The Man She Married

Randy shook his hand. “Maybe she’ll miss you while you’re in Alaska.”

Gideon gave that suggestion the small, wry laugh it deserved. “I don’t think so. See you two here in the morning. Is eight too early?”

“Eight’s good.”

Gideon followed Hank to a dark green van, Whitcomb’s Wonders painted in white script on the side.

“The men who work for you are called Whitcomb’s Wonders?” Gideon asked, climbing into the van. “That’s quite a claim.”

“It is. And I can back it up. Like I told you over breakfast, clients love that they can call one number for almost any kind of service relating to a home or business.”

“Do you have a good shrink on staff? I feel as though I could use one right about now.”

Hank laughed. “No shrink, but my mother loves to dispense advice. I’ll spare you that.” He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the highway. “I think I understand your frustration. My wife and I were high-school sweethearts. We were separated by a major breach in communication and finally got back together when I moved home a couple of years ago.”

“How did you heal that breach?”

“We fought a lot,” Hank said. “But at least we were talking.”

That, Gideon thought, was the difference right there. Prue had a lot to say but wasn’t interested in listening.

Well. That was fine. He was sure he’d like Alaska. Land of the Midnight Sun, of sled dogs and tales of the gold rush. Another adventure.

He just wished he felt more enthusiastic about it. He had to do something completely different, and a partnership with an old college friend in a fishing lodge in the wilderness had seemed like a good place to relax, enjoy the outdoors and try to get a little spirit back into his life.

He hated what had happened between him and Prue, but pleading with her to listen to the truth was as close as he intended to get to groveling.

Hank pulled up to the Yankee Inn, a three-story colonial with green shutters and a vine-covered pergola at the side.

Inside, as Hank leaned over the counter to embrace his wife and deliver the cinnamon roll, Gideon looked around. He saw worn wood floors, a cozy atmosphere provided by a fieldstone fireplace and a settee that was probably as old as the building.

Hank introduced Jackie, a pretty woman with strawberry blond hair and welcoming gray eyes. Hank wished him good luck, while Jackie checked Gideon in and then led him upstairs to his room. It was remarkably quiet. He could see some roofs, the tops of trees and birds in flight. He went to the window and looked down on the bucolic setting stretched out before him. Drying grass, the beautiful Berkshires and the occasional home dotting the road that led to town. He felt something reach out to him and take hold.

“One of my ancestors hid an injured redcoat in this room,” Jackie said, smoothing the quilt on the bed. “And nursed him back to health.”

He put his bag down and opened the window. Cool fragrant air filled the room. It smelled of wood smoke, and he could hear the musical burble of a stream. He turned back to his hostess to grin. “That was probably a dangerous and unpopular thing for her to do.”

Jackie nodded. “She was sixteen. Danger doesn’t always stop you at that age. Fortunately, he changed sides for her and survived the war. They raised eight children on this place.”

“Courage deserves a happy ending.”

“Yes, it does. And sometimes it takes time to get there.”

She smiled pleasantly as she opened the door, a silent message in her manner that she understood his situation and sympathized with it. Of course. She’d dealt with and survived that major “communications breach” with Hank. And everyone in Maple Hill seemed to know and even care about everyone else’s business.

“Drinks in the lounge five-thirty to seven this evening,” she said. “And continental breakfast from seven to ten in the morning. Is there anything I can get you?”

He looked around the cozy, comfortable room and shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Just press nine on the phone for the desk. Enjoy the day.”

She stepped out into the hallway and closed the door.

He didn’t think there was any way that was going to happen, but he could get himself organized for the trip to Alaska. He confirmed his reservations from Boston, verified his flight on the small plane scheduled to take him from Juneau to Gustavus, then tried to call Dean Kenton, his partner in the fishing lodge, but got no answer.

He took a shower, closed the window in the room as the day wore on to early afternoon, then lay down on the bed, enjoying the unusual luxury of having the time and place for a nap.

The bedding smelled fresh and vaguely herbal as he settled his head into the middle of a plump pillow and closed his eyes. His back and shoulders relaxed against the mattress.

Peace, he thought, enjoying the moment. He was finally going to have peace. Loving Prue had been exciting, tempestuous and undeniably delicious when she was being sane and adult. But she’d displayed those qualities less often in the last year of their marriage, and he wouldn’t miss the tears and shouting on her part, the exasperation and anger on his. Refusing to see him when he’d followed her home had been unreasonable, even for her.

Yes. Moving away was a good thing. Nothing like a clean break from the past, even though he couldn’t completely separate himself from it, as Hank had said. It was a part of him, had changed him. But he would take what he’d learned and move on.

Somewhere there had to be a woman who was willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt.

He was just drifting off, when his cell phone rang.

“Hello?” he asked, sitting up, happy to put thoughts of Prue out of his mind.

“Gideon? It’s Dean.”

“Hi. I tried to call you earlier.”

“Did you? Oh. Sorry.” Dean’s usually cheerful voice was grim and hesitant. “There’s been a lot going on here.”

Gideon could hear a commotion in the background, people shouting. Then he heard a wail—like a siren. He sat up a little straighter. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Dean replied. “But there’s been a fire at the lodge.”

“A fire,” Gideon repeated, a sense of foreboding bumping along his spine.

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed. “The kitchen and the whole guest wing burned to the ground.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I named you Prudence,” Camille O’Hara said.

Prue stared at her mother, a woman in her late forties who was a model and an actress. She’d had her two daughters very young and was still gorgeous. She wore her expertly colored platinum hair in trendy spikes and had an artistic flair for line and color in her clothes. The fact that she was small and slender contributed to her youthful appearance. Prue knew that she got her creative talent from her.

Unfortunately, she’d inherited other things as well. Camille was charming and vivacious with a tendency toward theatrics—a quality probably well suited to her career. But those same qualities made Prue seem like the princess Gideon had often called her.

“Camille, don’t be so hard on her.” Jeffrey St. John, an actor, musician and old friend of her mother’s who was recently rediscovered, had been visiting for a week and showed no signs of going home to Florida. He’d been a calming influence in the household. “She’s had a shock, and strong feelings are involved. What would be right for you isn’t necessarily right for her.”

“How can a strong, dynamic man who loves her not be right for her?” Camille demanded.

“He said he didn’t want me back,” Prue reminded her. Now that the initial shock of seeing Gideon in Maple Hill had passed, Prue was dealing with a sort of posttraumatic depression. The need to be cool and disdainful in the face of his pathetic explanation had disintegrated and now all she felt was loss for the magic they’d known. “Neither one of us wants to be married again. And that ridiculous explanation of what happened was enough to make the most trusting woman laugh.”

“Sometimes,” her mother suggested more quietly after Jeffrey’s reprimand, “truth is stranger than fiction. Remember when you and Paris were little and the dog stole the cookie dough and I thought you’d done it?”