All Through The House (8 page)

"Why not? At least you're listening to me."

Nate wondered how much his partner really wanted to hear. He
approached the truth indirectly. "The Irving House is going to be sold
right out from under me."

"Somebody interested?"

"Not yet. But I have a bad feeling., The listing agent
has pulled out all the stops."

"Nate, what are we talking about here?"

"I took her out to dinner Friday night."

The big man swung to face him. "Jesus, Nate...."

"Not because she's the listing agent," Nate said
gloomily. "Despite it."

A pause. "Then what's the problem?"

Nate hesitated. "I guess you might say...we're
antagonists."

"You don't want the house to sell. She does. So
what?"

So what? He was trying to cut her feet out from under her,
that's what. Then again, she didn't know it. And with luck, the situation would
never arise again.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "You're right."
Wasn't having it all the great American dream?

*****

Abigail's reaction to Nate's voice on the phone was
uncomfortably complex. Relief, anger, exhilaration.  She felt like a teenager,
sulky because he hadn't called sooner, thrilled because he had now. She didn't
like it. Women were trapped by that kind of need.

"Nate," she said, in a voice that betrayed none of
her emotions. "How are you?"

"Hey, I still have a place to live. Can't ask for much
more than that."

"Have you talked to a Susan Richards from Realty World?
She plans to show the house."

There was a moment of silence. "No, she hasn't
called."

"I'm sure she will," Abigail said, "because
she wants to know ahead of time whether you have a cat. Her client is
allergic."

"A cat? I'm afraid so. Is that a problem?"

"It may be. You can talk to the agent yourself. If your
cat's outside most of the time, maybe...."

"I'll talk to her," he said, without much
interest. "How's your week gone?"

"Oh, not bad." Abigail told him about the house
she'd sold to the Petersons, a modern monstrosity with Greek columns across the
front that looked hideously out of place in its Northwest setting.
"They're delighted, though Mrs. Peterson said something wistful about the
Irving House. She really loved it."

"How about you?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Could you love it?"

Could she? What an odd way of putting it. "Yes,"
she said slowly. "I've always liked old houses. I know my four-year-old
would adore the ballroom."

"Speaking of Kate," he said, "I called to
find out if you two are free tomorrow or Sunday. I thought we could hike up to
the ice caves at Big Four."

"Do you know, I've never been there," Abigail
admitted, thinking quickly. If she were smart, she'd call an end to this now. Nate
awakened dangerous feelings in her. She wasn't ready for a serious
relationship, and Nate made her want more than a casual one. Still, she'd
enjoyed the other night, and Kate would love a hike. "Sure," she
said. "Hold on and let me check with Meg."

Putting his call on hold, she raised her voice. "Meg,
do you care whether you work Saturday or Sunday?"

"Nope," her partner's voice floated from her own
office. "Not if you have a hot prospect."

Hot, maybe, Abigail thought wryly. But not quite in the way
Meg had in mind.

"Either day would be good for us," she told Nate.
They made arrangements for the next morning. "I'll provide the
lunch," she said firmly. "If you picked the wrong brand of peanut
butter, we'd be in trouble."

"Picky, huh?"

"Normal," she said. "Thank you for including
her, Nate."

"We're meant for each other. We rhyme, remember?"

So they did. She only hoped he wouldn't break her daughter's
heart, too.

*****

"Here we are," Nate announced, and Abigail turned
the car into the parking lot at the foot of Big Four, the precipitate,
glacier-clad mountain that harbored ice caves. Nate had suggested she drive,
since his pickup had only two bucket seats.

The drive hadn't been long, but Abigail was surprised afresh
at how dramatically the scenery had changed. After leaving the small town of
Granite Falls, the road wound through the Robe Valley, following the south fork
of the Stillaguamish River. Here it was clear and cold, cutting deep-green
fishing holes and frothing over gray rocks. Once past the ranger station and in
the national forest, the foothills rose dark green to the rock and snow of the
mountains above. Here beside the parking lot was a mountain meadow as peaceful
as anyplace Abigail could remember.

There had been a resort hotel here long ago that had burned
to the ground, leaving only one stone chimney. A few picnic tables dotted the
meadow. As Nate locked the car, Abigail helped Kate shrug into the small day
pack she'd insisted on carrying with her own lunch in it.

Nate grinned, the grooves in his cheeks deepening. "Are
the women carrying the chow?"

"You bet," Abigail said cheerfully. "The men
can carry the garbage out."

"It's a deal. You ready, short stuff?"

Kate nodded shyly. In pink denim jeans and Little Mermaid
T-shirt, she looked astonishingly grown up. She'd be starting kindergarten in
little over a year. Abigail’s heart squeezed. Thank God for Kate, she thought
fervently.

She had worn shorts herself and a sturdy pair of running
shoes. Abigail wasn't sure whether to be glad of the shorts or sorry when
Nate's gaze flicked down the bare, lightly tanned length of her legs. His eyes
had darkened when they met hers again, and for just an instant the silence was
stifling.

Then Kate said, "Can we go?"

"Why not?" Nate said, gesturing gallantly.
"Ladies first."

The trail led on a boardwalk across the wet meadow. Water
trickled beneath the walk and the grass was long and lush. Abigail saw the
small splash of a frog diving in and pointed it out to Kate, who squatted with
the ease of the young, her nose almost down to the water.

Nate watched her with an odd expression. "I have a
niece about her age," he said finally. "I don't see much of
her."

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?"

"One sister, two brothers. We're not close. We get
together on Thanksgiving, that's about it."

When they were under way again, Abigail said, "My
mother is here in Seattle. I'm grateful for that. Dad's dead, and my sister
lives back East, so we don't see her often. At least Kate has her grandmother."

"To spoil her rotten?"

"Grandma gave me this shirt," Kate contributed
from her spot in the lead. "And a My Little Pony shirt, too. It's
pink."

"Your favorite color?"

She shook her head and dark curls bobbed. "I like
green. Mommy's eyes are green, you know."

He glanced at Abigail. "I noticed. They're very
pretty."

"Thank you," Abigail murmured. She dropped back
just a little when Nate said something to her daughter, and watched the two
together. Kate was small and sturdy, her ponytail bobbing and her voice high.

In contrast to the child, Nate looked even taller and leaner
and more dangerous. His dark-blond hair was just long enough to curl against
his neck, while a lock wanted to hang over his forehead. He kept shoving it
impatiently back. In faded denim jeans and a gray T-shirt, he reminded Abigail
of the first time she'd seen him, plumbing wrench in hand. He looked like he
should be a workingman, the contractor half of his partnership. Only his hands
gave him away. His brown forearms rippled with an easy play of muscle when he
tugged Kate's ponytail as he said something teasing to her, but his long
fingers were unmarred and expressive. She loved his hands, Abigail thought
dreamily.

She was brought back to herself by the muted roar of the
river, still full with snow-melt this first day of July. They reached the
stairs up to the timber bridge, but Kate dug in her heels at the bottom.

"Can we wade?" she pleaded.

"Why don't we do it on our way down?" Nate suggested.
"Our feet will need a soak then."

She loved his voice, too, Abigail thought; rough-timbred, it
was unmistakable and very sensual.

Kate nodded docilely, and Abigail rolled her eyes. If she
had been the one to refuse her daughter, the result would have been different.
Kate might be almost five years old, but she was still capable of throwing
temper tantrums. Or whining at the very least.

But, no, she took Nate's proffered hand and let him help
boost her up the steep plank steps. After peering through the railing at the
river, she galloped ahead. The wooden bridge thundered under her Ked-clad feet.

Oh, well. Maybe it was his voice. It was enough to make
Abigail want to do what he suggested, too.

Pausing right over the river, Abigail took a deep breath and
gazed down at the icy, jade-green water. She could see it through the cracks
between planks beneath her feet, too. The sight was enough to remind her of
another pool of water: on the ballroom floor.

She lifted her gaze to Nate's. "By the way, how are the
roofers coming along?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he said equably,
"Done, I think. There were just a few loose shingles. No wonder. That's a
damned steep roof to work on. Someone just got careless."

"You sound more tolerant than Ed Phillips,"
Abigail commented.

Nate's expression became shuttered. "Ed doesn't have
much patience for human weakness."

"I...had that impression, too," she admitted,
wondering if she'd stepped off the straight-and-narrow. She usually didn't
discuss clients. Curiosity drove her to take one more small step. "I also
have the impression that you don't like Ed very much."

Nate's shoulders moved in a shrug of apparent indifference.
"I got my start around here working for Ed. We had a parting of the
ways."

His tone didn't exactly forbid any more questions, but
something made her doubt they were welcome. Well, he hadn't told her anything
she couldn't have guessed. What's more, she would be willing to bet the dislike
was mutual. Which left a big question. Why did Nate live in a house Ed owned
and was trying to sell out from under him?

Past the river, the trail began to switch back up through
deep forest. They were shaded by tall Douglas firs and cedars. Huge, rotting
fallen trees and stumps wide enough for a man to lay across were a testimonial
to a time before man had logged the Northwest.

They paused once at a small creek that trickled across the
trail for a drink from cupped hands. Kate marched along with admirable
determination and a child's energy. The mile was little more than a stroll for
Nate with his long legs, hampered by a four-year-old's pace. He and Abigail
talked desultorily, enjoying the rare silence. They passed several family
groups on the trail, but in between they heard no cars or other voices, only a
primeval silence. Abigail felt herself relaxing as she hadn't in months. Years.

They emerged at last into the hot sun at the foot of the
mountain. The trail petered out between the huge rocks of the talus. Above was
the ice field, undercut at the bottom where it melted into a trickle of water
that made the rocks slick underfoot.

Some kids were sliding on a piece of cardboard down the
snowy slope, yelling in voices that echoed from the rock face of the mountain
above. Patches of tiny wildflowers grew in the gritty soil between boulders.

"We'll have to scramble up a little higher to see the
ice caves," Nate said. "I hope they've melted out this summer. Shall
we find a nice flat rock and have our picnic first, though?"

"Sounds good," Abigail agreed.

The perfect candidate for a lunch table was just being
vacated by a couple who smiled vaguely and shouldered day packs for the hike
out. Somehow Abigail ended up in the middle on the sun-warmed slab of rock,
Kate happily ensconced next to her and Nate uncomfortably close on the other
side. His shoulder brushed hers as he watched her unwrap her daughter's peanut
butter and jelly sandwich. A frisson of awareness shuddered through her at even
the small contact. Something in the line of his mouth told her she wasn't alone
in feeling it.

"Turkey," she said in an unnaturally bright voice,
handing over the next sandwich. "I hope that's all right."

"Only if it's the right brand." His mouth relaxed
into a grin that made her light-headed.

"Picky, picky."

"Normal," he mocked.

There was nothing "normal" about him, not if it
meant ordinary. She thought again that, despite growing up there, he didn't
seem to fit in Pilchuck, a small town where the Dairy Princess was more
important than the Homecoming Queen, and where 4-H and Future Farmers of
America were popular with kids who intended to grow up and farm their fathers'
acres. Of course, there were an increasing number of residents who commuted as
far as Seattle, but they were seeking the rural peace that Pilchuck hadn't yet
lost.

Was peace what Nate sought, too? Had he remembered it from
his childhood?

While they ate grapes and homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies,
she asked him, "Did you miss Pilchuck when you were away?"

Since they had been idly discussing school, from memories of
hated teachers to favorite subjects, Nate didn't look too startled by the
question.

"Not at first. Eighteen years old, I couldn't shake the
dust of it off fast enough. But after my father died…." He shrugged.
"You get to thinking back. It was easier to remember the good parts after
a few years away."

The good parts? Casually, she said, "You've never
mentioned your mother."

"My parents were divorced when I was a kid. Never saw
her again."

Aghast, Abigail turned to stare at him. He smiled crookedly
when he saw her expression. "Never?" she repeated incredulously.