Rogue's Revenge - By Gail MacMillan Page 0,36
his hips against the railing and took a sip of coffee.
“Look, I know how Gramps felt about this place, how you feel about it, but I’m not about to commit myself to a life in the backwoods. I have a job…”
“Yeah, yeah, CFO of some big company, right?” He straightened up, set his coffee on the railing, and knelt to return to his work. “Making money like it was going out of style.”
“So what if I am?” she snapped. “You don’t know anything about me, about my plans and goals.”
“I know they don’t include a commitment to Jack’s hopes and dreams.” He drove a nail into a plank with a mighty blow. “I know you don’t give a damn if National Realty buys it for their client and he proceeds to pave these entire grounds with asphalt and puts flashing neon lights over the Lodge.”
“That’s not true! I do care! But I’m not going to spend the rest of my life trying to prevent it.”
“Okay, okay. Just don’t expect me to hand over my part of this place without one hell of a fight.” He picked up another nail and slammed it into the wood harder than the previous one. The veranda flinched.
“You’re on, Wilderness Willy. Be prepared to leave this place with your tail between your legs! Very soon.”
She snatched up his cup and strode back into the Lodge.
Jack paused in his cavorting to stare after her. Then his delight in the place resurfaced and he raced off again to play.
A half hour later, the sound of a vehicle made her glance out the kitchen window. He was driving out of the yard in the Cherokee. Going to town? He had to be. Otherwise, he would have used the old Jeep. To meet with a lawyer? Or maybe to see the beautiful Dr. Henderson? She tried to put a quick end to the sinking feeling that came over her at the latter possibility. Mind over matter, she told herself sharply. Just imagine living indefinitely with the creature. That should fix it.
She rinsed the coffee cups, then wandered about the Lodge, Jack at her heels, as she reacquainted herself with each nook and cranny. Nothing much had changed, she discovered. The same outdoor and wildlife paintings donated by Jack’s wealthy guests still adorned the walls of the dining and living rooms; the same dishes and silverware still graced the sideboards and china cabinets, and, to her chagrin, the same feeling of home and hearth and security still prevailed.
I don’t belong here, not anymore, not now, not with him, so shelve the sentimental stuff.
She reached the door of her grandparents’ apartment. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. This had always been a special place for her as a child, the equivalent of Grandma’s house. She felt she couldn’t bear it if it had been changed in any way. God forbid it had been made into a storage area for extra furniture. The idea made her shiver. Steeling herself for the worst, she shoved open the door. A wave of relief swept over her. Everything was exactly as she remembered it.
Stepping inside, she felt a rush of nostalgia so powerful it left her lightheaded. She walked softly into the reverend hush, crossing the room to open the curtains on the wide patio doors that led to a deck overlooking the river. A beam of sunshine illuminated the apartment, and in it Allison suddenly saw the image of her grandmother sitting in the big rocker by the window, knitting and looking up to smile fondly at her only grandchild.
“Gram.” The word choked as the vision dissolved into dust motes dancing in the radiance.
With a lump rising in her throat, she turned toward the big fourposter bed at the back of the room. Plump with pillows and quilts, it appeared the epitome of warmth and intimacy, a place to share with someone special. How lonely that bed must have been these past ten years for her grandfather.
She moved to the corner fireplace. Its grates had been swept clean, but she could still remember chilly evenings spent before its cheerful blaze.
On the mantel were photos of herself with her parents as a baby, as a child, as a teenager, and as a college graduate. Gramps loved me, and I wasn’t there when he needed me, all because of a barbarian named Heath Oakes.
Her eyes burned, her throat constricted. I don’t need to load myself down with any more recriminations. Heath Oakes is doing