“Just like that, he gave it to her.”
There was an edge to his voice. Cynicism, she guessed. But she assured him, “He was a good guy. I think Dr. McAllister did it because he knew how much Mom wanted to go. I think it was the best time of her life. I know it was the best time of mine.” Without warning, Hannah choked up.
The memory of that time flashed so brightly in her mind: sitting in a small bistro, smelling the blooming lavender, watching her mother turn her face up to the warm sun and smile. . . .
Hannah stopped running, turned and faced the oncoming storm, hoped the ragged edge of her breathing sounded like panting.
Trent waited just long enough for the constriction in her chest to ease. “What happened to her?” He didn’t sound curious; he sounded kind and as if he really wanted to know.
That hand again, caressing her back, easing her pain.
Directly below her, the thin slip of sandy beach stood exposed by low tide. The dark turmoil of the waves called to Hannah, and a narrow path twisted its way through the rocks and the bearberry. Defying nature, she stepped off the paved path and into the wild. “She suffered from rheumatoid arthritis.” Hannah slipped a little in the gravel, caught herself, kept going.
“Hannah?” Trent sounded worried. “Are you still running?”
“I am really, really running.” The beach got closer. The wind picked up. The ocean got wilder. And Hannah kept talking. “Mom’s last hip replacement was difficult. She’d had so many, you know, and we always existed on the edge of disaster. Her boss was not understanding—in fact, Mr. Washington would have fit well as a character in a Dickens novel—and Mom went back to work too soon.” The path ended three feet above the sand. Hannah jumped. Landed. Let the brief triumph sweep away the bitterness of her words. “She was running his errands, fell down his stairs, and died.”
“Good God, that’s horrible.” Trent sounded blankly astonished. “How old were you?”
Hannah walked up the beach, the damp sand hard-packed beneath her shoes. “Sixteen, but believe it or not, I was quite capable and survived very well.” She was proud of that.
“How? How does a sixteen-year-old with no parents manage to get herself a bachelor’s degree in nursing?”
“Scholarships, mostly. Mr. Washington was persuaded to settle a small sum on me, also, but that barely covered my living expenses. He was a respected lawyer, you know.” The spray splashed on her face. The clouds grew taller.
“You have to be resentful. You must want revenge, if not on him, then on other men who are indifferent bastards.”
She didn’t like that. Trent sounded like some radio personality with a pop-psychology degree. “It’s hard to avoid hoping that someday Karma catches up with Mr. Washington, but I don’t dwell on it. My mother had her reasons to be bitter, too, but she refused. She said, ‘We have to live a little, make ourselves happy, or what’s the use of all the suffering?’ And she was right. I know she was.” Ahead of her, the rock cliff, dimpled with shallow caves, swung far out into the waves. Hannah didn’t want to take the short, steep path that led to the top, back to civilization, to Balfour House, to Mrs. Manly, her illnesses, her challenging request and Hannah’s unbearable responsibilities.
But what else could Hannah do? She was running out of room on the beach. The storm surge was driving the tide higher and higher. If she stayed here, she’d be swept away.
So she climbed.
“I hear the ocean. Are you still on the path?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” She glanced up when she stepped onto the pavement, and caught sight of the birdwatcher, standing on the rocks on the highest spot on the estate, his binoculars sweeping the area. The binoculars found her and stopped, almost as if he’d been looking for her. Then they moved on.
She wanted to tell the fool that with this storm, even the seabirds were going to ground. But he was too far away, and as she watched, he seated himself again and scanned the horizon.
The first drops of cold rain splattered her forehead. She untied her hoodie, stuck her arms in it, and started running even before she had pulled up the hood.
To Trent, she said, “Thank you for asking about my mother. I don’t get to talk about her very often. When she died, my friends were afraid to say much for fear I’d cry, and then everyone forgot her, except me. So this has been pleasant, if a little one-sided.”
“It’s been interesting. I feel like I have insight into why you became a nurse.”
“Yes, there’s no mystery about me.”
“That’s not true. A lot of women would have figured they’d done their stint and swear never to care for another patient.”
“Instead, I want to save the world.” A gust of wind pushed her sideways. She stumbled, righted herself, and kept running. “Dr. McAllister told me I’d have to get over that or I’d burn out, and he’s right. I’m twenty-four, my last three patients were elderly and passed on in my care, and I can’t take much more. My next patient will be younger, one I can teach to live, not help to die.”
“Yes, it can’t be good . . . to have to help them die.” His voice sounded muffled, like he was talking through a cloth. “Will Mrs. Manly die soon?”
“She’s in better shape than when I came here,” Hannah answered tartly. Then she sighed. “But no, she’s not going to live forever. She doesn’t even want to.”
It was raining harder, and she wasn’t sure what he said, but it sounded like, “Is that what you tell yourself?”
With a roar, the heavens opened. Rain sluiced down in buckets, pummeling her, filling her shoes with water, saturating her clothes. “I gotta go,” she shouted.
“Talk to you next time,” he shouted back.
She shut her phone and ran as hard as she could toward Balfour House.
He might be bald. He might be short. He might be overweight. But she hadn’t enjoyed a conversation so much in years.
Of course, she’d been the one doing the talking.
Despite the rain that dripped off her nose and chin, she smiled. Next time they talked, it would be more balanced. She’d ask a few questions herself.
Next time.
In an excess of good spirits, she leaped up the stairs onto the porch, and hugged herself in delight. He had said he would talk to her next time.
Turning, she looked out over the Balfour estate and saw the birder leaping off the rocks and running toward the paved path.
She hoped he got inside before lightning struck.
To get back into Balfour House unseen, Gabriel had to take the long way around, staying out of sight of the windows until his last dash into the back door and up the stairs. In his room, he shook like a dog, then headed for the bathroom. He put the binoculars on the vanity and dropped his sopping-wet clothes on the cracked linoleum floor.
My God, the North was miserable in the winter. Worse, Northerners would look you in the eye and tell you this wasn’t winter—this was autumn.
He flipped the shower on hot, and when the steam was rising in the tub, he climbed in. He was so cold his toes hurt, he shivered so hard his bones rattled, but he had to say he’d learned a lot today.
He’d learned why Hannah was a natural with arthritis patients. He’d learned how she’d learned the craft of extortion, and why she thought it was such an easy way to make money. He’d even learned why she figured she was justified. If she was telling the truth—and from the research he’d done, she was—that deal with her mother’s death had been a bitch for a sixteen-year-old to handle.
But he’d also learned she sincerely missed her mother. Hannah had liked her mother. She had admired her mother. Her mother, who gave birth to her without benefit of matrimony. Her mother, who accepted a trip given to her by her doctor. But still . . . didn’t her affection for her mother mean that she had more than a shriveled soul, bereft of emotion?
Yeah. It did.
He’d learned something else, too.
He’d learned that he liked the way she moved. Even viewed from a
distance through binocular lenses, she showed an athlete’s prowess and endurance.
But also . . . she admitted Mrs. Manly would die soon.
Okay. She looked like the woman of his dreams.
Yet he couldn’t trust her. And he didn’t dare love her.
But he couldn’t wait to talk to her again.
THIRTEEN
Hannah had come to detest Balfour House.
The autumn wind tossed dried leaves against the windows of the study and moaned around the eaves. A steady cold rain dripped off the roof, and far below, the ocean roared with the passing of the first storm of the season. The clouds dimmed any light from the afternoon sun, and Hannah shivered as the cold crept through the gray stone walls and into the study, where she and Mrs. Manly studied the checklist one more time.
And someone was watching her.
A knock sounded on the door to the study.
“Come in,” Mrs. Manly called.
Susan Stevens stuck her head inside. “Mrs. Manly, I’ve done my check of the house, and I have my report.”
“Good.” Mrs. Manly glanced at Hannah, pleased and expectant. Surely now they would hear the truth—that Carrick was having their every move electronically scrutinized, hoping to hear the truth about his father’s fortune. “Come in.”
Susan Stevens didn’t look anything like Hannah’s idea of a security expert. She was probably thirty-five, tall and willowy, with brown eyes and wavy brown hair she pulled into a careless twist at the back of her neck. She applied makeup so flawlessly Hannah wasn’t surprised to discover she had been a former beauty contestant, and although she wore jeans and T-shirts and, when working outside in the nippy air, sweatshirts, she made each piece of clothing look as if she’d bought it from a top designer.
Mrs. Manly turned her wheelchair to face Susan. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
“That would be fabulous.” Susan’s nose was attractively rosy. “It gets cold early up here.”
“Hannah, ring for a fresh pot,” Mrs. Manly ordered. As Hannah spoke to the hovering servant, Mrs. Manly told Susan, “It’s the end of October. Of course it’s cold.”
“I’m from Houston. It won’t get cold in Texas until Thanksgiving. Maybe.” Susan smiled fondly. “Sometimes it doesn’t freeze all winter.”
“I myself like the four seasons,” Mrs. Manly intoned.
“Winter is overrated,” Susan said pleasantly.
Hannah laughed. “I’ve thought that myself.” Especially in February when the snow turned to ice on the streets and the wind ripped at her flesh.
A discreet knock sounded at the door, and Hannah retrieved the freshly brewed coffee. As Hannah poured, Susan opened the folder she held and handed Mrs. Manly a piece of paper.
Mrs. Manly accepted it. “What brought you up here to work for Sansoucy Security?”
“I go where I’m needed.” Susan accepted the cup from Hannah and added sugar and so much cream the brew turned a swirling tan.
“But Maine seems like quite a change for you.” Mrs. Manly watched Susan so closely, Hannah wondered what she saw.
“The advantage of being single again is that I can see the country as I wish,” Susan said firmly. “But I promise you, I will be here for your party.”
“As a guard?” Hannah was surprised. “I thought you were the technical expert.”
“I am. I work every angle I can. In this business, it’s best to be indispensible. Now.” Susan leaned forward. “Here’s my report, with three different plans to increase security here at Balfour House.”
Susan spoke enthusiastically about placing cameras and microphones outside, at all the entrances, and in the corridors and public rooms, but Mrs. Manly wasn’t listening. Hannah could tell she wasn’t listening. Hannah had the feeling the same variety of expressions crossed her face as crossed Mrs. Manly’s: first expectant, then puzzled, and finally, when Susan persistently said nothing about finding cameras and microphones hidden in the corridors and the rooms, disappointed.
When Susan finished, she leaned back and sipped her coffee. “Of course, I know our clients are always interested in options, but in this case, where the home is historical and filled with valuable antiques, I would recommend the full security package. Frankly, I’m amazed that you haven’t had any break-ins.”
“I just . . . I thought we did have some security cameras. During your evaluation, did you not find any?” Mrs. Manly asked.
“No.” Susan sounded politely uncertain. “You have an outmoded alarm system, but it hasn’t functioned for years.”
“I see.” Mrs. Manly placed the bids on her desk. “I’ll take your suggestions under advisement. Thank you so much, Susan, and I’ll see you in three days, if not sooner.”
Susan turned a blank face to her.
“On Halloween,” Mrs. Manly reminded her.
“Yes. The party.” Susan put down her cup and stood. “I’ll be the one dressed as a security guard—in a dark suit.” She laughed.
“Make sure you wear a mask,” Mrs. Manly warned. “The guests won’t be allowed in without costumes, and I expect the security guards to respect my wishes as far as they are able.”
Susan looked dismayed.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Manly said. “I’ll have extra masks.”
As Susan left, Mrs. Manly turned to Hannah. “Some people hate to join in the spirit of Halloween.”
“Some people do.”
Mrs. Manly watched the door Susan had closed behind her. “What do you think, Hannah? Is she incompetent? Did she not notice the cameras and microphones?”
“She certainly gives the air of knowing what she’s doing.” Hannah picked up the paper with the bids on it, and scanned the list. “This seems complete. I don’t know what else she could add.”
“Does she have any reason to conceal the fact we’re being watched?”
“I don’t know what it would be. Carrick could have bribed her, but he would have had to bribe Sansoucy Security, too, and that seems so . . . far-fetched.”
“Farsighted,” Mrs. Manly corrected. “Furthermore, I know Carrick. He would never hire a small local firm. He always wants the best, and obviously the best could never be here.”
“And the truth of the matter is . . . we think she’s telling the truth.” When Mrs. Manly looked inquiringly at her, Hannah said, “We’re talking freely as we haven’t since we first spoke up on the cliff above the sea.”
Mrs. Manly sighed. “You’re right. But . . .”
“But why was the hair standing up on the back of my neck right now? Why do I constantly feel as if someone was watching me? If it’s not some flunky of Carrick’s spying on us . . . then who is it? The ghost of some Balfour ancestor?” Hannah thought she was making a joke.
But she shivered. No wonder Halloween took place at the onset of winter. It didn’t make sense, but something about the failing sun made a person hark back to the ancestors’ memories of ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties. No matter what Susan said, Hannah was convinced some dark thing—some memory locked away in the attic—held sway in this house.
“Nonsense.” Mrs. Manly chuckled. “You really are susceptible to atmosphere, aren’t you?”
Outside in the foyer, the door opened and shut, then opened and shut again. They heard a murmur of voices; then Nelson stepped in and announced, “Mr. Manly has arrived.”
“Mr. Manly?” Color washed out of Mrs. Manly’s face. She placed her hand over her heart, and Hannah realized she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended.
Then Carrick stepped over the threshold.
Mrs. Manly collapsed back into her chair. “Oh. It’s just you, Carrick.” Turning on Nelson like a ferocious guard dog, she said, “Mr. Nathan Manly is gone, disappeared God knows where. My son is Carrick. Just Carrick. Remember that. Call him that.”
Nelson lost a little color, too. “Yes, Mrs. Manly.”
“Take a chill pill, Mom.” Carrick strolled into the room with such an air of authorit
y, he might have been a commander going into battle. “It’s not like Father is coming back here. He’s drinking champagne on a beach somewhere, surrounded by babes.”
How had Hannah ever thought this callous jerk was attractive?
Her feelings must have shown on her face, because he said, “What? In a week, Mother has to appear in federal court to testify that she had nothing to do with stealing the fortune. She might as well get used to having the whole scandal dragged out into the public eye again.”
But no one got the best of Mrs. Manly. As he leaned down to kiss her, she pinched his chin and turned his face toward the light.
His left eye, left cheek, and nose were swollen and yellow, purple, and green with a fading bruise.
“Who did you anger?” Mrs. Manly asked.
“I was in a fight.” He was favoring his left side.
And Hannah noted he didn’t seem as well put together as he had—he hadn’t shaved in two days, and his pants looked as if he’d slept in them. Going to the window, she looked out at the auto court. A Camry sat there, its small trunk gaping as one of the footmen removed two suitcases and an overnight bag.
So this time, Carrick hadn’t driven a borrowed Porsche.
Mrs. Manly turned his knuckles to the light, but they were pristine. “Too bad you didn’t land any blows.”
An angry flush climbed in his face, and he folded his hands away from her. He took two steps away, and looked around the study, strewn with well-organized piles of papers, contracts for the caterer, the decorator, the extra staff, the food supplier. “Wow, Mother. You’re out of your room. I had no idea Miss Grey would be such a little miracle worker.”
“She has been the best present you ever brought me.” Mrs. Manly pretended to think. “Wait. I believe she’s the only present you ever brought me. And of course, I have to pay her salary.”
He gave Hannah a shrug and such a friendly smile she wanted to edge closer to Mrs. Manly and safety.