Page 21 of If The Fates Allow
“Wiiiilllllaaaa.”
“We’re coming, Lucy,” she shouted so her sister could hear. “No need to sing. I think we’ve had enough of that lately.”
They were nearing the curve on the path and would run into Lucy and Mr. Richards at any moment. “Are you not fond of singing?” Noah asked. “Are you all Shelly and Dickens with no heart to it?”
She wasn’t sure what had happened back there, but a shift had taken place, something between them changing. “I love singing. It’s only that Lucy and I were awakened by someone singing in the middle of the night.”
“Who on earth would be singing in the middle of the night?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “No, wait. I know. It’s your mother, isn’t it? At her heart, she’s a truly passionate soprano.”
A whoop of laughter loud enough to frighten every animal around burst from Willa. “No, Dr. Anderson.”
“Your father, then?”
It wouldn’t stop—the laughter, the ludicrousness of the idea tickling her brain as she imagined her father belting out a tune.
Smug by his ability to make her happy, Noah smirked at the path ahead. “Careful with all that laughter, Ms. Fairweather. I wouldn’t want you to overextend yourself onmy watch.”
“Oh, I am quite sure that is a lie.” Willa regained control of herself, although barely. “I imagine you would love me to overextend myself just so you can poke and prod me with the things you keep stored in that black bag of yours.”
He made a noise low in his throat but didn’t comment. “So, who was doing the singing?”
“It was likely Bonnie. She once sang all the time but hasn’t since...” She paused, unsure of which story had been told to him. “Since my sister Grace lived at Haven House.”
They rounded the turn, carefully stepping over a large fallen branch on the path. Straight ahead, Lucy and Mr. Richards waited next to what could only be described as a cottage. Small and worn, the old place had seen better days.
“I thought there were only three of you?”
Ah, so Noah had not yet been told of the Fairweather family scandal. Willa watched her sister laughing over something Mr. Richards said. They were too far off to make out the conversation, but the pair appeared to be getting along nicely. “Grace is the oldest.”
“Does she live in Hollingsdale?”
“No,” Willa replied and nodded at the house. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“It will take some time to organize,” Noah agreed, suddenly looking almost boyish as he rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “It’s a perfectly sound building, though. Once I have a few things in order, I plan to stay late every night to get it ready. I might even need to sleep over instead of trying to make it back to my uncle’s home in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t want to get attacked by some nocturnal animal looking for its next meal.”
On her left, something in the brush moved. A slight imbalance in the autumn air. A shadow that wanted Willa to look.
To see.
To remember.
As if she could forget.
She ignored it, too scared to acknowledge its presence.
And so, it followed, watching and listening. Its curiosity about Noah working as a reminder for Willa not to become too attached.
“Yes, you should be careful in these woods at night, Dr. Anderson.” Willa forced a smile that would fool any man alive. A carefully practiced one every Fairweather woman knew how to do. “There are things more dangerous than animals lurking about.”
Chapter 7
“And why is that doctor coming yet again?”
Eyes forward and sitting as straight as they possibly could, Cal was the only one who dared answer their father. “Noah comes every two to three days and has since The Gathering.”
“But why?” Stephen Fairweather might have been keen on manners for his children and had even higher expectations of his wife, but he held no such regard for himself. Sitting at the head of the massive mahogany dining room table, he chewed with his mouth open, glaring at Willa as she fought not to squirm. “Hasn’t he fixed you yet, girl?”
One of the logs in the fireplace cracked like a gunshot, and Willa nearly jumped out of her skin, already a jumble of nerves under her father’s scrutiny. “No, sir. Not as of yet.”
