Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series)

by M. Kate Quinn

  “I strongly suggest you don’t.”

  “I’m going.”

  “At least don’t go alone, Sarah, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m not scared.” She was lying. All of a sudden, she was scared. But, she wouldn’t let that stop her.

  “And what are you planning to do if this guy tries to pull something? Are you going to plant flowers on him?” He pointed to her trowel.

  She turned to leave. “Good night, Benny.”

  “It’s not wise to—”

  She clomped away, the sound of her rubber boots drowning his words.

  ****

  Back in the cottage, Benny went straight to the kitchen and pulled a large bowl out of a cabinet. He lined the counter with his needs, rubber spatula, whisk, the clacking set of stainless steel measuring spoons, the glass measuring cup.

  Banana bread. That was what he needed to do—bake something. He eyed the browning, freckled bananas dangling limply on their hook. The little brown dots reminded him of the sprinkling of freckles across Sarah’s nose. Christ man, stop.

  He peeled the fruit, freeing it of its skin, then began to work. Pulverizing the bananas with the potato masher felt good. His heavy hand turned the fruit into pulp. With each thrust of the implement, he began to feel better, more relaxed.

  Damn that screwball woman. It wasn’t his problem if she got herself killed being an idiot. His time to worry about such things was behind him. It had been the one thing he detested most when he was on the force—morons trying to do his job. How many well-intentioned civilians wound up in the emergency ward, or worse? He couldn’t count. Shit-for-brains, all of them.

  A half a stick of butter melted ten seconds in the microwave slipped easily off the dish into the mixing bowl. He cracked two eggs against the rim, torpedoing the shells into the trash can several feet away. He measured the sugar, leveling the cupful with the flat edge of the spatula, and then whisked the ingredients with gusto.

  This chick was asking to get her ass kicked. Screaming for it, really. Was it any of his concern if that was just what she got? He whipped his hand around and around, applying pressure to his effort, whirling the batter precariously close to the rim.

  When the project was complete he slid it into the oven, set twenty-five degrees lower than the recipe called for based on his too-brown strudel from the other morning. He set the timer.

  He put all the dishes into the sink, almost enjoying the clatter it made. With the faucet at full throttle he filled the marred porcelain vessel with sudsy water. He poured himself a cup of stale coffee, nuked it in the microwave and burned his lip while tasting to see if it was too hot. It was.

  Damn it to hell. The image of Sarah Grayson, wacky rain boots on her feet, shielding herself with a piece-of-shit little tin shovel meant to dig holes for flower seeds planted itself in his brain, took root.

  He gulped his coffee, still too hot and numbing. He waited for the oven timer to go off, knowing way before the banana bread was golden and springy that he was doomed.

  He had to follow Sarah Grayson to the Pier House on Monday night. Damn it to hell.

  Chapter Eight

  The Pier House bustled with patrons, the seating on the back deck nearly at capacity. Sarah and Gigi followed the young hostess to a table at the far end of the veranda. They were seated beside a vinyl window inset of the canvas tenting used to shield the space. Luckily, their table was positioned near a propane heater that bathed them in a blast of warmth.

  “Cozy,” Gigi said, eyeing the limited space between tables. “Can’t believe there’s nothing available inside on a Monday night. There should be this many men here on Ladies Night.”

  “There’s an NCAA tournament game on tonight. Lots of Villanova fans in Ronan’s Harbor,” Sarah mused. “Look, the bar out here is packed too. All guys staring up at the TV’s.”

  “I did notice the guys at the bar,” Gigi said, raising a coy shoulder.

  “Down girl. Without a basketball in your hands, you’re as good as invisible.”

  “Fear not,” she said skimming the laminated menu, her voice nonchalant. “I’m already smitten.”

  Sarah felt a tug inside her chest. She remembered her offhand comment in the flower shop that Gigi could go after Benny when this mess was over. “Please don’t say you’re referring to Mr. Benedetto.”

  “Go after your sloppy seconds? No thanks.” Gigi laughed, but then stifled herself when the waitress appeared.

  They ordered red wine and burgers. The moment the waitress trotted off, Sarah leaned in. “Well?”

  “Calm down, Sarah. It’s Mickey Nolan.” Gigi sighed like a teenager. “It’s always been Mickey Nolan.”

  The wine arrived in time for Sarah to take a swig and swallow the words that fought to escape her mouth. Not him again, still rang in her ears though.

  Sarah didn’t trust Mickey and she didn’t believe his promises about his never-ending separation from his wife nearing its end in court. How many times had the guy made an excuse about why there’d been a delay in the divorce?

  Each time Gigi fought against her feelings, did her best to get angry, and pushed him away until he had a firm court date. And each time he floated back into her life riding on sugary promises that never panned out.

  “Make that go away,” Gigi said, pointing a finger at Sarah’s face.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “You’re not talking, but you’re wearing the mommy face. Don’t. This time he means it, Sar. His divorce is definitely going to happen.”

  Sarah tried to undo her expression but she could feel it on her face like too much pancake makeup. She leaned one elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “And you believe him this time because?”

  “Because he’s taking me to Vegas.”

  Sarah sat up. “Why?”

  “To celebrate, of course. As soon as the judge signs on the dotted line, we’re booking the trip. Mickey likes the hotel with the canals running through it.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but thankfully their dinners arrived brimming and hot in red plastic baskets. She took a big bite of her burger, filling her mouth.

  “So,” Gigi said, swallowing then taking a sip of her wine. “When this mystery person shows up at nine, what’s the plan? Am I sticking around? You want me to go up to the bar and just wait while you talk to him?”

  “Maybe,” Sarah said. “But, stay nearby. You know, just in case.”

  She checked her watch then surveyed the view outside the window. The beach was dark, but enough light from the lanterns along the beachfront boardwalk lit a portion of the white sand and she could see people strolling along the boardwalk, mostly two-by-two.

  A lone jogger trotted past the slow moving duos and it brought to mind her running into Benny on the boardwalk. The way his mouth had screwed sideways at the sight of her in those gardener’s boots gave her a twinge of something even now. Was it anger? Humiliation? She shook it from her mind while sipping her wine.

  “Scoping out the joint, Colombo?” Gigi asked.

  Sarah turned her attention to her friend. “Ha ha. No. Just looking out at the walkers.”

  “Isn’t that the kid Hannah used to date in high school?” Gigi pointed to the little storefront positioned several yards from where they sat.

  Sarah craned her neck to get a good look. Indeed, it was Jeremy Hudson, carrying a large cardboard box into his little store. There were several other cartons stacked by the front door. “Business must be doing pretty well,” she mused. “His parents would be glad to know their little store is thriving. Nice people.”

  “You know I’ve never been inside the place. What does he sell besides suntan lotion anyway?”

  “All kinds of sundries, beach chairs and toys, stuff like that. It’s been a while since I’ve been inside The Beachcomber myself.” Sarah thought back to when Jeremy’s father’s arthritis had gotten so bad that his parents made the decision to move to Arizona. “His mother used to have a whole
souvenir section with shore-themed merchandise. She dabbled in crafts, I think. Greeting cards, too. You know a typical variety store.”

  “Who’s that?” Gigi asked motioning her head.

  Sarah viewed a pretty young woman, tiny-framed but apparently agile as she hoisted a carton from the stack outside the shop’s door.

  “No clue.”

  Gigi cocked her head. “Maybe Moon Doggie’s got himself a new Gidget,” she said referring to the old nicknames she had given to Jeremy and Hannah back when they were young, inseparable, and often at the beach.

  “Everybody deserves to be happy,” Sarah smiled. She had always liked Jeremy.

  “Like Mickey and me.” Gigi’s face was bathed in anticipation of Sarah’s agreement coupled with an emphatic nod.

  When it didn’t come, she sighed and checked her watch. “By the way, Sar, it’s five after nine. I think you’ve been stood up.”

  “Whoever it is will be here,” Sarah said. “I mean, nobody goes through this kind of effort to just chicken out.”

  The sound of a siren in the distance jarred their attention. Flashing red and blue lights danced along the white canvas wall, causing the deck’s patrons to rise from their seats and huddle by the vinyl windows.

  Sarah viewed the bar where many of the stools stood empty, the customers having abandoned their televised basketball game for a look at whatever was going on outside. A solitary patron was still seated in the farthest corner of the bar, almost hidden in shadow. But, one good look caused the hairs on the back of her neck to jab taut. Benny Benedetto.

  Waitresses buzzed nearby with speculation but her main focus remained on the man at the bar. “Son-of-a-bitch,” she hissed under her breath, causing Gigi’s head to snap back in her direction.

  “What?”

  “I’ll be right back.” Sarah rose, her chair scraping loudly on the floor boards. “Our friend Mr. Benedetto is at the bar.”

  Gigi peered around her uplifted shoulder in the direction of the counter. “Well, well…” It was a sultry sing-song.

  Sarah quickly navigated the maze of tables as though racing a clock on a game show. She could tell he had seen her. He had pivoted in his seat and sat facing her now as she approached. The first thing her eyes locked onto was the denim clad thigh jutted out as if on display, the faded fabric firm against his leg. For crying out loud, doesn’t he own anything besides jeans?

  “May I ask you what you’re doing?” Her hand flew to her hip.

  “Having a beer and watching the game.”

  “And spying on me?”

  “Where’s your note writer?”

  “I don’t know, Benny.” She cocked her head to the side. “Am I talking to him right now?”

  He sipped from his mug before placing it back square on a coaster. She ignored the way his lips closed in on themselves briefly as a postscript to his liquid indulgence. At least she willed herself to focus anyway.

  “Well?” she said, glossing her tone with venom.

  “I refuse to respond to such an asinine question.” He took a deep breath and let it expend. She ignored the rise and fall of his chest, refusing to remember its rock-hard feel against her torso.

  “Avoidance doesn’t mean not-guilty.” She hated the breathiness of her tone. She cleared her throat, hoping her memory of that other night at the Pier House would follow suit.

  “I didn’t write those notes, Sarah. But, I do think you’re crazy for deciding to meet whoever it is. At least you brought your friend along.”

  The bartender approached and swiped a damp towel over the wooden surface. “Can I get you something?” he asked Sarah.

  “What are you drinking?” Benny offered. He turned to the bartender. “Whatever she and her friend are drinking, it’s on me.”

  “Nothing, thank you,” she said to the man behind the counter. She lifted her chin to Benny. “Just tell me what you’re doing here if you didn’t write the notes.”

  “Enjoying the action on the court.” He motioned his head toward the television suspended from the ceiling. Then his dark eyes zeroed in on hers. “And making sure you don’t get yourself hurt.”

  She swallowed hard and silently cursed her eyes for enjoying their feast.

  “I see you’ve abandoned your gardening gear.”

  His little smirky smile deserved a pinch, and her fingers twitched with the urge. But she knew better than to touch him. Any more.

  Benny threw several bills onto the bar, took a quick sip of his beer. “I’m going to check out whatever’s going on out there.” He pointed in the direction of the huddled onlookers crowded at the clear plastic windows along the back wall.

  Just then a waiter approached carrying a tray of dishes and glasses. “Have any updates, Mack?” Benny asked him.

  “They’re saying two guys mugged somebody, took his wallet, and roughed him up, too. The ambulance just pulled up.” The waiter shook his head. “And, the season hasn’t even started yet.”

  Something about the ambulance’s presence struck a new nerve and Sarah began to wonder if the incident might have something to do with the non-showing of her appointment.

  She and Benny exchanged the briefest glance, as quick as a blink, but in that instant she saw the same question reflected in his dark eyes.

  He said nothing, however, and turned his attention to the task of zipping his jacket. “My guess is that since nobody showed up tonight the police were right about those notes. Just a prank.”

  Her hunch was that Benny believed his own words about as much as she did, and she had an urge to challenge him. But he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  “Come on,” Sarah said as she returned to the table. She opened her purse and dug out some bills from her wallet.

  “How much?” Gigi asked, grabbing her purse.

  “Tonight’s my treat, Gigi. After all, I dragged you out here to be my co-sleuth.”

  “Well, Cagney, Lacey here thanks you.” Gigi slipped her purse strap over her shoulder. “Where are we headed?”

  “The beach.”

  “I’m with you,” she said. “So, what’d your buddy have to say?”

  “He’s an ass, and please do not refer to him as my buddy.” Sarah closed her payment into the waiter’s vinyl bill holder. “He claims he was here to make sure we didn’t get into trouble.”

  “Really? Hmm…that’s kind of sweet,” Gigi said with a smile. Her mouth immediately lost its curve as though it had been slapped away. “What? You don’t think that was kind of gallant for a cop to just come out to keep an eye on your little mystery meeting?”

  “No, I do not,” Sarah said. “He’s a retired cop, by the way, and he should mind his own business.”

  Gigi responded with a brief shake of her head. The two made their way toward the commotion on the boardwalk.

  By the time they reached the crowd of people standing by the storefronts, the ambulance had driven off down a side street. Two police vehicles were still parked in the head-in parking spaces by the beach entrance.

  A small group of standers-by talked with two officers while other spectators continued to stare. Benny was among the crowd, standing front and center, arms folded across his chest. His intent gaze reminded Sarah of a sports coach on the sidelines of a playoff game.

  “Look at him,” she said, motioning her head. “Is he serious? Why doesn’t he just go home and bake some more strudel?”

  Gigi laughed. “You’re sounding less and less fond of this guy.”

  “Bingo.”

  “It’s almost like you’ve forgotten that hot kiss on the dance floor. Accent on ‘almost.’”

  “Gigi, I swear…”

  Sarah couldn’t help watching Benny though. He unfolded his arms and approached the officers with assured steps—the sheriff in an old western. He engaged them in conversation and Sarah could read the authority written all over his gestures, even from this distance. After a few minutes he walked away, heading down the boardwalk toward his cottage.
>
  “Much as I hate to do this…” Sarah watched Benny’s figure retreat down the walkway. She tugged Gigi’s arm. “Come on. I’ve got to see if he found out anything.”

  They scurried past those still milling along the macadam, nearly breaking into a jog to catch up to Benny. “Wait up,” she called.

  He stopped and turned in their direction.

  Up close, in the lamplight, his face shone blank and expressionless. Was it the cop in him providing the poker face? It was really unnerving. Suddenly Sarah wished she hadn’t followed after him.

  “I, uh, just wondered if they said anything about what happened.” She did her best to keep her voice casual.

  He didn’t speak; his face still deadpan.

  “You know, I mean, could what happened at the beach have anything to do with the person who left the notes at my door?”

  “They’ll check into it.”

  “You mentioned my notes?” It felt like an intrusion, but wasn’t that why she had run after him in the first place—to find out if he had some insight? He was screwing up her thought process, as if it needed any more frazzling.

  “They didn’t seem concerned.” He shrugged. He sounded terse and impatient.

  Sarah felt a heated flush come to her cheeks. But the damned notes were her issue, not his—and if he’d stuck his nose into her business she deserved whatever information he’d attained.

  “Who was it they took away in the ambulance?” She kept her tone steady in spite of her growing frustration.

  He inclined his head toward the shoreline. “One of the punks from the beach. He and one of his buddies decided to double-team some guy and steal his wallet.”

  He snickered. “Only they didn’t know the guy they attacked has a karate black belt. He went at them like a ninja. Seems he kicked the one little thief in the forehead with the heel of his shoe, sending him to the hospital for stitches.”

  “Well, that’s good; at least, they didn’t get away with the man’s belongings.” Gigi said.

  “Yeah, they did,” Benny said. “The second kid took off.”

  “God, I hope they find him,” Gigi said.