Smoky Mountain Reunion. Lynnette Kent

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СКАЧАТЬ would want him if he looked at her twice.

      No, Mason wanted her because they were soul mates. Because they were meant to be together, forever. And as soon as she graduated, as soon as she got free of Hawkridge, he would make her his own.

      Like most adolescent fantasies, Nola’s had been destined to remain unfulfilled. And now, away from the distraction of his magnetic personality, she could remember her resolution regarding Mason Reed. She wanted to put him—her memories and fantasies of him, to be exact—firmly in the past where they belonged. Then she’d marry Ted and have his children, sharing a home and their careers in Boston. They’d spend summers on Cape Cod, or even in France, perhaps, renting a small cottage in Provence. Ted specialized in Napoleonic politics. He could do research while the children learned fluent French.

      Unfortunately for her plans and intentions, however, the encounter with Mason this afternoon had simply confirmed Nola’s worst fears.

      The man appeared to be as irresistible as ever.

      Chapter Three

      “Why do I have to eat in the kitchen?”

      Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Mason frowned at the knot of his tie, pulled it loose and started again. “Because you aren’t old enough to eat at the head table.”

      “I could eat at one of the girls’ tables.”

      “You don’t belong there, either.”

      “I don’t belong in the kitchen.” Arms folded, lower lip stuck out, Garrett sat cross-legged on the floor and pouted as hard as he knew how.

      “What’s wrong with the kitchen?” Mason started over on his tie for the third time. “It’s big and warm, and Mrs. Werner lets you eat as much as you want.”

      “Babies eat in the kitchen.”

      “I’ve never seen a baby there. Just you.”

      “Why can’t I stay here by myself?”

      Here they went again. “You’re not old enough to stay alone.”

      “I am, too! I’ll do my homework, watch some TV. I won’t let anybody inside until you get back.” He sprang to his feet and threw his arms around Mason’s waist. “Please, Dad, please? I’m old enough to take care of myself while you’re just over at the school. Please?”

      Mason was tempted. Mostly, he was tired of arguing. But he knew what Gail would say if she were here to be asked. “No, Garrett. I don’t feel comfortable leaving you here alone.”

      “That’s stupid.” Garrett kicked at the door, slammed it back against the wall and stomped down the hallway to his room. He slammed that door, too.

      Mason braced his hands on the edge of the counter and let his head hang, chin to chest. He and Garrett seemed to be flying at different altitudes these days. Nothing much happened without an argument—breakfast, dinner, homework, bath, bed.

      As he left the bathroom, he noticed that Garrett’s slam had dented the plaster wall behind the door. Mason swore to himself. The house belonged to Hawkridge and he was trying to keep the place intact so he could turn it over to the school without qualms when…if…he left. One more job for the to-do list—repair plaster.

      “Come on, Garrett, let’s go.” He knocked on the closed door as he went by, but got no response. Backing up, he knocked again. “Garrett, don’t make this a battle, son. Just do what I ask, please?”

      After a long minute, the door opened and a stone-faced boy emerged.

      “Thanks,” Mason said, putting a hand on one thin shoulder.

      His son shrugged off the touch and marched downstairs without a word.

      “Get your coat,” was a waste of breath. Jaw clenched, Mason slipped into his own jacket, pulled the front door shut and followed Garrett down the porch steps. The only way this day could get worse was if he had to sit beside Nola Shannon during dinner.

      Surely fate would not be so cruel.

      WITH THE COTTAGE door key in the pocket of her slacks, Nola stepped into the front garden, where rosebushes were leafing out. Early tulips and late hyacinths glowed like jewels in the last rays of spring sunlight. Climbing rose canes rambled through the arched trellis over the gate, as well, and the white picket fence stood in a border of “pinks”—carnations in shades from white to deepest burgundy.

      She stopped for a moment, charmed by the pink stucco cottage and its setting. Thankfully, she’d determined how to conquer the challenge Mason’s continued appeal presented—all she had to do was keep her distance. She’d taken this sabbatical in the first place to escape the pressure of Ivy League academics, the stress of a publish-or-perish lifestyle, the constant demands on her time and energy from people who always wanted more. She could escape at Hawkridge as well as anywhere else, maybe even better.

      Long walks in the mountains, good books to read, easy math to teach—those were her goals for the next few months. If she could help some of the students at Hawkridge, then she’d feel her time well spent.

      She didn’t need Mason’s friendship anymore, or his advice. He’d dismissed her when she was eighteen, and she would return the favor now.

      Stepping through the garden gate, Nola saw her path was about to merge with that of a young woman approaching with strong, athletic strides. Her hand lifted in greeting as she drew close.

      “You’re Nola Shannon, right? I’m Ruth Ann Blakely, the riding instructor. Welcome to Hawkridge.”

      “Thank you.” Nola fell into step with Ruth Ann on the cobblestone walk. “It’s good to be here. The mountains are so gorgeous this time of year.”

      Ruth Ann glanced at the hills surrounding them and drew in a deep, appreciative breath. “We’re having a really nice spring. I still think fall is my favorite, though. I love the richness of the colors.”

      “Do you live in one of the cottages?”

      The trainer nodded. “Barrett’s. It’s nearest the stable, done in blues. I hate pink. Are you sitting at the head table tonight?” When Nola nodded, Ruth Ann gave a low whistle. “It’s a little unnerving, sitting up there above the rest of the dining hall, knowing everybody’s watching and waiting for you to choke on your food.”

      Nola grimaced. “I hadn’t thought about it quite that way.”

      “Or you could dribble gravy down your front.”

      “Thanks so much for the suggestion.”

      Ruth Ann looked her over. “I’m thinking you don’t suffer from accidents of that kind, though. Me, I always seem to leave the table with something on my shirt. Last year, the first time I sat at the head table, I dribbled raspberry sauce on my white blouse.”

      “So you’re fairly new to Hawkridge yourself?” They’d reached the paved service road leading to the Manor.

      “Yes and no. I only started full-time teaching last fall. But I grew up at Hawkridge, more or less. My dad was the trainer СКАЧАТЬ