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Until she heard the storm door creak open behind her.
Isobel froze. Turning her head, she caught sight of a dark blur as it slid away from the brick siding and darted inside her house.
8
Gifted
Heart hammering, Isobel spun. She threw open the storm door and charged back inside, rushing the black-clad figure.
Arms raised, the intruder stumbled backward, sprawling on the stairs with a heavy clump.
Isobel lifted the umbrella high over her head, preparing to bring it down like a sledgehammer.
“Don’t shoot!”
Isobel stopped short of striking, halted by the familiar voice as well as the wide brown eyes that now peered up at her from behind glinting oval lenses.
Stunned, Isobel lowered the umbrella.
“Yeesh,” Gwen said, a nervous tremor in her voice. “You expecting out-of-town relatives or something?”
Isobel took a step back, unsure of what to say or think.
Or how to feel . . .
Gwen sat up, lowering her arms slowly as though she feared Isobel might change her mind and clock her anyway.
Isobel saw that Gwen wore the scarf she had given her last night. She also had on the owl gloves. Slung over one shoulder, the strap of a heavy-looking messenger bag blended in with Gwen’s charcoal knee-length woolen coat.
Inside the bag, Isobel glimpsed the green binding of a thick hardback book. Her eyes caught the last word of the gold-embossed title. Mysticism?
Quickly Gwen fumbled to cover the book. She looked up, and their gazes met once more.
Despite what had happened between them the previous night, there was an undeniable current of secret joy that surged within Isobel at Gwen’s return.
But there was another part of her, a stronger part, that held her back and kept her from betraying any emotion. It brought with it a wave of cold detachment that sent a slow freeze over the initial impulse to start spilling out everything that had transpired since Gwen’s all-too-sudden departure the night before.
“What are you doing here?” Isobel snapped.
Gwen sobered. Her eyes shifted to the wall. “I came to talk.”
“Yeah?” Isobel said. “I thought you couldn’t talk to me. Ever again.”
This time, Isobel didn’t hold out for a response. Instead she deposited the umbrella back into the brass stand with a harsh clang. Folding her arms, she faced Gwen again, watching her as she grabbed ahold of the banister and drew herself to a standing position. Her thin frame wobbled under the weight of the messenger bag as she opened her mouth to speak, but Isobel cut her off.
“So remember that time you told me I was a terrible friend?” she asked.
Gwen’s jaw clamped shut. A look of wilted misery flittered across her features. At first the reaction gave Isobel the jolt of satisfaction she’d been looking for. A moment later, though, she wished she hadn’t said it.
“Look,” Gwen mumbled, “I’m gonna say I’m sorry, but I’m not there yet, okay?”
Digging a gloved hand into one coat pocket, she drew out a small mahogany box.
“First things first,” she said, and thrust the box toward Isobel. “I’m supposed to give this to you, so take it already. Merry Christmas or whatever. Just open it. After that, if you still want me to go away, then fine, I will.”
Isobel frowned at the small, flat, postcard-size box, uncertain whether she should accept it. Did Gwen seriously think she needed to bring Isobel a gift in order for her to accept her apology?
Gwen continued to hold the box steady.
