A January Chill. Rachel Lee
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on a cookie sheet to catch any spills, then slipped it into the oven and set the timer. “You’d better go sit down,” she said to her daughter. “You don’t look well.”
Joni felt terrible, all right, but only emotionally. Shame at her duplicity was filling her. Her legs feeling weak, she went into the dining room and sat in a chair where she could watch her mother bustle around the kitchen preparing to make the garlic bread.
Hannah put the loaf of French bread on the cutting board and sliced it in two, putting half the loaf back in its plastic bag. Then she paused, her knife hovering over the bread and, without looking at Joni, said, “Why did you give Hardy that bid package?”
“Mom…” But Joni couldn’t speak, neither to tell the truth nor to prevaricate. Her heart slammed hard, and she sat mute.
Hannah turned her head and looked at her. “That’s what you did the night you said you were going to see your friend. When we had the snowstorm? Why did you do it, Joni?”
All the explanations she’d given herself when she made up her mind to draw Hardy into this were gone from her brain as if they’d never existed. Empty, anxious, shamed, she simply looked at her mother.
“I don’t suppose,” Hannah said after a moment, “that we need to tell Witt that. He’s mad enough as it is. I can’t see what good it will do to have him angry with you. What’s done is done.”
That didn’t make Joni feel any better. She watched as her mother began slicing the bread diagonally.
“I suppose,” Hannah said presently, “that you’ll give me an explanation eventually.”
When Joni finally spoke, her voice was a thick, tight croak. “I had reasons.”
Hannah nodded, putting her knife aside and going to the refrigerator for butter. “I’m sure you did, Joni. You always do.”
Joni couldn’t tell if that was a mere statement of fact or a sarcastic comment. And, honestly, she didn’t really want to know. She just wished she could remember why it had seemed so important to her to give that bid package to Hardy a week ago. And wondered why all that determination seemed to have deserted her.
Nothing more had been said by the time they began to dine. Hannah offered no information about the bids she had seen, her silence telling Joni as clearly as any words that her mother wasn’t happy with her.
Well, she hadn’t expected anyone to be happy with her. Even Hardy hadn’t been. But she didn’t like feeling cut off from her mother. Hannah’s disapproval had always cut her like a knife.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Joni put down her fork. “It’s wrong, Mom, Witt hating Hardy all these years. He didn’t kill Karen.”
“Mmm.” Hannah said no more.
Feeling almost desperate, Joni said, “Witt’s never going to heal if he keeps on hating Hardy.”
“Really.” It wasn’t a question and carried the weight of disapproval. “Have you considered that Witt is grieving in his own way?”
“It’s been twelve years!”
Hannah’s dark eyes fixed her. “Joni, do you think I miss your father any less because it’s been nearly fifteen years? Do you?”
“I…” Joni’s voice trailed off, and her eyes began to burn.
“I think,” Hannah continued, “that you’ve been arrogant. You have no right to decide when someone else’s grief should end.”
“But…” Again words escaped her.
“Grief isn’t measured by calendars. And I thought you understood people better than that, anyway. Witt’s anger at Hardy is the way he keeps himself from being torn up inside.”
Joni looked down, her throat tight and her chest aching. “Karen wouldn’t like it, Mom.”
“No, she probably wouldn’t. But Karen isn’t here, and that’s the whole problem.”
Joni couldn’t even bring herself to raise her head. She was suddenly hurting so deep inside that she didn’t know if she could bear it. “We all miss her, Mom,” she said thickly. “Including Hardy.”
Hannah sighed. “Yes,” she said presently. “We do. But opening up the wounds this way isn’t good for anyone, Joni. Not for anyone.”
She felt like a stupid child who should have known better, and somehow she couldn’t reach into herself and find the force that had compelled her to rush headlong into this situation. Couldn’t feel again the fire that had pushed her. And that left her feeling defenseless.
But still, despite that, she felt that the situation was wrong, that Witt’s anger was a poison not a cure. And that Hardy was being treated unfairly.
“Hardy was my friend, Mom,” she said finally. “He was my best friend, next to Karen. And when she died, I shouldn’t have had to lose him, too.” Then, having said all she could, she went up to her room and sat in the quiet, staring out the window at freshly falling snow.
It hurt, she thought. It still hurt like hell. And maybe that was what had compelled her to reach out to Hardy.
Because, dear God, even after twelve years, something inside her was still bleeding.
5
A couple of days later, Witt ran into Hardy at the hardware store. It wasn’t unusual for that to happen; in a town the size of Whisper Creek, where there was only one hardware store, one pharmacy, one bank and one auto-parts store, such encounters on a Saturday were inevitable. Usually they both just turned away and pretended the other didn’t exist.
But today Witt was in a different mood. When he saw Hardy buying some screws, he didn’t walk away. Instead, he approached.
“What the hell,” he said bluntly, “did you think you were doing bidding on my hotel?”
Hardy dropped a dozen screws into a small paper bag. He didn’t reply immediately, as if trying to decide how much he should say. Finally he shrugged. “I’d like to build your hotel.”
“In your dreams.”
Hardy raised his gaze slowly and met Witt’s angry stare. “Exactly. In my dreams.” Then he went back to counting another dozen screws.
Witt didn’t like being ignored. And he didn’t like being made to feel as if he was behaving badly. Hardy’s calm just annoyed him more. “You have some nerve, boy.”
“I’m not a boy anymore, Witt. Maybe you’d better keep that in mind.”
“Oh, I do keep that in mind, just like I keep it in mind that my daughter would be a woman now—but for you.”
Hardy dumped more screws into the bag, then folded the top of it carefully. Only then did he look at Witt.
“Yes, she would,” he said quietly. Brushing past Witt, he headed for the checkout.
Leaving Witt feeling like an angry ass. What had he expected? That they were going to duke it out in the aisle?
Still disgruntled, he went to get the epoxy he’d come for. Fact was, he’d been gnawing on his anger like an old bone since he’d learned that Hardy had bid on the hotel. It was an anger he never entirely got over, but it had been a long time since it had been this fresh and hot. Mostly, he kept it buried as long as Hardy Wingate stayed out of his way.
But Hardy had just gotten very much in his way, and his anger was like the volcano was erupting again, consuming him with its red-hot heat. After all these years, it was unresolved.
Nobody had paid for Karen’s death except him. The drunk driver hadn’t even lived long enough to be arrested. And Hardy…Hardy, who hadn’t taken good care of Karen, who’d been indirectly responsible for her death, was still walking around whole