Читать книгу Cider Brook - Carla Neggers - Страница 12

Six

Samantha opened a small bar of pure goat’s milk soap handmade at The Farm at Carriage Hill and breathed in its light lavender scent. The packaging was as charming and sophisticated as the inn itself. Olivia Frost did have an artistic eye.

“I’m lucky I know how to match a pair of socks,” Samantha said aloud, turning on the water in the shower as hot as she could stand. A bath was tempting but out of the question. As tired as she was, she would go straight down the drain.

The private bathroom, off her pretty room at the top of the stairs, was small and perfect, with a sparkling white tub, pedestal sink and fluffy towels. Framed prints of herbs decorated the walls, and an oval mirror reflected her soot-smudged face back at her. All she could think was that she looked like hell. In Justin’s place, she would have suggested a night at Carriage Hill, too. Still, she couldn’t help but think she should have curled up with a blanket in the woods.

She peeled off her smoky clothes and noticed her right knee was slightly bruised. She figured she must have hit the deck in the midst of the fire with more force than she realized at the time. Her muscles ached all over, undoubtedly from tension. Justin hadn’t hurt her when he’d carried her out of the mill. He’d known what he was doing and had been efficient but also very gentle, even if it had been his property on fire.

She stepped into the tub, welcoming the hot water and steam. The goat’s milk soap was mild but worked well on her accumulation of dirt, mud, soot and sweat. A pleasant-smelling shampoo cut through the grime in her hair, and a dab of conditioner got rid of any remaining tangles in her short curls. She’d never been any good at fussing with her hair.

Clean and calmer, she wrapped up in a soft white towel and went back into the bedroom. She gathered up her smoky clothes and stuffed them into a garbage bag that she kept in her backpack for various purposes. It could even be used as an emergency shelter, but not a comfortable one, certainly not compared to The Farm at Carriage Hill. Her room was decorated in an attractive, soothing combination of vintage and contemporary furnishings and eclectic odds and ends. The queen-size bed was covered in soft white linens, throw pillows embroidered with herbs and wildflowers and a down comforter. A dresser, mirror and side chair were painted in shades of green that she wouldn’t have thought went together but somehow did.

She resisted the temptation to collapse onto the bed. She’d told Olivia she’d meet her downstairs for a light dinner. She had no idea if Dylan would be back from the house he and Olivia were building up the road. Olivia had explained that he was staying late, making a few calls and doing a bit of work at the construction trailer.

Samantha stood at one of the two windows that looked out toward Quabbin, no lights visible in the seemingly endless dark woods. She would have loved to have followed Cider Brook into the reservoir, but she suspected she would have ended up camping at the cider mill, even without the storm.

A hike, a wild thunderstorm, a fire.

Rescued by a taciturn, good-looking firefighter.

Secrets.

No wonder she was struggling to get her bearings.

Her phone vibrated with a text message. She sat on the edge of the bed and saw the text was from Caleb. Cider mill fire? Was that you?

Of course he’d found out. Samantha texted him back. Yes. Lightning.

You okay?

Yep. How’d you know?

Internet. Need me to fetch you?

All she needed now was to have Caleb Bennett burst into town. He wouldn’t be discreet. He never was—it wasn’t in his nature. He was larger-than-life, impossible to ignore and not the least bit subtle. He would do anything for her, but he wasn’t in New England because of her. He was here to visit colleges with his son.

Besides, she still had work to do.

No, thanks, she texted.

Where are you staying?

She debated, then decided on a vague answer. Knights Bridge.

Don’t get arrested.

Samantha didn’t respond. She dug through her backpack and pulled out a change of clothes that didn’t smell too much of smoke.

A fresh sweater, fresh jeans—she felt more like herself again.

She hung her safari jacket on the back of a painted wooden chair and felt the weight of its contents. She withdrew the documents pouch and set it on the bedside table, thinking of plucky Lady Elizabeth as she adjusted to life aboard her pirate ship.

Lady Elizabeth dreamed of castle gardens and the sweet scents of lavender and roses, but she woke to the smells of whiskey, rum and men. It wasn’t a nightmare. She was trapped in a claustrophobic berth on a pirate ship. Home was far, far away.

For poor Lady Elizabeth, it had been out of the frying pan of being kidnapped by her father’s enemy and into the fire of being rescued by a notorious pirate. After today, Samantha supposed she could identify with the eighteenth-century British aristocrat and her plight more than she had the first time she’d gone through the rousing handwritten pages.

Of course, she hadn’t been kidnapped and rescued on the high seas. If things didn’t work out for her at Carriage Hill, she could just call a cab or a car service and be back in Boston in a couple hours.

* * *

Steep, narrow stairs landed Samantha in an entry hall with the same wide pine-board floor that extended into the adjoining living room and dining room, each with painted wainscoting and fireplaces off the same center chimney. The living room was quiet and inviting with its casual sofa and chairs and end tables stacked with books on decorating, herbs and soap making. In her room at her grandfather’s house in Boston, she had dozens of books on pirates, privateers, eighteenth-century sailing ships and Colonial New England. She didn’t own a single book on anything remotely crafty or design-oriented, but she appreciated Olivia’s obvious talents.

She continued into the cozy kitchen. A big pot of soup was simmering on the gas stove. She’d enjoyed her helping of applesauce earlier and hadn’t thought she would want anything else tonight, except maybe a sip of Scotch, but now she realized she was starving.

The big dog burst through the back door into the mudroom, Olivia right behind him with his leash in hand. She’d introduced him as Buster when she’d shown Samantha to her room. He ran to her, wagging his tail. “He’s obviously taken to you,” Olivia said, hanging the leash on a hook. “We’ve been working on his socialization skills. He showed up here this past spring, about the same time I did. He was rambunctious at first.”

Samantha patted him. “He seems very friendly.”

“He does have his moments. We took a good walk down the road, but he would have stayed out longer if I’d let him.” Olivia shivered as she entered the kitchen. “It’s chilly out there. I wonder if today was the last gasp of summer. Buster’s going to love fall, I think. He likes to chase every leaf he sees.”

“That could get to be a challenge when the leaves really start falling.” Samantha stood back as Buster abandoned her and flopped down by the mudroom door. “I’ve never owned a dog. Too many moves.”

Olivia peered into the bubbling soup pot. “Where do you live now?”

Nowhere. “I’m on the road a lot. I’ve been in Boston lately.” Samantha stifled an unexpected yawn. “I’m more worn-out than I thought I’d be. Adrenaline as much as anything.”

“I imagine so.” Olivia grabbed a long-handled spoon from a pottery crock. “Most women in Knights Bridge would tell you that one consolation of being caught in a fire would be getting rescued by a Sloan.”

“It happened so fast, I’m not sure it would have made any difference who hauled me out of there.”

“Trust me. Better a Sloan than my father. He’s been a volunteer firefighter for thirty years. He’d have managed, but it wouldn’t have been the same as having Justin rescue you.”

Samantha eased onto a chair at the white-painted table in front of a double window, its curtains shut against the dark night. She could feel Justin’s arms around her. He hadn’t hesitated. “All the firefighters seemed to know what to do.”

“They’re a good crew.”

“It was my first fire.”

“And I hope your last,” Olivia said as she gave the soup a quick stir.

Samantha noticed a small basket of some kind of whole-grain bread already on the table, but her mind was on the events of the afternoon. She almost jumped at the memory of the fierce bolt of lightning and simultaneous clap of thunder.

“You okay, Samantha?”

“Yes, thanks. Sorry. I was thinking about the storm. I think the lightning struck before I got into the mill and the fire smoldered for a few minutes before it took hold. I wish I’d noticed sooner. By the time I did notice...” She sat up straight, focusing on her surroundings. “There was nothing I could do. Even if I’d managed to get out of the mill safely on my own—and I’m sure I would have—I never would have been able to call in the fire in time to save the mill.”

Olivia set her spoon crosswise over the bubbling pot. “It’s a great old place, but no one would have blamed you if it had burned up.”

“Does Justin work in town? Is that how he can serve as a volunteer firefighter?”

“He’s a carpenter. One of the Sloans of Sloan & Sons. They’re based up on Cider Brook above the mill. They’re doing the construction on the house and barn Dylan and I are building up the road.”

Samantha almost jumped out of her chair. Justin Sloan was a carpenter? She forced herself to contain her reaction. He wasn’t the only carpenter in town, obviously, and he hadn’t shown any sign he recognized her. A different carpenter—even a different Sloan—could have spotted her two years ago, described her to Duncan and ended up ruining everything for her.

Olivia watched her with obvious concern. Samantha pulled herself together. “How many Sloan sons are there?” she asked.

“Five.”

“I met three of them this afternoon. Justin, Eric and Christopher.”

“Eric is the eldest, then Justin, Brandon, Adam and Christopher. There’s also a sister, Heather, the youngest. She was born after the company was already named.”

“Five older brothers?”

“Yes, but don’t pity her. She can hold her own with anyone, including her brothers. Justin, Brandon, Adam and Heather all work full-time for Sloan & Sons. Brandon is also getting involved in adventure travel with Dylan. He’s married to my friend Maggie. They just moved back here from Boston.”

“Long story?”

Olivia laughed. “There are no short stories in Knights Bridge, I swear. The Sloans are a big family. Knights Bridge wouldn’t be Knights Bridge without them. What about you?”

“I’m an only child.” Samantha decided not to try to explain her family further.

Olivia got two pottery bowls out of a cupboard and set them on the butcher-block island. “It’s potato-leek soup. All right with you?”

“Perfect. Thank you, but please don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble at all. We have one restaurant in town and a couple more out by the highway, but you’re tired. If soup’s all right—”

“Soup is perfect. It smells wonderful.”

“It’s my own recipe. We also have apple cake.” She pointed at an iced cake under glass on a pedestal on the counter. “I’ve already had a taste. It’s outrageously fantastic. Maggie dropped it off before the storm. She and her sons picked the apples themselves. She’s a caterer, but it’s her grandmother’s recipe.”

Samantha felt herself relaxing in Olivia’s easy company. “How could I resist an invitation like that?”

Olivia smiled. “You’re not meant to.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Not a thing. Just relax. Maggie slipped a few handfuls of herbs in the soup. Parsley, thyme and chives, I think. We’re still harvesting herbs from the gardens out back. I’m lucky the house came with such well-established landscaping. Anyway, we’ve been drying herbs, freezing herbs, trying out new recipes with herbs. It’s fun.” Olivia brought the two bowls to the table. “We’re even trying our hand at our own herbal essential oils.”

“I’m lucky if I can tell parsley from basil,” Samantha said as she breathed in the fragrant steam rising from the soup.

Olivia went to the counter and opened a drawer, producing silverware and bright yellow cloth napkins. “I know what you mean. I’ve gotten better at it. Just to add to the fun, there’s more than one kind of parsley and basil.” She placed the silverware and napkins on the table and sat across from Samantha. “I’ve no doubt Dylan’s life would go on quite happily if he never heard me say ‘herb’ again.”

Buster wandered over from the mudroom and squeezed under the table. Samantha placed her napkin on her lap and lifted her spoon, and tried to concentrate on the smell of the soup instead of the memory of the fire.

“You’re done in, aren’t you?” Olivia set her own spoon down. “You don’t have to sit here, Samantha. Why don’t you finish your supper in your room?”

“I’m more tired than I expected.”

“I can make some chamomile tea and bring it up—with a piece of cake, of course. If I’d just survived a fire and could only eat one thing, it’d be Maggie’s apple cake.”

Samantha ate some of her soup. She had to rein in her emotions. Second-guessing her every move and every decision wouldn’t get her anywhere. “I can’t thank you enough, Olivia. I know I’m here on very short notice.”

“No notice, but that’s Justin for you. Everyone in Knights Bridge knows the easiest way to get along with him is just to do what he wants. It’s like that with all the Sloans. Even Heather.” Olivia smiled. “But we love them all.”

Samantha hoped her own dealings with the Sloans had ended that afternoon. She wanted to know more about the cider mill, but she would figure out a way to get information without involving its present owner.

“Knights Bridge seems like a great town,” she said.

“I love it,” Olivia said without hesitation. “I lived in Boston for a while, but I always wanted to come back home to Knights Bridge. Dylan still has a house in San Diego. Coronado, actually. We were just out there. It’s gorgeous.”

“Will you two divide your time between here and San Diego?”

“We’ll see. I’m trying not to launch myself too far into the future.”

Samantha stood up from the table, her legs steadier under her than she would have guessed they would be. The soup and conversation had helped. She hadn’t touched the bread. As good as it looked, her mind was now on cake and snuggling under the comforter in her pretty room upstairs.

Waiting until morning to meet Dylan McCaffrey seemed like a smart idea, too.

“You definitely look beat,” Olivia said, easing to her feet. “I’ll get you your cake.”

She went to the counter, lifting the glass lid off the round, double-layer cake, just the tiniest sliver already cut out of it. She grabbed a knife from a rack and cut a generous slice of the cake, setting it on a small plate.

Samantha stifled a yawn. “I guess I am falling over.”

“Please, go on up to your room and relax.”

“Tea, cake and a warm bed do sound great right now.”

“I’ll make tea and bring it up with the cake.” Olivia raised a hand, stifling any protest from Samantha. “I’m happy to do it. You’ve had a tough day. Relax and make yourself at home.”

Samantha was tempted to tell Olivia about her connection to Dylan’s father. She hadn’t lied, but she hadn’t been forthcoming, either. She was too rattled to trust herself to be able to explain properly. She didn’t want to end up causing more problems than she solved.

Best to head up to her room, keep to herself and call it a night.

* * *

After her cake and tea, Samantha changed into her flannel pajamas—which didn’t smell that smoky—and sat cross-legged on her bed under the comforter, her back against an array of fluffy pillows.

She breathed deeply, listening to an owl outside her window.

It was such a tranquil spot.

She knew how to settle in to new places. A ship sailing the Caribbean Sea, a friend’s apartment in Paris, her aunt and uncle’s house in the Cotswolds, her grandfather’s house in Boston and apartment in London. She had no home base of her own, but she’d always liked being able to pick up and leave a place without a lot of fuss. Her grandfather had enough possessions to keep her mind off anything she might want to buy for herself. She couldn’t figure out what he’d wanted even with a tenth of what she’d sorted through so far.

The owl went quiet. She couldn’t hear anything now, not a passing car, not even a breeze. She couldn’t see Duncan ever making his home in Knights Bridge. He’d seemed more suited to Los Angeles, where she’d first met him—after she’d heard about his interest in Knights Bridge and she’d ventured out here.

She lifted her documents pouch off the bedside table and opened it, pulling out the copy of the tri-folded, yellowed handwritten pages she’d found in her grandfather’s office closet. The original was still safe at his Boston house. As painstaking and tedious as it could be at times, Samantha had to admit that going through his cluttered house and apartment had brought her closer to him. She knew him better in some ways now than she ever had in his long life.

She smiled at the feminine cursive handwriting.

The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth

She had no idea how the captivating tale had ended up in her grandfather’s possession, or what it could possibly have to do with the real Benjamin Farraday or a painting of a nineteenth-century New England cider mill.

She put the pages aside and pulled out a 1903 map of the Swift River Valley, then an idyllic setting of picturesque towns and villages. She carefully unfolded the worn, yellowed sheet onto the comforter. The towns of Prescott, Enfield, Dana and Greenwich lay before her. By most accounts, they had been blissful places, but as early as the late-nineteenth century, engineers and politicians had eyed the valley as a potential site for a massive reservoir, given its abundance of streams, rivers and lakes. Less than a hundred miles from Boston, the valley’s upland location meant a reservoir there could deliver water through an elaborate aqueduct by gravity alone, eliminating the need for artificial filtration. The planners had been right. Damming Beaver Brook and the three branches of the Swift River that wound through the valley had solved Boston’s water problem for the foreseeable future. It had also dislocated thousands of people.

Samantha ran her fingertips over lakes, roads and landmarks that were long gone from the landscape. So few were left who remembered life in the lost towns. She touched hills where children once sledded that were now uninhabited islands surrounded by the beautiful waters of the reservoir. She traced the twists and turns of the middle branch of the Swift River, long before it had been allowed to overflow its banks and flood the surrounding valley.

She located the faded line that was Cider Brook.

What if she’d simply told Duncan McCaffrey the truth?

But she hadn’t, and not without reason.