Riding the Thunder (23 page)

Behind her, she heard Jago calling, but his words were carried away on the waves of memories fighting to surface within her. As she circled around the side, she heard a flapping noise. Her steps slowed as she neared.

The sound came from an odd addition to the building. Originally, she'd judged, the structure was a simple L-shaped house. Possibly someone had lived here once. At some later date, the extension—what looked like a small pavilion—had been grafted onto the back. There were no walls to this part of the structure, just sheets of unpainted plywood covering the two open sides. One wooden panel had been pulled half down, hanging diagonally by a single nail. Behind the boards was a heavy circus tent-quality canvas, gray from age and ripped in a couple places. The wind caused the end to flutter, the metal grommets of the rings knocking against the wooden post.

Asha hesitated for a moment, uncertain if she wanted to pull back the sailcloth and see what lay beyond. Just as she worked up enough nerve, Jago touched her arm. Her mind snapped back.

“Asha, are you all right?” He reached out and brushed the back of his hand to her cheek. She offered Jago a fleeting smile, trying to reassure him, only her attention remained divided. The clanking of the metal grommets against the poplar wood post was a siren's song, calling her.

In a sad voice, she told him, “It seems so small now.”

“What's small?”

She heard his words—ignored them. Moving forward, she grasped the canvas and lifted it back. In a flash, everything about her surroundings shifted, changed—as they had by the pool. Instead of the dingy, forlorn pavilion, the
white canvases were rolled up to the roof and tied back, leaving everything open to the night air. Colored Christmas lights were tacked along the poplar wood rail that ran along the outer edge of the small skating rink. Eydie Gorme's “Blame It On The Bossa Nova” played over the speakers hung on the walls. The skaters could rock to the music while going around and around. Laura loved the dizzying sensation, loved the spinning colorful lights, similar to the feeling of being on a merry-go-round.

No, no, the bossa nova
.

Then she saw him, standing by the post, watching her.
Tommy
. So handsome. And she loved him more than she loved life.

“Asha, damn it.” Jago jerked her around by the arm to face him. “What the hell is wrong with you? And don't bother telling me you need a Pepsi.”

With a faint shudder, Asha's mind returned to the present. She glanced about the dingy building. No Christmas lights. The hardwood floor was ruined by the decades of the lack of care and intruding rain. No music. No skaters. No Tommy and Laura. However, Tommy Grant and Laura Valmont had once stood here on a hot summer night over four decades ago. For some strange reason she was being shown their young lives, their special passionate love.

Though all about her was now back to normal, an oppressive air of sorrow lingered; it pushed against her mind to where a tear came to her eye. She wasn't sure why seeing a beautiful memory like the one she had just experienced should leave her so profoundly shaken. The couple's love was so clear, so beautiful. Laura and Tommy were extraordinary people. Though these flashbacks left her rattled, she felt Laura was giving her a gift. That gift should bring joy, happiness. Instead, she was overcome with a poignant, heartbreaking sadness.

Silent tears streaming down her face, she smiled at Jago, trying desperately to hang on. Just hang on. “I wish I had known them.”

Poor man, he stared at her, totally confused, fearful. “Who?”

“You're now sorry you went to bed with me, eh, Jago? You're scared I'm crazy as a loon.” She reached up and touched his beautiful face, cupped his cheek. “I'm not sure I can explain, since I don't really understand myself.” Dropping her hand, she walked in a small circle. “This used to be a skate rink. They came here on summer nights. Played music. Mostly the girls skated. The guys just watched them in their tight pedal pushers. They decorated with strands of Christmas lights, made it festive. Others would park their cars out here, and would sit on the hoods observing, too. The nights would flicker, alive with lightning bugs, turning everything magical. It was a gentle time. A happy time.”

As she talked the images grew so strong, the music filtered around her. “‘I wonder what went wrong, with our love, a love that was so strong,'”—she sang the lyrics to the tune she could hear.

“Del Shannon's ‘Runaway,'” Jago identified.

Asha's head whipped back to him, almost hopeful. “You hear it?”

If he could hear it, too, maybe she wasn't going insane. She gave him credit. He listened for a minute, but then shook his head no.

“You're hearing Del Shannon?” he asked solemnly.

She chuckled, trying to make light of the bizarre situation. “Actually, no. You'll think I'm totally nuts. I'm now hearing ‘Alley Oop.'”

“‘Alley Oop'?” Jago huffed a small laugh, but concern filled his dark green eyes. “Sorry, I missed that one.”

“I'm sure it's on the jukebox at The Windmill. I'll play it for you when we get back.” She smiled, fighting the tears. Her tone sobered. “I'm not crazy, Jago.”

“You just go around hearing ‘Alley Oop'?” He shoved his hands in his back pockets and looked at her, guarded. “I read once about a guy, his tooth was turning his mouth
into a radio. Somehow, he was receiving music through his filling. Maybe you need to have your fillings checked.”

She shrugged. Walking to the rail, she put her hands on it and gazed out at the abandoned property. “It might account for the music. Only it doesn't cover Tommy and Laura.”

“Tommy and Laura?” he echoed, his disbelief rising. “The lovers from that song on the demented Wurlitzer?”

“Yeah, ‘Tell Laura I Love Her' by Ray Peterson. It was very popular in the early '60s.”

“Maybe you're fixing on that song—for some reason?”

“Tommy Grant and Laura Valmont. They used to come here. They were very much in love.”

“Used to? Were?” he challenged.

A flock of birds were suddenly flushed from the stand of trees, the crows' caws filling the late afternoon sky. Jago took her elbow. “Come on, we can figure out Tommy and Laura later. We need to get out of here. Now. The sun is already starting to go down and I don't want to be out on the bike after dark. Do you know anyone with a black pickup truck? A Ford. Not a new one.”

“Around here? Half the farmers, most likely. There are some trucks that are from 1940s still in use.”

“I think we were being followed.”

“That nut in the truck?”

“Yeah. This morning I noticed a black truck in the drive-in, parked in that corner where it could look down on the bungalows.” Jago encouraged Asha to sit in front of him this time, clearly not trusting her to safely hang on behind him.

“I wouldn't worry about that. Colin drives an old Ford truck. It's black. That was likely him cleaning up the trash left from the night before.”

“Any reason to think Colin might mean you harm?” he asked as he handed her the helmet.

She shook her head. “Sorry, you're barking up the wrong
tree there, Jago. Colin would never hurt me. There isn't anything he wouldn't do for me.”

He shrugged, unwilling to let go of his doubts. “Colin is in love with you. Maybe he resents you letting me into your life.”

He gunned the engine and set the Harley wheeling down the road.

“I'd say I want to buy this house, but I think you might hit me,” Jago teased, as he poured The Macallan Scotch into two old-fashioned glasses and then added a dash of water and a couple cubes of ice.

Asha merely smiled as she diced carrots, a cucumber and fresh mushrooms for the salad. Her eyes filled with pride as they followed him around the living room. He couldn't contain his covetous gaze; he savored the rugged beauty of the honeyed oak and red cedar plank-covered floors, ceilings and walls, the high, exposed beams overhead. The whole front of the three-story, A-frame was mostly glass, with no curtains to obscure the breathtaking view from the lodge at the top of the hill. It opened onto a huge deck, which jutted out slightly over the hillside.

What's His Name zoomed about the house, his tail vibrating like Jeep in the old Popeye cartoons. Upon arrival, he'd first rushed to the kitchen—as though making sure the house came with the necessities—then he'd dashed here and there, checking everything. Poor thing nearly wore out his fat self.

Once his inspection was complete, he started to spray the fireplace to mark it as his. Asha had tossed a throw pillow at him, screaming, “Don't you dare!” and warned him they had made an appointment at the vet's on Friday. She grumbled something about turning him into a eunuch if he sprayed the first thing in the house. He must've believed her for he behaved after that. He quickly established his favorite spot on a window seat near the river stone fireplace. Just a minute ago, he'd run over, hopped up on the recessed window and focused on a squirrel, sitting and chattering on the deck rail in the twilight. The cat turned his head and gave Jago one of his funny smiles, the orange eyes clearly saying,
Yeah, this will do
.

Jago scratched the kitty's broad head. “Yeah, this will do nicely, Puss,” he murmured lowly.

“Stop whispering to that mangy cat,” Asha teased.

The cat whipped his head around and glared at Asha, clearly saying,
Who's mangy
?

“You two can conspire all you want—I'm
not
selling this house. My house. Mac left it sitting, neglected for years. I've spent a lot of time getting it into this shape.” She shrugged. “I guess it has memories for him—about my mum—ones that he'd rather dismiss. Only, I find peace here. When I cut the deal to trade him my shares in the farm for his part of The Windmill, I made him toss in the house to balance the exchange.”

“Why do you stay at The Windmill motel when you have this absolutely marvelous castle atop the hill to live in?” This was biting at Jago, had been from the start, how the Montgomerie sisters were often at odds with their upbringings, seeking quiet, less flamboyant lifestyles than that of the ancient English manor, Colford Hall.

Asha shrugged, going to the refrigerator and removing cheese. “This is a
home
. I love coming here, working on it, bringing it back to life. Only, it needs more than just me.” She concentrated on running the block of aged cheddar
back and forth across the hand grater, clearly avoiding his stare. He could see she didn't want to say,
It needs a family
.

“I love this house, lass. I can't imagine one more perfectly designed. It's elegance and style, and yet comfortable, welcoming—you feel like you could put your feet up on the coffee table without breaking some unwritten law. It conjures images of hot summer nights grilling outside, fireflies flickering in the woods, or spending a Sunday curled up by the fireplace with a good book as snowflakes fly by the window. Here the world seems so far away, like we're the only ones for miles around.” The sound of a car in the drive broke Jago's fantasy. He leaned to see out the back door. “Well, almost. Your brother's Viper.”

“Liam—the worm.” Asha wiped her hands on the apron about her waist, then untied it.

“And Netta,” he added.

“Maybe they came for supper,” she said hopefully.

“With suitcases? Yeah, right.” Jago arched his eyebrow and then lifted his glass in salute. “Fe fi fo fudder . . . I smell the blood of a nosy big brother.”

Tossing the apron on the island counter, Asha flipped on the porch light for them. “I'm not sure fudder and brother really rhyme. This is
my
home. While he's welcome for supper, I didn't invite him for a co-ed slumber party.”

Liam opened the door of the screened in porch for Netta. Juggling a sack and his leather duffle, he permitted her to come on through to the kitchen. Asha pulled open the inside door and gave them a grin. Netta rolled her eyes and lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug, letting Asha know this wasn't her idea.

“For you.” Netta chuckled and handed her a bouquet of cut mums.

“Thanks . . . I think.” Asha gave Liam a big fake smile, her eyes flashing daggers. “What a surprise. It's been so long since we've seen you, Brother Dearest. What—an hour and a half at least?”

“I missed the scintillating conversation and delightful company,” Liam said, nonplused. He dropped his duffle and held up a sack with his other hand. “We brought steaks and a strawberry pie.”

“Which you stole from
my
diner.” Asha crossed her arms and glared at him.

Undeterred by her cool welcome, Liam leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I knew you wouldn't mind. Hey, I cooked and fed you brunch. Payback time.”

“I'd be delighted. Go fire up the grill; we can get the steaks going. I wouldn't want you out past your bedtime.” She took a vase from under the sink, ran it half-full of water and then plopped the flowers in, not bothering to arrange them.

Liam turned and accepted the Scotch Jago handed him. “Dream on. I'm not driving back on that narrow cliff road in the dark.” Raising the glass, he offered a big grin. “Especially when I have been drinking. Fancy meeting
you
here, Fitzgerald.”

“Jago, don't abet his fibs by feeding him The Macallan. He doesn't deserve it.” Asha growled. As the cat waddled over and sniffed Liam's leg, she smirked. “Sic him, Putty Tat. Him you can spray all you want.”

“Haven't you named that animal yet?” her brother inquired.

“Liam, why are you here?” Asha asked, picking up the chopping knife.

Liam ignored the question. “You will learn, Jago, the men in my family strictly abide by three rules concerning my sisters. A matter of sheer survival, actually. First rule—never let any of them behind the wheel of a car when they're pissed. Second—keep them away from sharp objects.” He took Asha's hand and removed the knife from her grip. “And third and foremost—protect your
breall
. Of course, being males perhaps we should've made that rule number one.”