The Wedding Gift. Sandra SteffenЧитать онлайн книгу.
It sat on a hill overlooking the small city of Orchard Hill to the east and the river and the surrounding apple orchards to the north and west. The resident innkeeper, Summer was known to everyone back home as the keeper of secrets. She was also the best friend Madeline had ever had.
“The boys came to the inn?” Madeline asked.
“After lunch. All three of them. All at once,” Summer said drolly.
Oh, dear. All three Sullivan men all at once intimidated most people. Madeline’s conscience chafed. She wished she could have done this without sneaking, but if her brothers had known she was planning this today, they would have tried to stop her, or worse, insisted upon coming with her. God love them, but they would smother her if she let them.
“What did you tell them?” she asked.
“First I reminded them that you’re a grown woman. Marsh took it the hardest. You should have seen the look on his face when I broke the news that you’re twenty-five. I informed Reed that seeking proof that Riley Merrick is alive and well isn’t unreasonable and I made Noah promise not to follow you by land, by sky or by sea. I didn’t have the heart to tell any of them I advised you to have your way with the first gorgeous man you laid eyes on.”
It was such ludicrous advice Madeline couldn’t help smiling. “I’m overlooking a construction site, Summer. Think about what you’re suggesting.”
Of everyone Madeline loved, Summer understood her best. She would have gladly helped Madeline find a way to shed her old life, to sprout wings or start over where no one knew her, the way Summer had. But she wasn’t like Summer. Marsh, Reed and Noah had done nothing wrong except love their younger sister, and perhaps try too hard to fill their parents’ shoes after they died when she was twelve.
Madeline knew how worried everyone was about her, but her friends, family and coworkers couldn’t fix what was wrong with her life. The only person who could make things better was Madeline herself.
And maybe Riley Merrick.
“Have you seen him yet?”
Summer’s voice summoned Madeline back to the situation at hand. Studying the view through the field glasses again, she said, “There’ve been a few vehicles in and out of the gate and a small crew is climbing around on some scaffolding right now. I don’t think he’s with them.”
“He’s probably short, fat and bald, you know.”
“He isn’t short, fat or bald,” Madeline said absently as she searched the faces of two new arrivals in the distance.
“How do you know?” Summer asked.
“I Googled him.”
There was a moment of silence before Summer said, “So what does he look like?”
“Early thirties, with dark, unruly hair, deep-set eyes, a stubborn chin and a stance that has attitude written all over it.”
“He sounds dreamy.”
“Don’t start, Summer. I mean it.”
“I’m just having a little fun. It’s been a long time since you’ve had any fun. Maybe it’s been long enough.”
Summer had spoken gently, the way everyone in Madeline’s life did these days, and yet the words found their way into her chest like an echo returning from a distant canyon.
“What will you do after you’ve seen him?” Summer asked. “Will you try to talk to him?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, what would I say? ‘Excuse me. You don’t know me, but I just drove a hundred and eighty miles because I need to believe in the notion that something good can come from even the saddest tragedies. You see, that heart beating in your chest used to be my late fiance’s.’ Can you imagine how it would feel to hear that out of the blue? I didn’t come here to upset him.”
“I know,” Summer said. “It isn’t asking too much though, to know he’s alive and flourishing.”
“Thanks, Summer. You’re the best.”
Madeline stared into the clouds in the distance for a long time after the call ended, her mind blessedly blank. Eventually the low rumble of an approaching car brought her from her trance. After raising the binoculars to her eyes, she saw a silver Porsche pull into the lane leading to the construction site. The driver parked on the crest of the next hill and got out. Wearing a brown bomber jacket and khakis, he turned, giving her a momentary glimpse of dark, unruly hair and deep-set eyes.
Riley Merrick. His name escaped on a whisper and brought with it a hitch in her breathing.
He left his car well away from the bulldozer lumbering back and forth at the foot of the hill, and walked the rest of the way to the site. He moved like a long-distance runner, strong and focused and seemingly oblivious to the cold wind in his face.
With his arrival, the area came alive. Generators were started and men in tool belts climbed up scaffolding and ladders, spreading out at the top like ants at a picnic.
Madeline settled back in her seat and took a deep breath. There. She’d done it. She’d witnessed for herself that Riley was alive, and yes, apparently flourishing. Now she could spend the rest of her vacation anywhere, satisfied in her newfound knowledge.
There was only one tiny little problem with that. She didn’t feel satisfied. She felt—
She jerked her head around and fumbled for the binoculars. Someone was climbing the scaffolding in the distance, someone as lithe and agile as a longdistance runner, someone wearing a brown bomber and khakis.
The field glasses bounced off the passenger seat and thudded to the floor. Seconds later she was starting her car. Tires churning up sand, she raced down the hill, around the bend and through the gates at the construction site. In an instant she was out of the car, running against the wind.
The blueprints in Riley’s hands flapped in the wind as he watched the crane lift a roof truss high over the heads of the crew bracing to secure it into place. This summer house was going to be a beauty. From its conception he’d envisioned a buxom lady, with her turret windows, soaring vaulted ceilings and pitched roof. The clients, an eccentric movie-producing husband-and-wife duo from L.A. wanted a showplace, and Riley was just the architect to ensure they got exactly what they wanted.
The lakeside lady would boast stone quarried in Michigan’s upper peninsula and incredible arched leaded windows that winked in just the right light. Inside, she’d have every decadent luxury—a gourmet kitchen, heated stone and Brazilian cherry floors, steam showers and a spa fit for royalty. She’d be a big-boned gal, six thousand square feet on one floor with another fourteen hundred in the nearby guesthouse. By the average person’s standards, that was a lot of square footage for a vacation home. It seemed the wealthier people were, the more room they needed to get away from each other. Riley grew up in a house twice this size.
From the corner of his eye, he saw his project foreman sauntering toward him. “Phone’s for you,” Kipp Dawson said.
“The clients?” Riley asked. When Kipp shook his head, Riley tensed, for only his mother could elicit a grimace of this magnitude from a man as tough and rangy as Kipp. “Take a message,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Do I look like a secretary to you?” But Kipp punched a button on his phone and said, “He’ll call you later, Chloe,” then promptly broke the connection.
Upon meeting them, people were often surprised by Kipp and Riley’s friendship, for Riley had had a privileged upbringing and Kipp had been left with any relative not quick enough to barricade the door. When Kipp was fourteen his mother had dropped him at the Merrick estate, claiming Riley’s father was Kipp’s old man, too. Since Jay Merrick had been good at two things—making money and siring sons, it was certainly possible. In those days before DNA testing, it had taken private investigators nearly a year to prove it wasn’t true. By then the boys were close and Riley’s mother told Kipp