My Name is Nell

Brady smoothed the page with his hand and began reading.

A sanctuary. That’s what you’ve created here, and I will be forever grateful. I have been so alone. Unable to see a direction for my life. Not sure if there even is one. When you’ve loved and lost, doubt replaces hope, insecurity replaces confidence and you wonder who you are. Whether you can go on. Or even want to.

Looking up just in time to see the sun drop behind the dark curtain of mountain, Brady pondered whether he should continue reading. The words were too confessional, too emotionally raw—and threatening. Some other individual had come here full of the same thoughts and feelings.

Unable to help himself, he turned back to the graceful handwriting covering the page.

This time of quiet and contemplation has been a great gift, restoring my belief that no matter how severe the storm, rainbows can happen. Regardless of how desolate I feel right now, I have to believe that somewhere out there is someone for me. Someone I can trust. Someone I can love. When I find him, dear Sally, the two of us will come to the Edgewater Inn. Together.

Brady stared for the longest time at the signature. Simple. Bare. Exposed. “Nell.”

He stood abruptly and walked to the railing, peering at the grove of pine trees bordering the property. Nell, whoever she was, was more optimistic than he was. As if, like Dorothy, you could click your red-shod heels and suddenly find yourself on the other side of whatever hell you were in.

God, he hated his blatant, whining self-pity. If Nell, desolate and alone, had been willing to look for something better, why couldn’t he?

He leaned against a post. This attitude of his was downright depressing. He needed a plan—any plan—and at this point he didn’t give much of a damn what it was.

Absently he realized he was still holding the guest book, his forefinger marking Nell’s page. He opened it again and squinted in the dim light, just making out the line beneath her signature. “Fayetteville, AR, 1997.”

He carried the book back into his room and reread the entry. Several times.

A crazy idea entered his head. But no crazier than what he’d been doing. He needed a purpose. A direction. Short-term, this would work as well as anything.

Tomorrow, after he checked out, he would drive to Fayetteville to find this Nell, a woman who still believed in rainbows.

CHAPTER TWO

TOWERING ABOVE the broad expanse of lawn in front of Old Main, the landmark building of the University of Arkansas campus, were massive oaks and maples, their leaves hanging lifeless in the heat of the late August day. Patches of shade offered only the illusion of coolness. Brady paused, gazing across the sward where members of a fraternity gathered on the porch of their house to welcome a group of rushees. He envied them this carefree time of life. College. What would that have been like?

Once, long ago, he’d assumed that was his destiny. But that was before his mother died and his father hastily remarried. Before he rebelled against his father’s unreasonable restrictions and demands. Before he stood up to the old man, told him to take a flying leap and left home. On his own at eighteen. No enlightening classes, fall football weekends, frat parties or eager coeds for him.

All he had in his favor was a knack for computers, a willingness to work his butt off and a cold, simmering rage fueling his ambition.

He headed toward Dickson Street, an off-campus shopping area housing several watering holes. He needed a cool drink. He had thought his plan of starting his search with the university telephone directory was ingenious. The U of A was the town’s largest employer, so the odds of finding Nell on campus were better than average. However, after a day hunched over a table in the college library, his eyes were raw from reading endless lists of names. He’d found several Nells. When he’d called, one had turned out to be a secretary in the engineering department suspicious of his motives. Another was a graduate student who knew nothing about any Edgewater Inn. A third, who sounded like Minnie Mouse, asked him what he had in mind, then giggled coquettishly.

The tavern was an oasis in a frustrating day. He settled on a bar stool and ordered a cola. In a nearby booth, three barrel-chested young men were playing a chug-a-lug game. Brady’s lip curled. He wanted to knock their pitcher to the floor and demand to know if they were driving. Didn’t they understand their stupidity could lead to tragedy? He no longer had any tolerance for overindulgence.

Instead of acting on his instinct, he turned to the bartender and asked if he knew any women named Nell. “That’s kind of an old-fashioned name. Most of the chicks these days are Chelseas or Tiffanies, know what I mean?”

Yeah, he did. Besides, he wasn’t picturing Nell as a younger woman. More someone his age. Somebody who’d obviously lived through hurt. Then another thought hit him. What if Nell was older, maybe a widow who’d lost her husband after forty years of marriage?

He drained his glass. This was insane. Even if he found his Nell, how could he explain his actions? She might even accuse him of stalking. What was he hoping to find?

He signaled the bartender for another soda. What would Carl say if he could see him now, sitting in Fayetteville, Arkansas? Everywhere you looked in this town was a depiction of the butt-ugly razorback hog, the beloved mascot of the university. Yet the place had an appealing, slow-paced charm. He grinned sardonically. He had wanted to get away from the Silicon Valley. Well, he had certainly succeeded.

Nursing his drink, he noticed a local newspaper on the seat beside him. He picked it up and scanned the headlines. Zoning issues. School orientation programs. A public library forum. A controversy over pollution of the Illinois River.

As he started to shove it aside, out of the blue he recalled a seemingly vague remark Sally at the Edgewater Inn had made when he’d asked about Nell. “I can’t give out personal information about my guests,” she’d said. They’d been standing in the living room at the time, where one entire wall was lined with books. “Say,” she’d added, gesturing to the shelves as if changing the subject, “do you like to read? I do. Libraries have always been favorite places of mine. How about you?”

At the time he’d mumbled something about not having much time for reading. He remembered being irritated that she hadn’t given him any information about Nell. Now, though, he wondered. Maybe she had and he’d been too dense to realize it.

He drained his glass, then began reading the article about the library forum. In the final paragraph, he found what he was looking for. “August’s forum on Arab-Israeli relations will be moderated by Nell Porter.” He checked the date. Tomorrow night.

At last a genuine lead. He could blend into the audience and size up the latest Nell candidate.

He couldn’t believe he was thinking like this. What would he say if he ever found the Nell? “Hi, I think we have misery in common?” What kind of way was that to impress anybody? Why did he care?

There was another obstacle. Her entry was dated 1997. Six years ago. What made him think time had stood still for Nell?

Despite the harsh light of reason, he felt compelled to follow his search through to its conclusion. He would find Nell.

“DID YOU GET Abby off all right for her vacation with her father?”

To free her hands, Nell settled the phone against her shoulder and continued searching through her office file cabinet. “Yes, Mother. As usual, she trudged through security like a condemned prisoner.”

“Why can’t you say something to Rick? What’s the matter with that man anyway?”

“If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be where I am right now.” She pulled out a file folder, skimmed the contents, then discarded it. Where was that background information for her introduction for tonight’s forum? “As for communicating with Rick about Abby, a cabbage is a more attentive listener. At some point, Abby is going to have to speak up for herself. She’s the only one I can think of who might make a dent in his self-absorption.”

“Do you think it’s wise to keep sending her, dear?”

“What choice do I have? Her visits are court-mandated. Besides, in his own way, Rick does care about her.”

Her mother’s voice modulated into that concerned, faintly judgmental tone Nell had come to dread. “Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself? It’s a whole week alone. Don’t you want to come stay with me?”

Rolling her eyes, Nell prayed for patience. “I’ll be fine, Mother. You can count on it. Besides, I need some time at home to clean out closets and get organized for winter.”

“That doesn’t sound much like fun.”

Fun? What would that be like? “I’ll take peace and quiet over fun any day.” She extracted two folders that had become stuck together. There it was. Her introduction. Breathing a sigh of relief, she grabbed up the phone. “Look, Mom, I’ve got to go. The forum starts in half an hour.”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Nell gritted her teeth. How long would it take before her family trusted her again? “Thanks, I appreciate your concern. I’ll call you later in the week.”

With a sigh of relief, she hung up the phone and studied the bios in front of her—one for a local rabbi and another for the head of the Arab Student League. Using a highlighter, she marked the sections she wanted for her introduction.

Yet she was distracted by her mother’s interference. Was being treated like a child a price she would always have to pay?

BRADY FOLLOWED a frumpy-looking pair of retirees into the library meeting room and took a seat on the aisle near the back. He looked around wondering which of the librarians was Nell. Two stood at a side table arranging books about the Mid-East. Another was bent over, conferring with one of the men seated beside the podium. When she straightened, smiled around the room and asked for order, Brady’s breath caught in his chest. This was no old woman looking for a dapper widower with whom to share her twilight years.

“Good evening and welcome to tonight’s forum. My name is Nell Porter and I’ll be your moderator this evening….”

Brady tuned out her words. She was a tall, slender woman—midthirties he judged—with short straw-colored hair cut in uneven lengths, a style that complemented the casualness of her high-waisted denim jumper. When she smiled, her eyes narrowed in delighted crinkles. She wore little makeup and he couldn’t help noticing her ringless fingers.

“…it’s my pleasure to introduce…”

He became aware that a short, bearded gentleman had stepped to the microphone. Brady’s eyes, however, were glued on the graceful way Nell Porter sank into her chair, crossing one long leg over the other, smoothing her skirt, then fixing her attention on the speaker.

She was not like Brooke, a sleek blonde made for designer clothes, Porsches and expensive, understated jewelry. Nell had a fresh, wholesome look, although her tousled hairstyle suggested an impish streak. She appeared thoroughly likeable. Comfortable.

He’d made his living by exercising logic. The thought in his head, however, was anything but logical.

He wanted Nell Porter to be his Edgewater Inn Nell.

“YOU’RE WHERE?” Carl did not sound pleased.

“Fayetteville. Arkansas.”

“Hmm. I’d hoped you were on your way home.”

Home. There was that word again. Didn’t Carl understand. He no longer had a home. Staring at the anonymous, monochromatic motel room walls, Brady absently brushed a hand through his hair, still damp from his morning shower. “Not yet.”

“I don’t suppose it would hurry things along if I said we’ve got a lotta deals poppin’ here and we need you.”

The familiar clenching of his stomach gave him his answer. “Sorry, Carl, but I’d be no good to you now.”

His partner’s tone mellowed. “I don’t mean to rush you. I know you need time. It’s just—”

“When I’m ready, buddy, I’ll let you know.”

“What are your plans for the moment?”

Brady studied the cover of the local phone book, bearing a picture of a flowering pink dogwood. “It’s nice here. I may stick around a while.”

“In Arkansas?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve seen it. Natural beauty, low cost of living, friendly people. A guy could do a whole lot worse.” Best of all, it was a radical change from the merry-go-round California lifestyle.

He really should feel guilty about the company, but, ironically, that was the one thing about which he had no guilt. It would survive.

He wasn’t so sure about himself. Two or three times a week he woke from a dead sleep drenched in sweat, the odor of diesel fuel clogging his nostrils, his heartbeat in the danger zone—and two names echoing in his consciousness.

His friends had recommended all kinds of therapists and treatments—a regular LaLa Land smorgasbord of palliatives.

Screw that. He’d find his own way. Picking up his billfold and keys, he headed for the door. Today was a day for exploring the area—and stopping by the library. He allowed himself a brief smile of anticipation. Maybe Ms. Porter could help him research area B-and-B’s, particularly those along the White River.

NELL PARKED HER CAR near the square and hit her early-morning meeting at the church before heading on to work. The sun had already burned off the dew, and the temperature reading on the bank stood at eighty-five degrees and it wasn’t even ten. Another scorcher. The cool of the library would be welcome.

After exchanging greetings with Reggie and the rest of the staff, she had just enough time to circle the chairs in the children’s area before the toddlers and their mothers began arriving for story-time. As usual Rodney Fraim’s mother could hardly control him. At every chance, he slipped out of her arms and began playing peekaboo from behind the stacks. Most of the rest, however, sat on the carpet, legs crossed, only occasionally fidgeting. Today’s book was Katharine Holabird’s Alexander and the Dragon. Halfway through the story, Nell noticed a tall, dark-haired man quietly observing the children. He looked harmless enough, but you could never be too careful. He pulled out a chair and sat at a table where he continued watching them. He seemed more pensive than menacing, an amused smile softening his strong features when one of the youngsters reacted with laughter to the idea of having a dragon under the bed.

As Nell continued reading and displaying the illustrations, she became uncomfortably aware that the man seemed to be studying her rather than the children. Did she know him? Fighting a breathless sensation, she approached the end of the story where Alexander realizes he’s no longer afraid of shadows—or of his friend the dragon.

A shiver passed through Nell when the man mouthed the lines with her. Why was his expression so sad? Before she could ponder his sudden change, he stood and wandered toward the fiction section.

She shook her head to clear her mind. She must’ve imagined that fleeting moment of connection with him. She refocused on the boys and girls and completed the story. As she’d anticipated, it gave rise to a lively discussion of what and who lived in the bedrooms of her tiny listeners.

After helping all the children select and check out their take-home books, she straightened the area and turned toward her office. The good-looking man sat in one of the easy chairs near the main desk, an open book in his lap. But his dark brown eyes followed her. Enough of this. She was uncomfortable with his attention, even though a frisson of something like pleasure took her by surprise.

She crossed to him. “Excuse me, sir, but do I know you?”

He closed his book—which she couldn’t help noticing was a Grisham legal thriller—and raised his eyes, a slow smile creating a devilish dimple in his left cheek. “No. I’m Brady Logan.” With athletic grace, he rose to his feet and now looked down on her. “I was at the forum last night, so, in a manner of speaking, I know you. Nell Porter, right?”

She clasped her cold hands in front of her. “Yes.” She scrambled for words. “Did you enjoy it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Discussion of conflict and violence is more painful than enjoyable.” He paused before going on. “I vastly preferred this morning’s activities.”

“You’re obviously familiar with Alexander and the Dragon.”

She detected a momentary steeling of his features. He offered no explanation but simply said, “Yes.”

She couldn’t seem to tear herself away, but there was little more to be said. Steering from the personal, she grasped for the professional. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I’m new to the area and am interested in doing some fly-fishing, maybe locating a nice place along the White River to stay. Have any suggestions?”

Brady Logan didn’t strike her as someone so clueless about how to use a library, but then you never knew. “There are a couple of popular resorts near Flippin, or you might consider—”

“I’m more a B-and-B kinda guy.”

“Well, in that case—” his eyes found hers, as if he anticipated her next words “—you might try the Edgewater Inn.” More to escape his scrutiny than anything, she made her way to the travel section. “Here.” She pulled out a directory of Arkansas bed-and-breakfasts. “You can read all about it.”

He took the book, thumbing through it until he found the listing and an accompanying photograph. “This looks nice.”

“It is.” Then she found herself telling him all about her stay there.

“Sounds peaceful,” he finally said.

“Very.” A poignant memory came to her of cathartic tears shed on a lazy September afternoon rocking on a wooden porch swing overlooking the blue river.

He took her by the arm, then as if realizing he’d overstepped his bounds, he released his grip. “Thanks, Nell Porter. You’ve been most helpful.”

She found it hard to swallow. “I’m glad.”

Reggie Pettigrew bustled up alongside them. “Nell, your daughter’s on the phone.”

A strange look—wistfulness? sadness?—shadowed Brady’s face before he seemed to reassemble his features. He nodded his understanding.

“Excuse me,” she said, then started for her office.

“Nell?”

She turned around. He smiled, then winked. “Beware of dragons.”

On the way to her office, she couldn’t explain the tingly feeling short-circuiting her body. She had the strangest sense that he’d been waiting for her. Any number of other librarians could have helped him.

Oddly, instead of making her uncomfortable, the thought filled her with the kind of anticipation she hadn’t experienced in years. He was an extremely attractive man.

Any such frivolous thoughts were shattered when she picked up the phone. “Mom.” Abby’s voice was a harsh whisper. “I hate it here. Do I hafta stay?”

THAT AFTERNOON Brady explored the secluded neighborhoods clinging to the sides of the steep hills rimming Fayetteville, drove north on I-540, astonished at the amount of commercial development, then ended up at a marina on Beaver Lake, where moored boats of all kinds rocked with the gentle swells. As a businessman, he recognized he’d stumbled into an investor’s paradise in this burgeoning northwest corner of Arkansas. He left his car and walked across the boardwalk to the marina office where he rented a small pontoon boat for a couple of hours.

Slowly edging past the buoys, he pushed the throttle forward and skimmed over the clear water, practically deserted except for a few die-hard fishermen. If this lake were in California, it would be wall-to-wall boats no matter what the day of the week or time of day. When he reached the middle of a secluded cove, he cut the motor—aware of the peaceful quality of the sudden silence.

Finally he let his thoughts return to Nell. He had been ill-prepared for her effect on him. She was a natural with the children and there was a kind of discomfiting synchronicity in her having selected Alexander and the Dragon to read. Nicole’s favorite bedtime story. He glanced skyward, willing away the involuntary spasm of grief.

He forced himself to think about Nell again. When she’d approached him in the library, she had seemed skittish, her hands primly folded in front of her, her gray eyes wary. Her nose, dusted lightly with freckles, and her bare red-polished toes contributed to her overall sense of vulnerability. Yet she’d dared to confront him. Admittedly his observation of her had been rather obvious. When you’ve loved and lost, doubt replaces hope, insecurity replaces confidence and you wonder who you are.

The boat bobbed in the wake of a passing jet ski. Was she still all by herself? He knew now she had a daughter. Despite her ringless fingers, was there a Mr. Porter?

He devoutly hoped not.

Since Brooke and Nicole had died, he had been unable to connect with anybody—not his friends, his neighbors or his colleagues. He thought of himself as a wraith. Improbable as it seemed, though, he wanted to connect with Nell Porter.

Switching on the key, he started the motor and made his way back across the lake. By the time he reached the dock, he’d arrived at a decision.

Tomorrow he would look for rental property in Fayetteville. He was staying. And Nell was the reason.

NELL WAS REDECORATING the bulletin board in the children’s area with a back-to-school motif when she became aware of a presence behind her. She finished tacking up the book cover she was working on, then turned. Hands in his pockets, Brady Logan stood there smiling a killer smile, then shrugged as if in self-defense. “I’m back.”

“Not the proverbial bad penny, I hope,” she said, attempting a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

“No. I have a reason for being here.”

She needed something to occupy her hands. Selecting another cover from the stack on the table, she said, “Anything I can help you with?”

“I certainly hope so. I’d like you to have lunch with me.”

She’d been fully prepared to direct him to the library’s fishing collection or to locate the latest issue of Field and Stream, but lunch? The thought filled her with mild panic. No man had asked her to lunch in a very long time and certainly no one who made her hormones react in such an unseemly fashion. “I beg your pardon?”

He nodded his head. “You heard me right. Lunch. You know, where two people look at a menu, order and have polite conversation while they eat.”

Smiling tentatively, she said, “I know what lunch is, but let’s face it, I have no idea who you are, really.”

“That’s why I’m inviting you to lunch—to correct that deficiency.” Before she could offer further objections, he went on. “I’m new in town. I’m looking for someone to fill me in on the local scene. I figure a librarian is the perfect resource. This would be completely aboveboard.” He drew her to the window. “It’s broad daylight, pedestrians are everywhere. We could walk to the nearest restaurant, and if you decide I’m a threat, all you have to do is call for help.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “But I guarantee that won’t be necessary.”

Nell fought the temptation induced by his honeyed voice and the pressure of his hand on her shoulder. Despite herself, she recalled her reaction to her mother’s challenge the other day. Peace and quiet—or fun? This could be fun. On the other hand… “I don’t think—”

“Don’t think, just say ‘yes.’ You do have to eat, don’t you?”

She made the mistake, then, of looking into his eyes where she found both humor and need. “I—I suppose I could—”

“Great.” When he smiled down at her, she couldn’t summon a single objection. “I’ll wait over in the magazine section.”

Then he left her. She studied the book cover in her hand, trying to think what she was doing with it. Flustered, she remembered and picked up a couple of tacks. She shook her head, wondering why in the world she’d agreed to such an improbable invitation.