Unfinished Business(7)

He nodded, slowly. “You’ve changed more than I’d thought.”

“Yes, I have.” She started out, stopped, then looked over her shoulder. “We both have. But I imagine you still know your way out.”

“Yeah,” he said to himself when she left him alone. He knew his way out. What he hadn’t known was that she could still turn him inside out with one of those pouty looks.





Chapter 2




The Knight farm was rolling hills and patches of brown and green field. The hay was well up, she noted, and the corn was tender green shoots. A gray barn stood behind a trio of square paddocks. Nearby, chickens fussed and pecked at the ground. Plump spotted cows lolled on a hillside, too lazy to glance over at the sound of an approaching car, but geese rushed along the bank of the creek, excited and annoyed by the disturbance.

A bumpy gravel lane led to the farmhouse. At the end of it, Vanessa stopped her car, then slowly alighted. She could hear the distant putting of a tractor and the occasional yip-yipping of a cheerful dog. Closer was the chatter of birds, a musical exchange that always reminded her of neighbors gossiping over a fence.

Perhaps it was foolish to feel nervous, but she couldn’t shake it. Here in this rambling three-story house, with its leaning chimneys and swaying porches, lived her oldest and closest friend—someone with whom she had shared every thought, every feeling, every wish and every disappointment.

But those friends had been children—girls on the threshold of womanhood, where everything is at its most intense and emotional. They hadn’t been given the chance to grow apart. Their friendship had been severed quickly and completely. Between that moment and this, so much—too much—had happened to both of them. To expect to renew those ties and feelings was both naive and overly optimistic.

Vanessa reminded herself of that, bracing herself for disappointment, as she started up the cracked wooden steps to the front porch.

The door swung open. The woman who stepped out released a flood of stored memories. Unlike the moment when she had started up her own walk and seen her mother, Vanessa felt none of the confusion and grief.

She looks the same, was all Vanessa could think. Joanie was still sturdily built, with the curves Vanessa had envied throughout adolescence. Her hair was still worn short and tousled around a pretty face. Black hair and blue eyes like her brother, but with softer features and a neat Cupid’s-bow mouth that had driven the teenage boys wild.

Vanessa started to speak, searched for something to say. Then she heard Joanie let out a yelp. They were hugging, arms clasped hard, bodies swaying. The laughter and tears and broken sentences melted away the years.

“I can’t believe—you’re here.”

“I’ve missed you. You look… I’m sorry.”

“When I heard you—” Shaking her head, Joanie pulled back, then smiled. “Oh, God, it’s good to see you, Van.”

“I was almost afraid to come.” Vanessa wiped her cheek with her knuckles.

“Why?”

“I thought you might be polite and offer me some tea and wonder what we were supposed to talk about.”

Joanie took a rumpled tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. “And I thought you might be wearing a mink and diamonds and stop by out of a sense of duty.”

Vanessa gave a watery laugh. “My mink’s in storage.”

Joanie grabbed her hand and pulled her through the door. “Come in. I might just put that tea on after all.”

The entryway was bright and tidy. Joanie led Vanessa into a living room of faded sofas and glossy mahogany, of chintz curtains and rag rugs. Evidence that there was a baby in the house was found in teething rings, rattles and stuffed bears. Unable to resist, Vanessa picked up a pink-and-white rattle.

“You have a little girl.”

“Lara.” Joanie beamed. “She’s wonderful. She’ll be up from her morning nap soon. I can’t wait for you to see her.”

“It’s hard to imagine.” Vanessa gave the rattle a shake before setting it down again. It made a pretty, musical sound that had her smiling. “You’re a mother.”

“I’m almost used to it.” She took Vanessa’s hand again as they sat on the sofa. “I still can’t believe you’re here. Vanessa Sexton, concert pianist, musical luminary and globe-trotter.”

Vanessa winced. “Oh, please, not her. I left her in D.C.”

“Just let me gloat a minute.” She was still smiling, but her eyes, eyes that were so like her brother’s, were searching Vanessa’s face. “We’re so proud of you. The whole town. There would be something in the paper or a magazine, something on the news—or an event like that PBS special last year. No one would talk about anything else for days. You’re Hyattown’s link to fame and fortune.”