Enright Family Collection (106 page)

She tried to imagine what it would be like to go a whole week without dancing. Two weeks—three. Unprecedented. What on earth would she do with her time?

Georgia passed through the lobby of her building mechanically, her mind clearly someplace else. She twirled her door key around on its chain in a wide arc somewhat absently as she climbed the six flights to
her floor, then unlocked the door and entered into her own white world.

The carpets, the furniture, the walls of Georgia’s apartment—all were white and cool and soothing. She sat on a large square ottoman in the living room and took off her running shoes, then her socks, still replaying her conversation with Lee. She tried to envision herself going through a day that did not find her at the barre with the other dancers. Oh, she had had a few of those—holidays and such—but not so very many since she had committed herself to dance. Even summer vacations were spent attending special workshops. The hours at the studio not spent in rehearsal were spent in class. Her whole life had revolved around dance for so long that she wasn’t sure she could fill even a week’s worth of time if she was not dancing.

And yet, the last time she had visited Laura, there had been a pull toward the beach, where she had sat in the sun and just watched the rhythmic roll of ocean onto sand. Later there had been pleasant hours spent curled up in one of the little sitting rooms, where she had read a book, cover to cover. It had been a delightful day. Laura, an avid reader, always had lots of books available for her guests. Georgia pictured herself lounging in one of those oversized chairs pulled up close to the fireplace ... or maybe snuggled amid the plump cushions on the window seat that overlooked Laura’s gardens. Not that she would expect there to be anything in bloom this time of year, but it would still be a pretty view. Laura had bird feeders outside just about every window of the inn, and there would be nuthatches and titmice at the
feeders, cardinals and blue jays on the ground below, pecking at the spillage.

Georgia glanced at her watch. Her mother would be working in her spacious office on the first floor of the carriage house on her “gentleman’s farm” tucked amidst the hills of Chester County, Pennsylvania. A mystery writer, Delia Enright kept a meticulous schedule, particularly when she was just starting a new book. Georgia recalled that her mother’s latest project was now a healthy three weeks old, and she would be allowing herself a leisurely lunch hour around one, the best time of day to reach Delia by phone. Georgia knew that Delia would support all her children in absolutely any endeavor that made them happy. If Georgia felt she needed a break from dance, Delia would encourage her to take one. If dance was no longer fulfilling, Delia would be the first to urge her to move her life along. Georgia needed to hear her mother tell her exactly that before she spoke with Ivan.

Georgia knew, of course, exactly how Ivan would react. He would get that malicious little gleam in his eye, and it would all go downhill from there. Very publicly—and very loudly.

First he would compliment her on her public acknowledgment that Sharyn was, of course, the better dancer, and one so much more deserving of the coveted role. How mature of you, Madame Enright, he would coo as he walked around her slowly. How very
gracious.

Then he would begin to belittle her for running from the challenge, then segue into all the reasons why she would not have been selected for the role.
Before long he would have dredged up every error—every misstep, every wrong turn—she had made over the past six years, all of which would be openly discussed and demonstrated for the rest of the dancers.

Her face burned at the thought of the ordeal, of the humiliation Ivan would heap upon her right before dismissing her. There was, however, no way around it, other than to just never show up again. As much as she dreaded the very thought of the certain confrontation, she could never be that much of a coward. She would tell Ivan face-to-face of her plans to take a leave of absence from the troupe. And she would take the consequences—however harsh they might prove to be, she vowed as she dialed her mother’s number—praying that it would, in the end, prove to be worth it.

Disappointed when the answering machine picked up instead of Delia, Georgia left a brief message, then gathered up her discarded shoes and socks, depositing them on the bedroom floor before heading into the shower, where she would rehearse her lines before taking on Ivan the Terrible.

Matthew Bishop stood at the passenger side of his battered black pickup truck and waited until Artie, his dog, had climbed in before slamming the door with a vengeance. His sister, Laura, was making him crazy with worry. Ever since she had found her birth mother, she’d become more and more involved with her newly discovered family. He just couldn’t understand it, why Laura would feel this need to immediately open her heart to this stranger, who had, after
all, given her away as a newborn and hadn’t bothered to look for her until thirty-five years had passed.

“Take it easy,” he’d tried to tell her. “Go one step at a time with these people. You don’t know them, you don’t know what their motives are—”

‘What motive could there be, Matt?” Laura had snapped. “Delia just wants to get to know me. I have two half sisters and a half brother, I’ve gone a lifetime without even knowing of their existence—they want to know me, too. And I want to know them. What is it that you’re afraid of, Matt?”

“The truth?” He’d asked, not wanting to have to say it.

“Of course, the truth.” Laura had insisted.

“I’m afraid that she’ll abandon you again.” It had hurt him just to utter the words, but she had asked for the truth and he would give it to her. “That one day the novelty will wear off for her, and that she’ll just slip back into the life she had before she found you.”

“That will never, ever happen, Matt.” A shadow had passed over Laura’s beautiful face, in spite of her words. Perhaps she had secretly feared the same thing?

“You don’t know that, Laur.”

“Well, I guess only time will prove that I am right, and you are wrong,” Laura had said. “Delia gave me life, Matt. I need to know her. I know that you don’t understand, but you have to trust me.”

No, Matt didn’t understand. He had memories enough of his birth mother—hazy though they might be—to know that he never wanted to so much as hear her name spoken aloud. In his mind and in his heart, Charity Evans Bishop, who had taken him
in as a terrible-tempered toddler and had loved him fiercely,
was
his real mother. It had been Charity who had loved him before he had been lovable, had rocked him when he screamed with rage and frustration, and had held him while he sobbed out his fears.

Having been mostly neglected and ignored since birth, Matt had come to the Bishops’ home as a four-year-old who, having rarely been spoken to, could not speak beyond a very limited vocabulary. The social workers who had found him living in squalor when his drug-addicted mother had overdosed that last time had immediately declared the boy to be retarded, but the police officer who had been called to the scene had sensed something else—something fierce and alive. The officer had called his cousin from the hospital to ask if Tom Bishop and his wife still wanted that son they had talked about adopting. From the minute she had laid eyes on Matthew, Charity had declared that there was nothing wrong with the boy that a loving family could not cure.

For the most part, she had been right.

And so Matt had gone from the hell of abandoned houses to the luxury of a historic inn; from near-complete solitude to a loving family that had included the daughter the Bishops had adopted twelve years earlier. Laura had adored Matt from the day he had been brought home. She had played with him and read to him, taught him the things that a child living with the bay on one side and the ocean on the other needed to know. She had become his big sister in every true way, and together they had been the children that Tom and Charity had prayed for.

And hadn’t Tom Bishop been the sort of dad that
every boy deserved? One who taught him to fish and played ball with him; went to all of his ball games and cheered him on, from Little League through high school? It had been Matt’s darkest day when they lost Tom, who, with his last breath, had reminded his son that
he
was the man of the family, now.

“Take care of your mother and your sister, Matt....” Tom had whispered.

“I will, Dad. I promise,” a teary Matt had vowed.

Oh, and just look at how well you kept that promise,
Matt’s conscience poked at him.
You couldn’t protect your mother from getting sick, but you could have done a better job watching out for Laura. If you had been on the ball, maybe she’d never have married ...

Exasperated with himself, Matt marched to his truck, haunted by promises not kept.

Well, this time he wouldn’t let his father down.

Tom and Charity had given Matt a home and a family, a name and a sense of self-worth, and—most important—they had given him unconditional love. He owed it to them—and to Laura—to make sure that she wasn’t hurt.

He wished that Laura had just told that Enright woman to take a hike when she first showed up. But she hadn’t, and she had opened her heart immediately and welcomed all the Enright clan like—well, like long-lost family. Laura had always been one to lay all her cards on the table. Her open, loving nature had caused her to be badly burned once before.

If she wasn’t wise enough to be a little more cautious, a little less trusting on her own account, then Matt would have to be vigilant for her.

“Damn stubborn woman,” Matt mumbled as he
shot into the driver’s side of the cab and caught a glimpse of his sister in his side-view mirror as she approached the truck.

“Matt, I just wish you would be a little more rational about this. I can’t understand why you are so closed-minded ...”

“Closed-minded?” He rolled the window down and stared into Laura’s face. “Because I’m trying to protect you, that makes me closed-minded?”

“Matt, I don’t need anyone to protect me. Delia is my
mother.”

“Laura, your
mother
is wasting away over in Riverview.”

“Matt, that was unkind. Are you implying that because I’m establishing a relationship with Delia, I’m somehow neglecting Mom?”

“Does the shoe fit?”

“No, it doesn’t fit. I still drive out to see Mom three times a week, just as I have since the day we took her there, Matt, and for two cents right now, I’d drag you out of that truck and drop-kick your ass from here to the Atlantic. I really resent—”

“Yeah, well, I really
resent,
too ...” he muttered as he shifted the truck into gear and prepared to pull out of the driveway.

“Matt,” she called after him. “If you would only spend just a little time with Delia—talk to her, get to know her—you’d see that she doesn’t have any ulterior motives, that she’s—”

“I don’t have the time or the inclination to get to know
Delia,
or anyone else named Enright.” He hung one arm out the window and waved. “You do what
you want, Laura. You will anyway. Just remember that you have a family that loves you, one that has always loved you. We were here before she came back into the picture, and we’ll be here for you after she leaves.”

“Matt, she isn’t leaving!”
he heard her insist as he pulled away.

In his rearview mirror, Matt could see Laura standing where he’d left her, her hands folded across her chest. That one foot tapping on the asphalt surface of the parking area behind the inn left no doubt in his mind that his sister was
really
angry. Well, he was none too happy with her at that moment, either.

Laura turned heel and stomped up the back steps leading to the inn.

Forced by oncoming vehicles to stop abruptly about ten feet from the exit of the narrow lot, Matt backed up, then waited as both a light blue Jeep and an oil delivery truck prepared to pull in. The Jeep drove past him briskly and swept into a spot to his left, but the driver of the oil truck had cut too wide an arc, and Matt had to back up yet again to permit the truck to enter the parking lot. Mumbling oaths under his breath, he sat and watched the truck slowly maneuver through the entry.

He heard the slam of a car door, and turned his head to the left in time to see a young woman round the back of the Jeep and open the cargo door. She was a tiny thing, and looked as delicate as spun glass.

A trim little bottom wrapped in denim leaned into the back of the Jeep to retrieve several bags and a box from the cargo area. While shifting items from one
arm to the other, a canvas bag dropped to her feet. As she bent to retrieve it, unbelievably long hair—pale as corn silk and reaching near to her waist—slid over her shoulders in a thick wave. She turned, and in one motion, awkwardly slammed the cargo door with her foot. From ten feet away, Matt could see big, wide-set eyes, a pert little nose, and full lips that bore no trace of lipstick. It was a face a man wasn’t likely to forget.

“Nice.” He nodded objectively. “Very, very nice.”

The blonde hoisted the canvas bags over her shoulder, holding a box upon which balanced another bag, and walked toward
the
inn.

She moves like music
slipped unbidden through his mind, and he wondered where the thought had come from.

“Looks like we left one day too soon, Artie.” Matt said aloud.

The dog panted noncommittally.

“Probably a tourist, making her way up the coast.
Ummm,
maybe Florida to New York, what do you think?” Matt said, playing with his dog the game he had, as a child, played with his sister; trying to guess who the inn’s patrons might be, where they were from, and where they might be going.

Artie thumped his tail loudly on the black leather.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too.”

The blonde dropped the bag she’d been balancing, and struggled to do a deep knee bend to pick it up.

“Aw, there are some opportunities that a man just can’t pass up,” Matt said. He opened the cab door and hopped out. “You wait here, Artie. This is strictly a one-man job.”