A January Chill. Rachel Lee
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alone that left her feeling cut off and solitary to her very soul. The little bits of warm light that reached her from the street lamps and the glow from nearby windows only made her feel lonelier somehow.
She’d always felt this way on cold wintry nights, walking down darkened streets with no other soul in evidence, but tonight was even worse than usual, as if all the empty places in her heart were filled with a cold, whistling wind she couldn’t ignore. Nor could she shrug off the feeling.
Hardy’s house was just another one of the small Victorians lining the streets in this part of town, but unlike the rest, his was a showplace renovated through his own hard work and skill.
Even back in high school, Hardy had loved to work with his hands and with wood. He’d replaced the gingerbread on the house during those years, spending painstaking hours in the school shop, because he didn’t have the tools at home, whenever he didn’t have to work. Karen had spent a lot of those hours with him, watching him, admiring his growing skill. Occasionally Joni had joined them.
But since Hardy had come back from college, he’d transformed the exterior, getting rid of the ugly aluminum siding and replacing it with wood, hanging new shutters, rebuilding the huge porch. She imagined he’d done a lot of work on the inside, too, but she didn’t know, because she’d never been invited in, not since Karen’s death.
At the foot of the porch steps, she hesitated, forgetting the snow that sliced at her cheeks. This was nuts, and she didn’t delude herself about it. Hardy might tell her she was crazy, to get lost. Sometimes she wondered if he agreed with Witt’s opinion of him.
Then there was Witt. He would forgive her. Maybe. He certainly hadn’t been able to forgive Hardy all these years. But she was different, she told herself. She was his niece. His brother’s daughter. He couldn’t possibly treat her the same way he had treated Hardy.
That was what she told herself, anyway. She was well aware that she didn’t believe it one hundred percent as she climbed the steps and finally rang Hardy’s bell.
A minute passed before the door opened. Hardy stood there in stocking feet, looking rumpled in jeans and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up.
“Joni?” he said as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “What the hell are you doing here?”
It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome, but Joni hadn’t expected one, not the way things were. But she wasn’t doing this for herself, or even for Hardy, really. She was doing it for Karen.
Before she could formulate a response, the wind ripped around the corner of his house, splattering her face with ice needles.
“Damn,” he said under his breath and reached out, taking her arm and pulling her inside. He closed the door behind her, shutting out the bitter night.
“Thanks,” she murmured, her thoughts scattering as she got a look at the inside of Hardy Wingate’s house.
Polished wood greeted her everywhere, from the original plank floors to the polished stair railing rising to the second floor. Colorful old rugs were scattered around the foyer, and the walls were painted a creamy white. Through the door to the right she could see a living room filled with beautiful period pieces, and to the left was the dining room, with a long Queen Anne table and chairs.
“I didn’t know you liked antiques,” she blurted.
“These aren’t antiques,” he said almost impatiently. “I made them myself.”
She looked up at him. “When do you have time?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been doing this for years. Keeps me busy in the evenings. What do you want?”
He wasn’t even going to ask her to take her coat off, she realized. Not even a civilized, neighborly offer of something hot to drink before she left. She was, however, stubborn enough not to allow him to rush her. What she was about to do deserved at least that much consideration.
“How’s your mother?”
“Getting better. Still exhausted. She sleeps a lot. She’s sleeping right now. Did you want to see her?”
She could tell he doubted it, and she couldn’t blame him; she certainly hadn’t tried to come see Barbara in the last two months. “No,” she said slowly. “I came to see you.”
“Big mistake. Witt’ll have your hide.”
“Witt’s not entitled to my hide. I’m a grown woman.” She smothered her exasperation. “And it’s all irrelevant, anyway.” Shoving her hand up under her jacket, she tugged the envelope out from under her sweater and offered it to him. It was warm from her body. “Here. The request for bids on Witt’s lodge.”
Hardy hesitated, looking at the envelope as she held it out to him. “Joni…” He trailed off as if he didn’t know what to say.
“You’ve only got until the tenth to submit,” she said, thrusting it toward him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more time, but I just got this today. You’ll have to hurry.”
He still didn’t take the envelope. He stared at it as if it might explode at any moment. Then, slowly, he dragged his gaze from it and looked straight at her. “Witt is going to kill one of us if I take that.”
She shrugged, all too aware that he was right. “I can handle it.”
“Joni, why are you doing this? Why?”
She looked down, studying the braid rug beneath her feet, watching the melting snow drip from her boot and disappear into the rug. “Karen would want me to.”
For the longest time Hardy didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move or seem to draw a breath. Just as she was about to look up at him, to make sure she hadn’t shocked him into a stroke or something, he spoke.
“Take your jacket and boots off,” he said roughly. “You need something hot to drink, and I’m boiling water for tea.”
“I need to get right home,” she said, mindful that Hannah would ask questions if she was gone too long. She wasn’t comfortable with the lie she had already told, and she didn’t want to have to tell too many more of them.
“You’ve got time enough for some tea. If you’re worried about your mother, call her.”
Hannah wasn’t the biggest part of her problem, Joni thought gloomily as she tugged off her boots and hung her jacket on the coat tree. Not by a long shot.
She followed Hardy into the kitchen, which was behind the dining room toward the back of the house. Here, too, loving care was displayed in a brick floor and gleaming modern appliances complemented by beautiful oak cabinets and tiled countertops. Hardy waved her to a round oak table.
“Earl Grey okay?” he asked.
“Great.” She wasn’t much of a tea connoisseur, and she would have been content with ordinary old orange and black pekoe.
Hardy brought two steaming mugs to the table, both dangling tags over the side. “Sugar? Cream? Lemon?”
“Black’s fine.”
Apparently he felt the same, because he sat across from her, dipping his tea bag absently while he studied her. “Karen’s been gone a long time,” he remarked. “I doubt any of us could know what she’d want.”
“She’d want for her dad not to be so angry and bitter,” Joni said firmly.
“And me submitting a bid is going to change his mind?” The question was full of disbelief.
“If you submit a good one, it might force him to face how unfair he’s been to you.”
“Are you so sure that he’s been unfair?”
The question jolted Joni. What was he talking about? The cops had said the accident wasn’t his fault. The other driver had steered right into them and Hardy hadn’t been able to evade him. “It wasn’t