Читать книгу Secrets of the Lost Summer - Carla Neggers - Страница 9

Three

Olivia raked the last of the fallen leaves from the raised herb bed by her back door. The overcast sky and chilly temperature didn’t bother her. The snow had melted out of her backyard, if not in the woods, and signs of spring were everywhere. She loved finding shoots of green under their cover of sodden leaves. The physical work gave her a burst of energy. She was ready to head up the road to Grace Webster’s old house and start hauling junk. Naturally its owner, Dylan McCaffrey, hadn’t responded to her note.

What had she expected? After two years of ignoring his property in Knights Bridge, why would he care?

Elly O’Dunn, who’d provided McCaffrey’s name and address, remembered meeting him when he’d stopped at the town offices. She told Maggie, who’d then told Olivia, that he was a good-looking man in his seventies, with thick white hair and intense blue eyes. She hadn’t spoken to him, and she couldn’t fathom why he’d wanted to buy Grace Webster’s house.

Olivia couldn’t, either. She took her rake with her to the front yard, just as her father pulled up in his truck. She’d almost forgotten she’d invited her parents to lunch. As he stepped onto the dirt driveway, she noticed he was alone. Randy Frost was a big, burly man who had transformed his father’s struggling sawmill into a profitable enterprise, all while serving on the Knights Bridge volunteer fire department since his teens.

“Place is shaping up,” he said, walking around to the front of his truck. He wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves, and his fleece jacket was open over a dark blue sweater.

Olivia held onto her rake. “It is, isn’t it?”

He glanced past her at the woods beyond the strip of yard on the garage side of the house. The area had been farmland before World War II, but hardwoods and evergreens had reclaimed much of the land, old stone walls that had marked fields now lacing a forest that stretched to the shores of the reservoir. Any open land was behind her house and up the road toward Grace’s—Dylan McCaffrey’s—house.

“Snow’s almost gone,” her father said, then sighed, turning back to his elder daughter. “This place is in the middle of nowhere, Liv, even by Knights Bridge standards. Do you really think people will come out here?”

“I do, Dad. No question in my mind.”

“Maybe your sister can be your guinea pig.”

Olivia almost dropped her rake. “She and Mark have set a wedding date?”

“No. She’s waiting for him to come up with a ring. She’s a romantic, but Mark…” Randy Frost ran a callused palm over his salt-and-pepper hair. “None of my business.”

Olivia had graduated high school with Mark. She remembered him sleeping in the back of algebra class, but he’d gone on to become an architect. After ten years going to school and working in Boston and New York, he moved back to Knights Bridge a year ago and had no interest in living anywhere else ever again.

“If Jess had wanted a Byron-esque soul,” Olivia said, “she and Mark Flanagan wouldn’t be together. He’s a great guy, though.”

“Yeah. I guess. What have you been raking?”

“The herb beds. The lavender survived the winter. It’s in a warm spot by the back door. I’ve decided to host a mother-daughter tea as a way to kick things off and get out the word that The Farm at Carriage Hill is up and running.”

“Your mother told me. She says she and Jess are coming. You’re not asking for money?”

“Right. It’ll be like an open house.”

“Makes sense. Then your guests can go home and decide to book their own event.”

“I’ll have meals catered and focus on smaller events at first—teas, bridal and baby showers, meetings.”

Her father studied her a moment. “You sound excited. That’s good.”

“I’ve been dreaming about transforming this place ever since I learned it was up for sale. It’s happening faster than I expected, but so far, so good.”

“I don’t have to tell you it’ll be a lot of hard work. What kind of food are you offering?”

“I thought I’d base the menu on herbs.”

“Herbal hors d’oeuvres, herbal bread, herbal soup, herbal dessert? Like that?”

Olivia grinned. “Yeah. Like that. People can wander in the gardens and woods, and I’ll offer books and lectures on various aspects of herbs—cooking, drying, using them in potpourris and fragrances.” She grabbed her rake and flipped it on end, pulling off wet leaves stuck on the metal tines. “I have lots of ideas. Right now I’m concentrating on cleaning out the gardens. You’re staying for lunch, right? I thought Mom was coming, too.”

“She’s home planning her trip to California. She wants to do the coastal highway.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“She’ll never go, but don’t tell her I said that.” He seemed to give himself a mental shake and nodded toward the house. “How’s Buster?”

“Staying. He refused to be persuaded not to dig up the lavender.” Olivia was relieved at the change in subject. Buster, a large mix of German shepherd and who-knew-what-else, had shown up at her house unaccompanied by owner, collar or leash, and for the past ten days had gone unclaimed. “I was thinking in terms of getting a friendlier dog. A golden retriever or a chocolate Lab, maybe. Buster looks like he could chew someone’s leg off.”

“Good. Keep Buster. I’ll feel better about you living out here alone.”

She felt her father scrutinizing her again as she set the rake against the garage. “I should have worn gloves. My hands are cold, and they’ve taken a beating since I moved out of the city.”

“It’s only been a couple weeks. You got enough money in the bank, Liv? You’re not betting everything on this place, are you?”

“I have time to make it work before I go broke.”

“A business plan?”

Sort of. She didn’t like discussing her finances with anyone, including her well-intentioned father. She smiled at him as she headed for the kitchen door. “Blood, sweat, laughter and tears. How’s that for a business plan?”

“Liv—”

“I’m still freelancing. Jacqui Ackerman gives me as much work as I can handle.” Olivia pulled open the door. “Come on in. Lunch is ready.”

“Where’s Buster?”

“Cooling his heels in the mudroom. You’re safe.”

Not, clearly, that her father was worried. Olivia led him into the kitchen. She had set the table for three and felt a pang of disappointment and frustration that her mother had bailed on lunch. She probably was home planning her trip, but if she couldn’t get herself out here for a visit, how was she going to get herself to California? After two weeks back in Knights Bridge, Olivia still hadn’t seen a sign of her mother on her doorstep. So far, any contact was at the mill, her parents’ house or her mother’s usual haunts in the village.

Olivia watched as her father quietly stacked up the extra place setting and set it on the butcher-block island. Randy and Louise Frost had known each other since kindergarten and had been married for thirty-two years. Olivia was confident that whatever was going on between them—if anything—would sort itself out. After her experience with Marilyn Bryson, Olivia was resisting the temptation to help anyone, much less her parents. She was essentially working two jobs as it was with her freelancing and her efforts to turn her house into The Farm at Carriage Hill.

“What’s that, Liv?” her father asked, pointing at the pot of soup simmering on the gas stove.

“Parsnip, turnip and apple soup.”

“Ah.”

“It’s seasoned with a dash of nutmeg. I have chopped fresh parsley and grated Parmesan cheese for garnish. It sounds festive, don’t you think?”

He picked up a wooden spoon and dipped it into the pot. “Sure, Liv. I’m game.”

“I’m experimenting with different recipes.”

He tasted the soup and set the spoon down. “Let’s see what it tastes like with the parsley and Parmesan.”

Olivia laughed. “That bad, is it?”

The parsley and Parmesan helped, but not enough. The soup was a little…earthy. Her father helped himself to two hunks of warm oatmeal bread, although he passed on the rosemary jam. “It’s got cranberries in it,” Olivia said. “I made it myself.”

“All right. I’ll try a little. For you, Liv.”

She grinned at him. “Thanks, Dad. You’re my test case.”

“Guinea pig, you mean.” He tried the jam and nodded. “Not bad. If you call it rosemary-cranberry jam, it won’t sound like something out of a feedbag.”

“Good point. I’ll do that.”

He made no protest about dessert, old-fashioned molasses cookies made from his mother’s—Olivia’s grandmother’s—recipe. He took a cookie with him as he stood up from the table. “Let’s have a look at your backyard now that the snow’s melted,” he said.

He’d been through the house last fall, after she’d said she was seriously considering buying it, but not since she’d moved in. He’d inspected the center chimney, the wiring, the furnace, the hot-water heater, any signs of potential water damage. The previous owners had done most of the infrastructure repair and renovation, allowing Olivia to focus on cosmetic changes and any adjustments to comply with local and state regulations in order to open up her house to the public. But the previous owners had thought of most of that, too, since they’d planned on starting their own bed-and-breakfast.

Buster barely stirred when they went out through the mudroom. Olivia left him inside. Her father wasn’t one for gardens and yard work, but he nodded with approval at what she’d managed to accomplish in just two weeks. “It’s a great spot, Liv,” he said. “No trouble with wild animals wandering over here from Quabbin?”

“Not yet.”

He pointed at the old stone wall that ran along the side of her property. “Beyond those woods are eighty thousand acres of wilderness. You’re closest neighbor in that direction is miles and miles from here.”

“I know, Dad. And my closest neighbor in the other direction is an old man from San Diego who hasn’t done a thing to his property in two years.”

Olivia didn’t mention that she’d written to her absentee neighbor. When she and her father returned to the kitchen, Buster had knocked down the mudroom gate and was in the living room, asleep on the hearth in front of the low fire she had going.

“My kind of dog,” Randy Frost said with a grin as he left.

He was on the road with cookies and soup for her mother when she called. “Is your dad still there? There’s freezing rain in the forecast. It’s supposed to be bad.”

“He just left.” Olivia sat on the couch in front of the fire. “He’ll be back before it starts.”

“Right. Good.” Her mother took an audible breath, obviously trying to control her anxiety. “How was lunch? Sorry to miss it, but some things came up here. I suggested we come tomorrow, but your dad—well, it doesn’t matter. Did you have a good time?”

Her mother had been worried about the weather forecast, Olivia realized now. “Lunch was great. Dad didn’t like my parsnip soup.”

“But you got him to try it?” Her mother laughed. “That’s an achievement right there. He doesn’t always like to try new things.” There was no hint of criticism in her tone. “I’ll get out there, Liv. Soon. I want to help you with the place. Jess says you’re raking and painting everything in sight. I can handle a rake and wield a paintbrush.”

“That’d be great, Mom. I know you’re busy planning your trip—”

“California,” she interrupted, almost as if she were gulping. “I’m going. No matter what.”

She made the trip—one she wanted to take—sound like an impending biopsy, but Olivia felt her own throat tighten at the prospect of her parents flying across the country. “I’ve seen pictures of California’s Pacific Coast Highway. It looks beautiful.”

“Yes. Right. I’ll call you later, Liv. Be careful out there alone in this freezing rain.”

“I will, Mom. I’m not that far from town, and I have Buster here with me.”

“You’ve had the vet look at him? He could have worms—”

“Yes, and he got a clean bill of health.”

“Your dad should be walking in the door any minute. Oh—I just looked out the window. I can see the ice forming on my car. Freezing rain is the worst.”

“Do you want me to stay on with you until Dad gets there?”

“No, no. He’ll be here any minute.”

Her mother was close to hyperventilating as she hung up. Olivia took a breath, suddenly feeling anxious and unsettled herself. She jumped up from the couch and went into the kitchen. The freezing rain had ended her raking for the day. She’d clean up the lunch dishes and work on a design project.

She stood at the sink and noticed the raindrops on the window, the glistening film of clear ice on the grass, the gray mist swirling in the woods.

The house was so quiet.

“Buster,” she said. “Buster, where are you?”

She checked the living room, but he was no longer asleep by the fire. She checked the cellar door, in case she’d left it open and he’d gone down there, but it was shut tight.

She called him again, but received only silence in return as she headed back to the kitchen.

She felt a cold draft and went into the mudroom.

The door was ajar.

She grimaced. “Damn.”

Buster was gone, and she was going to have to go out into the freezing rain to find him.

Less than an hour after arriving in little Knights Bridge, Dylan found himself up to his calves in a patch of snow and mud next to a rusted, cast-off refrigerator and face-to-face with one seriously mean-looking dog.

The dog had bounded out of the trees as if he’d been lying in wait, planning his attack on the unsuspecting new arrival to his quiet country road. His wild barking had subsided to intermittent growls.

“Easy, pal,” Dylan said. “Easy.”

Olivia Frost had to be the dog’s owner. Hers was the closest house; in fact, from what Dylan had seen, it was the only other house in the immediate vicinity. Freezing rain was coating everything in a film of clear ice. Prickly vines, pine needles, bare tree branches, exposed grass, last year’s dropped leaves. The old fridge. The mean dog. Dylan.

“You should go home.” Dylan pointed in the direction of The Farm at Carriage Hill. “Go. Go home.”

The dog barked once, growled and didn’t budge.

Dylan debated his options, none of them good. The freezing rain showed no sign of letting up. He was trapped out here in the middle of nowhere until it did. His flight from San Diego had been long but unremarkable, putting him in Boston late yesterday. He’d stayed with a hockey player friend, Alec Wiskovich, a Russian who had passed muster with Boston’s discerning fans as a forward with the Bruins. Alec had never heard of Knights Bridge, either. Dylan rented a car in the morning, typed “Knights Bridge” into the GPS system and went on his way.

Whether it was jet lag, the freezing rain, the mean dog or thinking about his father, he felt at least slightly out of his mind. If he were sane, he thought, he would indeed have sent Loretta to deal with Olivia Frost instead of coming himself. He was a busy man. He could afford to pay someone to sort out a misunderstanding about an old house and junk in the yard.

“Buster!”

It was a woman’s voice. Keeping the dog in the corner of his eye, Dylan shifted his gaze slightly and peered through the mist and rain at the one-lane road. The many potholes were filling with water and ice, but he didn’t see anyone else out there.

“Buster!” the woman again called. “Buster, where are you?”

Dylan turned back to the dog. “You must be Buster.”

A note of panic had crept into the woman’s voice. Maybe with good reason, Dylan thought, noting that the dog was on alert, his head jerking up at the sound of her voice. She was probably less worried about Buster getting hurt than doing the hurting, although who she thought might be out here was a mystery.

Well. Dylan grimaced. He was. But he hadn’t told her he was coming.

A slim figure materialized around a slight curve in the road.

Olivia Frost. Had to be. She was hatless and coatless, as if she’d bolted out of her house in a hurry—probably when she realized her dog was missing. Dylan wasn’t wearing a hat or gloves but he had on a canvas three-quarter-length coat.

As she stepped off the road into the patches of snow and soaked, cold, muddy brown leaves, the big dog again became agitated, snarling and growling.

Dylan figured he had seconds to live unless he thought fast.

He put up his hand in front of him in a calm but assertive gesture that stopped any advance the growling dog had in mind, then called to the woman. “Buster is right here.”

“So I see,” she said, coming closer, freezing rain visible on her dark hair.

“He and I just met. He seemed surprised to find anyone here.”

Olivia came to an abrupt stop. She was obviously surprised to find him there, too. Up close, Dylan could see her eyes were definitely hazel, and even prettier than in the photographs Loretta had sent him. Incredible eyes, really, with their deep blues and greens and flecks of gold. Maybe they stood out because of the bleak surroundings, or maybe because he was just happy to have survived his first hour in Knights Bridge.

She frowned at him as her dog trotted to her side. “Did you decide to pull off the road and wait out the freezing rain?”

“No, although it sounds like a good idea.” With Buster visibly calmer, Dylan dared to lower his hand. “I’m your neighbor. You wrote to me about the junk in the yard.”

“You’re Dylan McCaffrey?”

“I am.”

“I’m Olivia Frost. I thought—” Her frown deepened as her eyes narrowed on him. As cold as she had to be in her black corduroy shirt and jeans, she wasn’t shivering. “Are you sure you’re the right Dylan McCaffrey? I didn’t get in touch with the wrong one? You own this place?”

“Right McCaffrey, and yes, I own this place.”

He was obviously not even close to what his Knights Bridge neighbor had expected. Buster growled next to her. She made a little motion with her fingers and he quieted. She recovered her composure and nodded to the refrigerator in the muck. “Then you’ll be cleaning up this mess. Excellent. It’s turned into quite a junkyard, hasn’t it?”

“No argument from me.”

He glanced at the mess behind him. The cast-off washing machine was farther up the slope, in more prickly vines. Between it and the fridge were tires, hubcaps, a rotting rake with missing tines, bottles, beer cans and—oddly—what was left of a disintegrating twin mattress.

“There was never a report of a break-in,” Olivia said. “We suspect kids partied out here and got carried away.”

“Hell of a place to party.”

She seemed to take no offense at his comment. “As I explained in my note, I live just down the road.”

“The Farm at Carriage Hill,” Dylan said with a smile.

“More like The Soon-to-be Farm at Carriage Hill.” She brushed raindrops off the end of her nose, then motioned vaguely up the tree-lined road, toward the village. “My family lives in town. They’ll be checking on me with this nasty weather. It’s not as remote out here as you might think. People come by at all hours.”

Dylan realized her comment was a warning—a self-protective measure, given that the two of them were the only ones out on the isolated road. He didn’t want to unnerve her, but he didn’t think he looked particularly threatening standing there in the mud, mist and freezing rain, especially when she was the one with the big dog.

Nonetheless, he made an effort to give her an innocuous smile. “You’re lucky to have family close by in this weather.”

She returned his smile. “Spring can’t come soon enough, can it? As I mentioned in my note, I can help with the yard if you need it.” She glanced at his rented Audi parked on the partially washed-out driveway, then shifted back to him. “I also have access to a truck.”

“Good to know.”

“I should get Buster back to the house. You’re not…” Olivia grabbed her dog’s collar. “I thought you’d be older.”

“You were expecting my father, Duncan McCaffrey,” Dylan said, figuring it was a good guess. “He died a few months after he bought this place. I didn’t know about the property and didn’t realize he’d left it to me until I received your note.”

“Really? How could you not know?”

“Long story. You’re not wearing a coat. Why don’t you take mine? You don’t want to get hypothermia—”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and dry off? Looks as if I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

“That’s nice of you to offer, but Buster and I will be on our way. He’s not good with strangers.”

Another warning, Dylan decided as he watched Olivia turn with her badass dog and head through the ice-covered patches of grass, snow, dead leaves, mud and muck. He noticed she was wearing close-fitting jeans and had mud splattered on her butt and the backs of her thighs. She must have tripped or stumbled in the freezing conditions while chasing Buster up the road.

It was sunny and seventy-five degrees when Dylan had left Coronado yesterday.

He hadn’t been kidding; he wasn’t going anywhere until the weather cleared, and he certainly wasn’t hauling junk. He didn’t entirely understand Olivia Frost’s fuss over her neighbor’s makeshift dump and overgrown yard. Her place wasn’t visible through the trees. It wasn’t as if she were right next door. Managing not to slip, he made his way to his nondescript little New England house. Loretta had given him the keys. He’d done a quick walk-through already. The front door was on the left side of a roofed porch and opened into an entry with green-carpeted stairs leading up to three small bedrooms and one bathroom on the second floor. To the right of the front door on the first floor was a living room with tall windows and a double doorway to an adjoining dining room with a bay window overlooking the side yard opposite the spot with the junk.

Off the dining room was the kitchen, with doors to the cellar and backyard.

That was it.

The house was modestly furnished with a couch, a cupboard, a dining room table and chairs, and old player piano. Bookcases upstairs and in the dining room were filled, but otherwise, there were no personal belongings. It was as if Grace Webster had left behind whatever she couldn’t find room for in her new residence or just didn’t want or need.

Dylan flipped a switch on a dusty overhead in the living room.

The power was out.

He sighed. “Great.”

Naturally the house didn’t have a landline, and he couldn’t pick up a signal on his cell phone. He glanced out the front window and saw the power lines were drooping with the ice that had formed on them.

What about his neighbor? The power had to be out at her place, too.

Dylan wondered if he should check on her. Small towns looked after their own, didn’t they?

Olivia Frost’s family and friends wouldn’t be able to get out here. No one and nothing would be moving in these conditions.

Dylan buttoned his jacket and stepped back out to the porch. As far as he could tell, the precipitation was still freezing rain—it fell as rain and landed as ice, creating treacherous “black ice” conditions.

“Miserable,” he said, pulling up the collar to his jacket as he ventured down the slippery porch steps.

Slipping and sliding, Dylan made his way down the road to The Farm at Carriage Hill. Clear ice and a film of rainwater covered everything, including the sand that was supposed to help with traction.

He heard a branch snap somewhere in the woods, then nothing.

The silence was downright eerie.

He reminded himself he liked ice. He had been a natural on skates. These weren’t rink conditions, but he was good at keeping his balance, or so he told himself as he considered that if he fell, he was on his own. No one would find him.

Unless Buster sneaked out again, he thought with a grim smile, pressing on.

Smoke was curling out of the chimney of his only neighbor’s cream-colored house. An ice-and-rain-coated walk took him to a wide stone landing, and he knocked on the front door, painted a rich blue. There was another door to his right, to a newer addition. This was obviously the oldest part of the house.

“Miss Frost?” he called. “It’s Dylan McCaffrey.”

She opened the door. Her hair was still damp, and her cheeks were pink from the cold—or warmth, Dylan realized suddenly. Even from his position on the landing, he could tell that her house was toasty. She obviously had a fireplace or woodstove going. Hence, the smoke coming out of the chimney.

With his dripping coat and wet, muddy pants and shoes, he felt marginally ridiculous coming to her aid. It probably should have been the other way around. He was the unprepared stranger.

“I thought I’d check on you,” he said. “The power’s out at my place.”

“Here, too. I called the power company and notified them. Power’s out all over town. We’ll be among the last to get it restored.”

“The power company doesn’t like you?”

He was joking but Olivia gave him a cool look. “We’re on a sparsely populated dead-end road.”

“It’s just the two of us out here in the sticks?”

“I have my dog,” she said.

“Buster. He’s—”

“Asleep out by the fire at the moment. It wouldn’t take much to wake him.”

Dylan wondered if his presence was making Olivia nervous. That wasn’t his intention, but he could be thickheaded at times, or so Noah Kendrick, various hockey coaches, teammates and an assortment of women had told him. Often.

He attempted to look amiable and easygoing, not half frozen, hungry and out of his element. “If you need anything, I’m right up the road in the cold and the dark.”

“You weren’t expecting to spend the night in Knights Bridge, were you?”

“I thought I’d figure that out once I got here. I wasn’t counting on an ice storm.”

“Do you have food? I have homemade parsnip soup and oatmeal bread from lunch that I’d be happy to send back with you.”

Parsnip soup. He felt a fat, cold raindrop splatter on the back of his neck. “Thanks, but I brought some basic provisions with me, just in case.”

“I remember Miss Webster had a woodstove. Did she leave it behind?”

He hadn’t even considered a woodstove. “It’s in the dining room.”

“You’ll want to check to make sure a bat or a squirrel hasn’t taken up residence in the chimney.” Olivia leaned out of her warm house and pointed a slender finger vaguely in the direction of her garage. “You can help yourself to some dry wood if you’d like.”

Dylan figured he would only be able to carry enough for a few hours’ fire. There wasn’t much point. At the rate he was going, he’d die of hypothermia before he reached his house, anyway.

It was only a slight exaggeration.

He thanked his neighbor and noticed she didn’t press him to take wood or offer him a spare bedroom. “Thanks for stopping by,” she said politely, then shut the door quietly behind him.

He half skated back to the road, which was even more treacherous. What had his father been thinking, buying a house in this backwater little town? There couldn’t be lost treasure in Knights Bridge, or even clues to lost treasure. Impossible.

Then again, Duncan McCaffrey had been a man who relished taking on the impossible.

When Dylan arrived back at his inherited house, he examined the woodstove that was hooked up in a corner in the dining room. It looked like an oil drum. It couldn’t be that efficient, but it was better than a cold night in the dark. He found dry wood in an old apple crate in the kitchen and hit the stovepipe chimney with a log to warn any critters before he lit matches.

He wasn’t worried about a buildup of creosote. If the house burned down, so what?

The wood was dry enough that he needed little kindling and only one match to get the fire started. As the flames took hold, he checked his cell phone and walked around the house until he got a weak signal by the back door.

He dialed Noah in San Diego. “Tell me there’s been an emergency and you need me back there,” Dylan said.

“All’s well. What’s happening in New England?”

“Freezing rain. No heat, no electricity. I’ve turned into Bob Cratchit.”

“What’s the house like?”

“It’s a dump.”

“Have you met Olivia Frost?”

“I have.” Dylan pictured her pink cheeks and hazel eyes. “She’s warm. I wonder if she has a generator.”

“Not sharing her heat?”

It wasn’t a bad quip for Noah, who wasn’t known for that particular variety of verbal quickness. “She offered me cordwood. I’m not going anywhere for a while. We’re in the middle of an ice storm.”

Noah burst out laughing.

Their call got dropped just as the ceiling in the kitchen started to leak.

Dylan slid his phone back in his pocket and watched water pool on the wide-plank floor.

“Well, hell.”

What could he do? He was stuck here.

He hoped Grace Webster had left behind a bucket.