The River House Page 7

  There’d been Gabe, and she’d landed on his doorstep with her weekender bag in hand, explaining she needed a couple of days to regroup. She’d rented a house with two other women, but they had a friend willing to take her room, since she could no longer afford it. Gabe hadn’t asked for details. He was successful and hard-driving and impatient, and he could read between the lines and didn’t need her to spell out how broke she was.

  She’d been making wrong choice after wrong choice. But it hadn’t seemed that way. It’d seemed—she’d truly believed—she just needed the right fit, the right job. She just had to tough it out. Persevere. She wasn’t a quitter, she’d told herself—and Gabe. But that had been part of the problem. She’d needed to quit. He’d pointed out he’d started businesses that failed. He’d made mistakes. “I learned from my failures. That’s the trick, Felicity. Acknowledging your failures and learning from them.”

  In all the years she’d known him, she’d never let Gabe see her cry. Even when he’d broken her heart that summer after high school, she hadn’t let him see her melt down. It wasn’t as if it had been unexpected. That’s what Gabe Flanagan did in high school. He broke girls’ hearts. Everyone knew.

  Still, they’d been there for each other through high school, college, their first jobs, various ups and downs. They’d go weeks without speaking, texting or emailing, and then she’d call him to tell him she’d just burned her mouth on a hot pepper or he’d send her a silly puppy video off the internet at 2:00 a.m.

  She’d known their friendship had needed to change. They were proper adults. Gabe needed to be free to get on with his life. He’d sell his place and move into something grander, more expensive. He’d meet other up-and-coming, hard-driving entrepreneurs. People who got him. People he got. He’d come to rely on her, the hometown girl, to be there when he didn’t have time or want to take time to socialize. She was easy, familiar and there.

  She’d needed to figure out her life, but she resisted confronting how she’d managed to find herself out of another job. She’d had a five-year plan, but she’d kept having to restart the thing.

  Back to Go, Gabe would tell her. You can do it.

  By that day in his apartment, even he had lost patience.

  And he’d lost faith in her.

  After her shower, she’d put on clean clothes, including socks and shoes, dried her hair—Gabe had actually owned a decent hair dryer—and hung up her towel on a peg next to his threadbare towel. He had pegs, not towel racks. She didn’t know why she’d noticed that or what it said about either of them. Probably nothing. When she’d emerged from the bathroom, she’d felt more in control of herself, but Gabe was gone.

  That was when she’d found his note on the counter where he kept his recycling schedule, take-out menus, pens, stamps, paper clips, notepad and phone charger. There was a clear block with a photograph of the covered bridge in their hometown, a mile up the river from where he’d grown up with his brother and their unreliable but otherwise wonderful parents. They’d had dogs, cats, gerbils, hamsters and at least one cow. And chickens. Felicity was positive she remembered chickens.

  After dashing off her response, she’d returned the Sharpie she’d borrowed to its mates. She wiped crumbs off the couch, folded the throws she’d used during her stay, fluffed the cushions, ran the vacuum and took her dirty dishes and various leftovers into the kitchen. She’d loaded the dishwasher, run the garbage disposal and taken out the trash, including her pizza boxes. She’d packed up her meager belongings, folded her blankets, put her sheets and towels in the wash—of course he had an in-unit washer and dryer—and gathered up her garbage. Twenty minutes later, she was on her way in the February cold.

  By the end of the week, she had a job with a successful event planner in Boston. She’d meant it to be a temporary job—an ultra-temporary job, for that matter—to make ends meet and get herself on firmer financial footing. She wasn’t going back to Gabe’s couch, or moving in with her parents. But a few weeks turned into a few months, and then it was summer...and fall...and finally she’d realized she’d found a career she truly enjoyed and was good at. Serendipity, desperation, strategic thinking, accident—whatever it had been, she’d never looked back to emerging markets, municipal bonds and any of the rest of it.

  She scraped the brownie batter into a pan and placed it into the oven to bake. A peace offering, maybe. An acknowledgment that their fight three years ago was in the past and their drift apart had started before she’d stalked out of his apartment. For better or worse, they’d both changed since then, and there was no putting the Humpty Dumpty of their broken friendship back together again.

  Gabe didn’t return from his walk before she got the brownies out of the oven. She set them to cool on the counter and disappeared into her bedroom. She shut the door, something she seldom did when she was home alone. She checked her messages, tossed her phone onto her nightstand and grabbed a book she’d started the other night, reading to the faint, tempting smell of brownies.

  * * *

  Gabe figured he deserved every backhanded, aggrieved and otherwise vengeful comment and act on Felicity’s part. He’d hurt her three years ago. He saw that now. He hadn’t just pissed her off. They’d been friends—the best of friends—and he’d thrown a bucket of ice water on that friendship. So had she, but she wasn’t looking at her role in their estrangement at the moment and might never get there. She was the injured party. That was how she saw it.

  He hadn’t been dishonest. Just the opposite. He’d been honest, maybe brutally so from her point of view. He hadn’t taken into consideration her ego, her emotions, her hopes and her dreams. He’d flat-out let her have it without regard to anything except knowing he was right.

  He had been right, too.

  What did he want now?

  He had no idea. Part of him wanted to pick up the pieces of their friendship—to get her back, counseling him, seeing through him, speaking her mind without any of the filters he so often encountered in other people. Hearing what was on her mind. Seeing through her, telling her what he thought. He’d never had that kind of open give-and-take with anyone else. For him, it defined a real friendship, and he missed it.

  That didn’t mean he could get it back, or that it was wise to try. Resurrecting their dead friendship, even if possible, wasn’t necessarily good for either of them. The best he could do was to repair any damage caused by the way they’d ended things.

  It would be easier if he hadn’t noticed her curves and smile and the spark in her eyes.

  And being here, he thought, taking in the familiar surroundings. It was night now, warm and quiet on the winding country road. He heard an owl hooting through the trees, somewhere down by the river. He wanted to stay in the moment, be here, now. He didn’t want to hurl himself into the past, and yet he could feel memories tugging at him. Sneaking down to the river with Mark as young boys to throw rocks in the water. Riding his bike out here. Sitting by the fire with his grandfather. Fishing, camping, playing hide-and-seek.

  The river—this land—had been the best part of his childhood. The smells, the trees, the river, the night sky were all unchanged. Felicity hadn’t known he’d built the house with his brother. Would she have bought it if she’d known?

  That was the least of his worries.

  He turned around and walked back to the house, in no rush. He flicked away a few mosquitoes, but none landed. He remembered the night he’d made love to her, realized it was her first time. Damn, they’d been so young. Afterward she’d stood next to him in the dark. “If I ever build a house in Knights Bridge, I’d build it here. What about you, Gabe?”

  “I’m never coming back here.”

  He’d meant it, too. He remembered her expression—a mix of understanding, acceptance and the slightest hint of disappointment, as if she hoped he might leave himself some wiggle room. But he hadn’t. His future wasn’t in Knights Bridge. He’
d been sure of it.

  He pulled himself out of his thoughts before he could examine them too deeply.

  As he approached the house, he noticed the smell of brownies.

  His imagination? A trick of his mind because he was lost in the past?

  He shook his head, breathing deeply. No, it was brownies he smelled.

  He went inside through the kitchen—Felicity had left the door unlocked—and found a pan of fresh brownies cooling on a rack on the counter.

  He grinned. “About time, Felicity.”

  Three years ago, he’d read the note she’d left on his kitchen counter and had realized she was angry with him, but he’d figured she’d get over it—because they were friends and he was right. But when he’d opened his freezer and didn’t find brownies, he’d known she wouldn’t be back. Everything had changed. He’d known this because he knew Felicity.

  Had she made brownies as a way of apologizing for overreacting that day?

  No.

  She was establishing control. She was in charge. This was her house, her town, her event on Saturday, and he could damn well toe the line.

  She’d left him a note on the counter by the brownie pan.

  Help yourself. Sleep well. I’m an early riser but I’ll be quiet.

  Felicity

  Gabe got a knife out of a drawer and cut a two-inch square, getting warm brownie on the blade. He wiped it with his finger and licked it. Felicity still made a hell of a brownie. He could pull together a decent stir-fry—or he used to. These days he seldom cooked.

  He lifted out the brownie and ate it in two bites. It was one of the best he’d ever had, just the right balance between chewy and gooey. Perfect.

  He smiled, feeling better, and took his duffel bag to the guest room. He set it on the floor and decided not to unpack. Keep his options open.

  Sleeping well would be a trick with Felicity in the next room.

  Gabe exhaled, hearing an owl somewhere in the woods. Tomorrow he’d see Mark and Jessica. There were other people he wanted to see while he was in town, and some he needed to see—but he didn’t want to think about that.

  He returned to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator. No beer, but he noticed an unopened bottle of a decent New Zealand sauvignon blanc. He decided not to open the wine and poured himself a glass of milk, helped himself to another brownie and headed out to the deck.

  A citronella candle burned with a low flame in the center of the table. He set his milk on the deck rail and ate the brownie while he listened to the river down the steep bank. On another night, perhaps, or for anyone else, the sounds of the water would have been soothing, restorative after a long trip. For him, they were unsettling, stirring up past longings and insecurities, reminding him of the boy he’d been, managing an unstable if loving home. He’d always admired the MacGregors. They were solid, smart, stable, predictable. He wasn’t the only one who’d expected Felicity to be the same. She’d expected it of herself. If she had been, would they have become friends? Would he have slept with her?

  Not worth thinking about now.

  He finished his brownie, drank his milk and got back inside before the mosquitoes found him.

  He heard the owl again.

  He took The Badgers of Middle Branch, the first book in the popular series, to the guest room with him. Well, what the hell, right? He was in Knights Bridge. Might as well read about badgers.

  Six

  Felicity awakened groggy and out of sorts and wandered into the kitchen in underpants and a T-shirt, saw the brownie pan and remembered Gabe was sleeping down the hall. It hadn’t been a bad dream. She managed not to groan out loud as she about-faced and tiptoed back to her room. Her blanket and top sheet were in a tangle. Well, no wonder, with Gabe under the same roof.

  She stood in the threshold and peered across the hall at the closed door to the guest room.

  She’d done it, hadn’t she? She’d let Gabe Flanagan stay.

  Fully awake now, she took a quick shower, got dressed, pulled her hair back and put on a bit of makeup and sandals before returning to the kitchen. She put on a pot of coffee, toasted an English muffin, scrambled an egg and ate at the table. It was a warm, sunny morning, perfect for breakfast on the deck, but she didn’t want to rattle around too much and wake up her houseguest. He hadn’t been a late riser when she’d known him, but hadn’t she heard he’d been in California? Had he mentioned it, or had Mark or even Kylie?

  It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to dig into the details of Gabe’s life.

  It was another hour before he surfaced. She’d cleaned up her dishes and cut the brownies and wrapped them in foil and was running water into the empty pan when he padded barefoot into the kitchen. He had on jeans and a San Diego Padres T-shirt. “Morning,” he said lazily.

  Felicity shut off the water. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

  “I dreamed about badgers.”

  “It happens.” She pointed at his T-shirt. “I thought you were a die-hard Red Sox fan.”

  “I am. This was a gift from a Padres fan.”

  “I see. Provocative if you plan to wear it in Knights Bridge.”

  He grinned at her, and she went about putting on another pot of coffee. He offered to help, but she shook her head. She didn’t need him buzzing around her. He was distracting enough as he pulled out a chair and sat at the table. The muscles in his arms, the fall of his shirt over his flat abdomen, the hug of his jeans on his thighs. Yeah, distracting enough.

  “Who’s the Padres fan?” she asked casually, trying to redirect her thoughts.

  “Guy who bought my company. He’s from San Diego, but he lives in LA now. I didn’t dare put it on yesterday. I’m having work done on my condo. The painters probably would have let me live, but I don’t know about Shannon. You remember her? Shannon Rivera. She’s my assistant.”

  “I do remember her. She’s stood with you through thick and thin.”

  “That kind of loyalty is a good quality,” he said.

  Felicity didn’t detect any sarcasm or bitterness in his voice but still felt a pang at his words. At the time, he’d been starting a company—the one he’d just sold—and she’d intruded on his intense night-and-day schedule with her own problems. She’d met Shannon Rivera once, briefly—a super-organized, professional, personable and hard-working force behind Gabe and his high energy, multiplicity of ideas and impatience.

  “Shannon didn’t stay with the company after you sold it?” Felicity asked, flipping the switch to start the coffeemaker.

  “She didn’t want to. She’d have gotten a different job, but I still need an assistant while I figure out what’s next.”

  “So the boot camp came up while you’re at a loose end.”

  “You could say that.”

  Felicity leaned back against the counter by the sink. Sunlight streamed through the windows. “What would you like for breakfast?”

  “You don’t have to wait on me, Felicity.”

  “You’re my guest.”

  “Your uninvited guest.”

  “Once I agreed to put you up in my guest room, you became invited.” She thought that sounded diplomatic and pointed to the refrigerator. “I’ve got yogurt, eggs, cereal, English muffins, sunflower butter—”

  “Sunflower butter?”

  “My nephew’s allergic to peanuts. He doesn’t eat tree nuts, either, so it’s safer for me to have sunflower butter. I keep anything with nuts segregated.”

  Gabe put his feet up on another chair and sat back, making himself at home. “Little Max, right? Sorry to hear that. He’s what—four or five now?”

  “Five. He starts kindergarten this fall. He has a baby sister now. She just turned two.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Elizabeth.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Why so curt?”
>
  “I’m not being curt.”

  At least, she hadn’t realized she’d been curt. He’d shared her excitement when Max had been born. He’d missed Elizabeth’s birth entirely. He hadn’t been around when Max’s allergy to peanuts had developed. Her choice, his choice. Nothing to do about it now. There was no unwinding the clock even if they’d wanted to.

  “You haven’t told me what you want for breakfast,” she said.

  “An English muffin and scrambled eggs, which I can make.” He paused, eyeing her. “Max was a cute little guy. I imagine your niece is, too. Do they call her Elizabeth?”

  “Lizzie.”

  “Must be nice being closer to them now that you live in Knights Bridge.”

  “It is.” She sighed, dropping her hands to her sides. “Sorry. I appreciate your interest in my family. I’ll make your breakfast. I don’t mind. I know where things are, and you’re my guest.” She motioned toward the stove. “I’ll get started.”

  “Thank you.” He yawned again. “I’ll set the table.”

  She got a frying pan out from a lower cupboard and set it on the stove. In a moment, she had butter melting, eggs cracked in bowl, a touch of water added, fresh chives snipped from the pot in the window—all under Gabe’s watchful gaze as he got dishes from a cupboard.

  “What are your plans for today?” she asked as she grabbed a whisk from a pottery container by the stove.

  “I’m meeting Mark and Jess at the mill. What about you?”

  “I’m working. I’ll drive out to Carriage Hill at some point to take a closer look at Olivia’s inn, but I don’t foresee any problems. She and Dylan have so many irons in the fire—they seem to be having a great time. Olivia and Dylan are figuring out the details of the boot camp, adventure travel and the inn as they go along. They’re not waiting for everything to be perfect.”