Madelyn If I'd slammed the door any harder it would have come off the hinges. Who did she think she was?

Angry as I was, I almost laughed at that.

She was Abigail Burgess Wynne, of course! And judging by the incredible gall she displayed in showing up uninvited on my doorstep, she had changed not at all. There she was, trying to run me out of town-again.

When I answered the door, I'd stood there for a moment, absolutely dumbstruck. Though her appearance had changed so little in the years since I'd last seen her, it took a moment to convince myself that the woman standing there really was Abigail.

She smiled and asked if she could come inside. In my shock, I let her-but only as far as the foyer.

"I heard you were back in town, so I just thought I'd stop by and say h.e.l.lo."

"Why?"

She frowned. "You needn't take such a hostile tone, Madelyn. I know that our history together hasn't been exactly . . . shall we say, cordial? But that was a long time ago. Things are different now. Water under the bridge and all that."

She looked down, fiddling with her gloves as she spoke, tugging at each leather finger and then pulling at the wrist and stretching them tight over her hands, smiling one of those obligatory smiles people paste on to help them get past awkward moments.

"When I heard you'd moved back into Beecher Cottage and had plans to turn it into an inn, I just thought I'd-"

"Drop by with a houseplant and a Hallmark card? Quit pretending, Abigail. You're here because you want something. What is it?"

She gave a quick, sharp tug on each of her gloves, then intertwined her fingers and folded her hands together at her waist. "I've heard about your troubles with Sterling."

"Really? I didn't peg you for the sort of woman who reads the tabloids."

"I don't." She shot me a look, then went on. "Besides, one needn't read the scandal sheets to know about your situation. The Wall Street Journal has done quite a few stories on you and your husband, you know. So have all the other financial pages. Anyway, when I heard tonight that you were planning on opening an inn I talked to a few people, made a few calls.... To get to the point, Madelyn, I understand that you're in terrible financial straits. And, at least to some degree, I feel responsible for your situation."

You do? This should be interesting.

"I don't condone what went on between you and Woolley, but it wasn't the first time he cheated on me, nor was it the last. You were so young and I knew what Woolley was like, how single-minded he could be when he wanted something."

Or someone. Oh, yes. Yes, he could.

I had heard from Woolley's own lips how, for nearly two years, he had wined and dined the beautiful Abigail Burgess. How he had wanted her and how she had resisted, he never giving up and she never giving in, which, of course, only inflamed his desire more. When he'd finally won her, she'd told him point blank that she'd marry him but never love him. He was convinced she was just being coy. He was wrong.

I'd heard the tale a hundred times. It was Woolley's favorite postcoital bedtime story. I'd lie next to him on the rumpled sheets, my skin still hot from the heat of his hands, and listen to him talk about her, how cold she was, how beautiful she was, and how he hated her.

It wasn't true, of course. No man talks that much and that pa.s.sionately about a woman he hates, especially not when he's in bed with another woman. Woolley loved Abigail and only Abigail. I was her stand-in in his bed, nothing more.

Abigail played her hand well. Even after she'd told him she didn't, couldn't, and wouldn't love him, he kept pursuing her. Abigail's heart was the one thing Woolley's millions couldn't buy, but he never stopped trying.

What if I'd played my hand differently? What if I'd made Woolley pursue me instead of allowing myself to be scooped up and taken home like some abandoned pup, grateful and fawning and oh so eager to please? If I'd been as clever as Abigail, would Woolley have loved me? Would Sterling? Would anyone?

I don't know. I never will. But one thing is certain, I won't let it happen again. I'm not going to be pushed out or pushed around ever again, not by anyone, not even Abigail.

Abigail swallowed hard before continuing. "I should have handled things differently, not taken my anger out on you. But Woolley's unfaithfulness hurt me terribly. . . ."

"You weren't hurt," I spat. "You were embarra.s.sed. Worried that people would see through that little farce you played with Woolley."

"Maybe that's how it looked to you, but that's not . . . I'm not . . ." She stopped for a moment. I could see the muscles twitch near her jaw as she clenched her teeth together.

"That was all a long time ago," she said. "And I'm not here to talk about that. I came to talk about you."

I let my arms drop by my side and looked her straight in the eye but said nothing, enjoying the expression of discomfort on Abigail's face and remembering one of Sterling's maxims of negotiation-the first one to talk loses.

Abigail licked her lips. "Later, after that day in Woolley's office, I . . . well, I always felt bad about how I treated you. You were so young. I know all about how the schemes of powerful men can entrap a young and friendless girl. And then, when I heard you'd ended up with Sterling . . ."

She waited a moment, hoping, I suppose, that by some word or movement I might acknowledge her comment.

I didn't so much as blink.

"Even before his arrest, I knew what kind of man Sterling Baron was. Woolley liked him, but I didn't. Woolley was never a good judge of character."

I smiled a little, realizing that her comment could easily be construed as insulting-to both of us. But Abigail didn't seem to pick up on that.

"When I heard that you'd married Sterling, I felt sorry for you. I saw pictures of you in the papers, at gallery openings and charity galas. You had money and jewelry and clothes and I suppose everyone thought you were the luckiest woman on earth. I knew better. Your eyes were so dead. You were just a fly in Sterling Baron's web. And I always felt that I'd partic.i.p.ated, at least in a small way, in your capture.

"Diamonds are cold comfort, poor subst.i.tutes for love. I learned that too late. Almost too late." Her voice dropped and softened until it was almost a whisper. "Franklin Spaulding showed me what I was missing."

Did she think I cared? Did she suppose that because we'd both held membership in the sisterhood of loveless marriages to wealthy men, that meant I was interested in hearing about her love life?

"What do you want, Abigail?"

"To help you," she said. "To make amends, I suppose. If I can. I know New Bern is the last place on earth you want to be. And I know that you wanted to sell Beecher Cottage but weren't able to."

"Who told you that?"

"Don't look at me that way. It's a small town, Madelyn. I made a few calls, asked a few questions, that's all." She hesitated a moment. "I sit on the board of the bank. I know Aaron Fletcher."

Of course she does.

"And I heard your name again tonight. I was going to wait a few days to contact you, but then I thought . . ." Abigail reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out an envelope.

"Here."

"What is this?"

"A check. For seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Which, I understand, is two hundred thousand more than the price you'd hoped to list the house for. Enough to allow you to go anywhere you want and start over."

I turned the envelope over, lifted the gummed flap, and pulled out the piece of paper that was inside. It was just as Abigail said, a check for three-quarters of a million dollars made out to me, Madelyn Beecher Baron. n.o.body besides myself-not Sterling, not the feds-had any claim in it. I could cash it at any bank, get into my car, and escape New Bern forever. It was tempting.

But when I looked up at those ice-blue eyes, I couldn't think of anything but the humiliation I'd suffered at her hands, Woolley's unwillingness to defend me, my inability to defend myself. Never again.

I pinched the check between my thumbs and forefingers and tore it in half. "Get out of my house."

18.

Tessa "Babe! I'm home!" I shook out my jacket and hung it up on the rack near the back door. Lee didn't answer, but I could hear him in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans.

I walked toward the sound. "Did you look outside? Halloween's a week away and it's already snowing! Hard!"

I love the first snow of the year. It's exciting. Makes me feel ten years old again.

Lee was bending over by the cupboards, pulling out a blue mixing bowl.

"Josh called, wanting to talk to you." He kicked the cupboard closed. "You missed him," he said, the accusation clear in his voice.

"Oh. I'll call him back." I dropped my shopping bag on the floor and reached for the phone.

"He went to the library for a study group. Couldn't wait any longer."

"Well, then I'll call him later, after dinner," I said evenly. I was late, but not that late. Not late enough that I deserved to have Lee jump all over me.

Experience has taught me that when Lee is in a bad mood, which isn't often, it's best to ignore it. His bad moods usually pa.s.s quickly. When they don't, I've found that there's no point in trying to draw him out. When he's ready to talk, he talks. Coaxing him to open up before he's ready only makes things worse.

Lee grunted, opened the refrigerator, and pulled vegetables out of the crisper. Was he making a salad? The kitchen didn't smell like lasagna. Or anything else.

"Can I help you with anything?"

"I'm on it."

More banging of dishes and drawers, followed by a furious chopping of vegetables. He hacked at the onions as if he intended to draw blood.

"Well," I said brightly. "I'm going to pour myself some wine. It was a crazy day."

I took two gla.s.ses down from the cupboard, filled them with pinot noir, kept one for myself and set the other down on the counter next to Lee. From where I was sitting, he definitely looked like he could use a drink. I perched myself on the opposite counter and started talking. Someone had to.

"I stopped by Cobbled Court after work, picked out the fabric for my quilt. You've got to go in there sometime, babe. You wouldn't believe how much inventory Evelyn has in her shop."

"Huh." He slashed a green pepper in half, gutted the seeds, and started dicing the green flesh with an eye toward vengeance.

"Choosing the fabric was way more complicated than I thought. Thank heaven the other women were there to help me. I needed something like twenty different fabrics. They're really pretty, though. Do you want to see?"

Without waiting for his answer, I hopped off the counter, took the fabrics from my shopping bag, and spread them out on the kitchen table. I smiled and fanned them out into an arc, like colorful spokes on a wheel. They really did look good together.

Lee looked at the pile, then at me, and frowned. "How much was all that?"

"Thirty-eight dollars," I said, silently blessing Evelyn Dixon and her invented novice quilter discount.

"Oh. That's not too bad."

I put the fabric away. Lee turned back to the cutting board, using the blade of the knife to sweep the decimated vegetables into a bowl, then paused to take a sip from his winegla.s.s, which I took as a good sign. He pulled out a cast-iron skillet and put it on the stove-no banging this time.

The mail was sitting in a pile near the telephone. I flipped through it and started to tell him about Madelyn's surprising return to New Bern and her even more surprising plans for Beecher Cottage but stopped short when I noticed an envelope with a past due notice from New Bern Energy.

"Babe, did you forget to pay the oil bill?"

The skillet, now filled with a melange of onions, peppers, and mushrooms, banged hard against the burner, making me jump. The vegetables jumped too. Several pieces of pepper spilled onto the floor.

"Forget? No! No, Tessa, I didn't forget to pay the oil bill. I just didn't pay it, all right? I paid the taxes, the mortgage, Josh's tuition, the electricity, and telephone, Internet, and the house, car, and health insurance. After all that, there was two hundred and sixteen dollars left in the checking account. Two hundred and sixteen! That's it!"

Lee is not a shouter. His pent-up frustration exploded and sparked like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July and fizzled just as quickly. His shoulders drooped. The metal spatula he was holding in his hand flopped against his leg, leaving a grease mark on his pants.

"I didn't forget to pay it. I just didn't pay it, not yet. All right?"

"All right," I said. I moved toward him, took the spatula out of his hand, and set it on the counter. "It's all right. We'll pay it as soon as we can. No big deal."

"Yeah. I'll transfer some more money out of savings tomorrow," he said. "I hoped we wouldn't have to do that again, but . . ." He sighed. "I didn't get the job. They called just before you came in. They had one hundred and twenty-eight applicants for the position. One hundred and twenty-eight! For a temp job!"

"Oh, babe. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Well. The commute would have been a killer. I'd have spent half of what I made on gas."

He bent over and started picking mushrooms and peppers up from the floor. I stooped down to help.

"You know," he said, "this is just not the country I grew up in. Back in my dad's day, if you worked hard and played by the rules, you'd be all right, you'd get ahead. Nowadays, the rich just get richer and the poor get poorer. It's not right. I was listening to the radio today and heard a story about the housing bubble. They had clips from a mortgage broker who was blaming greedy real estate investors, a real estate investor who blamed greedy bankers, a banker who blamed greedy home owners, and a home owner who blamed greedy mortgage brokers! I swear, n.o.body takes responsibility for anything these days! I just don't understand it, Tessa. You work hard all your life, try to do the right thing.... Isn't there any justice in the world?"

It was a good question and one I sometimes asked myself. But I didn't know the answer, so I told him what I did know.

"It's their loss. You're the best man for the job, for any job. I love you."

He got up and dumped the spoiled vegetables into the sink, and stared out the kitchen window into a curtain of black shot with white as the snowflakes fell.

"I really thought I had it," he mused. "They only interviewed six people."

"Six? Out of one hundred and twenty-eight? You should feel good about that."

"Maybe. But first runner-up doesn't come with a paycheck," he said, bitterness returning to his voice before he waved it off. "I'm sorry, hon. Don't listen to me. I'm just having a bad day."

"You get to have bad days." I walked up behind him, put my arms around his waist, and turned my head so my cheek rested against his back.

"I've got a great idea. Why don't you sit down at the table, finish your wine, and tell me all about your bad day while I finish making dinner? By the way," I said, squinting at the mess in the skillet. "What are we having for dinner?"

"Vegetable and goat cheese omelets."

"Okay. That sounds good, but what happened to the lasagna?" I took my ap.r.o.n off the hook by the pantry and slipped it over my head before opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bowl of eggs from our own chickens.

Lee carried his wine to the table and sat down to watch me. "Ran out of time. When I went out to the barn to bring in the stock for the night, the pigs were missing. They were out in the garden, scrounging for leftover potatoes. I was able to lure three of them back to the pen with a bucket of slop, but that big one . . ." He shook his head. "She was having no part of it. She saw me coming and ran toward the woods, making a break for freedom. And then Spitz got all excited and tried to help and that just made everything worse. She was just out there running around in circles, barking like crazy. Then the sow got ticked and rushed her. Spitz took off for the barn, yelping, and hid behind the grain bin. It took me over an hour to catch the sow, and then I had to haul Spitz out of her hiding place. I finally ended up carrying her inside."