Night Moves: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Nora Roberts

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СКАЧАТЬ to do a lot of the painting and papering and such myself.”

      “The weeds have taken over,” Louella said with her back to the room.

      Maggie’s brows lifted and fell as she wondered what to do next. “Yes, well, Cliff Delaney was out this afternoon to take a look around.”

      “Cliff.” Louella’s attention seemed to focus again as she turned back. The light coming through the uncurtained windows made her seem more pale, more insubstantial. “An interesting young man, rather rough-and-ready, but very clever. He’ll do well for you here, for the land. He’s a cousin of the Morgans, you know.” She paused and seemed to laugh, but very softly. “Then, you’ll find many Morgans and their kin scattered throughout the county.”

      A cousin, Maggie mused. Perhaps he’d been unfriendly because he didn’t think the property should’ve been sold to an outsider. Resolutely, she tried to push Cliff Delaney aside. He didn’t have to approve. The land was hers.

      “The front lawn was lovely once,” Louella murmured.

      Maggie felt a stirring of pity. “It will be again. The front’s going to be cleared and planted. The back, too.” Wanting to reassure her, Maggie stepped closer. Both women stood by the window now. “I’m going to have a rock garden, and there’ll be a pond where the gully is on the side.”

      “A pond?” Louella turned and fixed her with another long stare. “You’re going to clear out the gully?”

      “Yes.” Uncomfortable again, Maggie shifted. “It’s the perfect place.”

      Louella ran a hand over the front of her purse as if she were wiping something away. “I used to have a rock garden. Sweet william and azure Adams. There was wisteria beneath my bedroom window, and roses, red roses, climbing on a trellis.”

      “I’d like to have seen it,” Maggie said gently. “It must’ve been beautiful.”

      “I have pictures.”

      “Do you?” Struck with an idea, Maggie forgot her discomfort. “Perhaps I could see them. They’d help me decide just what to plant.”

      “I’ll see that you get them. You’re very kind to let me come in this way.” Louella took one last scan of the room. “The house holds memories.” When she walked out into the hall, Maggie went with her to tug open the front door again. “Goodbye, Miss Fitzgerald.”

      “Goodbye, Mrs. Morgan.” Her pity stirred again, and Maggie reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder. “Please, come again.”

      Louella looked back, her smile very slight, her eyes very tired. “Thank you.”

      While Maggie watched, she walked to an old, well-preserved Lincoln, then drove slowly down the hill. Vaguely disturbed, Maggie went back into the music room. She hadn’t met many residents of Morganville yet, she mused, but they were certainly an interesting bunch.

      The noise brought Maggie out of a sound sleep into a drowsy, cranky state. For a moment, as she tried to bury her head under the pillow, she thought she was in New York. The groan and roar sounded like a big, nasty garbage truck. But she wasn’t in New York, she thought as she surfaced, rubbing her hands over her eyes. She was in Morganville, and there weren’t any garbage trucks. Here you piled your trash into the back of your car or pickup and hauled it to the county dump. Maggie had considered this the height of self-sufficiency.

      Still, something was out there.

      She lay on her back for a full minute, staring up at the ceiling. The sunlight slanted, low and thin, across her newly purchased quilt. She’d never been a morning person, nor did she intend to have country life change that intimate part of her nature. Warily, she turned her head to look at the clock: 7:05. Good heavens.

      It was a struggle, but she pushed herself into a sitting position and stared blankly around the room. Here, too, boxes were piled, unopened. There was a precariously stacked pile of books and magazines on decorating and landscaping beside the bed. On the wall were three fresh strips of wallpaper, an ivory background with tiny violets, that she’d hung herself. More rolls and paste were pushed into a corner. The noise outside was a constant, irritating roar.

      Resigned, Maggie got out of bed. She stumbled over a pair of shoes, swore, then went to the window. She’d chosen that room as her own because she could see out over the rolling pitch of what would be her front yard, over the tops of the trees on her own property to the valley beyond.

      There was a farmhouse in the distance with a red roof and a smoking chimney. Beside it was a long, wide field that had just been plowed and planted. If she looked farther still, she could see the peaks of mountains faintly blue and indistinct in the morning mist. The window on the connecting wall would give her a view of the intended pond and the line of pines that would eventually be planted.

      Maggie pushed the window up the rest of the way, struggling as it stuck a bit. The early-spring air had a pleasant chill. She could still hear the constant low sound of a running engine. Curious, she pressed her face against the screen, only to have it topple out of the window frame and fall to the porch below. One more thing for Mr. Bog to see to, Maggie thought with a sigh as she leaned through the opening. Just then the yellow bulk of a bulldozer rounded the bend in her lane and broke into view.

      So, she thought, watching it inch its way along, leveling and pushing at rock and dirt, Cliff Delaney was a man of his word. She’d received the promised estimate and contract two days after his visit. When she’d called his office, Maggie had spoken to an efficient-sounding woman who’d told her the work would begin the first of the week.

      And it’s Monday, she reflected, leaning her elbows on the sill. Very prompt. Narrowing her eyes, she looked more closely at the man on top of the bulldozer. His build was too slight, she decided, his hair not quite dark enough. She didn’t have to see his face to know it wasn’t Cliff. Shrugging, she turned away from the window. Why should she have thought Cliff Delaney would work his own machines? And why should she have wanted it to be him? Hadn’t she already decided she wouldn’t see him again? She’d hired his company to do a job; the job would be done, and she’d write out a check. That was all there was to it.

      Maggie attributed her crankiness to the early awakening as she snatched up her robe and headed for the shower.

      Two hours later, fortified with the coffee she’d made for herself and the bulldozer operator, Maggie was on her knees on the kitchen floor. Since she was up at a barbaric hour, she thought it best to do something physical. On the counter above her sat her cassette tape player. The sound of her score, nearly completed, all but drowned out the whine of machinery. She let herself flow with it while words to the title song she’d yet to compose flitted in and out of her mind.

      While she let her thoughts flow with the music she’d created, Maggie chipped away at the worn tile on the kitchen floor. True, her bedroom had only one wall partially papered, and only the ceiling in the upstairs bath was painted, and there were two more steps to be stripped and lacquered before the main stairway was finished, but she worked in her own way, at her own speed. She found herself jumping from project to project, leaving one partially done and leaping headlong into the next. This way, she reasoned, she could watch the house come together piece by piece rather than have one completed, out-of-place room.

      Besides, she’d gotten a peek at the flooring beneath the tile when she’d inadvertently knocked an edge off a corner. Curiosity had done the rest.

      When Cliff СКАЧАТЬ