All Through The House (19 page)

Those prickles walked down Abigail's spine again as Nate
approached her. His back was to the moonlight, so his face was in shadow. She
could almost see a stiff white collar above bow tie and frock coat. Did silk
rustle around her own legs? It seemed entirely natural when he bowed before her
and asked, "May I have this dance?"

"Thank you," she said formally. "I'd like
that."

In an equally formal fashion he held out his arm and she
laid her hand gracefully on it. In a moment he clasped her in a loose embrace
and they waited, very still, for the music to begin.

"Ah," he murmured. "Do you hear it?"

She didn't, not quite, and yet there was almost a whisper on
the edge of her consciousness. Music, soft, romantic, demanding that her feet
move to its command.

It seemed that the shadows rose and moved onto the floor,
too. Abigail closed her eyes and let Nate sweep her into the waltz. In the
echoing expanse of the ballroom she seemed to hear the tinkle of a laugh, the
swish of other skirts and the sound of boots on the gleaming floor as men
twirled their ladies. They weren't alone, she thought fancifully: did the
ghosts dance every night, or did they wait for humans to lead them out onto the
floor?

The lilting music rose to a crescendo and her feet moved
faster and faster as they glided about the room, Nate spinning her dizzyingly.
Breathless, Abigail opened her eyes. All she could see was the moonlight as it
flashed across Nate's face when he turned. He was smiling exultantly down at
her, his eyes dark and his mouth sensual. Abruptly the waltz ended and he
arched Abigail back over his arm in a triumphant conclusion.

She heard another laugh—was it hers?—and then she
straightened, her breasts rising and falling quickly as she tried to catch her
breath. The floor was suddenly empty again, shining in the moonlight. No music,
the guests had gone home.

Nate lifted his hands to frame her face and one thumb gently
touched her lips. His smile had faded and he looked down at Abigail now with an
expression of heart-stopping tenderness.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured huskily.

"It was...my pleasure," she whispered back.

He bent his head and touched her lips with his as softly as
her unseen silk skirts had brushed her legs. She made a small sound and the
kiss deepened, passionate, sweet, mysterious. His mouth was hot and hungry, and
goose bumps shivered over her arms. She wanted him now, here in the moonlight
and silence. He wrapped his hands around her hips and pulled her tightly
against the evidence of his arousal. Abigail reveled in her feminine power and
moved, just a little, against him.

But instead of the reaction she had anticipated, Nate lifted
his head. His voice was thick, hoarse. "Dear God, I love you. Abigail,
will you marry me?"

Her back was to the moonlit windows, so Nate must not have
seen the shock on her face. Nor did he seem to have noticed her lack of
response, because he kept talking, quickly, urgently, his voice still rough
with the passion that clouded Abigail's mind.

"We'll be a pretty small family for a house this size,
but I know you and Kate will be happy here, too. And we can have kids of our
own, fill a couple more bedrooms. Kate told me she doesn't like the house you
live in. She wants a horse, she says. I wouldn't mind one myself. And I know
you worry about money, Abigail. But you wouldn't have to so much. You could cut
back on your hours, maybe even quit working if you wanted to. What do you
say?"

She was still frozen, stunned, though surely she had known
in the back of her mind that this was where he was headed. Why else would he
have asked whether she could love the Irving House, too? Why else his kindness
to Kate?

Maybe she just hadn't wanted to think about the future. The
trouble was, she still didn't want to. Her thoughts seemed to be working in
slow motion, wading through a thick swamp.

"Abigail?"

"I...." She licked her lips and struggled for the
right thing to say. "Nate, I'm not sure...."

His muscles tightened under her hands and he stepped back.
"What do you mean, you're not sure? I didn't think I'd be taking you by
surprise."

"Nate." She hesitated again. She shouldn't have
been surprised. And yet.... "It's just that it's a big step."

"No kidding."

"I'm not sure I'm ready...."

"Ready?" The moonlight treated his face harshly,
but she sensed that his anger disguised fear. "You were ready enough a
minute ago."

"That's different."

"Isn't that my line?" In an abrupt motion he
turned his back and stalked a couple of steps, then swung back to face her.
"I thought you loved me, too. Was I so far off?"

"No!" she cried. "I'm just scared! Can't you understand,
Nate?"

"Scared of what?"

She was scarcely sure herself. Maybe it was her own feelings
that frightened her. It had all happened so fast, so much like her marriage. With
his gifts and phone calls, his charisma and passion, Nate had been trying to
sweep her off her feet. This second time around, Abigail needed to go slowly,
to depend more on reason than on her untrustworthy heart.

"I'm...scared of being owned," she said quietly.

"Owned?" He swore. "Are you trying to tell me
I remind you of your ex?"

She took a deep breath and looked down at her hands,
squeezed together. "Yes." It came out so softly, she had to repeat
herself. "Yes. Yes, you do."

The silence was so complete, Abigail had to look up. Nate
just stood there, his hands dangling uselessly at his sides, his mouth tight
and his eyes dark. They looked at each other, and then he shook his head.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"I'm just asking for time to think about it,"
Abigail said with an effort. "Is that so unreasonable?"

A muscle twitched in his cheek. "I don't know if I want
to marry a woman who has to think about it."

Anger suddenly shook itself awake to join her confusion and
guilt. "What you mean is, you don't want to marry a woman who has an
opinion of her own?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" he blazed
back.

"Do you realize that you asked me to marry you, and
then you didn't even wait for my answer? You assumed! Just like you assumed
we'd live here, and that I'd be the one to cut back on my hours at work or even
quit if my job was inconvenient! Well, my ex-husband assumed he'd make those
kinds of decisions, too. Maybe I'm being paranoid..." He muttered
something she chose to ignore. "...but maybe you need to think about what
kind of wife you want."

"I thought I had," he said grimly.

Abigail had so many emotions tumbling head over heels in her
chest, she didn't know what to think or say. Did she love Nate? What if she'd
just driven him away? In doing so, had she let James still control her? Had her
ex-husband taught her about her own vulnerability so thoroughly, she couldn't
take a risk again?

"Nate..." Her voice was soft, shaky. "I don't
mean to hurt you. I just.... I wasn't prepared. I really do need to think. Will
you let me do that?"

His hand came up to rub the back of his neck, as though the
muscles were painfully tight. "I don't know," he said. "I'll
call you tomorrow, okay?"

She bit her lip and nodded. "I...I guess I'd better
go."

"I'll walk you down."

She wanted to tell him he didn't have to, but only nodded
again. Both were silent during the long trek down two flights of stairs to the
foyer, where she collected her purse. Abigail didn't look at Nate as he walked
her out to her car, but their footsteps crunched loudly on the gravel and she
was very conscious of the house, rearing high and dark above her but for the
warm glow of ground-floor windows. It seemed to have a personality, to be a
part of the tension between her and Nate.

At the car Abigail opened her door and hesitated. Their eyes
met again, and then he lifted his hand to gently touch her cheek. Abigail
jerked, and his mouth tightened.

"We were made for each other, you know," he said,
unnerving certainty in his voice.

Abigail stepped back, bumping into the hard edge of the car
door. "No," she said sharply, just as certainly. "No, I don't
know."

They stared at each other, love and pain warring with pride,
and then Abigail climbed hurriedly into her car and fumbled in her purse for
keys. Her fingers closed on them; the car leaped to life and Nate stood back.

At the foot of the long drive, Abigail had to put the car
into neutral and the emergency brake on. She leaned her forehead against the
steering wheel and took slow, deep breaths.

She was terrified, she realized. Terrified that she had
found something wonderful, and lost it.

And yet, she couldn't have done anything differently. Nate
had asked for too much, too soon. Collecting herself, she put the car into gear
and turned onto the road toward home.

*****

The night was warm, the croak of frogs a familiar
accompaniment to the high summer scent of roses. Nate stood where he was and
watched the taillights of Abigail’s car flicker, then disappear behind the
slope of the hill.

Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to stare
up at the house, a dark bulwark against the fears of the boy he had been. A
cloud slipped across the moon and the darkness became complete but for lighted
windows. Still Nate stood there, chilled even though the evening was warm. He
didn't want to let himself think about Abigail, or pain would slam into his
chest like a two-by-four.

The Irving House. It could still be his. For a second he
flashed back, caught by a sense of deja vu. He'd stood out here in the darkness
before, looking at brightly lit windows, hoping someone would walk past one.
He'd been able to see the great clock on the mantel in the parlor, the oil
painting of William Irving in the library, the delicate plaster cornices around
the ceiling. All the while, he had been hugging to himself a desperate longing
to belong. This was the home he wanted to be his; this was the father, the
mother….

No, not the mother, the adult Nate thought, surprised at the
realization. He had never been interested in Martha Irving, he hadn't cared
that despite his relationship with Josiah, she had treated him with no more
than vague courtesy. He hadn't wanted a mother, he'd wanted a father.

And a home. Well, this was home now; he belonged here. He
had the right to walk up those front steps and through the ornate front door
into the marble front hall. He would be welcomed there, comforted by the years
and generations that had created a house of such grace, a house that should by
rights be his. That still could be his.

It was just his mood that made it look so damned forbidding
tonight. So big, so dark, so empty. The way Abigail had left brought back
memories that made him see things differently, as though he were looking at a
double-exposed film.

He hadn't thought about his mother in years, had convinced
himself he didn't care. Funny, though, how easily he remembered the day he'd
walked home from school and turned a corner just as she drove away in that
dented '55 Chevy. She hadn't seen him, though he glimpsed her profile, thought
he saw tears. Nothing new in that. She'd wipe 'em off her cheeks before she
went into the grocery store or wherever she was going.

Only, that was it. She was gone. The scene, so meaningless
until he knew its finality, had appeared in his dreams for months, maybe years,
afterward. In his dreams he had run after her car, screaming, "Stop!
Stop!" Sometimes the one working taillight would flicker, and he would
think she was stopping, but she never did.

Damn. No wonder the sight of Abigail driving away had shaken
him so badly. He'd been cold one minute, now he was sweating. He wiped his
forehead with the back of his hand and headed into the house. Standing out here
was stupid.

Inside, he wandered restlessly through each floor, waiting
for the familiar sense of security he always felt here. Tonight it didn't come.
If the house had looked too big from outside, inside it damn near echoed. Room
after room, silence behind him, silence ahead. Not even the cats appeared; true
to their contrary nature, they never were here when he wanted them.

He went up to the ballroom only to shut the windows; damp
night air wouldn't do wonders for the maple floor. The clouds had passed and
the moon shone silver through the tall windows, but when he hesitated, one hand
on the window latch, no wisps of music reached his ears. It always had been in
his imagination. The room was no more romantic than a deserted gymnasium.

Back downstairs he made himself a cup of coffee, but instead
of sitting, he found himself back on the second floor, outside Josiah's office.

Nate asked from the doorway. "Damn it, Josiah, where
are you?"

Silence. What did he expect, an answer?

Josiah's desk was still here. Who'd want it? It was an ugly
old office desk, chipped oak veneer and chunky legs. There was a gray metal
filing cabinet, which Ed had had no interest in, and a couple of office chairs
upholstered in green plastic. A house like this, and Josiah had been most
comfortable here. The irony had struck Nate before.

He supposed Ed had gone through the desk and filing cabinet
in hopes of a little buried gold in the form of life insurance or stock
certificates. Nate was pretty sure Ed hadn't found any. Josiah had loved this
house, and he wouldn't have let it deteriorate if he could have afforded
renovation.

Nate had trouble making himself go in and sit down behind
that big desk. He hadn't actually set foot in this room since the last time he
saw Josiah. It'd be under an inch of dust if it weren't for the cleaning lady.
Nate had corresponded with the old man during college and his years of
footloose wandering, looking forward to Josiah's letters more than he did to
his sisters'. Nate hadn't seen Josiah in over ten years, the day he come home
to Pilchuck. He had found a place to live, then driven out here.