And maybe it was wrong to ask one woman to dinner when you were having sexual fantasies about another.
Seth blew out a breath as he undid the laces of his leather construction boots and toed them off.
The day had begun so quietly. At nine, the only problem on his agenda had been how to fit in time to stop at Philo’s and take down a Santa Claus.
That was how he liked things. Simple. Easy to figure out. He’d had enough complexity to last him a lifetime after Wendy’s accident. All those endless, mind-numbing days when he’d paced the corridor of the hospital in Oslo, going crazy because she’d been unconscious and all he could do was sit by her bedside and clutch her hand. Then going even crazier because when she’d finally opened her eyes and regained consciousness, she’d turned away from him.
“She’s not herself,” Gina had told him. “She’s just not herself yet, Seth.”
Two terrible weeks later, Wendy still didn’t want to see him. The flowers he’d sent her filled other rooms. The notes he’d written lay in the trash basket. She wouldn’t take his phone calls. And, at last, a weeping Gina brought him a note in Wendy’s own hand.
“I’m sorry,” she’d written, “but I don’t want to see you anymore. Please. Go away.”
He hadn’t wanted to believe it. She was upset. He understood that. She’d come close to death. Now she’d learned that she’d be in a wheelchair. Forever, the doctors said, though nobody who knew Wendy really bought that. So, okay. He’d swallowed past the lump in his throat, written her a last, long letter telling her that he would give her all the time she needed, that he wouldn’t rush her, that he loved her with all his heart and always would. When she was ready, he wrote, he’d be there. Because he knew—knew—that she really loved him.
Seth walked slowly through the house to the dark kitchen. He snagged a cold bottle of ale from the refrigerator, unscrewed the top and took a long, soothing swallow as he made his way into the glass-walled living room with its view of the valley and the mountain ridge beyond it.
How wrong could a man be? He’d poured out his heart in that last letter and Wendy hadn’t even opened it. She’d sent it back with a note scrawled across the flap.
“I don’t want you waiting for me,” she’d written. “I’m sorry, Seth, but the accident opened my eyes to the truth. What we had was just kid stuff, and now it’s over.”
Still, he’d hung in for a long time, telling himself she’d change her mind. The turning point had come months later. He’d phoned Gina to find out how Wendy was and to ask when she was coming home.
“She’s not,” Gina had told him gently. “She needs some very specialized rehabilitation. There’s a place in France, just outside Paris. She’s decided to go there.”
That was the day he’d finally admitted that the girl he’d loved had changed into a woman he didn’t know. A little while later, he’d realized it was more than that. Wendy had gotten it right. What had been between them had been kid stuff. Hot, horny teenage sex that steamed up the windows and made your toes curl, but nothing more. She’d figured out the truth before he had, thanks to the jolt of reality the accident had provided.
He’d needed his own jolt of reality to get on with his life. At first he’d packed up his things, loaded them into his old pickup and taken off for parts unknown. He bummed around the country for a while, as aimlessly as when he’d turned eighteen—washing dishes in Tennessee, picking beans in Arkansas, clearing a fire trail in the Wasatch Mountains, until he woke up one morning and realized with a start of surprise that he was homesick for New England and Cooper’s Corner.
Seth put down the empty bottle, tucked his hands in his back pockets and watched a fat ivory moon rise over the valley.
He’d headed for the Northeast, got an off-season job at a lumberyard. It sounded like something a guy with muscles and no particular training could do. He hoisted two-by-fours, cleaned up, delivered stuff to construction sites and carpentry shops. After a while, he realized he liked the smell of wood and the feel of it under his hands. The guy who owned the lumberyard was into carpentry, and Seth took to hanging around and watching him work.
One thing led to another. Before he knew it, he had a skill, not just a job. Now he had a thriving business and a home he’d built from the ground up, and the woman he’d been seeing for a couple of months had made it clear she’d be interested in a more permanent arrangement.
A smile curled his lips. He went back into the kitchen, put the empty ale bottle in the sink and reached for the phone. It wasn’t too late to call Jo. Seeing her tonight might be just what he needed. She’d come to mean a lot to him. She was a good woman, bright and warm and kind….
Except she wasn’t Wendy. His body, his being didn’t catch fire when she was in his arms, and he never felt the sweet contentment that came of just holding her after they made love.
Seth cursed and slammed the phone back into its cradle.
He was wrong. It was too late to phone Joanne. It was too late to do anything except take a shower, climb into bed and try his damnedest to fall into an uncaring, dreamless sleep.
AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning, Seth had a cup of strong coffee in one hand, the day’s schedule in the other and the kind of headache that made a person consider decapitation as a cure—proof, as if he needed it, that life didn’t always give you what you wanted.
Instead of the solid night’s sleep he’d hoped for, he’d tossed and turned until the blanket and sheets were knotted. Eventually, exhaustion won, but instead of finding rest, he’d been drawn into a turbulent sea of bad dreams. Finally he’d said to hell with it and tossed back the covers. That was when he’d discovered that somebody with a sledgehammer had set up shop inside his skull.
Three aspirin, tossed down his throat as soon as he’d staggered to the bathroom, had yet to chase away the pain. A hot shower followed by a blast of icy water hadn’t done it, either. Seth took a swallow of coffee, hoping a belt of caffeine would do the job. He had a nine-thirty breakfast appointment with a guy he’d met on the slopes a couple of days ago. They’d been the only two people crazy enough to take on Deadman’s Run at dusk. Afterward, over brandy-laced coffee in the lounge, they’d introduced themselves.
“Rod Pommier,” the guy had said, narrowing his eyes as if he half expected the name would elicit a reaction.
Seth had recognized the name—he read the papers—and he knew Pommier wanted privacy. That was fine. As far as he was concerned, the doctor was just another skier.
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m Seth Castleman.”
They shook hands—Seth liked Pommier’s firm, no-nonsense grip—and went back to talking about skiing. After a while, they talked about Cooper’s Corner and how laid-back the town was.
“People seem friendly but not nosy, if you know what I mean,” Rod said.
Seth smiled. “That’s typically New England.”
“I get the feeling that the president of the United States could show up with a pair of skis on and it wouldn’t cause a ripple.”
“Actually, it would depend on whether he was a Democrat or a Republican.” Both men laughed. “But I know what you mean,” Seth said. “This is a small town with an old-fashioned attitude. Don’t get me wrong. Gossip’s the lifeblood of the place, especially if you live here, but if you want to be left alone, nobody’s going to bother you.”
Rod looked up from his coffee. “Am I getting a message here?” he asked pleasantly.
“You mean,