The Vineyard of Hopes and Dreams. Kathleen O'Brien

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      CHAPTER THREE

      “I’M SORRY,” he repeated carefully, trying to give her time to adjust. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

       “I wasn’t frightened,” she said.

       But he knew that was a lie. Her face was white. She would naturally be twitchy, coming back here after so long, especially under these circumstances. And no woman alone in an isolated spot could possibly enjoy seeing a stranger emerge from the shadows.

       Weird, thinking of himself as a “stranger.” But no other word applied anymore. Back when they were teenagers, he’d waited for her so many times, right in this very spot. Once, her face would have lit up to see him, and she would have leaped into his arms, their two bodies stumbling back into the shadows with urgent kisses but no words, so that no one inside the house would hear.

       Now, she froze at the sound of his voice, as guarded as a doe confronted by the barrel of a rifle.

       “What do you want?”

      Okay. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, and apparently he wasn’t going to get one.

       “I know it’s late, and you must be tired. I was going to wait until tomorrow, to give you time to settle in. But—”

       Her face remained impassive. “What do you want?”

       “Just to talk. I hoped we could talk.”

       “Wouldn’t the phone have been better?”

       He tilted his head, appraising this pale, collected woman who bore only the most superficial resemblance to the girl he used to know. She still had on the gray flared skirt and short jacket she’d worn to the funeral, but it didn’t look rumpled even after all these hours. The Hayley he used to know was always dressed in bright colors, always dashing about, her pink cheeks looking slightly fevered, her golden hair flyaway and fabulous.

       “I would have been glad to call,” he said reasonably. “Except, I don’t know your number, remember? If you left Sonoma tomorrow morning, I wouldn’t have any idea how to find you again. I don’t even know what name you answer to these days.”

       That wasn’t an exaggeration. He knew what name her mother had been using when his investigator found her, a dozen or so years ago. But she’d moved again after that, and the second time he tried to find her, about six months ago, no one of that name existed.

       Bottom line was, he didn’t know anything, not one single solitary thing, about her anymore. He hadn’t even been a hundred percent sure she was staying here at the vineyard house, until he’d seen the car with rental plates in the front drive.

       Leaving the cemetery after her brush-off today hadn’t been easy. The gossip among the other locals attending the service had been that Hayley would be staying in town, at least long enough to settle up her father’s affairs. But who knew if that was really true? Who knew whether Hayley Watson might decide to disappear into the night all over again?

       “Colby,” she began, then stopped. She folded her arms, tucking her hands under them, as if the night air had chilled her fingers. “I don’t want to be rude, but I really don’t think we have anything to talk about, do we? As you said, it’s been a very long time. We are both different people now, and the past— Well, it just isn’t very relevant anymore.”

       He heard the dismissal in her voice. His pride bucked once, trying to throw him, trying to compel him to walk away. The past was dead to her? Irrelevant? Okay, fine. She meant nothing to him, either.

       He choked off the inner voice. That was just the huffy and stupidly proud teenager inside him talking. He was disappointed to discover that, after all these years, remnants of that self-centered jackass still remained.

       “Hayley,” he said, working hard to avoid sounding pushy or entitled. “I understand that you may well have nothing to say to me. But I have something I’d like to say to you.”

       She wasn’t going for it. He could tell by the way her full lips tightened. “Colby, I—”

       “Please,” he said. It wasn’t a word she—or anyone else—had often heard him utter. “I’ve owed you an apology for seventeen years, and I don’t want to lose this chance to make it now.”

       She clearly hadn’t been expecting that. Her arms fell to her sides, as if suddenly limp with surprise. Her gaze scanned his face—though he had no idea what she searched for.

       Finally she nodded. “All right,” she said. “I’m listening.”

       He glanced at her lightweight suit—a sign that wherever she lived probably didn’t have the chilly nights of Northern California. “You look cold. May I come in?”

       “No.”

       He had to laugh at little at that. “You aren’t planning to make this easy for me, are you?”

       She smiled, too, but it was cool and unamused. “I’m not planning to make it difficult for you, if that’s what you’re implying. But neither do I see why it’s my responsibility to make it easy. I didn’t ask for an apology. I don’t require one, and I don’t think you owe me one. As I said, I believe it’s all ancient history, and best left alone. You’re the one who seems to feel it’s important.”

       He felt slightly stunned, as if her attitude were an unexpected jab to the gut. He had really been a romantic idiot, hadn’t he? All this time he’d secretly thought that, if they were ever to meet again, even if it was by accident, on a crowded street, some irresistible force that had survived the whole heartbreaking mess would draw them together.

       Like some sad sack in a chick flick, he had actually believed that, if he ever got the chance, he could make things right.

       He looked straight into her blue eyes. “God, Hayley. Are you really as indifferent СКАЧАТЬ