Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series)

by M. Kate Quinn

  Sarah’s heart fell in her chest like a rock thrown from a cliff. For the life of her she couldn’t wrap her brain around the emotion. Whatever it was, it was fierce and hurtful.

  “Hey,” Gigi said, starting to pace. “We can use this to our advantage.” She stopped and turned to stare at Sarah. Her eyes were wide with anticipation. “This guy, asshole that he is, probably still has the hots for you.”

  “You’re nuts,” Sarah spat. “He was toying with me that night at the Pier House. Got his jollies. He’s a sicko.”

  “No, Sarah.” She held up a hand. “Hear me out. But just as a sidebar, I love how pissed you sound. Usually you try to see the rainbow side of everything.”

  “There are no rainbows in the sewer, my friend.”

  “Listen. I say tomorrow you doll yourself up a little, go over to his place and cozy up to him, appeal to his brain, the one below his belt. You can make nice-nice and get him to withdraw the complaint.” Gigi lifted her hands into the air like she’d just discovered the nose on her face.

  “Oh, I intend to pay a little visit to the man at Sixty Ocean tomorrow, before I go file the damned applications. But there will be nothing nice-nice about it.”

  Chapter Five

  Sarah drank her morning coffee while pacing around the kitchen. She didn’t care what it took, she’d handle this. It was one thing for Benny to formally complain about the wedding for whatever business it was of his. It was entirely another matter to shove a mysterious message under her door in the dark of night.

  She spilled the rest of her coffee into the sink, rinsing it away with a forceful spray of water, enjoying the weapon-like feel of the nozzle’s trigger in her hand.

  She knew if she showed up at his door and barked at him like the rabid dog she felt like, it might make matters worse. About that much, Gigi had been right. She needed to finesse the situation, use a soft approach, appeal to his kinder side. She clucked her tongue. That was assuming, of course, that he had one.

  She decided to bring him muffins. She opened a box of bran muffin mix she had in the cupboard and dumped it into a bowl. Following the directions, she added the egg, water, and corn oil. She put the pan in the oven and dashed to get dressed.

  As she lined a plate with the moist little buns it made her smile to think that maybe he’d get the subliminal message that an offering of fiber balls might relieve what he seemed to be full of.

  Sarah carried the foil-covered dish with one hand on top to shield against the ocean breeze. She walked down the avenue toward his house wondering why she’d never really taken notice of the place before.

  Sitting back from the street, it was a small, squat little structure with weathered brown cedar shakes. Next to the Morrison’s refurbished three-story stunner the Benedetto man’s house looked like an outbuilding.

  She opened the front, loudly-squeaking gate. Crumbs of rust peppered her fingers. She shoved it closed behind her with her hip. She stepped up onto the cement porch and rapped on the aluminum storm door’s frame.

  As she waited her eyes scanned the small yard. The sandy patch was decorated with a small weathered wooden lighthouse bearing a rectangular plaque boasting “Welcome” in bold lettering. Ha.

  The inside wooden front door opened. And there he stood, speechless, staring at her through the glass of the outer door.

  Her ignorant body had an immediate reaction, as if to say I remember you. She squared her shoulders. There was no reasoning with a chemical reaction.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said curtly, yet politely.

  She had all she could do to keep her eyes focused on the small scar on his forehead. Any other part of his face was too dangerous to take in. The eyes were a killer, to say nothing of the man’s mouth.

  Wordlessly, he opened the door, bracing it with his thick, sculpted arm. “Come in.”

  She carefully stepped across the threshold, heart quickening. Maybe he was crazy. Images of scary newspaper headlines flashed in her mind. She hovered close to the door.

  The aroma of some delicious-smelling confection, something with cinnamon and sugar, wafted in the air. It had not occurred to her that perhaps there was a Mrs. Benedetto. Dear God, had she really made a total fool of herself with a married man?

  “I’m sorry, are you in the middle of something?” She looked at the far wall toward what she assumed was the kitchen.

  “Nah, I was just fooling around in the kitchen. Sarah, listen, I…”

  “You’re a baker?” she blurted, unable to mask her surprise. Somehow she couldn’t imagine this guy knowing his way around a kitchen. A wrestling ring, maybe. A dance floor, God yeah.

  “Something wrong with that?” His hands rested on his hips, but she saw an unnerving tease in his eyes.

  “No,” she said, laughing a silly little sound. She silently admonished herself. She needed to knock that off. “Not at all. I guess it’s just, I don’t know, not what I’d expect.”

  “What’s that you have?” His head motioned toward her covered plate.

  “I brought you some muffins.”

  She jutted the dish toward him and he took it, his face a big fat question mark. “Why, may I ask are you bringing me muffins?”

  “To be neighborly.”

  “I see.”

  “Actually, I thought we could discuss the letter.”

  “Sarah, first let me say…”

  “No.” Her voice was louder and more emphatic than she’d intended. She wouldn’t give him a chance to explain anything. She didn’t want his excuses. She wanted him to undo his damage.

  And, in case he was about to bring up the night at the Pier House, she’d nip that before he got started. That little nightmare would never resurface.

  She took a breath. “Benny, I thought maybe if you withdrew the complaint the town might drop it and…”

  He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I cannot undo this, Sarah. I gave my brother my word. And, after all, it is a town law.” His low voice sounded pained.

  Sarah didn’t care. She wanted to throttle him. Damn him for coming to this town and upsetting her world in more ways than she’d allow herself to tally.

  “Okay,” she said, her jaw aching from the tight clench. “Just so you know I’ve gone to the police about this.” She pulled out the letter she’d found under her front door.

  “What’s that?”

  A sarcastic laugh popped from her lips. “Your stupid little note. It doesn’t scare me, and I resent you sneaking up to my door at night to leave it there.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think we’d better end this conversation before one of us says something they’ll regret.”

  Oh, she had regrets already, plenty of them. Sarah unfolded the page, read the message out loud, and then glared at him. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t write this?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, somebody else just happened to warn me to stop the wedding at the same time you and your complaint came to my attention? You expect me to believe that?”

  “You’re free to believe whatever you want.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But, I did not put that note at your door.”

  A buzzer sounded and he turned toward the kitchen. “That’s my strudel.”

  His strudel? She shook away the image of this goon in an apron. “Well, I believe you wrote this and that you delivered it as a scare tactic. I also believe the police will determine this to be a threat.”

  He gave a quick look over his shoulder. “Being a retired police officer, I know what a threat is, and whether it is or isn’t happens to be none of my business. I didn’t write it. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Yeah, I know…your strudel. You haven’t heard the last from me, Mr. Benedetto.”

  “Sarah…”

  She stormed out the door.

  ****

  Benny charged to the kitchen to turn off the timer’s bu
zzing sound searing his brain. He opened the oven door and saw that the edges of his confection had browned too much, one side was nearly black. Damn it to hell. He grabbed the old burn-stained oven mitts from the counter and withdrew the strudel, placing it on top of a cracked trivet.

  He didn’t know this oven’s temperament, or the accuracy of its thermostat. It took experience to determine an oven’s heat setting level. With any luck, he’d kiss this old relic goodbye long before he’d figure it out.

  He tugged off the mitts and threw them down. So now somebody was leaving notes at Sarah’s door? Who and, better yet, why? Stop, he implored silently reminding himself that his badge was tucked away in one of his storage cartons.

  He hated the situation he’d put Sarah in. But, that little note she found was another problem entirely. His gut told him it spelled trouble. But this trouble didn’t concern him, even if it was Sarah Grayson.

  His gut told him Sarah was a genuinely nice lady—too nice for the likes of him, that was for sure. He should have remembered that before he’d asked her to dance that night at the bar, let alone gone and kissed her.

  He touched a knife tip into the ruined end of the strudel. Black flakes of dough rained onto the counter. He figured roughly eight minutes less next time he baked a strudel in the old oven. That should do it.

  He could deal with a temperamental oven much easier than he could deal with the opposite sex. When it came to women he’d always messed it up. Brief encounters—no strings, no hurt feelings—were the best way for him to go. It made life a whole hell of a lot easier that way.

  He touched a fingertip to the darkened dough. His skin sizzled on a dab of hot apple liquid. Shit.

  He ran the sore fingertip under the cold tap water spray for a long time waiting for the sting to settle down.

  What does it matter, really, that I’ve made an enemy of Sarah Grayson?

  Their having any kind of connection didn’t fit into his life plan. He’d been momentarily swayed by her, something he didn’t understand. It would have been easy if it had just been his typical primal need reaction surfacing. But, there was something beyond that with this woman.

  No flash, no subliminal cat call. Sarah Grayson had wooed his interest, had given him a single moment of what? Hope? Belief in possibilities?

  Christ, maybe Sal was right. He’d gone soft. He needed to leave Sarah and her secretive note the hell alone, stop the cop in himself from pondering scenarios of who’d stoop to that ploy.

  Benny shut the faucet off and dried his hand on a checked, threadbare towel. His fingertip pulsed. This wasn’t going away yet.

  Chapter Six

  “Wait. Back up.” Gigi held a long-stemmed red rose in mid-air and halted her stem clipping as though she’d suddenly been frozen solid. “Did you say ‘strudel’?”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, tapping her fingers on the flower shop’s work table. “I hope he burned it.”

  Gigi resumed her task, snipping the ends off the thorny stalks then gently slipping the delicate blooms among the others in the vase. She tilted her head, surveying the progress. “So, what next, Sarah?”

  “Fight the bastard.” She shrugged. “I filed all the paperwork today.”

  Gigi continued her arranging, adding sprigs of fern, tufts of powdery baby’s breath, all the while tilting her head from side to side, assessing the balance of her project. But what she was really doing was revving up, getting ready to make a bold statement.

  Sarah felt what was coming next—knew her friend like she knew herself—and she didn’t have to wait long.

  “I still think you should woo the son-of-a-bitch. Maybe ask him out for a drink.”

  “Seriously, Gigi, must you think bed whenever there’s an available man in the vicinity? Even a crazy one?”

  Gigi gave a little shrug and put on the pouty face that got her everywhere with everyone. “I didn’t say ‘bed’ him, sweetie.” She turned and gave Sarah a sloe-eyed glance. “We can’t help it if he’ll think you’re going to bed him.”

  “There’s a name for that, Gigi, and it’s not pretty. No thanks.”

  This was nothing new. Gigi had been through more men since her divorce than Sarah could count; which she’d never do for fear of fueling her concern.

  Now it was Sarah’s turn to tilt her head. She eyed Gigi fussing about with her greenery, her pretty features set on the task. Why, oh why, did this talented, beautiful, smart woman resort to the gathering of conquests like buds in a vase?

  Gigi went to the ribbon rack. “You’re using the mommy voice.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s not go anywhere near this guy. After this is all settled, if you want, you can go for it—since you’re so anxious. Screw him to the wall for all I care.”

  Gigi let out a loud crack of laughter. “I seriously love when you talk dirty.”

  “Can’t you, like, take up stamp collecting or something?”

  Her friend laughed again and shook her head as if Sarah was the crazy one. She cut a long strand of red ribbon with one clean slice from her scissors.

  ****

  Sarah put the accordion file away in the bottom drawer of her dresser—under the skimpy camisoles she’d never wear but Gigi still insisted on buying her for birthdays. She thought again of her friend and shook her head.

  She couldn’t decide if Gigi had an overwhelming sense of herself, or not enough of one. Either way, it was worrisome.

  Sarah gazed into the standing antique mirror surveying her own look. Not bad. Not good, either. True, lately she’d lost her urge for the treadmill and her hand weights sat in a wicker basket near the closet. But she was active. She was healthy and all her clothes still fit. Well, most of them.

  She leaned in close to her image to get a better look at her face; to survey what she already knew was there. The tiny lines around her plain brown eyes seemed to multiply day by day, vying to outnumber the freckles that peppered her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Well, that would fix her for detesting those freckles all her life. Now they were the preferred blemish.

  She patted her nondescript brown hair. It was frizzed today, unruly, the way it always looked now that she had stopped the tedious treatments involved with forcing the smooth silkiness that Gary had preferred.

  He would cluck his tongue at this image, she thought. Truthfully, everything about the way she appeared now was a contradiction to her former spouse’s standards for her. She was the antithesis of her old self.

  And she was starting to like this person looking out at her. After all, this was her. It was this woman that would tackle this new, horrible set of problems. She turned off the light and shut the door.

  The wedding caterer called to go over menu plans and Sarah made arrangements to meet with them when Hannah arrived on Saturday. So what if the town wasn’t on board with the wedding. Plans as usual, she decided. Act as if.

  Norman Wallace delivered the mail to her door again and gave her one of his sheepish grins. “Hello, there, Sarah. How are you today?”

  Norman was a nice enough guy, kind of sweet. Hannah’s teasing words filtered into her thoughts. Was it true that Norman was interested in her? She tried to imagine it.

  In a flash she saw a scene in her head of herself in Norman’s arms dancing at Hannah’s wedding, the way she had danced with Benny. The idea made her shudder.

  It had been a long time since she felt that whirly stir inside her body when in close proximity to an appealing, available man. But, she sure as hell knew when the feeling was absent. Leave it to her to pick a crazy one—hell-bent on ruining her life.

  “Weather’s holding out, huh?” Norman said.

  “What?” she startled back to attention. “Yes, no rain in the forecast.”

  She saw the tender look in his eyes again and, frankly, it shamed her that his affect was borderline appall. “Norman, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to offer you tea today. Busy with Hannah’s wedding plans, you know.”

  “Is that going to, you k
now, be okay?” he asked tentatively.

  “Of course.” Her insides folded in on themselves. Were people jabbering about this? Would word make its way to Hannah’s ears?

  “Down at Gilbert’s the guys were talking,” Norman said. “You know how that goes. Anything worth mentioning in this little town goes right to the barber shop.”

  “Well, that’s not good,” she said, her jaw clenched. “I don’t want Hannah to know anything about that silly permit problem. You understand?”

  She heard the mommy voice coming from her own lips. She swallowed hard. “Norman, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t want people buzzing about this. It’ll be remedied soon enough.”

  “Okay, Sarah,” Norman said and offered a prideful smile. “I’ll defend you.”

  Oh boy.

  When Norman was gone she sat down with pen and paper and began a new to-do list. She needed to keep her mind focused on the wedding and let go of the idea that the permit might not come through. That was not an option.

  She barely heard the soft rap at the front door. If it was Norman coming back to defend her she might have to start drinking during the day. She opened the door.

  Benny stood at the threshold with her dish in his grasp. His face was contorted into a scowl like someone had wound him too tight. He thrust the dish in her direction. “Your dish.”

  She accepted it into her hands.

  “Did you make those muffins?”

  “Um, sort of. It was a box mix.”

  “Oh. Well, they were a little dry. If you’d made them from scratch I’d have advised you to add more liquid to the recipe. I like apple sauce. It adds more moisture without more fat.”

  She was in the Twilight Zone, she knew that now. This crazy man was channeling Julia Child. Everything about him was suddenly pissing her off. She wanted him gone from her presence, wanted him off her front porch. This gourmet needed to gallop on out of her way.

  “If there’s nothing else then…” She slowly inched the door closed. “Thank you for returning my plate.”

  “Sarah…wait.”