Читать книгу Secrets Between Them - C.J. Carmichael - Страница 9

AFTERNOON AT THE bed-and-breakfast was Jennifer’s favorite time of day. Her father usually took a nap on his reclining chair in the sitting room, with his sister Annie in the chair next to him, reading. This was when Jennifer was free to putter in her gardens and work on the lavender products she sold at a craft store on Saltspring Island.

Jennifer took her shears and a large shallow wicker basket out to the gardens in the front yard. She was expecting a new guest and this way she wouldn’t miss her arrival. At any rate, the Lavandula multifida needed to be harvested again.

Her mother had planted the original lavender, for which the B and B was named. As the years went by, she’d started experimenting with other cultivars. Now there were lavender beds on all sides of the house, sometimes three or four in a row, with neat gravel paths between them.

The best time to snip the lavender stalks, if you wanted to dry them, was just when the flowers started to bloom. Jennifer stooped next to a perfect specimen. All around her bees were busy pollinating, but they didn’t bother her as she carefully snipped at the stalks, just above the bushy plant growth.

Later, she’d tie them in tiny bundles with rattan and use them to decorate the jars of lavender jelly and vinegar she’d make during the colder winter months.

A peaceful half hour passed. Just Jennifer, the lavender, a few dragonflies and the bumblebees. Her basket was almost full when she heard a vehicle approach. She straightened, put a hand to her lower back and stretched. That must be Nic Lancaster, from New York City.

They didn’t often have guests from so far away. She was a little excited to meet this woman. Jennifer shaded her eyes against the afternoon sun so she could watch as a dusty old SUV came into view.

The driver pulled up to the house, then stepped out from behind the wheel. She frowned. Squinted. No, she wasn’t seeing things. Her guest wasn’t a woman, but a man. And while his vehicle looked weathered and battered, he definitely did not.

Late thirties, she guessed. Fit and naturally athletic judging by those shoulders and muscular legs. He wore typical summer outdoor gear—hiking shorts and boots, with a navy shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

He’d been facing the house, perhaps reading the sign for the bed-and-breakfast, but then he turned and stared at her. Though about twenty feet of flower garden separated them, Jennifer felt a power in his eyes that made her mouth dry.

Their guests here were usually families, retired couples, college kids on break. She couldn’t remember the last time a single man, an attractive single man, had checked in.

Which he might not do if she didn’t stop gawking at him.

In her defense, she didn’t think she was the only one having a moment here. The man in front of her seemed just as transfixed by her as she was by him.

He watched her approach with such intensity that she should have felt self-conscious. But, she didn’t.

“Hi, I’m Jennifer March. Welcome to Lavender Farm.” She put the basket on the ground, then held out her hand, amazed that she could sound so poised when she felt anything but.

“Jennifer.” His hand was warm, his grip firm.

She removed a strand of hair the wind had blown across her cheek. “You’re Nick Lancaster?”

“Yes. Sorry, I should have identified myself right away.” His smile was a little crooked, a quirk that added a dash of self-deprecation to his confident air.

“Your reservation was made by a woman. I didn’t know she was booking for someone else.”

“That would have been my agent. She took care of the travel arrangements. I must say, I had no idea it was going to be so pretty here.”

He looked right at her as he said that and her usual shyness suddenly kicked in. Was he flirting, or just being friendly? If he was flirting, what should she say in response?

Though Simone had been gone three years, Jennifer knew exactly what she would be saying if she were here. Go for it, Jenn! Here’s your big chance.

Let him know you’re interested and available.

But now that it was happening, or might be happening, she felt awkward and tongue-tied.

“Um…why do you have an agent?” He was certainly good looking enough to be an actor. But he was also in incredible shape, so maybe he was a professional athlete.

His laugh was easy, natural. “I’m a writer. Michele Ashburn, the woman you spoke to on the phone, is my literary agent.”

She never would have guessed that. He didn’t look like the scholarly sort. “What do you write?”

For the first time since he’d arrived, he glanced away from her and hesitated with his answer.

“I’m writing a book,” Nick said, finally.

“Oh.” They’d had a couple of authors stay at the B and B over the years. One had been working on a travel guide for kayakers in the Gulf Islands, another had been doing an environmental survey for his doctorial thesis. “What’s your book a—”

She didn’t have a chance to finish her question as the front door opened and her father stepped out to the porch.

“It’s time for afternoon tea, Jenn. Should I put the kettle on?” He paused at the sight of Nick, several yards away. “Is that our guest from New York City?”

Jennifer dashed up the stairs to hand her father his walking stick. He hated the cane, but she lived in fear that he would one day fall and break a leg. Since his stroke, he’d been a little wobbly on his feet.

But no damage had been done to his acuity. Even though her father could no longer handle the day-today work of running the bed-and-breakfast, he still managed the accounting side of things. He also checked the bookings every morning and made a point of greeting new arrivals personally.

“Dad, this is Nick Lancaster. Nick, my father, Phil. He and my mother started this bed-and-breakfast almost forty years ago.”

Nick stepped forward to shake her father’s hand. “This is a really beautiful place.” His eyes were on Jennifer again, and once more she felt as if his compliment for the place included her.

Aunt Annie appeared from the side of the house. Though she ate her meals with the family, she slept in a small cottage on the property that had once been a potting shed. It was fully winterized now, with plumbing and a small kitchen.

“The toilet is leaking again,” Annie said, before noticing the new guest in their midst. “My, my, who is this handsome fellow?” Annie approached Nick with her head tilted back, so she could see out of the bottom half of her bifocals. “Are you a friend of Jennifer’s?”

“He’s our guest from New York,” Jennifer’s father explained. “Nick, this is my sister. She used to work as a midwife in Northern B.C. but now she lives with us.”

“A midwife. You must have many interesting stories.”

Annie beamed, then in a move more fitting of a southern belle than a northern midwife, took his arm. “I most certainly do. You must join us for afternoon tea.”

Jennifer was all but pushed to the side as her father and aunt claimed the new guest and led him inside.

So much for that romantic moment they’d been having.

Her chance for adventure was over before it had really started.

JENNIFER FOLLOWED THE TRIO inside, trying to see the humor in the situation. Wasn’t it just typical of her life that the first time in ages she met a man who made her heart beat faster, her aunt had to show up on the scene complaining of a broken toilet?

Still, it would have been nice if she could have had a few more moments alone with Nick Lancaster…

“Nice picture.” Nick paused to admire a painting Simone had given Jennifer for her thirtieth birthday. It was an Emily Carr, small, but original.

“Thanks,” Jennifer said. “There’s a story—”

“Tea, Jennifer?” her father reminded her. “We shouldn’t keep our guest waiting. I can show him to his room while you put out the spread. He has the suite over the garage, right?”

“Dad,” Jennifer said quietly. “The stairs?” He could only manage them with difficulty now and she knew it would be painful for him.

His face fell and she put a hand to his arm. “I’m sure Nick won’t mind waiting a few minutes.”

“Never mind the tea,” Annie said. “What about my toilet? Jennifer, didn’t you hear me tell you that it’s leaking?”

Had she fallen down a rabbit hole when she’d been out in the garden? Since Nick Lancaster’s arrival, it seemed her family had gone crazy. “I’ll phone someone to fix it,” she promised her aunt. “But I think it can wait until—”

“I could take a look at it,” Nick offered. “While you’re preparing the tea.”

“Thank you, but no. You’re a guest. Aunt Annie, could you please pour—”

“I don’t mind,” Nick insisted. Cleverly, he put his case to her aunt. “I assure you I’ve had some practice in the area of home repairs. My parents split when I was a teenager and my mother was not mechanically inclined. Fortunately, I had a grandfather who bought me a toolbox and taught me the basics.”

“Including leaking toilets?” Annie’s keen blue eyes were begging not to be disappointed.

“Including leaking toilets.”

“Oh, good,” Jennifer said, only just managing not to roll her eyes. “Maybe you can look at the squeaking hinge on the oven door next.”

Nick seemed surprised, but quickly nodded. “Sure, that wouldn’t be—”

“I was joking! You’re a paying guest. I don’t want you doing the chores around here.” She tried to transmit a reproachful message to Annie, but her aunt was still gazing adoringly at Nick. The old woman’s face actually broke into a beam when he took her arm and asked her to lead him to the problem.

Jennifer’s father grabbed his cane and followed.

I love my family, Jennifer reminded herself, as she made her way to the kitchen. It was the largest room in the house, and included an eating area where breakfasts were served every morning at eight.

Jennifer had scones for the tea, clotted cream from a nearby dairy and homemade peach-blue-berry-lavender preserves. She put on the kettle for tea, then set out her mother’s china.

She was slicing a lemon, when she heard someone enter from the hall. Not recognizing the uneven gait of her father, or her aunt’s characteristic shuffling, she figured it had to be Nick.

“Finished with the toilet already?”

“It needs a new seal. I’ll have to go to a hardware store for supplies. Your father is helping your aunt mop up the floor. He said to tell you they’ll be in shortly.”

Nick slipped behind the island that separated the kitchen from the seating area. Guests didn’t usually stray into her territory, and Jennifer felt her shoulders tighten with the awareness that he was watching her.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, hoping he would take the hint and sit down.

“No, thanks.”

Instead, he gravitated to the collage of photographs and postcards on the near side of the fridge. After studying them for about a minute he asked, “When were you in Europe?”

“Six years ago.” Jennifer couldn’t resist checking over the collection, too. After so many years, you’d think some of the pleasure would have worn thin. But no, just one glance at that photo of her and Simone at the Café Liberté, and she could feel the exciting buzz in her stomach that had stayed with her for the duration of that once-in-a-lifetime trip.

“You look like you were having a good time.”

“The best.” For three weeks she’d had no one to look after but herself. Simone had let her set the agenda, and they’d hopped a train for a different country on the smallest of whims.

“Who’s your traveling companion? You know, she looks a little like—”

“Simone DeRosier? Yes, that’s her. She used to spend her summers here on the island.” Mentioning her friend, Jennifer grew cautious. She was used to visitors being curious about Simone, and Jennifer had learned long ago to be discreet.

“Really. You knew Simone DeRosier?”

“We were friends, yes.”

“And what’s this?”

Nick pointed out another photograph, a group shot of the forget-me-not gang the summer before high school graduation.

“Just my friends.” Again, she felt a shot of nostalgic warmth. They’d had so much fun in those days. In many ways, those summers together had been the best days of her life.

“I recognize Simone. And this man next to her. I remember him from the papers. Isn’t he the guy that—”

“Yes,” Jennifer said, before he could put the rest of his thought into words.

“It’s kind of spooky to see them standing next to each other like that.”

When she’d found out the truth about Emerson, Jennifer had felt the same way. She’d put that photograph aside for a while. But after some time had passed, she’d realized that she didn’t want to wipe out her memories.

Yes, Emerson had turned out to be a monster. But once he’d been their friend. She wanted to remember the good things about him, not the bad.

The kettle began to whistle and Jennifer turned from the mementoes of her former life to pour the water into the pot. “This needs to steep for five minutes. If you’d like, I could show you your room now.”

Nick’s eyes were on her, and the magic she’d felt earlier began to build again. Attraction. Interest. Sexual awareness.

Then his gaze drifted back to the corkboard. “I’m in no hurry. I’d like to hear more about your trip. And your friends. Do you have more photographs?”

She laughed. Did she have more? There was a whole box full in the attic. “I was always the one lugging the camera around. But you need to get settled after your long trip. I’m sorry things were so chaotic on your arrival. My family can be a little much at times.”

Nick smiled at her and she was suddenly experiencing that breathless thing again. He had to stop looking at her this way. It was…unnerving.

“Your suitcase?” she asked, breaking the moment.

Nick’s smile turned rueful. “In the back of the Rover. I’ll go get it.”

She led him back to the entrance then waited while he retrieved his luggage—one very large suitcase and a briefcase that looked as though it contained a laptop computer.

“Up these stairs… Are you okay with that suitcase?”

“Sure. Michele did tell you I was planning to stay for a month?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes as she replied, “That won’t be a problem.”

At the landing she turned left, away from the other two doors. “We have guests staying in both these rooms but they’re out exploring for the day.”

“Where’s your room?”

People often asked her this, and yet the question felt intimate coming from Nick. Again, she felt too self-conscious to look at him as she answered, “We have three bedrooms on the main level. One’s an office, then my father and I each have a room.”

She opened the door to the suite, which had been added a few years ago. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. It’s very private up here and you have your own bathroom.”

Nick stepped over the threshold, but instead of inspecting the solid wood furnishings or admiring the good-quality cotton bedding, he focused on her.

“Don’t apologize for your family. I like them. And I didn’t mind about the toilet. Really, I’m glad to help.”

He sounded sincere and kind. Considering his looks and his fantastic build, it seemed too good to be true.

There had to be a catch. He probably had a girlfriend—or several—waiting for him at home.

“Let me know if you need anything. And if you’d like some tea, you know where to find it.”

“I’ll be right down. But I do have one additional request.”

“Yes?”

“Would you show me around the island tomorrow?”

Was he serious? She caught her breath, then nodded. “Sure.”

She hoped she didn’t sound like this was a big deal, but to her it was. She had dated. She’d had boyfriends. One she’d almost married. But none of the guys from her past could measure up to this one. It seemed like her chance at adventure hadn’t been lost after all.

NICK HADN’T THOUGHT ABOUT the fact that Jennifer might have photographs. Pictures from Simone’s formative years on Summer Island would really complete the middle section of his book. Nick decided that priority number one would be getting her permission to use some of them. It shouldn’t be hard. She was clearly taken with him. And it wouldn’t be difficult for him to simulate an interest in her.

She was a pretty woman. Easy natured. Naturally kind. Once they’d had a chance to get to know one another, he’d let her know what he was writing about. The sort of person Jennifer was, she’d probably offer to help before he even needed to ask.

After a quick washup, Nick trooped back down for tea, as he’d promised. It didn’t take much to charm the aunt. All he had to do was listen to several of her midwife stories. He didn’t even need to fake his interest. The stories were actually fascinating.

Jennifer’s father was just as easy to connect with. Philip March was a history buff and he was impressed that Nick knew a bit about affairs north of the border.

“Dad owns every book Pierre Berton ever wrote,” Jennifer told Nick.

“I’ve read some of his myself,” Nick said. “My favorite was Flames Across the Border.”

Philip’s eyes gleamed as he leaned back and stretched out his legs. He looked like he was about to start a long-winded conversation, and apparently Jennifer thought so, too, because she patted Nick’s arm in a fortifying way, then crossed the room to pour more tea.

Nick’s eyes followed her as he listened to her father. She moved gracefully, light and fast on her feet like someone who squeezed a lot into a day. She’d been so reticent earlier, when he’d asked questions about Simone and the other forget-me-not friends. He wondered how long it would take to get her to relax around him.

To trust him.

As she lifted a dainty tea cup to her mouth, he felt a little stab of guilt. He had a feeling the woman was as innocent and naive as she appeared. Which must be why he suddenly felt like the big bad wolf.

Nick rehashed with Philip the political motivations behind the War of 1812—the only time in history that Canadians and Americans had taken up arms against each other.

Tea stretched out so long, it became dinner. Jennifer poured tea and refilled the jars of cream and jelly several times. Two sisters in their sixties, introduced to him as Ruth and Eileen Tisdale, returned exhausted and anxious for an early night after a day spent hiking in Arbutus Grove Provincial Park.

An hour later, a couple from Vancouver celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversary, returned from their dinner at the Owl’s Nest. They were in their late forties, but they were so vibrant and fit they seemed much younger. They chatted only briefly, before disappearing up to their room.

Determined to get Jenn to himself for a bit, Nick kept talking until he’d exhausted even Philip March’s interest in history. When Annie announced it was her bedtime, Jennifer’s father reluctantly pulled himself out of his chair and said his good night, too.

At last Jennifer and Nick were alone.

The house was dark except for the dimmed light from over the table. The only sounds were the groans of old plumbing, the creaking of a house settling for the night.

Jennifer seemed a little uptight as she tapped her fingernails on the scarred wood table. He wondered what would relax her.

“Do you have any music?”

She looked relieved as she got up to turn on the stereo. “What do you like? Rock, country, classical, jazz? We have it all.”

“Do you have any of your friend’s CDs?” He cursed himself as her shoulders tightened. “But anything jazz would be good,” he amended.

She slipped on a disk from another Vancouver artist he recognized: Diana Krall.

“I picked up a case of wine after I crossed the border. How about we open a bottle?”

“That sounds nice.”

Encouraged, he ended up bringing in two bottles and once Jennifer had a glass in her hand, she finally seemed more at ease.

“I like this,” he said.

She must have thought he meant the music, because she replied, “Simone used to complain that this CD was too bland.”

Nick couldn’t have asked for a better opening. “I can see why she would say that. Simone’s music really stood out.”

Jennifer took another sip of her wine.

Nick hesitated. Decided to give it another try. “Forget Me Not, Old Friend, for instance. That was a real groundbreaker.”

The song had catapulted Simone to instant fame. Many critics still considered it the best piece of music she’d ever produced.

Of course one of the reasons the song was so unforgettable was because of the question it posed.

You see a comet cross the sky, you make a wish, it passes by; but will you remember me at the brilliant end?

Forget me not, my one true friend.

Who was the one true friend Simone had been singing about? After years of research, Nick was almost certain it had to be one of the gang from Summer Island.

But which one? Harrison, the ex-husband? Emerson, the man who had been so obsessed with Simone he’d been driven to murder? Gabe, the spurned lover? Aidan, the loyal friend of the husband?

Or Jennifer, Simone’s closest—and perhaps only—girlfriend?

Nick knew he couldn’t finish his book until he had the answer. But it didn’t seem he’d get any clues from Jennifer. At least not tonight. She still hadn’t replied to his comment about the forget-me-not song and he worried that he’d get her suspicious if he raised the subject again.

Be patient, Lancaster, he counseled himself. After all, he had a month to get what he needed.