A Dream To Share

As he rose to stretch the kinks from his back, a knock sounded. Opening the door, he found his landlady on the other side. Though Marge Sullivan was well past middle age, her gray hair was cut in a trendy style and her hot-pink velour sweatsuit looked as if it had come from a hip teen shop. She was definitely not what he’d expected when he’d pulled up in front of the ornate Victorian house.

“I just wanted to see if you needed anything else before I call it a night,” she told him.

Surprised, he automatically lifted his hand to check his watch. Nine-thirty.

“We turn in early here in the sticks.” At the twinkle in her eye, his neck grew warm and he jammed the offending hand in his pocket. “So do you have everything you need?” She peeked around him to give the room a discreet inspection.

“Yes, thanks.”

Her attention was still on the room behind him, her expression assessing. “Why don’t I get rid of some of those froufrou pillows tomorrow? You don’t look like the ruffled-pillow type. And I can ditch those turn-of-the-century books and potpourri on the coffee table to give you a little more room to work. The doilies on the chairs can go, too.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.” His hopeful tone, however, belied his words. For a man used to minimalist decor, the frilly Victorian ornamentation was cloying.

She gave a hearty chuckle. “Honey, Victoriana makes me want to throw up. It’s way too cluttered for my taste. But that’s what folks seem to expect at a historic house like this. I’m a Frank Lloyd Wright fan, myself.”

A smile played at the corners of Mark’s mouth—the first natural one since his arrival in Oak Hill. “Then how, may I ask, did you end up with this—” he made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand “—edifice?”

She gave an unladylike snort. “That’s a kind word for it. More like a money pit, truth be told. Do you know how much it costs to paint all that gingerbread trim outside? Anyway, to answer your question, I inherited it from an aunt a few years back. I was living in Boston and had hit some hard times. I figured I’d move down here and give this a shot. All in all, it’s been a good thing.”

“Boston to Oak Hill…that must have been quite a change,” he sympathized.

“Life is all about transitions.” She gave a philosophical shrug. “In my experience, you can always find something good in them if you have a positive attitude. I came here determined to like it, to become part of the community, and I did. It’s a nice town, and the people are the salt of the earth.”

She gave the room another sweeping perusal and wrinkled her nose. “The one thing I haven’t reconciled myself to is the decor. Trust me, I’ll be happy to de-Victorianize your room as much as possible. I don’t mind in the least, since you’ll be with me a while. And that reminds me…when would you like breakfast?”

The B and B was a mere five minutes from the Gazette office, but he’d still have to eat way too early to expect anyone to fix breakfast. “Since I told the editor I’d be in about seven, I’ll just grab a bite at the café on Main Street.”

“Don’t you worry about that. I’m up with the chickens, anyway. How about six-thirty? I can do sausages and eggs and biscuits, maybe some muffins.”

The thought of that much food early in the morning made him queasy. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not much of a breakfast eater, anyway.”

“Well, I don’t eat all that stuff myself, either. But most guests seems to expect it. If you ask me, it’s a heart attack on a plate. Let’s see…how about a simple omelet and English muffin? Or a whole-wheat waffle with fresh fruit?”

“Either one sounds great.”

“I’ll surprise you, then. And I’ll have you out of here in plenty of time to get to the Gazette by seven. But don’t you let Abby guilt you into putting in long hours just because she does. That woman works way too hard. Needs a little more fun in her life, if you ask me. I know she’s upset about this whole acquisition thing, but to tell the truth, it could be just what the doctor ordered. All that stress is taking a toll on her.”

It appeared he’d found an ally in the innkeeper, Mark realized with relief. That was refreshing after the wary reception he’d gotten from the staff at the Gazette. He smiled at her. “It’s nice to know I have one friend in town, Ms. Sullivan.”

“Call me Marge. And don’t be too hard on Abby. It’s a big responsibility to be the keeper of four generations of heritage. But she’s a reasonable person, and I’m betting that once she reconciles herself to this and gets to know you, she’ll give you a fair chance.”

As Marge bid him good-night and shut the door, Mark mulled over her last comment. Would Abby give him a fair chance? They’d gotten off on the wrong foot, that was for sure. Not that it should matter. His stay in Oak Hill would be brief. He had a job to do and Abby’s opinion of him was irrelevant. He shouldn’t even care what she thought about him.

But for some odd reason, he did.

After consulting his watch, Mark slipped the balance sheet back into the file and added it the stack on the table in front of him. In his first three and a half days he’d made tremendous progress on the financial audit at the Gazette. By tomorrow, when he left to spend the weekend in Chicago, he expected to have a preliminary review completed. There was much detail work that remained to be done, but it wasn’t bad for a first week’s effort, he thought in satisfaction.

He’d also established a routine. Starting on Tuesday, he’d arrived between seven and seven-thirty each day—which was far less difficult than he’d expected, since he went to bed at ten o’clock every night for lack of anything else to do. He kept his nose to the grindstone throughout the day, clocking out with everyone else—except Abby—at five o’clock.

The evenings had been a little more difficult to fill. He’d asked Marge about a local gym, but since there wasn’t one she’d offered to let him use her late uncle’s NordicTrack in the basement. That ate up an hour. Then he went to Gus’s, the local diner—a place he’d quickly nicknamed Grease’s—for dinner. Marge had taken pity on him after a couple of days and offered to fix his evening meal, but her tofu stew and lentil salad wasn’t a whole lot more palatable than the fried menu at Gus’s. There was a Middle Eastern place, too, but he wasn’t a great fan of that type of cuisine. The dining room in the Oak Hill Inn sounded promising—with a Cordon Bleu chef, no less—but it was only open Thursday through Saturday.

After dinner, he’d been at loose ends. His wanderings had taken him by the Gazette office on a couple of occasions, and in both instances a light had been burning. Abby had still been there. But he was beginning to think that maybe her long hours weren’t so much a reflection of the fact that she was a workaholic as that there wasn’t anything else to do in town.

Once back at the B and B for the night, he’d fallen into the habit of catching a little CNN, then reading books from the inn’s library. He was already halfway through a two-year-old bestseller that he’d always wanted to read but never managed to squeeze into his busy social schedule. He couldn’t wait to get back to Chicago for the weekend.

That was why he’d stayed late today at the newspaper. In order to catch a flight that got him home at a reasonable hour, he needed to leave the Gazette by two o’clock tomorrow for the two-hour drive back to St. Louis. He’d worked through lunch and was now wrapping up at—he consulted his watch again—seven-fifteen.

It wasn’t that he was trying to impress anyone with his conscientiousness. After all, the rest of the staff had left two hours ago. He and Abby were the sole occupants of the office. And he didn’t care what she thought. Putting in a full week just seemed like the right thing to do. Even if he’d never worried about that back in Chicago.

Previously, he’d returned the financial files to Joe for safekeeping. But with the accountant long gone, he’d have to give them to Abby, he realized. And he didn’t think she’d be pleased about that intrusion, not after doing her best to avoid him all week.

For a man who was used to women hovering around him, Abby’s lack of interest was a new experience. Not that he cared, of course. She wasn’t his type.

Exiting the conference room that had become his temporary home, he headed toward Abby’s office, his steps soundless on the worn carpeting. As he approached, he could see from her profile that she was focused on her computer screen. She’d pulled her hair back with some kind of scrunchy elastic thing and, to his surprise, she was wearing glasses.

When he drew closer he noted the slight frown of concentration on her brow as she keyed in words. The remains of a snack-pack of peanut-butter crackers and a half-empty mug of tea, the limp bag beside it sitting in a brown stain on a paper towel, lay on the desk. As he watched, she turned slightly to sift through the chaotic jumble of papers next to her monitor. She retrieved one, scanned it, then lay it aside and went back to typing, reminding Mark of a studious schoolgirl.

It took a discreet tap on her door to catch her attention, and she jumped, gasping as one hand fluttered to her chest. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I stayed late because I have to leave a little early tomorrow to catch my flight to Chicago. Joe’s gone, and I figured you’d want to lock up these financial reports.” He shifted the files in his arms.

“Oh. Yes, thanks. You can leave them here. I’ll put them away when I finish.”

She didn’t ask how things were going, he noted. In all likelihood, she didn’t want to know. He stepped closer and laid the files on her desk. “Dinner?” He nodded to the wrapper on her desk.

“Snack. I’ll eat when I get home.”

“When will that be?” Now why had he asked her that? Her schedule was none of his concern. Nor were her eating habits.

A flicker of surprise sparked in her green eyes. “I’m not sure. We’re losing one of our reporters, and I’m picking up some of the slack.”

For some reason, her comment made him feel guilty. As if it was his presence causing her to work harder than usual and playing havoc with her eating habits. And it wasn’t as if she could afford to lose weight. She was already a bit too thin, in his opinion.

“Well, be sure to eat whenever you get home.”

“I don’t skip meals,” she responded in a careful, measured tone, and he was struck by some emotion in her eyes that he couldn’t quite identify. “I’m very conscientious about that. Have a nice evening.”

With that, she turned back to the computer.

Feeling dismissed, Mark exited. But instead of being irritated by her curt send-off, he was troubled by that look in her eyes. It had almost been resignation. Or weariness. As if she was constantly being reminded to eat. Was there someone in her life who was on her case about her weight? A husband, perhaps?

That thought jolted him. She used her maiden name, but many married women did. Just because she wasn’t his type didn’t mean she wasn’t someone else’s, he mused as he collected his briefcase and headed toward the exit. Maybe he’d make a few discreet inquiries. Motivated by nothing more than idle curiosity, he assured himself.

But that didn’t ring quite true. If he didn’t care whether she was married, how could he explain the shock he’d experienced when the possibility had occurred to him?

Mark didn’t know the answer to that question.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to find it.