Dancing in the Dark (3 page)

“Wendy? Are we going for that burger or not?”

“I think I’ll pass,” Wendy said quietly. “My folks are expecting me.”

Alison nodded. “Of course.” She put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space, then put on the brakes and glared at Wendy again. “I’m your oldest friend! If I can’t tell you the truth, who can?”

“You don’t know the truth,” Wendy said, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “I’m the one this happened to. Me, not you, or the doctors, or the nurses, or the therapists with their sympathetic looks and endless exercises.” She pushed down her hood and dragged her hands through her tumbled auburn curls. “Sometimes I wish I’d died that day, instead of waking up in a hospital bed and finding out that—that...”

“What? That you were alive? That you still had both your legs? I don’t understand you. Don’t you ever stop to think how lucky you were?”

“I’m trying to move on, Allie. Don’t
you
understand that?”

“By pretending Seth doesn’t exist? By trying to force a doctor into surgery that might do more harm than good?”

“Seth’s got somebody. You just told me that. And the doctor will want to do this operation once he talks to me.” Wendy shook her head. “You’re right. I lived. I got out of a wheelchair I was never supposed to get out of. But this woman, the one who can’t do the things she once did—this woman is a stranger. I can’t help it if that sounds selfish. It’s the way I feel.”

“You’re right,” Alison said quietly. “I don’t understand.” She looked at Wendy and smiled, though her eyes glittered with tears. “But I don’t have to. I’m your friend. I’ll stand by you, no matter what. Okay?”

Wendy nodded, even though it was more than okay. The pledge, the compassion in Alison’s eyes... Wendy felt her own eyes fill. For one improbable moment, she thought of letting all the pain inside her spill out. The truth was so much more complex than anyone knew. Maybe if she shared her awful secret...

She knew better. It wouldn’t change a thing.

Her heart, not just her body, had been broken in pieces on a winter’s day nine years ago. Looking in the mirror, seeing her scarred, twisted flesh was a constant reminder of what she’d almost had, what she’d lost, what she’d never have again. Now she could only pin her hopes on a time when she could stare at her reflection and see a whole Wendy instead of a shattered one. Then, perhaps, the agony would turn into a pain she could live with.

“Wendy?” Alison said softly.

She looked up, saw the confusion in her friend’s eyes. “Yes. I heard what you said. Thank you. You’re the best friend in the world.”

The women gave each other wobbly smiles, then Alison scraped her hand across her eyes. “If you make me cry,” she said gruffly, “and my mascara runs, I’m never going to forgive you.”

“Too late. It’s already running.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yours, too, so don’t look so smug.”

They gave each other sharp looks. Then they laughed, reached out and hugged.

“It’s good to have you home,” Alison said, “even if it’s just for a little while.”

“And it’s good to be here.” Wendy pulled a couple of tissues from her pocket and handed one to Alison. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

Alison wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She started the car again and they drove to Cooper’s Corner, turned down a familiar old street and stopped in front of a handsome house with bay windows and flower boxes that Wendy knew would overflow with pink and lavender impatiens all summer.

She stepped from the car just as the front door opened. Her mother and father stood poised in the doorway. Then Gina laughed and ran down the steps, with Howard right behind her, and just for a moment, as Wendy went into their sheltering arms, she had to admit that home was the best place in the world.

CHAPTER TWO

I
T
WAS
,
S
ETH
C
ASTLEMAN
thought, the worst possible kind of day to be wrestling with Santa Claus on a sloped, snow-covered roof.

Almost six inches of snow had been predicted overnight, and that was exactly what had fallen. Those six inches, coming hot on the heels of an earlier storm, had been enough to make taking down the ten-foot Santa figure a nasty, fairly dangerous job.

“I hate to ask you,” Philo Cooper had told Seth when he phoned at nine that morning, “but I can’t reach the guy who rented it to me up in Pittsfield and it’s due back tomorrow. His answering machine’s on but maybe he’s away.”

“In Florida, if he’s got half a brain,” Seth had said dryly. “I’ll stop by later this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Seth.”

“No problem,” Seth had replied, which wasn’t really true. It
was
a problem to move around on the pitched roof with ice under your boots. But the job was simple, and he was almost finished. The Santa was now in the back of Philo’s truck and Seth had just one more brace to remove.

Actually, the view from here, twelve feet above Main Street, was pretty interesting. The town looked like a Currier and Ives Christmas card. Spruce boughs, accented with big silver balls that dangled and swayed in the wind, were wired to a cable that stretched from one side of the street to the other, and holly wreaths hung on the old-fashioned lampposts. It wouldn’t be long before all those decorations were taken down, too.

Seth pulled out another nail from the brace.

Cooper’s Corner was beautiful all year, but winter was special. He’d first seen the town in December a long, long time ago. He’d been eighteen then, a sullen kid who’d bounced from one New York City foster home to another, with no bigger plan than to find a job at one of the ski resorts, make a few bucks and then move on. But he’d found something here, not just a job but a way of life that had turned
his
life around.

Even at eighteen—hell, especially at eighteen—he’d been a cynic, world weary and hard-shelled. At first, he’d scoffed at the town’s old-fashioned setting. Surely it was phony, something carefully constructed for the tourist trade.

After a couple of months, he’d been surprised to learn that the town was what it seemed, a village whose residents cared about each other and even about him, tough guy that he tried to be.

Gradually, without him even realizing it, his carefully constructed walls of cynicism started to crumble. Tough guys weren’t supposed to fall in love, but Seth had, with the pretty little town that time seemed to have bypassed. He’d fallen in love with its solid, old-fashioned houses and quiet roads, with its friendly people...

...with a girl whose hair was the fire of maple leaves in autumn, whose eyes were the blue of a mountain lake in midsummer.

“Damn it!”

Seth mouthed a string of four-letter words as the brace broke free and clipped the side of his hand. Well, that was what you got for daydreaming. You worked with tools, you worked on a slippery roof, you had to pay attention. A mistake could be a lot worse than a bruised hand, and what in hell was wrong with him, anyway, thinking about what used to be? Wendy was history. Ancient history. It made more sense to think about the people who’d left the giant stone heads on Easter Island than it did to waste time thinking about the year Wendy had been his girl.

The giant stone heads, at least, were still around. Wendy sure as hell wasn’t.

Seth shoved the hammer back into his leather tool belt. He had no idea why she’d been on his mind so much lately. Maybe it was because he’d met her this time of year, and lost her the same time, too. No, he thought as he gathered up his tools, no, that couldn’t be it. Nine Januarys had come and gone since then, and except for the first two—okay, the first two or three, or maybe even four—except for them, the pages of the calendar hadn’t triggered memories of Wendy.

Not like this.

He woke up thinking about her, fell asleep the same way. Just last night he’d shot up in bed, yanked from sleep by a dream of her in his arms, her mouth on his, so real that, just for a second, he’d believed she was there.

“Wendy?” he’d said, and Joanne, curled beside him, had sat up, too, and put her hand on his arm.

“What’s wrong?” she’d murmured sleepily. “Seth? What is it?”

The image of Wendy had faded. Joanne’s perfume, a scent still not as familiar to him as the scent that had clung lightly to Wendy’s skin so long ago, filled his nostrils. He’d thrust his hands into his hair, shoving it back from his forehead.

“Nothing’s wrong. I was dreaming, that’s all.”

Jo started to put her arms around him, looking to soothe him, he knew, but he’d drawn away, as riddled with guilt as if he’d actually been about to go from holding Wendy to holding another woman.

“It’s late,” he’d said. “I have an early start in the morning. I might as well get going.”

He’d felt Jo’s disappointment and couldn’t blame her. He never stayed with her through the night, and even though she hadn’t commented on it, he knew damned well she was aware of it, just as she was surely aware that he’d never asked her to spend the night at his house, never made love to her there.

“The roads will be bad,” she’d said softly as he dressed in the dark. He’d kissed her temple and assured her that the roads would probably be clear.

He’d been half-right. The roads were awful, but halfway to the home he’d built for himself on Sawtooth Mountain, he’d lucked out and fallen in behind a state plow going straight up Route 7 to where he made the turnoff onto the long driveway to his house. His truck’s four-wheel drive had seen him safely through those last couple hundred feet.

Once inside, he’d built a fire in the living-room hearth, poured himself a brandy and sat in the flame-lit darkness, staring out the wall of glass that overlooked the valley until the first, faint light of dawn, telling himself there was no reason in the world he should be thinking about Wendy....

And thinking about her all the same, just the way he was right now.

Enough.

Carefully, Seth made his way across the icy roof, then down the ladder he’d left propped against it. He dumped his toolbox in the truck and headed into the store.

The bell over the door jingled merrily and Philo came out from the back room, wiping his hands on his denim apron.

“All finished?”

Seth handed him the braces and nodded. “That’s it until next Christmas.” He smiled. “Still planning to put up George and Abe for Presidents’ Day, same as always?”

“Absolutely.” Philo tapped a key on the old-fashioned cash register. “How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll send you a bill.”

“You sure? If you want me to pay you now—”

“No need.” Seth rubbed his hands together. “But I’ll hang around a few minutes and warm up by the stove, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. One minute, and I’ll join you.”

Philo disappeared behind the curtain. Seth tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, whistled softly between his teeth and strolled over to the cast-iron, pot-bellied stove that radiated heat throughout the store.

It was a cozy setting. Half a dozen chairs were drawn around the old stove; prints hung on the nearby walls. Seth recognized some—there were lots of Norman Rockwells. No surprise there, he thought, smiling as he rocked back a little on his heels. Rockwell had lived in these parts and his paintings and illustrations had immortalized the hardworking people of the area. One print in particular, of a boy warily dropping his trousers for a physician holding a hypodermic syringe, made him smile.

“That’s always been one of my favorites.”

Seth turned. Philo grinned and eased into one of the chairs.

“Same here.” Seth sat down, too, and extended his hands toward the stove. “That’s a good fire you have going.”

“Pretty cold work up on that roof, huh?”

“Sure was.”

The men sat in companionable silence. That was another thing Seth liked about Cooper’s Corner. Nobody ever felt the need to fill the air with chatter. If you had something to say, fine. If you didn’t, it was perfectly okay to keep still.

“So,” Philo said after a minute, “how’re things going?”

“Fine. Just fine. I’m keeping busy.”

“Guess that house of yours is almost finished, huh? How long have you been at it, now? Two years?”

“Three,” Seth said. “I should be done this spring.” He shrugged. “Or this summer, for sure.”

“Well, it can’t be easy, puttin’ up a place all by yourself, workin’ only weekends.”

“It’s the only way I could manage to do it.”

“Uh-huh. Nothing like free labor. Heard tell you got a good price when you bought that land, too.”

Seth bit back a smile. Philo heard everything sooner or later. “Yeah, I did. I guess I could have hired somebody to help me out, but I enjoy the work.”

“Figured that.” Philo opened the stove’s fire door and added another maple split. “It’s none of my business, I know....” He cleared his throat. “It’s just, well, the wife and I were talkin’ at breakfast this mornin’ and we were wonderin’... Are things okay between you and the lady?”

Seth raised one dark eyebrow. This was a small town. What passed for gossip elsewhere was neighborly concern here, but asking him such a personal question about his love life—or what passed for his love life—was, well, unusual.

“Sure,” he said carefully. “Things are fine.”

“Ah.” Philo nodded as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. “Well, the wife’ll be happy to hear it. Phyllis always liked her. Me, too, for that matter, though I never knew her very well.”

Seth looked at Philo with curiosity. There was an off-kilter feel to this conversation, not just the sudden interest in his private life and his relationship with Joanne, but the way Philo was talking about it. Jo had only moved into the area a couple of years back. She lived in New Ashford. As far as Seth knew, she’d never even been into the Coopers’ store.

“Well,” he said, even more cautiously, “she’s a private sort of person.”

“Uh-huh. We figured that. Especially now with, you know, all the stuff that went on....” Philo’s Adam’s apple slid up and down. “So,” he said briskly, “is she back for good? Or is it true, like some folks say, that she’s only here to visit?”

Seth felt his heart give an unsteady thump. They definitely weren’t talking about Joanne. He searched his mind for a “she” who might fit the conversation, a woman he’d know well enough for Philo to ask him such intimate questions. Then he realized from the look in Philo’s eyes, from last night’s dream, from the memories that had been tormenting him...

He knew who they were discussing, and what it meant.

Wendy was home.

Except he didn’t believe that you dreamed about what was going to happen. The images in his head were there because of the time of year, and all this proved was that he’d never quite gotten past thinking about her.

“Is who back for good?” he said, as if Philo’s question might simply be about one of the winter visitors who’d asked him to do some repairs on her cabin.

He thought he’d spoken with casual ease. One look at Philo and he knew he hadn’t pulled it off. The other man’s plump cheeks reddened. Even his ears seemed to burn with embarrassment.

“Damn it,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry, Seth. I told Phyllis this wouldn’t be a good idea. ‘Phyl,’ I said, ‘honey, did it ever occur to you that the man might not want to talk about this? That he just plain might want to avoid—’”

“I’m not trying to avoid anything. I just don’t understand the question. Who are we talking about, Philo?”

Philo looked as if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. He lifted the poker, reached into the fire, made a show of rearranging the burning wood, then stared at the dancing flames as if they held the answer to Seth’s question.

Finally, he looked up.

“Wendy Monroe,” he said with a swift exhalation of breath. “And if you want to tell me to mind my own business about why she’s come back to Cooper’s Corner, or how long she’s goin’ to stay, that’s okay with me.”

* * *

T
HE
SUN
WAS
LOW
in the sky, the wind had picked up and it had begun to snow again. Main Street was one long sheet of ice. The sanding trucks hadn’t come through yet.

Seth drove carefully and fought to keep his mind on what he was doing. It wasn’t easy. All he could think about was Wendy. She was back. She was in Cooper’s Corner. The whole town probably knew it.

Now he knew it, too.

A car pulled out from the curb, skidded delicately to the left before its tires gained purchase. Seth braked gently, then fell in behind the slow-moving automobile.

Philo had all the details, though he’d been uncomfortable providing them. She’d flown in yesterday. Alison Fairchild had picked her up at the airport in Albany and driven her to town.

Seth’s jaw knotted. He’d seen Alison just a couple of days ago, at Twin Oaks, when he’d stopped by to double-check the dimensions of the corner where Clint and Maureen wanted to put the china cabinet he was making for the dining room. On the way out, he’d bumped into Alison. Literally. He’d been trotting down the porch steps, his head full of measurements; she’d been coming up, on her way to visit Maureen, and they’d collided.

“Whoops,” she’d said with a quick smile, then apologized for having her head in the clouds. They’d had a perfectly normal conversation about how well the B and B was coming along, about the weather and the season and every damned thing in the world except the one that would have mattered to him—that Wendy was returning to Cooper’s Corner. There was no way he’d believe that Alison hadn’t known about it then.

And what about Gina? He’d kept in touch with Wendy’s mother. They spoke often. Well, not so often now, but for the first few years he’d phoned at least once a week to ask about Wendy’s recovery. To hell with her father. It was Howard’s fault Wendy had the accident. If he hadn’t been pushing her so hard...

Seth took a deep breath.