The Tree Keeper's Promise Part 11

Say something, anything, to break the spell.

"Couldn't you call your mom and ask? I mean, a woman never forgets a good designer," Ashley rattled off, now glancing about the room, seeing it for the first time.

Mark looked at Angela. An "I'm-sorry" expression was all she could offer. This was going from bad to worse. And they weren't even through the introductions.

"My mother pa.s.sed away when I was ten." He said it reverently but also unaffectedly. Angela recognized the kindness in his eyes, always present when he spoke of his mother.

"Oh, I didn't know. I'm so sorry."

"Why don't I show you the rest of the house," Angela said. Turning to Mark, she added, "Maybe we could catch up with you by Donna's barn in a half an hour?"

"Sounds good."

Angela waited for Mark to leave, but he paused for a moment, perhaps only recognizable to her. Then, without warning, he put his arm around Angela's waist, pulled her against him, and kissed her cheek-ever so close to her lips. Brief but deliberate. And conveniently on the side facing Ashley.

As Mark left the room, Angela rode the wave of momentary thrill and turned to face Ashley, bracing herself for the inquisition.

"What was that? No, don't tell me. Seriously, that was a kiss. Okay, more than a kiss because I saw his arm go around your waist. Like ... are you two ... ? Don't tell me. I mean, you didn't tell me you're ... you're dating him! Dating, right? How long has this been going on? And by going on I mean-"

"Let me stop you right there." Angela took a breath deep enough for the two of them. "We're not engaged." Angela held up her hand, and an anticlimactic quiet settled over them.

Ashley appeared both disappointed and somewhat pleased in a single facial expression.

"Yet. We're not engaged yet," Angela added. She might have been imagining the pleased look, but just in case she wasn't.

Ashley and her heeled boots clacked over to the dining room, and she offered a little laugh.

"Now I know why you wanted me to come to the farm. This is going to be your home." She said it simply enough, but Angela wasn't sure if there were an edge in there somewhere.

"No, remember you asked about Sutton. Meeting people."

"Uh-huh. This is lovely Angela, it is." At this, her tone s.h.i.+fted noticeably. As she walked to the kitchen, leading a kind of self-tour, she pointed to the area walled off with plastic. "What's happening there?" she asked.

"Mark is expanding," Angela said, hoping that would satisfy her since she didn't know more than that. When Mark had started the construction, he'd declared it a surprise until it was done.

"Nice. Maybe a modern master bedroom suite for the two of you?"

Before Angela could admit to not knowing, Ashley expertly changed the subject, or at least breathlessly. Now in the kitchen, she commented on everything from the cabinets to the angle of light from the windows. "At least your future, uh, late mother-in-law had good taste. What about your father-in-law? Does he still own the house?"

Tact. Did she have any?

"He died in a fire with Mark's mom," Angela said. Before Ashley could reply, Angela changed the subject and stammered out some words. "How about we head outside. The trees are spectacular," Angela said while motioning to the window. She saw a bit of wistfulness on Ashley's face. "This time of day," she continued, "the angle of the light, like you were mentioning. It's gorgeous here."

As they approached Donna's craft barn, Mark was waiting. Angela loved how tall he stood near the door with his square shoulders and tousled brown hair against the red of the barn wall, the white of the door trim. A familiar emotion flitted through her, that longing to be in his arms.

Then she remembered Ashley and how this was her first time at the farm. Was it her first time on any farm? Not that Angela wanted to read her mind. The thought of that was exhausting, but what was she thinking?

Angela looked again at the trees, at the barn, and at Mark. Did the barn need a new coat of paint? Was the fading sunlight doing the trees justice?

Was Mark as rugged-looking as she thought? Or just rough around the edges?

Angela pushed the thoughts aside as Mark greeted them.

"Hi, Mark. Angela didn't tell me she had her very own Tarzan."

Angela cringed-Tarzan? This isn't the jungle!

Ashley spoke full speed ahead. Angela hoped Mark had missed the reference completely. She should have warned Mark about her, the inadvertent put-downs, but they were always reserved for her, she'd thought. Angela didn't think she'd aim any at Mark.

Ashley couldn't have meant it the way it sounded, could she? She was already commenting on the slant of the ground and how had she known she'd be hiking she would have worn her Stuart Weitzmans.

"I've never had a reason to take them out of the box, and I promised myself I would, you know, go hiking one day so I wouldn't be haunted by the $500 price tag. I mean I could have waited for a sale, but Weitzmans are ridiculous that way. I would have never found my size. You'd think five and a half would be so easy to find. It's the half size-I mean why did my feet have to grow just enough to take half the joy out of shoe shopping?"

Whatever compa.s.sion Angela may have felt at their now-too-distant lunch, she was losing over Ashley's great trial in life-that of an impractical shoe size.

There were no designer hiking boots for sale in the barn. Though that didn't stop Ashley from suggesting it.

"Donna's barn, what a nice touch. You know, though, everyone can see it's a barn. Add the word boutique and voil, you can sell to an entirely new market."

Donna's Barn Boutique?

Angela would have to think about that one.

Mark ventured a word or two. "Can't say that Donna was much of a boutique woman."

After Ashley left, Mark and Angela walked through the back lot of trees from the barn to the front lot. The setting sun glowed over the western horizon. The trees stood as darkened sentinels.

Angela sighed, displaying obvious relief. Not that she didn't still worry what Mark might have thought of Hurricane Ashley having just moved through the farm. Could she declare how she didn't want to think, look, or act like Ashley in any way without being a miserable friend? Had Mark gotten to know her well enough over these last eight or nine months to know the difference?

"So you and Ashley-friends?

"High school friends, and in the loosest meaning of that word."

"And now?" Mark asked guardedly.

"She's the new manager of Blackstone. But my time there is done. I only invited her here because she's new to Sutton, and she says she's over her divorce, but I don't know. She may be needier than ever."

"And?"

"And what? That's all."

"You don't think she'll be wanting to hang out, do some girls' nights?"

At this, Angela felt even more relieved. If all Mark was worried about was Angela spending time with Ashley-well, that was not going to happen.

"She may want to, but I don't have the wallet or stomach for the kind of shopping she does."

Mark reached for Angela's hand. The warmth of his touch distracted her for a moment and left her unprepared for what he would say next.

"It's not too late to tell me if this isn't going to work out. I saw the way Ashley looked at the trees and the house. I get it. I've seen it before. If it hadn't been for the hand-carved door, she might have made up a reason to leave before we even made it to the porch."

Angela continued walking, speechless, her mind replaying the last hour.

"I always worried it would be a stretch. Us ... you ... the farm," he said next.

His tone of defeat tugged at Angela's heart. No, it pierced it. She wanted to protest but shock choked her words.

Mark continued. "This isn't Providence. And I'm not Tarzan."

What did he mean, "It would be a stretch"?

Angela could hardly see the road for all her indignation.

The nerve he has to say such a thing.

She tried taking a deep breath or two but felt far too hypocritical doing it. I don't want to cool down. I want to stay mad. At least until I can figure out why his oh-so-considerate offer makes me so angry.

At that, she thought of his words again. "It's not too late to tell me if this isn't going to work out."

Why isn't it too late? Do you feel so little for me?

The road curved before her exit. She narrowly missed another car while changing lanes. She forced another breath for her own safety's sake.

"I always worried it would be a stretch," he'd said. "Us ... you ... the farm."

He'd included farm like it was part of the "us" he talked about. Of course it was a part of them. The lack of confidence in his voice, the sound of resignation she heard-like he was less surprised and mostly deflated. If he'd been that skeptical, why let it go on this long?

Is this why he hasn't proposed? Did he ever think I could fit in at the farm?

"This isn't Providence," he'd said. Only there wasn't defensiveness in his voice. He'd said it plain and proud. Angela had left Providence a long time ago, in more ways than one. And never cared to go back. Still, his words felt as much like a rejection as anything could.

Doesn't he know I love him?

Tears spilled over her cheeks. Angela swiped at them with an impatient disgust.

Useless tears.

Not wanting to admit her anger was a cover for sadness yet, she hit the accelerator as she approached her house.

"I'm not Tarzan," he had declared.

Well, I'm not Jane, she thought. And I'm not Ashley Porter.

Chapter 10.

Mark didn't watch Angela leave. What was there to see? Another hope that wouldn't work out? He walked up the porch steps, heard her start the truck. It sputtered. He paused, but the engine engaged, then the wheels crunched over the gravel. He opened and closed the hand-carved door behind him. No reason to make it harder than it was.

Had he been fooling himself? Like he had with Natalie? Seeing what he wanted to see, instead of the obvious? Not that Angela was anything like Natalie or Ashley, but how could someone accustomed to so much money and comfort be happy at the farm?

She said she was. She even said she would be.

How long would it be before she realized it wouldn't get any more exciting?

Mark walked to the cabin, pulled out his guitar, pushed some boxes he'd brought over, and started strumming, automatically playing Angela's song. Only instead of lifting his mood, it worsened it.

He changed the chords. He changed the words. He put down the guitar.

He wandered over to Donna's barn and surveyed the room. Mrs. Shaw had taken the shelving down and rearranged the floor plan. Now it was shopper-friendly, with new endcap s.p.a.ces for larger displays. And the cash register had been moved to the side of the large room, giving customers more merchandise to look at while they stood in line.

All good changes.

What the barn didn't have was Donna. Mark wanted to find her with a box of new craft supplies. He would have offered to help unpack it, pretending to know what she did with all that wire, glue, and beads. He would have been able to ask her about Angela and what he should do.

Mark walked through the newly designed area until he reached the back of the room. On the wall next to her favorite window hung Donna's picture in a craft frame she'd made herself.

He didn't often pause here. He didn't linger over her memory, at least not in the barn where it had the power to overwhelm him.

The barn door opened, startling Mark. Papa brushed the rain from his arms as he walked in.

"Thought it might be you. Saw the light on from my place and knew it wasn't Dorothy."

"I'm checking-uh, looking at-the new layout. Mrs. Shaw's done a lot of work here."

"This time a' night?" Papa scratched the back of his head. "Looks to me like you're lovesick," he said with some frustration. No smile, no gentle laugh.

"I wouldn't call it that."

"Doesn't matter what ya call it. The only cure for it is asking her to marry ya, and the sooner the better."

Somehow having this conversation with Papa wasn't nearly the same as having it with Donna. Mark turned on his heel, taking in the scope of the room, and let his eyes catch Donna's smile. She was getting a good laugh at this, he was sure.

"It's not like that, Papa. I'm worried she might not end up liking the farm as much as she thinks she will."

"That so?" Papa walked to the back, closer to Mark, and pulled out one of the register stools. "This have anything to do with her friend showin' up and prancing around?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Angela seems like she knows her mind. She's had plenty of time to see what goes on 'round here. What did she have to say about it?" Papa's forehead furrowed.

"I didn't ask. I mean, I told her it wasn't too late if she wanted out."

"What kind of an offer was that?" Papa sat up straight, setting one of his feet hard against the edge of the stool. "Of course it's too late. You two are young lovebirds out there around the trees. You love her, don't you?"