Possibilities: A Contemporary Retelling of Persuasion Page 6

  “The restroom?” she asked and a slight line formed between her brows.

  “Yes.” He dug his fingers against the pocket of his wind suit. “You know, the place with the, um, toilet.” This is getting more stupid by the minute! He tried a smile but figured he gave her the disgruntled look instead.

  “Oh! The restroom,” Allie replied as if she really needed the explanation. “It’s right by the library.” She pointed with her left hand—the hand that held no wedding band.

  Frederick stared at her fingers a full five seconds and locked his knees. “Uh, right. Um, thanks.” He cut another glance at her face, figured he better leave before he started hyperventilating, and walked back toward the dining room.

  “No. It’s that way,” Allie said.

  Frederick stopped and glanced over his shoulder. Allie was still pointing to the left with her ringless hand.

  “What is?” He wrinkled his brow.

  “The—the restroom,” she said. “You know, the place with the toilet.” Her taut lips barely turned up at the corners.

  “Oh, right.” Frederick mumbled and strode across the foyer like a man on a mission.

  Once he stepped into the brass and tile restroom and shut the door, he pointed his index finger at his temple as if he were pulling the trigger on a gun. He looked at himself in the mirror, whispered, “I know there’s a restroom around here somewhere,” and then scowled.

  I couldn’t have been more obvious if I’d used a lame pickup line, he decided and recalled all the soldiers-on-the-make in the Air Force. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” Frederick mocked.

  He lowered the lid on the toilet, plopped onto it, rested his forearms on his knees, and stared at the white tile. I must have been stark raving mad to come here, he thought.

  The bathroom was as opulent as everything else in this mansion—right down to the gold-plated Kleenex box and the crystal candle holder in which burned a votive that smelled like peach cobbler. He picked up the crystal piece and plunked it back down. A drop of wax splashed out and seared his finger. Frederick winced and rubbed the drying wax from his skin.

  Nothing had changed. Not even the scent of the candles the Eltons used. And certainly not the cold gleam in Landon Russ’s eyes.

  No matter how warm and friendly she was, Frederick recognized what Landon couldn’t hide. Not with him, anyway. She still thought she and the Eltons were several rungs higher on the value ladder than he and his family. Except this time there was a thread of desperation mixed with the chill.

  “That’s odd,” Frederick whispered. He rested his forearms on his knees again and linked his fingers. The issue remained an enigma until he recalled Allie opening the front door . . . and hanging up the coats. In his memories, there had always been a doorman to perform those duties. Darren and Sophia even had a doorman these days.

  Why not the Eltons? Why not now?

  A shocking thought plunged into Frederick’s mind and left him blinking. What if they’re broke and they have to lease this place?

  “Oh man!” he whispered and stood. Frederick placed his thumb and index finger above his temples and squeezed.

  That would explain a lot of things, he thought. Like why Allie looked so . . . so pale. He barely even recognized her at the door. The Allie he remembered was bright and pretty with long hair and rosy cheeks. This Allie was almost colorless and her hair was cropped short. While the haircut definitely became her, Frederick ached for the old Allie’s vivacious gleam.

  He thought of that famous scene from Gone with the Wind when Scarlett O’Hara visited Rhett Butler. She’d told him how wonderful everything was at Tara, and he believed her—until he realized her hands were calloused because she’d been working like a field hand.

  Frederick crossed his arms, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. Richard had strongly indicated he was leasing the place for leisure purposes only. Landon supported his claim. But Allie said nothing.

  Maybe that’s because they’re lying just like Scarlett lied to Rhett, Frederick thought. And maybe Allie refused to participate.

  Frederick opened his eyes. “She always detested lying,” he murmured and idly wondered if Allie’s ringless hands were calloused. If so, she was being served a massive helping of poetic justice.

  But even if the Eltons were broke, Landon still clung to her skewed value scale, which meant Frederick still wasn’t good enough for Allie.

  Some things never change, he thought and could have whacked himself for coming here. The only good it had accomplished was the stirring of sweet, old memories and the resurrection of hard, ageless pain.

  An hour later, Allie sat in her corner recliner, her eyes swollen, her box of tissue exhausted. A mountain of wadded Kleenex rested on the lampstand next to a mug full of coffee, cold and untouched. She stroked the last page of the scrapbook and reread the final keepsake article about Frederick. She’d stumbled across the interview in the New York Times and cherished it as much as the People magazine cover story.

  None of the stories mentioned a wife. And Allie had noted during their conversation about the bathroom that Frederick still wore no wedding ring. The knowledge made the pain more poignant.

  He was as handsome now as he had been in all his war hero photos, and even more than when they first fell in love. Allie picked up the last tired tissue from her lap and pressed it against her burning eyes. She retrieved the mug of cold coffee, sipped the acrid liquid, grimaced, and scooted to the edge of the recliner.

  Still clutching the scrapbook, Allie stood and padded into her bathroom in her stockinged feet. She dumped the coffee down the marble sink and set the empty mug on the countertop. Allie didn’t even want to look at her red-eyed self, so she kept her gaze away from the mirror and firmly on the hardwood floor.

  I probably look more like a bug-eyed chihuahua right now than Penny does, she thought as she walked toward the windows, which were draped in sage-colored cotton. Allie leaned against the wall and gazed out the window. Landon’s red Jaguar was sitting in the circular drive; so was a black Cadillac decked in gold trim.

  She cradled the scrapbook against her chest and pondered the acres and acres of land that were as much a part of her heritage as her bloodline. The perfectly manicured lawn had become an expression of Allie’s spirit. Even in the dead of winter, she and the grounds manager created a horticulture masterpiece with evergreens and annuals.

  Allie rested her temple against the window frame and placed her chin on the scrapbook. Her attention settled upon the clouds darkening the southern horizon, and she couldn’t remember a time she’d ever been so desolate . . . so lonely—except for those weeks after Frederick stepped out of her life.

  “But even then I still had my home,” she whispered.

  Detecting a movement out of the corner of her eye, Allie glanced toward it. The Cosbys and Frederick strolled toward the black Cadillac. An animated Sophia hung on her husband’s arm and gestured across the lawn while Darren looked over his shoulder at the mansion. Frederick walked to the driver’s door and paused as the Cosbys opened the back door and crawled inside. Without warning, Frederick peered toward the third floor, at the window where Allie stood.

  Allie’s fingers tightened around the scrapbook, and Frederick’s gaze met hers for a second before she jerked away from the window. Her pulse pounding, Allie leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and decided this must be the most wretched day in her life. A knock on her bedroom door only increased her heart’s drumming.

  “Allie?” Aunt Landon’s concerned call jolted her. Her fingers flexed against the scrapbook. No one knew of Allie’s memory book. No one.

  “Just a minute,” she garbled out and lunged toward the ornate wardrobe near the matching bed. Thankfully, she’d left the door ajar when she removed the scrapbook. All that remained was turning the key in the built-in storage cabinet and opening it. She shoved the scrapbook beneath her mother’s antique quilts and Sarah Hamilton’s last Christmas present: an autographed co
py of Robert Frost’s Complete Works. Her hands trembling, she relocked the cabinet, used the same key to secure the wardrobe, then pocketed the key.

  Rubbing her eyes, Allie opened her bedroom door and allowed her aunt to enter.

  “Wonderful news!” Landon exclaimed. “The deal is settled! The Cosbys are moving in in two weeks.”

  Head bent, Allie snapped her door closed and sighed. The days of hanging on were finished. Now was the time to accept what was best for their family.

  “Allie!” Landon exclaimed. “Look at you. You’ve been crying. Are you all right?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Now, that’s a dumb question. If you were all right, you wouldn’t be crying, now, would you?”

  Allie bit her lip and walked toward the antique sideboard that served as her snack center. She turned off the coffeepot emitting the smell of stale brew and gazed at the floor.

  Aunt Landon’s gentle touch on her arm meant more to her than it ever had. “Are you finally realizing you’re going to be leaving here, sugar, or is it . . . uh, him?”

  “A little of both I think,” Allie admitted.

  “Surely not after all these years,” Landon commented.

  Allie shrugged, looked her aunt in the eyes, and then stared past her. “I can’t help but wonder if I should have—should have—”

  “Don’t even say it, Allie,” Landon scolded. “You’re still so young. The right man will come along—someone who’s perfect for you.”

  Unable to curb the sarcasm, Allie said, “You mean someone who has as much money as we do?” She raised her hand and then rested her fingers on the sideboard.

  Aunt Landon covered Allie’s hand with hers and squeezed. “It’s not just about money,” she insisted. “It’s about pedigree and social standing.” She placed her fingers under Allie’s chin and tugged upward. Allie complied and gazed into her aunt’s determined eyes. “You just can’t mix a thoroughbred with a . . . a commoner. It would never work. I know what I’m talking about, Allie. I was much younger once and had to make choices myself. I married a man with money—someone of my own kind—”

  “And he left you,” Allie blurted before she thought to stop herself.

  Aunt Landon lowered her hand and winced.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Allie rushed and grasped Landon’s shoulder. “I’d never do a thing to hurt you! I don’t know what possessed me.”

  “It’s quite all right, dear.” Landon tugged Allie’s hand from her shoulder and gripped it. “You did nothing but speak the truth. He did leave me. But when he left, I was blessed with half of everything he owned. Had I married a poor man, there are no guarantees that he would have stayed with me any longer, now, are there? And if he left he might have taken half of my inheritance.”

  “But if the poor man loved you . . .”

  “I thought the rich man loved me,” Landon crooned. “Take a lesson from your dear ol’ aunt. If you ever do get married, it needs to be with your head first.” She slyly winked. “If your heart tags along, then that’s fine. If it doesn’t, you’ve lost nothing and gained everything.”

  Allie picked up a granola bar from her snack basket, fumbled with the wrapper, and wondered if Aunt Landon and Penny Clayton had read the same marriage manual. This time Allie had the good sense to maintain her silence. Aunt Landon would probably never forgive Allie for comparing her with the scheming divorcée.

  But the fact was, Penny’s interest in Evelyn appeared to be fueled by her attraction for Richard Elton—or rather, his fortune. Allie wondered if Penny would be half as interested in Evelyn’s friendship if she knew the pending move was for necessity, not for leisure.

  Eight

  One month later, Frederick sat at a quaint roadside park on the hood of the Mustang he’d rented in Atlanta, Georgia. He peered down the highway at the twin brick pillars that marked the opening to Grove Acres. Frederick swatted at a fly that was interested in his Coke and then guzzled the soda until his eyes stung. He plunked the bottle onto the hood, propped his boot on the front bumper, and rested his elbow on his knee.

  Frederick squinted against the sunshine and wished he felt as carefree as the March breeze that harassed the evergreens and oaks and nipped at his jacket. After an unbearable winter, spring swept in early and with it came Frederick’s current bout of temporary insanity. At least, that’s the best diagnosis he could come up with. There was no other explanation for why he’d driven to Macon to see Allie Elton after his visit with his friend Jim Bennington in Atlanta.

  Before Frederick left the Elton Mansion a month ago, he’d picked up enough details to learn that Evelyn, her father, and the blonde woman named Penny were all traveling to Atlantic Beach while Allie was going to stay with her sister, Macy, in Macon. He remembered enough from when he and Allie were together a decade ago to recall some of the details of Macy and her husband’s lives—enough that a search on the internet revealed their address. After that, he needed only to pull up Google Maps to get driving directions from Jim’s house, whom he’d been visiting for a few days.

  Thankfully, Frederick had regained his senses when he was driving into Grove Acres. That’s when he’d turned around and pulled into this roadside park to contemplate exactly what he thought he was up to. One month ago when he spotted Allie looking at him from that third-story window, a tiny hope had sprouted in Frederick’s soul—the hope that she’d been watching for him just as he’d watched for her during the rest of his visit that day. That hope had fueled longing. A month later, the longing bred the plan that took over his psyche and drove him to action.

  By some miracle, Frederick had gotten Jim to agree to the fishing trip. They’d been hard at it for three days and his swollen index finger proved it—right where that catfish finned him. This morning Frederick told Jim he needed to pay a visit to an old friend. Jim had awakened to a “bad day,” which meant he was overtaken with memories of his deceased fiancée, so he’d mentioned needing some time alone anyway when Frederick said he was driving to Macon.

  “I’m setting myself up for heartache,” Frederick mumbled toward a crumbling stone column that held a historic marker. He began to argue himself into getting into the vehicle, driving to the airport, and flying back to Charlotte where he was safe. Nothing has changed, he reminded himself and downed the last of the Coke to the tune of an annoyingly cheerful mockingbird. Allie is still an Elton. I’m still just somebody who used to be the yardman. Clenching his jaw, Frederick screwed the lid onto the bottle, slid to the pebbled drive, and winced when he straightened his spine. Even with the warmer weather, his back was committed to complaining.

  An unexpected surge of old resentment erupted within Frederick as violently as that land mine had exploded in Afghanistan. While Frederick had used his body as a shield for his crew, there was no one to shield his heart from the agonizing memories of Allie’s rejection. After his emergency surgery, he’d floated in and out of consciousness and recalled bits of conversation regarding his future. One doctor predicted that the shrapnel in his spine would ensure Frederick would never walk again. During those desolate hours, Frederick could think of no one but his Lord and his Allie. Daily he begged God to allow her to miraculously appear.

  She never did.

  Presently, he wondered if she’d have attended his funeral if the emergency plane landing or land mine had killed him. Probably not, he grunted and kicked at the vehicle’s tire. His spine kicked back. Frederick grabbed his lower back and sucked in a breath. No more sitting on car hoods!

  He opened the car door and tossed the empty Coke bottle into the passenger seat. With a final glance toward Grove Acres, Frederick decided he was worse than a fool. I’m a tormented idiot. I’m still in love with her, and I’m bitter—all at the same time. I’m a mixed-up mess.

  The rev of an engine that started as a distant roar hummed closer from around the road’s curve. He glanced toward the noise and hoped the driver slowed enough before taking the curve. These Georgia hillsides, while nothing compared to the Rockies, could s
till pose a threat to a reckless driver. After his experiences in Afghanistan, Frederick had turned into a granny driver himself. At least, that’s what Sophia called him. So let it be. Frederick had kissed death. He was taking no more chances.

  He frowned toward a fiery red Corvette—a convertible, no less—as it sped around the curve with the shriek of tires and the thump and grind of heavy metal music. The driver’s long blond hair blew in carefree ribbons as the vehicle whizzed by. Frederick must have caught her eye, for she darted a swift glance toward him. Her racy sunglasses and red lips gave Frederick the blurred impression of young, beautiful, and rash. He scowled after her and resisted the urge to follow and give her a “big brother” lecture on safe driving.

  Shrugging, Frederick opened the car door and decided to get himself and his aching spine back into his airplane and all the way home. But the scream of brakes, the skid of tires sent a jolting shock along his nerves. Believing his predictions were fulfilled, he whirled toward the Corvette and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Fully prepared to dial 9-1-1, he realized the Corvette was still in one piece and backing out of the Grove Acres drive. The convertible then lurched forward with a screech, a fishtail, and a line of smoke in its wake.

  Frederick huffed, placed his hand on his hip, and wished for five minutes of the young woman’s time. Somebody needed to tell her to have some respect for her own life and his heart. The way it thudded, Frederick was amazed he hadn’t had a heart attack. He rammed the cell phone back into his pocket.

  When the Corvette swerved into the roadside park and skidded to a halt mere feet from his rental car, Frederick stumbled backward and rammed into the Mustang’s side-view mirror. A shower of gravel pelted his shins as his car door slammed. Frederick’s back raged. Hot tingles shot into his thighs. And cold sweat dotted his upper lip and forehead.

  The woman switched off the music and called, “Hi there!” with a Southern twang every bit as sassy as her red-lipped grin.

  Frederick glared at her. “Are you crazy?!” he croaked. Or drunk? he added to himself.