Smoky Mountain Reunion. Lynnette KentЧитать онлайн книгу.

      PINK’S COTTAGE, named for the long-departed Josiah Pink, was one of a dozen small houses scattered within walking distance of the Manor, as the main house was called, on the Hawkridge estate. In the grand old days, senior staff members such as Josiah, who had been Howard Ridgely’s personal secretary, lived in these cottages. Now the school made ten of these houses available to teachers and kept the other two as guest accommodations.

      Nola found her luggage on the floor of the single bedroom in Pink’s Cottage, lined up from smallest bag to largest, minus the lingerie case, of course. Fresh daffodils filled a vase on the table by the casement window, cut from the Hawkridge gardens, she was sure. White curtains lifted with the breeze and a white spread stretched invitingly over the plump mattress. She looked forward to settling in there later tonight.

      First, there was dinner to get through. Jayne Thomas had caught her at the end of the faculty meeting and invited her to supper in the Hawkridge dining hall. Much as she wanted the chance to relax by herself, an invitation to the head table was not to be declined.

      So she spent her free half hour changing for dinner and wondering why Mason had disappeared so fast, without a word or even a wave. The meeting had run long, as the faculty discussed several incidents of vandalism on school property, the upcoming spring dance—the biggest social event of the Hawkridge year—and of course the impending senior graduation. Maybe Garrett was the reason Mason had left so quickly. Maybe they’d gone to the pond together to return Homer to the wild.

      Or maybe Mason simply didn’t think she was interesting enough to wait around for.

      And that was something about Hawkridge that hadn’t changed. Twelve years ago, he’d brushed her off like a mosquito at a summer picnic. From an adult perspective, Nola could acknowledge the facts—she’d been a lonely adolescent with a huge crush on a man not much older than herself. Mason had been a teacher with his career and reputation at stake. But at the time…

      She knew he cared about her. She saw the glow in his eyes when they talked and laughed. He touched her when they were working together—nothing sexual, of course. Anybody could walk in on them in a classroom. But his hand would rest on her shoulder while he looked over the work on her desk. Or his fingers would brush hers and linger, as he reached for one of the gazillion papers she had to fill out for every college application.

      Nola had been with her share of guys, and she could read the signs. Mason was falling in love with her. Not for her money, like the idiots back in Boston. Mason had a job, and money of his own. And not even just for sex, because any woman 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.