loved to work with his hands and with wood. He'd replaced the gingerbread on the house during those years, spending painstaking hours in the school shop, because he didn't have the tools at home, whenever he didn't have to work. Karen had spent a lot of those hours with him, watching him, admiring his growing skill. Occasionally Joni had joined them.

But since Hardy had come back from college, he'd transformed the exterior, getting rid of the ugly aluminum siding and replacing it with wood, hanging new shutters, rebuilding the huge porch. She imagined he'd done a lot of work on the inside, too, but she didn't know, because she'd never been invited in, not since Karen's death.

At the foot of the porch steps, she hesitated, forgetting the snow that sliced at her cheeks. This was nuts, and she didn't delude herself about it. Hardy might tell her she was crazy, to get lost. Sometimes she wondered if he agreed with Witt's opinion of him.

Then there was Witt. He would forgive her. Maybe. He certainly hadn't been able to forgive Hardy all these years. But she was different, she told herself. She was his niece. His brother's daughter. He couldn't possibly treat her the same way he had treated Hardy.

That was what she told herself, anyway. She was well aware that she didn't believe it one hundred percent as she climbed the steps and finally rang Hardy's bell.

A minute passed before the door opened. Hardy stood there in stocking feet, looking rumpled in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up.

"Joni?" he said as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?"

It wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but Joni hadn't expected one, not the way things were. But she wasn't doing this for herself, or even for Hardy, really. She was doing it for Karen.

Before she could formulate a response, the wind ripped around the corner of his house, splattering her face with ice needles.

"Damn," he said under his breath and reached out, taking her arm and pulling her inside. He closed the door behind her, shutting out the bitter night.

"Thanks," she murmured, her thoughts scattering as she got a look at the inside of Hardy Wingate's house.

Polished wood greeted her everywhere, from the original plank floors to the polished stair railing rising to the second floor. Colorful old rugs were scattered around the foyer, and the walls were painted a creamy white. Through the door to the right she could see a living room filled with beautiful period pieces, and to the left was the dining room, with a long Queen Anne table and chairs.

"I didn't know you liked antiques," she blurted.

"These aren't antiques," he said almost impatiently. "I made them myself."

She looked up at him. "When do you have time?"

He shrugged. "I've been doing this for years. Keeps me busy in the evenings. What do you want?"

He wasn't even going to ask her to take her coat off, she realized.

Not even a civilized, neighborly offer of something hot to drink before she left. She was, however, stubborn enough not to allow him to rush her. What she was about to do deserved at least that much consideration.

"How's your mother?"

"Getting better. Still exhausted. She sleeps a lot. She's sleeping right now. Did you want to see her?"

She could tell he doubted it, and she couldn't blame him; she certainly hadn't tried to come see Barbara in the last two months. "No," she said slowly. "I came to see you."

"Big mistake. Witt'll have your hide."

"Witt's not entitled to my hide. I'm a grown woman." She smothered her exasperation. "And it's all irrelevant, anyway." Shoving her hand up under her jacket, she tugged the envelope out from under her sweater and offered it to him. It was warm from her body. "Here. The request for bids on Witt's lodge."

Hardy hesitated, looking at the envelope as she held it out to him.

"Joni..." He trailed off as if he didn't know what to say.

"You've only got until the tenth to submit," she said, thrusting it toward him. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you more time, but I just got this today. You'll have to hurry."

He still didn't take the envelope. He stared at it as if it might explode Si any moment. Then, slowly, he dragged his gaze from it and looked straight at her. "Witt is going to kill one of us if I take that."

She shrugged, all too aware that he was right. "I can handle it."

"Joni, why are you doing this? Why?"

She looked down, studying the braid rug beneath her feet, watching the melting snow drip from her boot and disappear into the rug. "Karen would want me to."

For the longest time Hardy didn't say anything. He didn't even move or seem to draw a breath. Just as she was about to look up at him, to make sure she hadn't shocked him into a stroke or something, he spoke.

"Take your jacket and boots off," he said roughly. "You need something hot to drink, and I'm boiling water for tea."

"I need to get right home," she said, mindful that Hannah would ask questions if she was gone too long. She wasn't comfortable with the lie she had already told, and she didn't want to have to tell too many more of them.

"You've got time enough for some tea. If you're worried about your mother, call her."

Hannah wasn't the biggest part of her problem, Joni thought gloomily as she tugged off her boots and hung her jacket on the coat tree. Not by a long shot.

She followed Hardy into the kitchen, which was behind the dining room toward the back of the house. Here, too, loving care was displayed in a brick floor and gleaming modern appliances complemented by beautiful oak cabinets and tiled countertops. Hardy waved her to a round oak table.

"Earl Grey okay?" he asked.

"Great." She wasn't much of a tea connoisseur, and she would have been content with ordinary old orange and black pekoe.

Hardy brought two steaming mugs to the table, both dangling tags over the side. "Sugar? Cream? Lemon?"

"Black's fine."

Apparently he felt the same, because he sat across from her, dipping his tea bag absently while he studied her. "Karen's been gone a long time," he remarked. "I doubt any of us could know what she'd want."

"She'd want for her dad not to be so angry and bitter," Joni said firmly.

"And me submitting a bid is going to change his mind?" The question was full of disbelief.

"If you submit a good one, it might force him to face how unfair he's been to you."

"Are you so sure that he's been unfair?"

The question jolted Joni. What was he talking about? The cops had said the accident wasn't his fault. The other driver had steered right into them and Hardy hadn't been able to evade him. "It wasn't your fault," she said urgently.