Anna felt something warm blossom inside her, the first real warmth she’d felt in longer than she could remember. Her smile trembled, then deepened. “Thank you. It’s been...a very long time since I’ve heard that.”
She was suddenly struck by the oddity of their situation. She was having a conversation with a goodlooking man who’d been born years after her. A living man.
It was pointless for her to flirt with him, or to be so senselessly flattered by his compliment. And there was nothing to be gained by wasting time imagining what it would be like to be held in those strong arms, clasped against his broad, solid-looking chest.
She needed him, but only because there was a chance that he could help her and Ian escape the gray loneliness of the prison that had held them for the past seventy-five years. There could be no other bond between her and Dean Gates.
“You didn’t have a chance to find out anything about us today?” she asked, deliberately returning her thoughts to the favor she’d asked of him.
“No.”
She knew he must see the disappointment on her face. He quickly added, “But I did ask some questions at the newspaper office. The editor said he would help me with my research.”
She was delighted, as pleased that he’d bothered to ask as by the results. He was going to help her! “Dean, that’s wonderful! When can you start?”
He held up a hand. “Hey, don’t rush me, all right? I’ve got a lot going on right now with these renovations. And I never really agreed to do this in the first place, if you’ll remember.”
Her smile faded. “I know. You have a life to lead.”
He winced at the quote. “Look, I’m sorry about that, okay?”
She brushed the apology off with a wave of the hand. “Never mind. I am pleased that you’re renovating the inn. Ian and I have hated watching it being so shamefully neglected. Just don’t allow that woman to paint over our beautiful wood!”
Dean smiled wryly. “So you’ve said.”
Anna looked seriously at him, searching his face with intense eyes, looking for signs that he was the man he appeared to be. “Promise me...”
She heard her own voice fading, felt the odd tugging sensation that signaled her return to the grayness.
“What?” Dean asked, frowning again.
“I have to go now,” she said, already sounding farther away, even to herself.
“What did you want me to promise?”
At the moment, one concern overrode all her other worries. “Take care of our home.”
He looked surprised. He must have expected her request to have something to do with the other favor she’d asked of him. “I will,” he said. There was no mistaking his sincerity. “It’s my home, too, now,” he reminded her.
She liked the sound of that. It had grieved her that no one had truly loved the inn the way her mother had, the way she and Ian had been raised to love it. Maybe Dean would learn to love it in the same way.
She hadn’t understood why Dean was the one who could see her, why she’d never been able to communicate with anyone before him. Maybe the answer lay in their mutual respect for this beautiful place that had been built by her feather’s own hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re—”
The grayness suddenly engulfed her.
STANDING IN THE MIDDLE of nowhere, surrounded by nothing, Ian turned to her, obviously relieved that she’d returned. She knew how empty it must seem to him here alone.
“Well?” he asked.
She took his hand and began to tell him everything that had been said. She left out only that odd, intense moment when Dean Gates had looked into her eyes and told her that she was beautiful.
That was a memory to be savored in private.
THERE WAS no indentation on the bed where she’d sat. Dean spread his fingers on the comforter. It was cold.