evening, he wanted her.
Memories of Fiona haunted him all week. The way
she curled her feet under her in the chair. The flash of
bare legs when she’d stripped in front of the fire that
first night. Her smile, her laugh, the soft grumpy sound
she made when she awakened. Every damn thing he did
reminded him of her.
Monday he drove back down to town for no other
reason than to check e-mail. She’d responded with a
chatty update. Willow and Dieter were holding hands
in the hall between classes and Willow glowed. Amy
was subdued. Maybe chastened?
Fiona, he thought, could never be anything but hopeful.
She wrote about her plans for Thanksgiving and
asked if he’d be making a big dinner with all the trimmings for his guests.
He hit Reply and told her about this weekend’s
guests, including the couple who’d stayed but eaten at
the end of the table, keeping their voices low and
ignoring the two other couples, and who had complained before leaving that his rates were out of line given the lack of luxuries.
Were you polite? Fiona asked with interest the following week, before describing her Thanksgiving stay JANICE KAY JOHNSON
with her mother who, astonishingly, had invited a male
friend to dinner.
I’m embarrassed at how terribly awkward I found it,
even though they were very careful not to even brush
hands while passing the gravy. Honestly. I felt like a
sullen twelve-year-old!
John reported:
I was one hell of a lot politer than he deserved. I even
reduced his bill.
I wish I could have seen your face, Fiona said, and
he could almost hear her laughing.
John started driving to town twice a week to check
his e-mail and write her. She always responded immediately. He began to resent the lodge’s lack of telephone service that would have allowed him to have an Internet
connection.
Of course, he could call her. But talking never came
easily to him. He could just imagine the silences so long
he’d keep wondering if he’d been cut off. She would undoubtedly sound warm and friendly, but without seeing her face how could he tell if it was forced?
Until she’d come to the lodge, he hadn’t known he
was lonely, but now with her gone, the isolation from
any meaningful human contact ate at him. It was almost
worse when the lodge was occupied. People rarely came
alone. They came in couples, family groups, parties of
friends. He would see the way they touched each other
or the depth of communication in a smile, hear laughter
and a note of intimacy in their voices, and he might as
well have been outside in the cold peering through the
window, so apart did he feel.
He didn’t tell Fiona that, of course. He’d revealed
enough to her. She’d seen him stagger when his leg
failed. He’d made a fool enough of himself when he’d
tackled her during that flashback.
He was getting desperate enough to wonder whether
he could tolerate staying with his parents or sister if he
went down to see her, when she gave him the idea.
She wrote,
I love getting your e-mails, but I miss you anyway. I
imagine us sitting in front of the fire talking—of
course, if there are guests they’re closeted in their
rooms where they belong.
The smile was in her voice, even writing.
Or perhaps we’re hiding in the laundry room. I
confess, I think about the laundry room often.
His fingers seemed to type of their own volition.
Your Christmas break is coming up. You must have
at least a couple of weeks off. Spend them at the
lodge with me.
His heart was thudding after he hit Send. He sat and
stared at the screen as if he expected an instant reply.
Damn. How was he going to wait days? Even one day?
What if she already had plans? What if she didn’t feel
she could desert her mother? What if she was just
talking, and hadn’t meant a word of it?
He was back at the library the next morning just
after ten o’clock. His only e-mail was from Mizzmack.
I thought you’d never ask , she said simply.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE ROAD FELT familiar, but this trip was very different
from the one down the mountain, when road conditions
had still been difficult and Fiona had been so aware that
she was responsible for the lives of the eight teenagers