ELLIOTT MET KIT at the airport, following her
four-week stint at the spa. She spotted his parked vehicle on the tarmac, then she
saw him walking out of the executive terminal. Why do men get more distinguished as they age?
He was dressed in his
usual uniform: pressed khakis, light green polo shirt with the MacKlenna Farm
logo, Italian loafers, and perfectly styled thick gray hair. He was as handsome
as she’d ever seen him.
He gobbled her up in a
monster hug. ‘You look gorgeous.”
“You look rather
handsome yourself.”
He smiled, showing
perfect white teeth. “Stress lines are gone. For once in my life I wasn’t worrying
about you.” He grabbed her bags. “Just these two?”
“I have a crate, too.”
“Paintings?”
She nodded. “The spa
manager wanted to buy one of my Chimney Rock paintings, but I couldn’t sell it.
Not even for a free week.”
“You passed up several
thousand dollars.”
“I’ll never sell any of
my Oregon Trail paintings.” She looped her arm into his. “I’ve been buffed and
polished, and had several appointments with the OB/GYN Dr. Olson recommended.
The baby is fine. Now tell me what’s been going on. How are my animals?”
“Stormy’s recovered most
of his weight. But I had to send the damn dog to obedience school and thought
about sending the cat too. You turned them in to wild animals.”
She climbed into the
truck and buckled up. “It wasn’t all my doing. I had two little helpers.”
“Don’t get maudlin on
me.” He walked around the front and climbed in the driver’s seat. “You look
good—rested and more relaxed than I’ve seen you in a long time.” He turned on
the blinker and eased into airport traffic. “Matter-of-fact, you look really
good. Pregnancy becomes you.”
“I think that’s part of
the deal. You get fat and feel ugly but you have a radiant glow that makes you
look beautiful. Go figure. But I’m back now and ready to go to work.”
“Not on that damned fire
truck.”
She patted her belly.
“No more fire trucks. I think I’m giving up on the idea of med school too, at
least for now. I don’t want to do anything that will take time away from this
little guy. I’ll help out on the farm and paint. I might not know where my
roots are, but I know where I’m rooted.”
AFTER A MONTH, Kit’s expanded waistline demanded
she shop for maternity clothes. She’d been born without a shopping gene and
hated going to the mall. Now loaded down with packages, she walked through the
front door and without thinking, tossed her keys on the side cabinet, then cringed
when they slid across the marble top and fell off the back.
She dumped her packages
on the staircase and pulled the table away from the wall. There were enough
dust bunnies to fill an Easter egg basket. There was also an envelope from the Bank
of San Francisco.
“Yikes. I hope the bank
followed up by now.” With the envelope in one hand, keys and cell phone in the
other, she walked into the office, plopped down on the sofa, and kicked off her
strappy sandals before scrolling through the fifteen emails on her phone.
While reading an email
from the CFO, she dug a letter opener under the envelope flap and pulled out a
sheet a paper. Her eyes did a back-and-forth-dance between the email and the
letter.
She dropped the phone
and sat transfixed, unable to breathe.
Oh my God.
Clipped to the letter
was a brittle yellow envelope, addressed in an ornate script to:
Kitherina MacKlenna Montgomery
MacKlenna Farm
Lexington, Fayette County, Kentucky
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