And then she remembered. She fell back against the soft sheets so delicately fragrant that she suddenly wanted to cry. She’d been taken in, given shelter in this lovely place, and warmed with tea and kindness.
“She’s just one of those rich widows with more money than sense.” Jem’s rich baritone, made flat with derision, echoed in her mind. “Probably never had to worry a day in her life like the rest of us. Well, maybe it’s time she spread a little of it around.”
“But, Jem …” she had protested.
“I told you, it’s J.C.! Jem Carson was that dumb kid cutting traps on the dock. I’m not that kid any more. You and me … together we’re going places. You and me, honey …”
Then he had buried his head in her shoulder, her curly plume of hair a cushion between them. And her heart had swelled with tenderness. Poor Jem. Nothing seemed to work out for him, no matter how hard he tried. His mother had died when he was a child; his father’s death allowed him and his brother, Wally, to run amok. They’d had to grow up quickly, to fight their way into a world that gave them little welcome. Wally had married Peggy, and the responsibilities of marriage and fatherhood had smoothed his rough edges. Jem was still just rough.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he had told Tara more than once. He had said other things too, but that was the drink talking. The angry bullish man he sometimes became wasn’t really who he was. Jem was sweet and strong, and he loved her. Didn’t he?
Her head felt fuzzy. She pillowed deeper into the soft fabric of the bedclothes and wished Jem were with her now. But they were not to be seen together. No one must know they knew each other.
“But couldn’t we meet sometime?” she had asked him.
“Listen, honey,” he had interrupted. “It’s got to be this way. You have to make that lady trust you so you can help me. She’s got plenty of those fancy pictures hidden up there. What’s one or two? For us, baby.”
Tara sat up on the edge of the bed, tucked her feet into the soft plush rug, and felt a wave of dizziness come over her. She had to be strong; she had to think. Surely today, Annie Dawson would want to take her to Petersgrove to recover her disabled car—the car that didn’t exist. She’d be eager to get rid of her unwelcome houseguest. Tara sighed. What was she going to do?
She rose gingerly, taking a deep breath of the scented air. The window had been left open just enough to usher in the ocean breeze. It smelled heavenly. Pink and white roses blooming beneath the window added a luxurious fragrance. She felt like Alice in some sort of wonderland that wasn’t altogether new. She had been here in some long-ago dream never quite forgotten.
I pray for you every day and for Tara. The woman named Elizabeth Holden had known about her as well as her mother. She had invited her mother to come here. Had she ever come? And if she had, why would she choose to leave?
Tara looked out on the idyllic view. The ocean shimmered beneath a radiant, blue sky. Reluctantly, she let the blind fall back in place. Her future here was nothing if not bleak and unpromising. Why was she allowing herself such foolish flights of mind? She could hear Annie moving about downstairs, perhaps wondering what her guest was up to. She’d have to get up, face her brief benefactress and explain herself. How long had she slept?
She fumbled through her bag for a clean pair of jeans. Steadying herself on the edge of the dresser, she wriggled into a clean jersey shirt. How could she possibly keep up this charade? What would she tell Annie? Jem had dropped her off as close to Grey Gables as he dared, and she had walked the rest of the way and climbed up the hill. There was no broken-down car. But that she had felt ill and breathless when she arrived was very much the truth. What was making her so tired these days? Had the old anemia returned? Would she have to take those big red iron pills again? She hated pills, recalling the bottles lined up on her mother’s scarred dresser.
A soft scratching at the door broke in on her thoughts. She opened it to find Boots looking at her with a quizzical expression on her gray, whiskery face. The cat waited demurely, as though to ask why she was still in bed on a glorious summer day. Tara had no idea of the time, but the sun had begun its climb into the blue reaches of sky.
She sprayed her hair to calm the wild curls and secured her headband over it. She applied some quick blush to her cheeks and descended the carpeted stairs. She forced herself to remain calm, but her heart was beating a wild tattoo in her chest as she approached the kitchen.
Her hostess was dressed in blue jeans and a white polo shirt over which a denim apron had been hastily secured. Blonde hair with silvery traces gleamed in the light from a bay window. A boy and a girl of kindergarten age grinned from photos on the refrigerator door. Pictures obviously drawn by their small hands clustered around the photos. On the counter and table, vases of flowers shed bright splashes of color. The woman’s movements were vibrant and energetic. Hardly the picture of the rich, spoiled widow Jem had drawn.