Lake Season

by Denise Hunter

  “Not necessarily. A photo might help identify him if I stumble upon the right information. It could be important later.”

  “I guess so,” she said over her shoulder. But she felt unaccountably useless, and the feeling had drained her energy and optimism.

  “Hey,” Adam said. “This is only the first edition in June. Keep looking and you might find just the clue we need.” There was a brief pause, and then he said, “Non ti dai abbastanza credito.”

  You do not give yourself enough credit.

  He spoke Italian—and quite fluently too. Her hands tightened on the copy. She turned, wanting to thank him for his kind words.

  “It’s Italian,” he said before she could speak. A flush was rising to his cheeks. He poked his glasses into place as his eyes flittered back to the screen. “It means ‘we’re only just beginning.’”

  She blinked at his translation, watching him work the machine with precision. She should tell him she was fluent in Italian, but his words had clearly embarrassed him. And she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable by calling his bluff.

  “Indeed we are,” she said after a short pause. And she found that the prospect of future discoveries had once again lifted her spirits.

  That, and Adam’s sweet belief in her.

  fourteen

  Molly walked down the slope of the backyard beside Grace. It had been nonstop around the inn since Friday evening when their sixth guest had checked in. On top of cleaning and working the front desk, Molly had been doing everything from giving restaurant recommendations to busing tables to assisting guests with their in-room Keurig machines. They all had.

  Currently she and her sister were tasked with cleaning out the boat, which had been used by a family of four that afternoon. Molly was hoping for a full night’s sleep tonight. Six o’clock had come too early this morning.

  “Have you heard from Sarah?” Molly asked as they walked across the recently mown grass toward the lake. Grace’s best friend was in Florida for the next two weeks. The family deserved a vacation after making it through Mrs. Benson’s cancer.

  “We’ve been texting. She’s so lucky. She’s lying out on the beach all day, and I’m stuck working the inn the entire summer.”

  “Hey, that was part of the deal. You could be in LA right now, living in a strange city and getting ready to start your senior year there.”

  Grace sighed. “I know, I know. And I’m grateful to you guys, really. But this weekend has been nuts. There’s hardly even time to scarf down a sandwich.”

  “We’re just getting into the swing of things. It’ll get easier, you’ll see.” The old wooden pier shimmied as they stepped onto it.

  “Ugh,” Grace said as they neared the boat.

  Molly stared down into the hull, frowning. Empty juice boxes, candy wrappers, and broken chips were scattered around the boat. Someone had spilled a drink on the bottom, and dead bugs had been caught in the sticky trap.

  Molly handed Grace the trash bag she’d brought down. “I’ll go get some cleaning supplies.”

  “We need to initiate some new boat rules,” Grace said.

  “They’re in the rental agreement, but we already gave them back their deposit. Let’s just get it cleaned up. From now on we’ll check the boat before we give the refund.”

  Grace stepped into the boat as Molly turned and headed back toward the inn. Live and learn. She hopped off the pier, determined to keep a good attitude. Most of the guests were gracious and pleasant. There were bound to be a few bad apples.

  “Hello, Molly.”

  “Oh!” Molly spotted Adam in one of the Adirondack chairs facing the lake. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “You were chatting with your sister as you walked past, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

  Molly hoped he hadn’t overheard them complaining about the guests, but the pier was far enough away to make that unlikely.

  “I haven’t seen you around the past couple days,” she said. Not since the library research, which had turned out fruitless after finding the picture. She’d made it through June’s issues and had called it quits when Levi called her for help.

  “I’ve seen you running around the place, but you were always busy.”

  “It’s been a little crazy. How’s the research going? For your work, I mean. I’m not going to bug you about our little project every time I see you. I promise.”

  “My work’s coming along all right,” he said.

  But something in his eyes gave Molly the feeling it wasn’t.

  “I’d rather be working on our project, if I’m honest. I didn’t turn up anything new though. There are quite a few Ben and Benjamin Schwartzes living in the US, unfortunately. Also some deceased ones—one of whom could also be our guy.”

  “Let’s hope not. If only he didn’t have such a common name. Why can’t he be Titus Dromgoogle or something?”

  “Did you just make that up?”

  “Maybe.”

  His lips twitched. “Well, I’m holding out hope we’ll find another clue in the newspaper.”

  She had a thought. “You know, there might be some old-timers around here who remember them.”

  “Good thought. Especially Lizzie, since she was a resident. Maybe they’ll have a birth date or middle name for us.”

  “It’s Benjamin’s information we need, so it’s probably a long shot, but . . . Hey, what about the school yearbook? There are probably copies in the library. If we can find people who knew Lizzie and are still living here, maybe they’ll remember Benjamin.”

  He tilted his head at her, his gaze laser-focused. “That’s a great idea, Molly. I can check that on Monday when it opens.”

  Something about the way he looked at her made her cheeks go hot. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to check, I guess.”

  “If they have copies, I’ll bring them home and have you look them over and see if you recognize anyone.”

  Bring them home. She liked his referring to the inn that way—because she wanted all the guests to feel at home. Or so she told herself.

  He shifted a paperback book on his lap, and she automatically searched the cover.

  “Oh, I read that one.” She gestured to the Lee Child book. “All of the Jack Reacher novels are good.”

  “I stole it from your library. This is my first, but I like it so far.”

  “Why didn’t you start with book one? I have them all in there.”

  He shrugged. “I liked the back cover copy on this one.”

  “No, no, no. How can you start on book six? Don’t you want to know all the back story?”

  His lips twitched. “The novels can apparently stand alone. I’m not lost at all.”

  “Well, yes, but—” She shook her head. “I can’t read a series out of order. I mean, if I see a book I want to read, but it’s the third of the series, I’ll go back and read the first two before I start it.”

  He grinned. “You’re an author’s dream.”

  “Sometimes, if I have to wait like a year for the next book in a series to come out, I’ll even reread the earlier books to refresh my memory.”

  He just smiled at her.

  “What? That’s perfectly normal.”

  “What are the most times you’ve ever read a book?”

  “I don’t know. Seven or eight, maybe?”

  “And which book would that be?”

  “Everything by Nathaniel Quinn.” Grace butted into the conversation with all the grace of a lame giraffe. “She’s read every book by Nathaniel Quinn at least ten times.”

  Molly’s face went hot, and she nailed Grace with a warning look. “All right, Grace.”

  But her sister was just getting started. She shifted the bag of trash. “She’s in looove with Nathaniel Quinn.”

  “That’s enough.” Molly’s gaze skittered off Adam, too embarrassed to let it linger.

  “Well, it’s true,” Grace said. “You talk about him all the time. Nathaniel Quinn this and Nathaniel Quinn that. Somebody
put me out of my misery. If I have to listen to one more romantic paragraph I’m going to gag.”

  Molly gave her sister a flinty look, lifting her chin a notch. “I admire his writing. Now how about you go dump that garbage and get the cleaning supplies while you’re at it?”

  “Fine.” Grace rolled her eyes as she started up the slope. She turned back to Adam and mouthed Madly in love.

  * * *

  Molly brushed her hair from her eyes. “She’s such a child.”

  Adam was torn between being flattered and wanting to melt into the ground. That Molly admired his writing was extremely gratifying. She was well read and obviously bright.

  He was also flattered by the fact that she seemed to have a little crush on him—or rather, on his alias.

  But she was no doubt under the same illusion as most of his readers—that Nathaniel Quinn bore some resemblance to the tough, rugged heroes he wrote. Just the thought of Molly discovering his real identity, the thought of being such a disappointment to her, made him want to run far, far away.

  He felt trapped in the chair. Worse, he felt exposed. His breaths were hot and stuffy in his lungs, the same way they’d felt each time his publisher tried to pull him out of hiding.

  But he wasn’t exposed, he reasoned with himself. Molly didn’t know who he was, and she had no way of finding out unless he told her. And that sure wasn’t happening. Especially now.

  Molly was still talking. He had no idea what she’d said, but she was currently in some pretty heavy denial. Her cheeks were flushed, and he didn’t think it was from the heat alone. Hard to say which of them might be more mortified by Grace’s revelation.

  “And he’s a really good writer,” Molly was saying. “I admire his skill, that’s all. Are you familiar with his work?”

  Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, yes, I am, actually.”

  “He’s good, right? I mean, it’s hard to find such well-written romance, that’s all. And he uses a pseudonym, so he’s a mystery as well. And a bit of a recluse, I guess. Or maybe he’s just shy.”

  Adam cleared his throat. “I’ve heard.”

  “So which is your favorite?”

  His eyes flew to hers, dread lodged in his gut at the thought of discussing his books, one by one, with her. Why hadn’t he just said he’d never heard of the man?

  But Molly was gesturing to the book in his hands. “Which author, I mean. I love Lee Child and his Jack Reacher series. I couldn’t possibly tell you which one was my favorite though.”

  “I have a lot of favorite authors. David Baldacci, Richard Paul Evans, Daniel Silva, too many to name. The Secret Servant is one of my favorite contemporary novels, but maybe only because it was my first by Silva.”

  “That was a good one. There’s something about that first, isn’t there? Finding a new author you love? Especially when they have a long backlist.” She tilted her head, a sudden flicker of appreciation in her eyes. “You know, I’ve really missed talking about books and authors. There’s a book club in town, but . . . I don’t know. The women who go aren’t that passionate about reading. I haven’t had anyone around who appreciates a good read as much as my dad did.”

  He felt a twinge of jealousy. What would it have been like to share something important with his father? To bond over books—over anything for that matter?

  And yet Molly’s words also warmed some place deep inside him. He loved sharing this interest with her. “I’m always available to talk books with you.”

  The back screen door slapped shut, and the sound of Grace’s footsteps preceded her presence.

  When she reached them she shoved a handful of cleaning supplies at Molly. “Brother dear needs me at the front desk. The boat’s all yours.” And with a jaunty little smile Grace was gone, having no idea of all the turmoil she’d just caused.

  fifteen

  Molly was working the front desk Monday evening when Adam returned to the inn. All but one couple had checked out yesterday, but they had another couple joining them tomorrow, celebrating their anniversary. Frankly, the quiet was a nice reprieve after the chaotic weekend. And they were gearing up for another full weekend.

  “Hello, Molly.” Adam smiled at her as he pushed the door closed. His messenger bag hung from his shoulder, and he cradled two large books in his arms.

  “Hi.” Molly beamed back, her gaze sweeping over the books. “Dare I hope you’ve come bearing yearbooks?”

  “One from the year Lizzie graduated and one from her sophomore year. They didn’t have the others.”

  “Yes!” Molly lifted her hand, palm out, and Adam met it with a high five. “Have you looked through them yet?”

  “Only long enough to find her class pictures. I thought we could pore over them when you’re off work.” He ducked his head. “If you’d like, that is.”

  “I’d like that very much. I’m supposed to be on for another hour, but Levi owes me one. Meet you in the library?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Molly called in her favor with Levi, and he took over at the front desk with only a minor scowl.

  “Thank you, brother dear,” she called as she fairly bounced toward the library.

  Adam was sitting at the desk going through one of the yearbooks when she joined him. He’d pulled up a second chair.

  Molly settled into it. “Find anything yet?”

  He chuckled. “I’m only on page four.”

  What a lovely laugh. Deep and mellow, rumbling from his chest.

  He opened the yearbook to the middle. “Here’s her sophomore picture.”

  Molly leaned in, her arm brushing his. She caught a faint whiff of spicy cologne. Nice.

  The picture portrayed a younger version of the Lizzie in the newspaper.

  Adam opened her yearbook to a page he’d flagged with a yellow sticky note. “And here’s her senior photo.”

  “She was so pretty.” Molly stared at the image. “Kind of reminds me of that actress in Enchanted.”

  “I guess I missed that one.”

  “She’s so young. Only about Grace’s age here.” Molly didn’t even want to think about her little sister losing her heart to someone at her age, much less having it broken.

  “So you go through that one,” Adam said. “Look for any names you recognize. I’ll see if I can find more photos of her.”

  Thinking of the index, Molly flipped to the back to see if she could find Lizzie’s name and any pages she might be included on.

  “I already tried that,” Adam said. “I guess they didn’t do indexes back then.”

  Molly started with the senior class, jotting down familiar names. By the time she was finished there were seven people she recognized as still living in Bluebell.

  She started at the beginning of the yearbook and scanned each photo and caption. So far Adam had found photos of Lizzie in the glee club and National Honor Society, and Molly found her in both groups in her senior year also.

  “Look at these glasses.” Molly smiled at the cat-eye style one young lady wore.

  Adam’s eyes twinkled with laughter. “Far out.”

  “And this beehive.”

  “The boys wore slacks and button-ups every day.”

  “And the girls wore dresses and skirts. They all look so grown up and well behaved.”

  “I’m sure they got into their fair share of mischief. Lizzie didn’t seem to play any sports. At least, not her sophomore year.”

  “I’m not finding anything her senior year either. But there didn’t seem to be many options for girls. Just tennis and softball.”

  Molly turned the page to find pictures from the senior dance. At the bottom of the page a familiar face made her pause. She read the caption. Friends Elizabeth Van Buren and Nonnie Ludwig take a break from dancing. The two beautiful girls stood side by side, their arms around each other, their heads tilted close together.

  “Look at this.” Molly scooted the yearbook closer to Adam, pointing at the photo.

  “There s
he is,” Adam said. “Who’s that with her?”

  “Nonnie Ludwig, it says. There’s a Nonnie Hartwell who lives in Bluebell; she goes to my church. That must be her. I mean, how many Nonnies could there be?”

  He studied the picture. “They look close. As if they were good friends.”

  “They sure do.”

  He looked up from the book, his blue eyes piercing hers. “How well do you know Nonnie Hartwell?”

  Molly’s heart was thumping wildly in her chest. A big grin split her face. “Well enough to show up at her doorstep on a Monday evening.”

  “What are we waiting for?”

  * * *

  Nonnie Hartwell lived outside of town on the winding mountain pass leading toward Asheville. Her white clapboard house perched on a small rise. The yard was well maintained, though the house was sorely in need of a fresh coat of paint.

  Adam got out of his rental and followed Molly up the porch steps. She’d been full of chatter on the short drive from town. Her face flushed with excitement, she was knocking on the door before he reached her side.

  A moment later the door opened, and the older woman’s face lit with a smile. “Molly! How nice to see you, dear.”

  “Hey, Miss Nonnie. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m just fine.” The woman pulled open the door, revealing a full-figured body draped in a floral housecoat. Her thinning silver hair was short and curled, and her brown eyes twinkled with life. “Come in, come in.”

  As Molly embraced her warmly, Nonnie caught sight of Adam. “Well, who’s your gentleman friend?”

  “This is Adam. He’s a guest at the inn. Adam, this is my friend, Miss Nonnie.”

  Adam shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “A guest, huh?” Miss Nonnie gave him the once-over, and he must’ve passed muster, because she invited him in. “I just made a fresh pitcher of tea. Come sit a spell.”

  A few minutes later they were settled in Nonnie’s small living room. The evening light filtered through filmy curtains, softening the wrinkles on her face. She was somewhere in her seventies, and Adam hoped her memory was still intact.