A January Chill

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 your fault,” she said urgently.

“Maybe not.” He dragged his eyes away from her and looked toward a corner of the kitchen. “And maybe it was. The point is, Joni, nobody except me really knows what happened that night. I can’t blame Witt for thinking I should have done more. I think about that a lot myself.”

Horror gripped her like vines of ice around her heart. “No, Hardy.”

“Yes, Hardy,” he said almost mockingly. He looked at her. “I’ve replayed those thirty seconds in my mind so many times, and I keep reaching the same conclusion. I didn’t have enough experience at the wheel. Maybe I should have sped up instead of slowing down. Maybe I could have spun the wheel more. Maybe if I’d known that drunk drivers steer right into lights I would’ve had the presence of mind to turn mine off. Maybe I should have gone left instead of right. I can think of a dozen things I could have done differently. Maybe the outcome would have been different.”

He leaned forward, his gaze burning into her. “And if I can think that, why shouldn’t Witt? I don’t blame him for how he feels.”

She hated to think of Hardy feeling this way. “Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty.”

“No it’s not,” he said harshly. “It just asks a lot of pointless questions. But this isn’t getting us anywhere. I can’t bid on this project. I’d just be wasting my time.”

“You don’t know that.” Anger began to burn in her.

“And you don’t know that Witt might have a change of heart.”

“You don’t know that he won’t. My uncle isn’t a stupid man, Hardy. He wants to build the best lodge he can afford. He doesn’t want it to be second-rate, or fail because it isn’t attractive enough.”

“And he can get any one of a dozen decent architects and general contractors anywhere between Denver and Glenwood Springs.”

“He said he’s doing this to make jobs for local people.”

Hardy shook his head in exasperation. “Noble intent, but I’m sure he’s not thinking of me as local people. Christ, Joni, you still go off half-cocked, don’t you?”

Another time she might have bristled, but right now she didn’t want to argue with him. It would only make it easier for him to refuse to bid. “I’m not going off half-cocked. I’ve been thinking about this for months now.”

He just looked at her.

“Hardy, it’s time for this to end.”

His eyebrows lowered, and something in his jaw set. “Have you considered that you’re proposing to pick at one very large scab? That if you keep this up, someone may well wind up bleeding?”

“It’s been twelve years,” she said. It sounded like a mantra, even to her. “Enough is enough. Don’t chicken out, Hardy.”