didn’t mean she could do whatever she wanted, even in disguise. In fact, just the opposite was true. She couldn’t even take that nice, reliable three-speed out of the window, could she? Not even for an innocent—yes, innocent—little test drive?
No. She didn’t think so.
She heaved another sigh, stacked the books on the nightstand, then dropped onto the bed, looked up at the light fixture Steve Koleski had just fixed.
There went the tingling again.
She sat up again to yank off the blasted shoes, tossing them across the room. Rubbing one aching instep, she fought—with remarkably little success—the memory of how Steve had smelled when they’d tangled in the doorway, all spicy-musky and just plain good, and how she’d let her ego out of its cage just long enough to let herself think that, just maybe, he was flirting with her. But in a slightly panicked kind of way, as though he wanted to but thought he shouldn’t, for whatever reason.
But then…even if he was attracted to her, he wasn’t attracted to her, but to the blowsy blond product of a weary princess’s brush with hysteria. In two weeks, perhaps less, Lisa Stone would vanish into the same nothingness whence she’d been spawned.
And Princess Sophie would resume her tidy, orderly, dull life, one which held no place for ingenuous, handsome, protective American electricians.
She flopped onto her side, her head propped in the palm of her hand, just as the sun shifted enough to glance off something shiny peeking out from underneath the dresser. Curiosity lured her off the bed, then across the floor to pick up what turned out to be a screwdriver. Steven Koleski’s screwdriver, no doubt.
For the briefest of moments, she was tempted to stab herself with it.
Fortunately, things seemed remarkably more clear the next morning. Plainly, her reaction to Steven the day before had been due to nothing more than an adrenaline overload, a sense of danger heightening her sensory awareness. What she’d felt hadn’t been attraction—on any level—but simply reaction. Stimulus/response, nothing more.
However, in all the excitement of actually carrying out her harebrained plan, she’d forgotten a fundamental fact of life in a small town: strangers’ appearances begat curiosity. So it behooved her to offer some sort of explanation in order to prevent inevitable, and tiresome, speculation.
At least, as far as the people in her “real” life were concerned, she was accounted for. Perhaps few of them understood, much less approved of, her actions, but nobody was worrying about her well-being. Her physical well-being, at least. Her mental state was something else again.
As far as those in her temporary hideaway went, however, best to tell just as much of the truth to satisfy inquiring minds and hopefully bore the nosy into forgetting all about her. And she figured she might as well start with her host, who, in his position as the town’s music teacher, undoubtedly had a direct feed into the main gossip artery.
Sophie found Mr. Liebowicz deadheading early roses in his sun-speckled, lushly planted back garden, laughably quaint in bright red plastic clogs and a big-brimmed straw hat secured with a cord underneath his flabby chins.
“Oh! Good morning, my dear,” the old man said with a short wave. “Are you ready for breakfast?”
“No, no…no hurry.” She tucked her thumbs in the pockets of her white cotton Capri pants, inhaled the perfumed, early morning air. “I’m rarely hungry this early. Besides—” she grinned “—you weren’t supposed to feed me last night.”
“I was doing the roast anyway, it was no trouble.” He took his clippers to a climbing rose spanning a latticework archway. “But whenever you’re ready, just let me know.”
Still not sure how best to broach her subject, Sophie reached out to cup an exquisite rosebud the color of fresh butter. “You coax life from the ground every bit as well as you coax music from your violin.”
That merited her a bright, surprised grin from underneath the enormous hat. “You are very kind, my dear,” Mr. Liebowicz said. “But how did you know it was I who was playing?”
She shrugged. “You had several students yesterday. It wasn’t difficult to tell when the teacher was demonstrating for the student.”
The old man sighed, eyeing his liver-spotted hands. “These poor old things aren’t very reliable these days, I’m afraid. But I suppose they still have their moments.”
Sophie laughed, then bent to smell another rose, this one fully open, an intense, deep pink tinged with coral. “I’m sure you must be dying to know why I landed on your doorstep yesterday,” she said quietly.
A finch warbled overhead. Then: “As someone forced from my own home in Poland fifty years ago by a certain German dictator’s policies, I understand that people often have valid reasons for keeping secrets. But I will admit wondering about your accent…?”
Smiling, she straightened, then folded her arms across a light blue cotton sweater, watching Mr. Liebowicz clip and prune and coddle his precious flowers. “I was raised in Europe,” she said, remembering her vow to herself to lie as little as possible. “But my father was English. As was my schooling.”
“I see.” He turned to her, his expression partially muted by the hat’s shadow. “But—” his thin lips twitched into a kindly smile “—nobody comes to Spruce Lake without a reason, Miss Stone. We have no tourist attractions, no views to speak of, nothing to lure someone seeking excitement, or even diversion. Nothing except…sanctuary, perhaps?”
All she could do was stare at him.
“You came with little luggage, and the clothes you have are obviously new. You are in hiding, Miss Stone. If that is indeed your name.” The old man shrugged, then returned to his task. “Are you running from the law?”
Her laugh was startled. “No.”
“Then it is of no concern of mine why you are here.” He moved on to the next bush, squinting at a bud, from which he removed a layer of aphids. “Although you may find me a good listener…?”
She hesitated, then said, “It’s nothing, really. I just suddenly realized I desperately needed to take some time for myself. To relax. To perhaps think through a few things.”
“Ah. One of those, what do they call them? Workaholics?”
“I suppose, yes.”
He tilted his head, resembling a flower himself in the silly hat. “Too busy to take time to smell the roses?”
She laughed again, then, hugging herself, made her way over to a small wooden shed tucked away in one corner, the stupid shoes clumping on the brick path. “Except,” she tossed over her shoulder, “I find I really don’t know how to relax. I’ve already gone through two novels, just since yesterday.” Like a small child, she peered inside the darkened shed which smelled of damp wood and earth and other vague, gardeny things. “I do need the time away, but—”
“What you need is a change, then. Not a rest.”
She turned then, one hand on the door frame. “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s it.” On a sigh, she added, “I find idleness doesn’t suit me very much.”
The old man waved his
