Journey Of The Heart. Elissa Ambrose
Читать онлайн книгу.
I think that nothing ever changes, at least not in one lifetime. You even said so yourself. But don’t worry, maybe there’s truth to this reincarnation theory. Maybe next time around, you’ll finally get it right…. Am I babbling?”
“If you’re going to quote me, do it right. My exact phrase was ‘Some things in life don’t change.’ And yeah, you’re babbling.”
“All better,” she said, pulling her hands away. “You missed your calling, Jake. You should have been a doctor. Tell me, Dr. Logan, will I be able to play the piano now that you’ve saved my hands?”
On the coffee table, several charcoal pencils were neatly lined up next to a sketchbook. He leaned forward and picked up the book. “And they’re such talented hands,” he said, leafing through her drawings. “I see you haven’t given up your art.”
“I did give it up, when we got married. I started again after the divorce. Remember my dream? To make a living from my painting? I never gave that up.”
The way she talked, you’d think their marriage had been one long exercise in sacrifice—on her part. He picked up one of the pencils and rotated it in his fingers. Laura had always been quick to delegate blame. That, apparently, hadn’t changed. He studied her carefully. Maybe some things in life never changed, but some things sure as hell did. This new Laura, well, he hadn’t completely figured her out yet, but something was different. She was still headstrong and stubborn, with a quick, hot temper, but he saw something else, something he’d never seen before. The old Laura wouldn’t have wasted a minute feeling sorry for herself, as her puffy red eyes and the splotches on her cheeks clearly indicated.
He lowered his gaze. Even though she lay curled under the blanket, he could picture the curves of her shapely legs. He couldn’t erase from his mind the sight of her when he’d dropped her onto the couch. Her rumpled black skirt had been pushed up high above her knees, exposing the smooth, creamy flesh of her thighs. It had always amazed him how quickly she could arouse him with just a turn of her leg, a flash of her eyes—that was another thing that hadn’t changed.
He thought back to the night he had proposed, when she had come to him so eagerly, so ready. They had always been friends, good friends, and Cory had adored her. It was only natural that they would drift closer and eventually marry. He would have been content with just companionship, and Cory needed a mother, but what she brought to the marriage was an added bonus.
No, they’d never had problems in that department.
In the hallway, the grandfather clock rang out four short chimes, indicating that it was a quarter past the hour. “Doesn’t that thing bother you?” he asked, replacing the pencil in its ordered, straight row. “It would drive me crazy, ringing out like that every fifteen minutes.”
“You get used to it. A person can get used to anything…. Jake?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you were only trying to help. It was a stupid thing to do, falling asleep in the pantry. Cassie was here, and after she left, I forgot to lock the front door. I was so tired, and it was such a long day—”
“Forget it. I’m just glad you’re all right.”
She sat up and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. “Jake?”
“What?”
“Do you remember this afghan?”
He grinned. She must be a mind reader. Once again, he recalled the night he had proposed, when he had said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, when he had said he wanted her to be a mother to Cory. They had taken the blanket out to Freeman’s Pond and lain under the stars, talking, dreaming, planning. “Yeah, I remember.”
“We had some good times, didn’t we?” she asked, her eyes meeting his. “I mean, they weren’t all bad, were they?” Without warning, two plump tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Laura…”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she said, her lips twisting down. “Ever since I’ve been back, I’ve been crazy. Maybe it’s remembering how my aunt treated me. Maybe it’s just being here in Middlewood after so many years. Either I’m laughing or crying, or doing both at the same time.”
He pulled her toward him, closing the distance between them. Stifling a sob, she slipped into his arms and buried her face against his neck. Her tears flowed easily. He held her in his embrace, feeling the last of her defenses melting away like a late-spring snow. The scent of her natural perfume floated in the air, and he inhaled deeply. And then, ever so slowly, his hands traveled a wavy path down to the small of her back.
“Oh, no.” She stiffened in his arms. “I can’t do this.”
“You can’t do what?” he asked, feigning ignorance. He knew what she was thinking. Was it his fault she had misinterpreted his intentions? “Let someone take care of you? You act as if it were a sign of weakness.”
She wriggled out of his hold. “What do you want from me? Why did you come here?”
He looked at her coolly. “You know what your problem is? You don’t need anyone. You like playing the martyr.” He teased her lips with his fingers. “Tell me, doesn’t it get lonely up there, alone in your ivory tower?”
“Stop it,” she said, recoiling from his touch. “Answer me, Jake. Why are you here?”
He leaned back into one of the sofa pillows and sighed heavily. “You probably won’t believe me, but I came to apologize.”
“You, apologize? For what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“For yesterday. I shouldn’t have said the things I said. You had your reasons for walking out of the marriage, even if I don’t agree with them.”
“So, we’re back to that again. Your apology makes me sound like the bad guy.”
“Come on, Laura. This isn’t easy for me. Don’t make me grovel.”
“Now that would be interesting.” She stared at him, and then shrugged. “Apology accepted. I’m still not sure what you’re up to, but I have to admit, humility becomes you.”
This was the Laura he remembered, all right, all spit and vinegar. But he was willing to overlook her attitude. For the sake of peace, he told himself. It had nothing to do with how her lips had felt under his touch, as soft as a whisper. “Truce?”
“Truce.” She picked up a stray goose feather and blew it into the air. It spiraled to the floor, landing in the same spot where it had been lying. “Last night Cassie had a fight with a pillow—the pillow lost. I should probably clean up these feathers before I start tracking them through the house.”
He made a motion to rise. “Sit. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, leave it. Given the condition of this place, getting rid of a few feathers would be a drop in the bucket. Cassie says I should renovate before I put it on the market, but I think I should just clean it up as best I can and sell it the way it is.”
“So that’s it? You’ve decided to sell?” Although he hadn’t spent much time in the house, he felt a sense of loss. It had been his father’s first restoration project, long before Jake was born.
Dotted with old Colonial-style homes, Middlewood had once been a sleepy little New England town. Charles Logan, Jake’s father, was going to restore these old homes to their original beauty and make his fortune in the doing, but the business had never become the success he had envisioned. Eventually Jake’s parents grew tired of the harsh northeast winters and retired to Florida, leaving the business to Jake. Under his adept management, restoration gradually gave way to construction, and the business flourished.
“I haven’t decided anything,” Laura said. “I’ve even been considering keeping the house, but the thought of living here, in these conditions…”
Jake