The Inn At Rose Harbor Part 22

"Ah ..." Abby broke down then, swallowing hard against the huge knot in her throat-one so large that for a few seconds she found it impossible to breathe. "I ... I am so sorry, Angela. So very sorry."

"I know, I know," Angela murmured. "But it's time you got over it."

"Got over it? Are you nuts?" Abby nearly yelled. "I killed my best friend. No one with a conscience ... with a heart, gets over something like that."

"But you have to," Angela insisted.

Abby didn't know how to respond.

"If you felt so guilty, why didn't you bring me flowers? Yellow daisies would have been perfect."

"Oh my goodness, I should have. I'm sorry."

"Hey, if you want to feel guilty, then go for it. You kept me waiting years and years, and when you finally do show, you don't even bring me flowers."

"I already apologized."

"Don't worry about it. When people do bring flowers they almost always don't have water. You wouldn't believe the stuff folks will put in that silly vase my mother insisted upon. I've had coffee, soda, fruit punch. You name the liquid and I've seen it."

"Oh."

"Okay, you're here and I'm real glad to see you."

"I'm glad I'm here, too."

"You don't look it. Your mascara is running and your nose is all red. You'd better clean up before your brother's wedding or guests are going to wonder who died." She immediately broke into peals of laughter. "Oops ... bad choice of words there."

Abby looked away.

"Smile, Abby. Smile. I need for you to have a good life. I need to know you've been able to put this accident behind you and that you're enjoying life for the both of us."

"How can I?"

"Because I asked you to. I don't want you carting around this ball and chain of guilt."

Abby didn't want to carry it either.

"You know what your problem is, don't you?"

Abby shifted uncomfortably. "Well yes, I'm responsible for your death."

"No, that's not it. You aren't responsible, and anyway, nothing can change what happened now. No, your problem is that you've grown so comfortable with feeling guilty that you're afraid of what will happen if you don't. Being happy frightens the very life out of you. Oops, there I go again. Listen, everyone dies, so you have to get over it."

"I wish I was the one who'd died."

"But you didn't. You're alive, so enjoy life. Why aren't you married? By now you should have a husband and two or three children and be in tons of carpools."

"I should?"

"Isn't that the life we planned?"

Abby sobbed once. "Nothing turned out the way we planned."

"It seldom does, from what others tell me. Still, that's no reason to wallow in guilt. Now tell me you're ready to get on with life. I want you to live it to the fullest."

"I wish I could."

"Abby!"

"All right, all right," she cried, nearly shouting the words. Thankfully no one was around to hear her.

"Okay, good. But you need to do something first."

"What?"

"You aren't going to like it."

Abby's shoulders sank. "It has to do with your parents, doesn't it?"

"Yup, you need to go to them."

Abby shook her head, immediately dismissing the idea. "I can't, Angela, I can't. They blame me ... your mother can't even stand to look at me."

"She needs to see you; to talk to you. Do this one thing for me; that's all I ask."

"I can't."

"You have to try again, Abs."

"Next time."

"No. Today. Now."

Abby shook her head. "I have a lunch date with Patty and a few others ... my mother is coming with me. I don't have time."

"Go after the lunch."

"Can I take my mother with me?"

"No. Go alone. It won't be easy. I can't guarantee that Mom won't say or do something unkind. But this isn't about her, you know. It's for you. Nothing will change if you don't."

"Angela, I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Then promise me you'll think about it. That's all I ask, okay?"

"Okay, I'll think about it." She reached inside her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose.

"Enough with the tears. You're beginning to sound like my mother."

Abby grinned.

"Hey, that's more like it, now get out of here and have a wonderful day. Tell Roger congrats from me. I always did think he was a cutie."

"I will. Good-bye, Angela."

"Bye," Angela called out after her. "Remember, you have to have a happy life; you're living it for the both of us."

Abby turned away from the gravesite. Had that really happened? Had she really just been talking to her dead best friend? Regardless, she felt like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Still in a daze, she was walking slowly to her car when her cell phone rang again. This time she answered it. "Hi, Mom."

"Sorry to bother you, sweetheart, but I need to know what time you're picking me up for lunch?"

Abby glanced at her watch. "How about eleven-thirty. Patty suggested noon. That will give us plenty of time."

"Perfect."

Her mother hesitated. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine, Mom. More than fine."

"I'm glad ... I've been concerned. Your father, too. See you soon."

"Oh and Mom ..."

"Yes," her mother said quickly, as if she'd been just about to turn off her cell. "What is it?"

Abby had been about to tell her she'd apparently just had a lengthy conversation with Angela, but she quickly changed her mind. "It's nothing important. We'll have time to catch up before the wedding."

"Okay, and did I tell you I've decided to wear the pink suit instead of the pale green one?"

"You look lovely in pink."

"You think so? That's what your father said. It's such a mother of the groom outfit, but as your father reminded me, I am the mother of the groom."

Abby smiled. "You'll be lovely."

"We both will be," her mother insisted.

Chapter 23.

I waited until the house was empty before I gathered my coat and purse. I had a few errands to run, but none were really important. My mission was to get to know the town better and meet other business owners.

Peggy Beldon had recommended a dry cleaners and I had a couple of pillow shams I wanted to drop off. They would go nicely on the sofa. I was planning to stop off at the library, too. Two people now had mentioned Grace Harding and I hoped I'd have the opportunity to introduce myself.

I had the shams in a bag and my purse over my shoulder. Again I chose to walk rather than take the car. One of the nice things about Rose Harbor Inn's location was that I could walk to almost anywhere in the downtown area. But instead of heading down the hill, the way I intended, I found myself walking toward Mark Taylor's place.

I hadn't answered his question about Paul the day before. As soon as he'd asked it, I'd made an excuse and had promptly left. Mark hadn't tried to stop me and I was grateful. In retrospect, though, I felt I owed him an explanation. Besides, I still wasn't satisfied with his answer about why he'd showed up at the inn while Spenser was there.

Just like the day before, I found Mark in his workshop, sanding a lovely cradle. It was a work of art, with intricate carving on each end. He glanced up when I appeared in the doorway, surprise showing in his dark eyes. He wore coveralls over a thick plaid winter jacket. One look reminded me that he wasn't a man who paid a lot of attention to grooming. His sandy blond hair needed to be cut and he didn't appear to have shaved that morning.

"You again," he said, not looking the least bit pleased by my unexpected visit.

"Yup, me again. Do you have a few minutes?"

"Not really."

I ignored that and walked over to where he kept a coffeepot and poured myself a cup and one for him, too.

"Sit with me a while," I suggested.

Mark glowered at me. "What do you want now? You keep interrupting me and I'll never get that sign made."

"It doesn't look to me like you're working on it now anyway."

His frown deepened but he ignored the comment.

"Someone commission you to build a cradle?" I asked.

Reluctantly he shook his head.

"You're building it ... why?"

"Are you always this nosy?" he growled.

"Sometimes," I admitted. Pretending not to notice his complete lack of welcome, I pulled out a stool, sat down, crossed my legs, and cupped the mug between my hands, letting the hot coffee warm my palms.

Mark appeared to be doing some pretending of his own, acting like I wasn't there. I let him. My gaze automatically went to the cradle. I couldn't take my eyes off the intricate swirls he'd carved at each end. "The cradle is beautiful," I said, admiring his handiwork. Mark was a talented craftsman.

He stepped back and regarded his project with what seemed to be a new perspective. "Thanks."

"Is someone you know pregnant?"

"No." He returned to his project and added begrudgingly, "The idea for it came to me one night."

"And you decided to build it?"

He dropped his hand and glared my way. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No." I found his gaze intimidating, but I wasn't about to let him know that.

A half smile appeared, but his voice was filled with sarcasm when he spoke. "I'm glad to hear it." He took the chisel to the wood, carefully tapping away at the intricate scroll.