Still Lake - Anne Stuart [111]
Even Marty didn’t need her anymore. She was living under the strict maternal eye of Madelene Laflamme. Her hair was no longer fuchsia, her skirts were marginally longer, and her language had cleaned up considerably. She’d even given up cigarettes.
She was planning to stay there, helping out with the farm, and then go to UVM with Patrick. Everyone seemed to think it was a fine idea. Everyone except Sophie, who needed someone to need her.
She dumped her bags of clothing on the twin bed in Marge’s guest room and headed for the shower. Her hair had been singed in the fire, but the salon owner, Tracy, had managed to salvage it with a shorter, feathery cut that suited Sophie’s face but not her clothes.
She knew what she was going to do. She’d figured it out during the long drive to Burlington, and as the hours went on she’d known that she really had no choice. There was only one person left for whom she was responsible. And that was Sophie Davis.
She dried herself, smoothing gardenia-scented cream on her skin. She shaved her legs, then pulled on the scanty teal silk underwear. The black dress came next, clinging to her curves, showing much too much of her long legs. At least they were good legs, she had to admit it. Her butt was too big, but so was Jennifer Lopez’s. Her boobs were too big, but he’d seemed to like them well enough. He’d wanted to see her in something slinky.
His time had come.
She even had high heels, though they weren’t really made for the rocky Vermont terrain. At the last minute she chickened out, grabbing Marge’s raincoat before she climbed back into her rental car and headed around the lake.
She drove first to what was left of the inn. The sun was just setting over the lake, and she pulled up in front of the ruins, staring at them. They weren’t smoldering any longer—two weeks and three rainstorms had put out any lingering ember. The entire structure had collapsed in on itself. The only thing left standing was the walk-in cooler in the basement.
She looked out over the lake. It was a beautiful view, and she missed her porch. Missed the kitchen and the pottery jars of flour and sugar. Missed the wallpaper she’d slaved over, missed the wood floors she’d refinished.
But most of all she missed Griffin. And she was tired of being a coward.
The driveway to the Whitten place was in worse shape than ever before. The rainstorms had taken their toll, and it looked as if some heavy equipment had been brought down there in the last few weeks. She pulled the car up beside the Jaguar, cursing. She’d been hoping she wouldn’t have to do this, that Marge had been wrong, and he’d left, and she could find some other way to get on with her life.
But here he was. Hopefully alone.
The night was chilly, with the bite of fall in the air, and smoke was coming out of the chimney. A good smell, not like the gasoline-fueled stench of the inn.
Lights were on inside, making it look welcoming, but she had no illusions. Her future lay in there, for good or bad, but she wanted nothing more than to run away again.
Keeping the coat wrapped tightly around her, she climbed out of the car. One high-heeled shoe twisted underneath her, nearly spraining her ankle, and she kicked them off, cursing. Okay, barefoot was all right. Make it easier to run away if he didn’t want her.
She knocked, but there was no answer. So he wasn’t home. She could come back another day.
But she knew she wouldn’t. The door wasn’t locked, and she pushed it open, stepping into the warmth and light of the cottage.
She glanced at the rug, remembering exactly what