Courting Catherine

by Nora Roberts

  Nearby Amanda sat at a card table, with several more bulging boxes at her feet. With her hair clipped back and reading glasses sliding down her nose, she meticulously studied each paper before laying it on one of the various stacks she had started.

  “This should have been done decades ago,” she commented.

  “You mean it should have been burned decades ago.”

  “No.” Amanda shoved the glasses back into place. “Some of it's fascinating, and certainly deserves to be preserved. Stuffing papers into cardboard boxes is not my idea of preserving family history.”

  “Does a recipe for gooseberry jam rate as family history?”

  “For Aunt Coco it does. That goes under kitchen, subheading menus.”

  CC. shifted then waved away a cloud of dust. “How about a bill for six pair of white kid gloves and a blue silk parasol?”

  “Clothing, by the date. Hmm, this is interesting. Aunt Coco's progress report from her fourth-grade teacher. And I quote, 'Cordelia is a delightfully gre­garious child. However, she tends to daydream and has trouble finishing assigned projects.”

  “That's a news flash.” Stiff, CC. arched her back and rotated her head. Beside her, the sun was stream­ing through the smudges on the storeroom window. With a little sigh, she rested her elbows on her knees and studied it.

  “Where the devil is Lilah?” Impatient as always, Amanda tapped her foot as she grumbled. “Suzanna had dispensation because she took the kids to the mat­inee, but Lilah's supposed to be on duty.”

  “She'll show up,” CC. murmured.

  “Sure. When it's done.” Digging into a new pile, Amanda sneezed twice. “This is some of the dirtiest stuff I've ever seen.”

  CC. shrugged. “Everything gets dirty if it sits around long enough.”

  “No, I mean really dirty. It's a limerick written by Great-Uncle Sean. 'There was a young lady from Maine, whose large breasts drove the natives insane. They...' Never mind,'' Amanda decided.”We'll start a file on attempted pornography.” When CC. made no comment, she glanced over to see her sister still staring at a sunbeam. “You okay, sweetie?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine.”

  “You don't look like you slept very well.”

  C.C. shrugged then busied herself with papers again. “I guess the se'ance threw me off.”

  “Not surprising.” Her lips pursed as she sorted through more receipts. “I never put any stock in that business. Bianca's tower was one thing. I guess we've all felt something—well, something up there. But I always thought that it was because we knew Bianca had tossed herself out of the window. Then last night...” When the shiver caught her, she rubbed her chilled arms. “I know that you really saw something, really experienced something.”

  “I know the necklace is real,” C.C. said.

  “I'll agree it was real—especially when I have a receipt in my hand.”

  “Was and is. I don't think I would have seen it if it had been pawned or tossed into the sea. It might sound loony, but I know Bianca wants us to find it.”

  “It does sound loony.” With a sigh, Amanda leaned back in the creaking chair. “And what's loon­ier is that I think so, too. I just hope nobody at the hotel finds out I'm spending my free time looking for a buried treasure because my long-dead ancestor told us to. Oh!”

  “Did you find it?” C.C. was already scrambling up.

  “No, no, it's an old date book. 1912. The ink's a bit faded, but the handwriting's lovely—definitely feminine. It must be Bianca's. Look. 'Send invita­tions.' And here's title guest list. Wow, some party. The Prentises.” Amanda took off her glasses to gnaw on the earpiece. “I bet they were Premise Hall—one of the cottages that burned in '47.”

  “’Speak to gardener about roses,’” C.C. read over her sister's shoulder. '“Final fitting on gold ball gown. Meet Christian, 3:00 p.m.' Christian?” She laid a tensed hand on Amanda's shoulder. “Could that have been her artist?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Quickly Amanda pushed her glasses back on. “But look here. 'Have clasp on emeralds strengthened.' Those could be the ones.”

  “They have to be.”

  “We still haven't found any receipts.”

  C.C. gave a tired look at the papers littering the room. “What are our chances?”

  Even Amanda's organizational skills quaked. “Well, they improve every time we eliminate a box.”

  “Mandy,” C.C. sat on the floor beside her. “We're running out of time, aren't we?”

  “We've only been at it for a few hours.”

  “That's not what I mean.” She rested her cheek on Amanda's thigh. “You know it's not. Even if we find the receipt, we still have to find the necklace. It could take years. We don't have years. We're going to have to sell, aren't we?”

  “We'll talk about it tomorrow night, at the family meeting.” Troubled, she stroked C.C.'s hair. “Look, why don't you go take a nap? You really do look beat.”

  “No.” She rose, pacing over the papers to the win­dows and back. “I'm better off keeping my mind and my hands busy. Otherwise, I might strangle some­one.”

  “Trent, for instance?”

  “An excellent place to start. No.” With a sigh, she stuck her hands into her pockets. “No, this mess isn't really his fault.”

  “Are we still talking about the house?”

  “I don't know.” Miserable, she sat on the floor again. At least she could be grateful she'd cried her­self dry the night before. “I've decided that all men are stupid, selfish and totally unnecessary.”

  “You're in love with him.”

  A wry smile curved her lips. “Bingo. And to an­swer your next question, no, he doesn't love me back. He's not interested in me, a future, a family, and he's very sorry he didn't make that clear to me before I made the mistake of falling for him.”

  “I'm sorry, C.C.” After taking off her glasses, Amanda got up to cross the room and sit on the floor beside her sister. “I know how it must hurt, but you've only known him for a few days. Infatua­tion—”

  “It's not infatuation.” Idly she folded the recipe for jam into a paper airplane. “I've found out that falling in love doesn't have anything to do with time. It can take a year or an instant. It happens when it's ready to happen.”

  Amanda put an arm around C.C.'s shoulders and squeezed. “Well, I don't know anything about that. Fortunately, I've never had to worry about it.” The fact made her frown, but only for a moment. “I do know this. If he hurt you, we'll make him sorry he ever crossed a Calhoun.”

  C.C. laughed then sent the gooseberry plane flying. “It's tempting, but I think it's more a matter of me hurting myself.” She gave herself a little shake. “Come on, let's get back to work.”

  They'd barely gotten started again when Trent came in. He looked at C.C., met a solid wall of ice. When he turned to Amanda, he fared little better.

  “I thought you might be able to use some help,” he told them.

  Amanda glanced at C.C., noted her sister was em­ploying the silent treatment. A very effective weapon, in Amanda's estimation. “That's nice of you, Trent.” Amanda gave him a smile that would have frosted molten lava. “But this is really a family problem.”

  “Let him help.” C.C. didn't even bother to look up. “I imagine he's just terrific at pushing papers.”

  “All right then.” With a shrug, Amanda indicated another folding chair. “You can use that if you like. I'm organizing according to content and year.”

  “Fine.” He took the chair and sat across from her. They worked in frigid silence, with the crinkle of pa­pers and the tap of Amanda's shoe.

  “Here's a repair bill,” he said—and was ignored. “For repairing a clasp.”

  “Let me see.” Amanda had already snatched it out of his hand before C.C. made the dash across the room. “It doesn't say what kind of necklace,” she muttered.

  “But the dates are right.” C.C. stabbed a finger on it “July 16, 1912.”

  “Have I misse
d something?” Trent asked them.

  Amanda waited a beat, saw that C.C. wasn't going to answer and glanced up herself. “We came across a date book of Bianca's. She had a note to take the emeralds to have the clasp repaired.”

  “This might be what you need.” His eyes were on C.C, but it was Amanda who answered.

  “It may be enough to satisfy all of us that the Cal-houn necklace existed in 1912, but it's a long way from helping us find it.” She set the receipt aside. “Let's see what else we can turn up.”

  In silence, C.C. went back to her papers.

  A few moments later, Lilah called from the base of the stairs. “Amanda! Phone!”

  “Tell them I'll call back.”

  “It's the hotel. They said it's important.”

  “Damn.” She set down the glasses before sending Trent a narrowed look. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

  He waited until the sound of her rapid footsteps had finished echoing. “She's very protective.”

  “We stick together,” C.C. commented, and set a paper on a pile without a clue to its contents.

  “I've noticed. Catherine...”

  Braced, C.C. flicked him her coolest glance. “Yes?”

  “I wanted to make certain you were all right.”

  “All right. In what way?”

  She had dust on her cheek. He wanted, badly, to smile and tell her. To hear her laugh as she brushed it off. “After last night—I know how upset you were when you left my room.”

  “Yes, I was upset.” She turned over another piece of paper. “I guess I made quite a scene.”

  “No, that's not what I meant.”

  “I did.” She forced her lips to curve. “I guess I'm the one who should apologize this time. The séance, all that happened during it, went to my head.” Not my head, she thought, but my heart. “I must have sounded like an idiot when I came to your room.”

  “No, of course not.” She was so cool, he thought. So composed. And she baffled him. “You said you loved me.”

  “I know what I said.” Her voice dropped another ten degrees, but her smile stayed in place. “Why don't we both chalk it up to the mood of the mo­ment?”

  That was reasonable, he realized. So why did he feel so lost. “Then you didn't mean it?”

  “Trent, we've only known each other for a few days.” Did he want to make her suffer? she won­dered.

  “But you looked so—devastated when you left.”

  She arched a brow. “Do I look devastated now?”

  “No,” he said slowly. “No, you don't.”

  “Well, then. Let's forget it.” As she spoke, the sun lost itself behind the clouds. “That would be best for both of us, wouldn't it?”

  “Yes.” It was just what he'd wanted. Yet he felt empty when he stood up again. “I do want what's best for you, C.C.”

  “Fine.” She studied the paper in her hand. “If you're going down, ask Lilah to bring up some coffee when she comes.”

  “All right.”

  She waited until she was sure he was gone before she covered her face with her hands. She'd been wrong, C.C. discovered. She hadn't nearly cried her­self dry.

  Trent went back to his room. His briefcase was there, stacked with work he had intended to do while away from his office. Taking a seat at the scarred kneehole desk, he opened a file.

  Ten minutes later, he was staring out the window without having glanced at the first word.

  He shook himself, picked up his pen and ordered himself to concentrate. He succeeded in reading the first word, even the first paragraph. Three times. Dis­gusted, he tossed the pen aside and rose to pace.

  It was ridiculous, he thought. He had worked in hotel suites all over the world. Why should this room be any different? It had walls and windows, a ceil­ing—so to speak. The desk was more than adequate. He could even, if he chose, light a fire to add some cheer. And some warmth. God knew he could use some warmth after the thirty icy minutes he'd spent in the storeroom. There was no reason why he shouldn't be able to sit down and take care of some business for an hour or two.

  Except that he kept remembering—how lovely C.G. had looked when she'd come into the room in her gray flannel robe and bare feet. He could still see the way her eyes had glowed when she had stood almost where he was standing now, smiling at him. Frowning, he rubbed at a dull pain around his heart. He wasn't accustomed to aches there. Headaches cer­tainly. Never heartaches.

  But the memory of the way she'd slipped into his arms haunted him. And her taste—why was it that it still hovered just a breath from his own lips?

  It was guilt, that was all, he assured himself. He had hurt her, the way he was certain he'd never hurt another woman. No matter how cool she had been today, no matter how composed, that was a guilt he would live with for a long time.

  Maybe if he went up and talked to her again. His hand was on the knob before he stopped himself. That would only make things worse, if possible. Just be­cause he wanted to assuage some guilt was no excuse to put her in an uncomfortable position again.

  She was handling it, better than he by all accounts. She was strong, obviously resilient. Proud. Soft, his mind wandered. Warm. Incredibly beautiful.

  On an oath he began to pace again. It would be wiser for him to concentrate on the house rather than any of its occupants. The few days he'd spent in it might have caused a personal upheaval, but it had given him time and opportunity to formulate plans. From the inside. It had given him a taste of the mood and tone and the history. And if he could settle down for a few moments, he could put some of those thoughts on paper.

  But it was hopeless. The minute he took his pen in hand, his mind went blank. He was feeling closed in, Trent told himself. He just needed some air. Snatch­ing up a jacket, he did something he hadn't given himself time to do in months.

  He took a walk.

  Following instinct, he headed toward the cliffs. Down the uneven lawn, around a crumbling stone wall. Toward the sea. The air had a bite. It seemed that spring had decided to pick up her pretty skirts and retreat. The sky was gray and moody, with a few hopeful patches of blue. Wildflowers that had been brave enough to shove their way through rock and soil blew fitfully in the wind.

  Trent walked with his hands in his pockets, and his head down. Depression wasn't a familiar sensation, and he was determined to walk it off. When he glanced back, he could just see the peaks of towers above and behind. He turned away and faced the sea—unknowingly mirroring the stance of a man who had painted there decades before.

  Breathtaking. It was the only word that came to his mind. Rocks tumbled dizzily down, pink and gray where the wind buffeted them, black where the water struck and funneled. Bad-tempered whitecaps churned, slicing at the darker water. Smoky fog rolled and shredded, and the air held a fresh threat of rain.

  It should have been gloomy. It was simply spec­tacular.

  He wished she was with him. That she would be here, now, beside him before time passed or the wind changed. She would smile, he thought. Laugh, as she planted those long, gorgeous legs and lifted her face to the blow. If she had been there, the beauty of it wouldn't make him feel so lonely. So damned lonely.

  The tingle at the base of his neck had him turning, nearly reaching out. He'd been so certain that he would look and see her walking toward him. There was nothing but the slope of rock, and the wind. Yet the feeling of another presence remained, very real, so that he almost called out.

  He was a sensible man, Trent assured himself. He knew he was alone. Yet it seemed as though someone was there with him, waiting. Watching. For a mo­ment, he was certain he caught the light, drifting scent of honeysuckle.

  Imagination, he decided, but his hand wasn't quite steady as he lifted it to push the blowing hair out his eyes.

  Then there was weeping. Trent froze as he listened to the sad, quiet sound that sobbed just under the wind. It ebbed and flowed, like the sea itself. Some­thing clenched inside his stomach as he strained to hear—though co
mmon sense told him there could be nothing to hear.

  A nervous breakdown? he wondered. But the sound was real, damn it Not a hallucination. Slowly, ears pricked, he climbed down a jumble of rocks.

  “Who's there?” he shouted as the sound sighed and drifted on the wind. Chasing it, he hurried down, driven by an urgency that drummed through his blood. A shower of loose stones rattled into space, bringing him sharply back to reality.

  What in God's name was he doing? Scrambling down a cliff wall after a ghost? He lifted his hands and saw that despite the brisk wind his palms were sweating. All he could hear now was the frantic pounding of his own heart. After forcing himself to stand still and take a few calming breaths, he looked around for the easiest form of assent.

  He had just started back when the sound came again. Weeping. No, he realized. Whimpering. It was quite clear now and nearly under his feet. Crouching, Trent searched behind an outcrop of rock. It was a poor, pitiful sight, he thought. The little black puppy was hardly more than a ball of fur-covered bones. Relief poured through him, making him laugh out loud. He wasn't going crazy after all. As Trent studied it, the terrified pup tried to inch back, but there was nowhere to go. Its little frightened eyes fixed on Trent as it trembled. “Had a rough time, have you?” Cau­tiously Trent reached out, ready to snatch his hand back if the pup snapped. Instead it simply cowered and whined. “It's okay, fella. Relax. I won't hurt you.” Gently he stroked the puppy between the ears with his fingertips. Still shivering, the pup licked Trent's hand. “Guess you're feeling pretty lonely.” He sighed as he calmed the dog. “Me, too. Why don't we go back to the house?” He gathered the dog up, zipping it inside his jacket for the climb. When he was halfway to the top, Trent stopped then turned blindly around. It was at least fifty yards from where he had stood looking out to sea to where he had dis­covered the stray. His palms grew damp again when he realized it would have been impossible for him to have heard the puppy's whines from the ridge above. The distance and the wind would have smothered the whimpers. Yet he had heard...something. And, hear­ing it, had climbed down to find the lost dog. “What the devil was it?” Trent murmured, and cuddling the pup closer, headed for home. He was just beginning to feel foolish when he crossed the lawn. What was he supposed to say to his hostesses? Look what fol­lowed me home? How about--Guess what? I decided to take my life in my hands and climb back down the cliff. Look what I found. Neither opening seemed quite suitable. The sensible thing would be to get in the car and drive the dog down to the village. There was bound to be an animal shelter or vet. He could hardly march into the parlor and dump his find on the rug. But he couldn't, Trent discovered. He simply couldn't turn the shivering ball of fur over to strang­ers. The little guy trusted him and was even now curl­ing softly under his heart. As he stood hesitating, C.C. came out of the house.

  Trent shifted and tried to look natural. “Hi.”

  'Hi.” She paused to button her denim jacket. “We're out of milk. Dp you need anything from the village?”

  A can of dog food, he thought, and cleared his throat. “No, thanks. I, ah...” The pup wriggled against his shirt. “Did you find anything?”

  “Lots of things, but nothing that tells us where to look for the necklace.” Her misery turned to curiosity as she watched the ripples run along his jacket. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. Just fine.”Trent cleared his throat, folded his arms. “I took a walk.”

  “Okay.” It was awful, she thought, just awful. He could hardly meet her eyes. “Aunt Coco's making a light lunch if you're hungry.”

  “Oh—thanks.”

  She started to move by him when a high-pitched yip stopped her in her tracks. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He smothered an involuntary chuckle as the puppy wiggled along his ribs.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I'm fine.” He gave her a sheepish smile as the dog poked his nose above the zipper of the jacket.

  “What have you got?” C.C. forgot her vow to keep her distance and stepped closer to tug the zipper down. “Oh! Trent, it's a puppy.”

  “I found him down in the rocks,” he began quickly. “I wasn't sure just what to—”

  “Oh, you poor little thing.” She was already coo­ing as she gathered the puppy to her. “Are you lost?” She rubbed her cheek over its fur, nuzzled nose to nose. “There now, it's all right.” The puppy wagged his tail so fast and hard he nearly fell out of her grip.

  “Cute, isn't he?” Grinning, Trent moved closer to stroke. “Looks like he's been on his own for a while.”

  “He's just a baby.” She crooned and cuddled. “Where did you say you found him?”

  “Down on the rocks. I was walking.” And think­ing of you. Before he could