Page 20 of Holiday Hideaway
The snow queen and the storm trooper glared at George, who was struggling to push aside the heavy blanket covering him and sit upright.
“What’s she doing here?” they asked in unison, pointing at Tilly.
“Tilly,” George said pointedly, “works for Piney Point Vacation Rentals, the company that’s been managing the rentals for my late uncle. I asked her to come over and give me an idea of what needs to be done to get the house ready to put on the market.”
“Riggght,” Denny said with a practiced sneer, taking in the wineglasses and the empty bottle of champagne and his ex-wife’s expression. “She’s clearly been sleeping over, among other things.”
“Jerk,” Tilly muttered, with a shake of her head. “You never change, Denny. With you, every accusation is an admission of guilt.”
Vanessa pushed her hood back and fluffed her golden hair. “George? You know I trust you completely, and I’m trying not to jump to conclusions, but this”—she gestured around the room at the quilts and the champagne bottle and, lastly, Tilly, with her rumpled hair and Santa-dog pajamas—“looks awfully suspicious. You never called me back, and so I assumed the worst had happened. I didn’t even have the address here. I just knew it was called the Crowe’s Nest, so I called the sheriff’s office, and Sheriff Markovich generously offered to accompany me.”
“SheriffMarkovich?”
“That’s right,” Denny said, preening a little. He’d been walking around the room, examining the ancestral Crowe portraits, but now he turned his attention back to George.
“Hey! I know you.” He pointed with his flashlight. “Sticks! How about that? Sticks Holloway, Piney Point homecoming queen, class of 2004.”
“Hello, Denny,” George said calmly. “I see they gave you a big-boy gun and a badge. But no bullets, I hope?”
Denny glared, then glanced over at Vanessa. “For real? You’re actually with this loser?”
Vanessa nodded. “Thanks for your help, Sheriff. I can take it from here.”
“I’ll show him out,” Tilly volunteered.
She opened the front door and gently pushed him onto the front porch. “See ya, Denny.” He was about to say something, but she closed the door in his face, then quietly slipped back to her attic.
Vanessa started to sit on the end of the sofa, pushing aside the quilt. She gasped when she saw the plaster cast encasing his ankle.
“Oh my God, George. What happened?”
He touched the bandage on the back of his head. “What day is this?”
“It’s Friday. The gala is tonight.”
“Right. Then it was Tuesday. I started to climb the ladder to the third floor, to inspect the roof. It was windy and cold, and my foot slipped, and I fell. Broke my ankle and got a concussion. So now, once again, you get to sayI told you so. Because you were right. Again.”
“Do you think I get some kind of sick satisfaction from being right? Tell me what’s really going on with you.”
“I think you already know what’s going on with me,” George said, his face reflecting the misery he felt. “The awful truth is, after I fell, even as much pain as I was in, I was kind of glad I needed to stay here. Glad I didn’t have to put on that damn tux and go to that damned ball. Because I hate those society parties.”
“But you know how much the ball means to me. And those are our friends!”
“Yourfriends,” he corrected. “Perfectly decent people, all of them, but there’s not a single one of them who’d call me and ask me to meet them for a beer. Right?”
“You intimidate them,” Vanessa shot back. “You’re aloof. You act bored when we’re out with them.”
“They intimidateme. I’m a jeans-and-sweatshirt kind of guy. I don’t play tennis or golf, and I’m not comfortable talking about my stock portfolio or my wine cellar.”
She sat back on her heels. “So what’s the plan? You’re not thinking of staying here, right? You’re coming back to Boston with me, where you’ll see a proper doctor.”
“I can’t put any weight on my ankle for at least two weeks, and I have to keep it elevated above my heart at all times to prevent swelling. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Boston, and that’s without the snow.” He took a deep breath. “And I don’t know that Boston is where I want to be anymore.”
“So that’s it? No engagement? You’re really going to do this? Now?” She glanced in the direction of the stairs.
His shoulders sagged. “I did try to tell you, you know. I’m sorry, Vanessa.”
Vanessa’s green eyes narrowed. “I’ll call the movers as soon as I get back to Boston. Well, tomorrow, after the gala. You can let me know where to send your things.”
