Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series)

by M. Kate Quinn

  To her own surprise, she let her hand fall from the doorknob.

  “The cops came to my door.”

  “I see.”

  “They questioned me about that little note you received. I know you didn’t believe me when I told you I’m not the one that put it under your door.”

  “That’s right.” She kept her tone and gaze steady and emphatic. Inside she was pure jelly.

  “Well, they did. Have they reported back to you?”

  “Not yet.” She felt her face flush at his scrutiny. She momentarily closed her eyes. You hate this guy. You hate this guy.

  “Actually they think it might be some sort of prank. From someone you know.”

  “People I know don’t do things like that, Benny.”

  “I’m just relaying their opinion.”

  He surprised her by smiling. It was a lopsided curve of his mouth.

  Benny continued, “Want my expert opinion?”

  “Does it involve apple sauce?”

  “Not this time.” Both sides of his mouth matched now. A full jack-o-lantern grin was plastered on his face. “My advice is to ignore it. Don’t give it any credence and it’ll just go away.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. I’ll use that strategy with all my annoyances, beginning now. If you’ll excuse me…good day, Benny.”

  He hesitated for the briefest of moments, his eyes piercing, stilling her breath. Please go.

  The air expelled from her chest when Benny turned way. She watched him retreat—his muscular body navigated the stairs with ease and his ordinary, non-designer jeans hugged his legs—before closing the door.

  Sarah startled at her observation and its contradiction to her common sense. All the time that she’d failed to notice anything physical about a man, and now eyeballing faded denim stretched across the butt of this nuisance gave her a lightning-like jab of electricity.

  This was a problem.

  ****

  By the time Hannah arrived for the weekend, Sarah had her game face on. She had wrestled herself free of the effects of Benny’s physicality and did her best to put aside her worries about the wedding and the cryptic note.

  She knew that when the weekend was over, she’d focus on proving who wrote the anonymous little tidbit. Damn the local PD for advising her to ignore the note, “chalk it up to a prankster” was how they’d put it when they’d called. Double damn Benny for starting this mess and agreeing with their advice, and worse, for looking pretty darned good in faded Levi’s.

  Sarah and Gigi sat at the large island in The Cornelia’s kitchen, photographs of flower arrangements fanned out in front of them. Hannah burst into the room, hands outstretched, her face a mask of distress.

  “Pumpkin, don’t scrunch your forehead you’ll get premature wrinkles,” Gigi said.

  “Daddy wants Tina to be my flower girl!” She plopped herself onto a counter stool, groaning as if her foot was caught in the jaws of a bear trap. “Seriously.”

  Sarah shared a quick glance with Gigi. “Hannah, let me pour you some tea.”

  “I don’t want tea, Mother.” She was like a grouchy twelve-year-old, the stubborn child that still managed to surface from time to time.

  Sarah made her tea anyway.

  “Why should I have to have Tina in my wedding? She’s only three. You know what a pain that’s going to be?”

  “It’s your wedding, honey bun,” Gigi soothed. “If you don’t want a toddler in your wedding party, that’s up to you. Besides she’s so young. Is this kid even housebroken yet?”

  “Um, Gigi, dear, that would be potty-trained, not housebroken.” Sarah was now convinced that she might have two cranky adolescents on her hands. “Tina’s not a beagle.”

  “I know, but still…” Hannah piped in. “You haven’t had to spend any time with her. She’s a spoiled brat. Daddy and Piper let her get away with everything. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Here, drink this.” Sarah placed the mug of tea in front of Hannah, ignoring the theatrics.

  “Maybe you can discuss this with your father. You know, tell him your concerns.”

  “Nope.” She sipped her tea. “He won’t listen. Whatever Piper and Tina want is gold. I’m doomed.”

  Sarah hated that Hannah felt like the outsider when it came to Gary and his new family. It shouldn’t be like that. Hannah should have equal say in matters that concerned her.

  But the last thing Sarah could do was to tell her daughter to put her foot down and deny the request. Experience told her it would start an argument that would only escalate and might never end.

  Besides, she needed Gary to stay the hell out of her way—especially now that there was this little matter of someone trying to sabotage the wedding event. No. She’d keep her opinion out of it.

  “Hannah, maybe you can appeal to Piper. At least ask her to be extra watchful of Tina that day.”

  “Or, maybe get the kid a leash.” Gigi closed her mouth abruptly when Sarah shot her a narrowed glare.

  “Okay, not a leash, per se,” Gigi said. “But, you know they have those things that look like a leash. You see kids tugging at the end of them in the mall. You could get a satin one, maybe.”

  “Hannah, I suggest you talk with Piper.” Sarah said. “She’ll make sure Tina behaves.”

  “Oh, like that’ll happen. The kid’s a prima donna, Mom.”

  She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, fixing her eyes onto Sarah. “I want my wedding day to be perfect. I mean, my career’s nowhere. At least I can have a beautiful, flawless wedding day. Is that so much to ask? Can you understand that, Mom?”

  Sarah’s heart skipped with a thud. Yes, she understood. And, she’d make sure that’s just what Hannah got.

  “Let’s go over the centerpiece ideas.” Gigi rearranged the fanned photos on the table top. “Then I’ve got to get back to the shop.”

  Sarah could tell her daughter’s heart wasn’t in the effort. Hannah sat slumped over the pictures while Gigi and Sarah gushed over them. It was maddening. Sarah had the errant thought that if this little bride was going to behave like a teenager, maybe she’d send her to her room like the good old days.

  They decided on low, square vases brimming with hydrangea blossoms—arrangements that promised to add just the right touch to the splendid day.

  Sarah walked Gigi to the door and when they were sufficiently out of Hannah’s hearing Gigi leaned close. She whispered, “So, what’s our little girl like at the dentist?”

  Sarah grinned. “I can’t believe this Tina thing has her so upset. I mean, if it means that much to her she should put her foot down with Gary.”

  “You mean just like you used to?” Gigi’s well-trimmed left eyebrow lifted in a sarcastic arc.

  “Point taken, friend,” Sarah said. “Now, go. Leave me here with this cranky creature.”

  She found Hannah still sitting in the kitchen, a defeated, blank look on her pretty face.

  “Let’s go over the caterer’s information before she gets here, shall we?” Sarah said. She went to the desk, tucked into the room’s alcove, and pulled out her wedding file. She brought it back to the island and opened the cover.

  “Okay, good idea,” Hannah said. Her voice was subdued, her tone lackluster. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m acting atrocious.”

  “Honey, is something else bothering you, you know, besides Dad’s insistence on Tina being the flower girl?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  Sarah closed the file folder. “Okay, kid. Talk to me.”

  “It’s just that this whole thing feels like it’s gotten torn out from under me or something. I mean, one minute I’m engaged and everybody’s all happy and proud and now all I do is stress over the event. This isn’t fun anymore.”

  Hannah’s eyes brimmed with threatening tears. Her mouth pulled itself up at one corner—the signature expression she’d used all her life when refusing to succumb to crying.

  Worry, like ice water in her veins, shot
through Sarah. “Are you having second thoughts about marrying Ian?”

  “What?” Hannah straightened her posture. “No. Are you kidding me? No.”

  “Okay, what then?”

  “I don’t know.” Hannah raked a hand through her long hair. “Maybe it’s just this thing with Daddy and his push for Tina’s participation in the ceremony. I’m tired of him telling me what to do. I mean, does it ever end, Mom? How did you stand it all those years?”

  Good question. Sarah thought back to a time when she herself had fought for her beliefs. It always ended in her acquiescence. She’d been a jellyfish when it came to Gary Grayson. His approval was so coveted that she’d just give in and do things his way.

  She touched her wild, shaggy hair. Not anymore. “Look, Hannah, your father—”

  “I know, I know. He means well. I get that. As we speak, he’s meeting up with Ian in Chicago. They’re both there on business, but they’re planning on taking some time to get in nine holes of golf. Ian’s excited. He loves Dad.”

  “It’s nice that your men get along,” Sarah offered. The words tasted stale on her tongue.

  Of course Gary liked Ian. He’d all but hand-picked the young businessman to be his son-in-law. Sarah recalled when Gary had first mentioned Ian to Hannah during a dinner function at the club; she’d refused to meet him. It had been out of spite, of course. Yet, how sweet the approval of a strict, discerning father.

  Sarah’s chest ached as she eyed her only child. She seemed so young sitting there with her face scrunched up and her mouth pouted. Hell, she was only twenty-three. That was considered young these days for the walk down the aisle.

  Sure, Sarah had married even younger, but that was then. Was Hannah jumping into this whole wedding thing sooner than she really should?

  Sarah said cautiously, “You have to decide what’s important to you.”

  Hannah gave her mother a little smile. Sarah knew the one—the brave smile. The one that said she’d be fine.

  “Let’s go over the menu,” Hannah said, reaching across the island and giving the file folder a flip open. “The catering people will be here at four.”

  Emily Melrose arrived right on time. By then Sarah and Hannah had pretty much come up with their preference list, although their selections would not be final until after the tasting event. It was scheduled for the coming weekend when Ian would be available to help decide on selections.

  Emily, a wisp of a woman with intense dark eyes, flipped through her appointment book. “We’re hosting the tasting on Saturday, as you know, Hannah. I need a final head count. You initially said four attendees, is that right?”

  “Make it six,” Hannah said, with a quick roll of her eyes. She turned to her mother. “Daddy wants Piper to come, so of course, my three-year-old stepsister Tina will be there.”

  “That’s fine,” Sarah said brightly. That took an effort on her part, considering she couldn’t fathom how the rail-thin Piper, who clearly didn’t eat, was going to give input on food.

  “I guess,” Hannah said. “So, six of us. That okay?”

  “Okay?” Emily said with clearly enough enthusiasm for all of them. She placed a hand on top of Hannah’s. “The more the merrier. We want everyone happy.”

  “Wonderful,” Sarah said. “We’re looking forward to it.”

  “Bring your appetites!” Emily added.

  After Emily left and all the food-talk had spoken to their bellies, Sarah and Hannah made a quick dinner of scrambled eggs and home-fried potatoes. A find in the refrigerator’s crisper yielded a green pepper and an onion which they chopped up and added to their concoction. Not bothering with setting the table, they perched themselves at the island and sipped a crisp Chablis with their meal.

  “So, just to recap”—Hannah twirled her goblet by its stem, casting a languid gaze on the undulating liquid in the bowl of the glass—”next Saturday we go to The Melrose at three. All six of us. Thank God Ian’s parents aren’t in town or we’d need a friggin’ bus.”

  “It’ll be fun,” Sarah said. “You’ll see.”

  Deciding a lazy night was in order, they chose to watch a movie while propped against a cluster of pillows on Sarah’s bed. Over the years this had become a mother-daughter ritual.

  A spy thriller, the movie required more attention than they had to offer. Halfway through Hannah conked out. The sight of her daughter in repose, angelic face innocent and blissful, made Sarah’s heart swell.

  She pulled a soft, nubby throw up over the girl and switched off the television. Closing her bedroom door softly behind her, Sarah maneuvered the staircase to the main floor of the inn to turn off the lights and double-check the door locks.

  As she approached the front door she spotted the tab of a familiar-looking paper poking in from under it. Emotion zinged through her; but this time instead of a burst of fear, the feeling was a distinct surge of rage. She yanked open the door and tugged out the envelope.

  The paper was the same, as was the capitalized printing. To no surprise, inside was one sheet of identical stationary. “Meet me at the Pier House 9:00 PM on Monday night. I’ll explain everything. But come alone.”

  Her body quaked and she couldn’t stay still. Someone had sneaked onto her porch again tonight. The intrusion and her privacy’s violation fueled her anger. If these damned notes really had nothing to do with Benny Benedetto, then who the hell was responsible? This had to stop. Now.

  She grabbed her windbreaker from the hall closet before peering down at her feet. Her cotton socks would never do for a sprint down the avenue. She stifled an urge to swear aloud.

  She needed to go back upstairs to retrieve her sneakers. That would require finesse in order to not awaken Hannah. There was no way she could explain a late-night walk to her daughter or risk causing her to question the motive. But she was going, damn it.

  Sarah gingerly ascended the stairs, pausing at each step. Her windbreaker would not cooperate. With each movement the scratchy fabric sounded with a loud zip-zip. She knew removing the jacket while she was halfway up the stairs would be too noisy, yet she needed shoes.

  She had a new idea. She descended the stairs she’d already climbed, her arms extended out from her body like wings to remedy the fabric-on-fabric racket.

  Dashing back to the coat closet, she crouched onto her hands and knees, feeling her way in the dark interior of the space. At this point she didn’t even want to turn on a light, the darkness suddenly becoming a blanket of security.

  Her fingers found the wicker basket of work clothes she used when gardening. She found her rubber boots.

  Sarah donned the pink floral galoshes, slipped her pink-handled trowel into her jacket pocket to use as a weapon if she needed it, and squeaked and zip-zipped her way to the front door. She opened the door carefully and slipped outside.

  Making her way down Tidewater to Ocean Avenue, she clomped like a Clydesdale. She was totally unsure of where she was going. All she knew was that she had to do something. She wasn’t going to just sit home and “ignore” these letters like the PD had advised.

  She thought of Benny Benedetto and his arrogant assurance that the town police were right in dismissing the problem. She’d do this on her own. Somewhere in this dark night was a person who’d put a second letter under her door and, damn it, she was going to find them.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah made her way to the boardwalk. Her windbreaker billowed out from her frame like a kite, doing little to keep her body warm.

  She spied the glow of lights dotting the row of homes, thinking all the people in their little town were nestled and cozy and feeling safe. Meanwhile somebody kept sticking notes at her door.

  The wooden walkway sounded like a hollow drumbeat under her boot-clad footfalls. Up several yards ahead she caught a glimpse of a figure in shadow walking rapidly away from her. Before allowing herself to mull the idea, Sarah reached a hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew the trowel then broke into a clippety-clopping jog, her hear
t pounding.

  The figure stopped and turned toward her and she slowed her pace. Suddenly every episode of every cop show she’d ever watched flashed through her mind. What did the pretty female television detectives do in such circumstances, usually right before a commercial break?

  Common sense told her to run like hell away from this dark place and this lone figure. But her feet had turned to lead and she stood affixed to the boards.

  The figure approached her and she sucked in a cold, misty breath. She wielded her weapon, the little shovel’s point aimed right at the stranger.

  One more step in her direction revealed his face as it came into view under the beachfront lantern’s beam. She could not speak. It was Benny. Even as he came closer she remained mute.

  “Going gardening?” he asked.

  “What?” She regarded the tool in her hand. “No. What are you doing out here all alone at night?”

  “I was just going to ask you the same thing.” He pointed to her galoshes. “Expecting rain?”

  She was pissed now. “I just grabbed whatever I could find so I didn’t waste time. I’m going to find out who’s putting notes under my door. Enough is enough.”

  “Notes?”

  “Yes, notes, plural. Another one tonight. Interesting, Benny, that you’re out here. And you appeared to be walking really fast, almost running really. Running away from something?”

  He blew out a long breath of air. “I jog regularly. Really, Sarah, I have nothing to do with either of your notes.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll find out on Monday night, won’t I?”

  “Why Monday night?”

  She pulled the note out from her pocket and jutted it in his direction. He took it from her and held the paper under the glow of the street lamp.

  “Okay, first of all, I didn’t write this.” He lifted his gaze. “But I do think you should mention it to the police. Just so they know. And, whatever you do, do not go to the Pier House to meet this clown.”

  Sarah snapped the paper out of his grasp and shoved it back in her pocket. “I’ve already tried the police, remember? Now I’m going to do it my way. I am going to the Pier House to have it out with whoever this is.”