The white-stucco façade and its wooden framework gave the building a Tudor flair, making him feel like he had been transported to a Scottish village. A hand-painted sign dangled from chains atop the black door, reading O’Flanagan’s in dark green letters with gold stenciling. This inn looked like it catered to the ghostly sailors that the lighthouse had just guided in over the sandbars, but Jake was not as unsettled by it as he had been by Wakefield House. He was exhausted. And he was hungry.
To hell with the Tower project. To hell with Jessica and her addiction to his income. Damn, he was still trying to decipher credit-card statements and figure out what the heck “eyelash transplant” surgery was. To hell with the cagey hostess of Wakefield House—and yes, to hell with this juvenile search for a mother who never wanted him.
To hell with them all.
Jake yanked open the front door and was immediately blasted with an aromatic wave of lobster bisque and yeast followed by a surge of warm air from an overhead heater. There weren’t many people in the dimly lit interior, but the few who were there swung in their seats to gape at him.
Definitely not like the city.
Jake tucked his head down and sidled up to the oak bar, craving anonymity. His shoe rested on the brass rung at its base as he stared at the ornate beer taps.
“What’ll it be?”
His head jerked up toward the cute, very pregnant woman smiling congenially at him. She looked to be as far along as his sister Sara.
Heck, what was going on eight months ago? A power outage? A big snowstorm?
What was he doing eight months ago? The Adams Tower project was in full swing. Jake had been contracted as its chief electrical engineer. Eight months ago, he was knee-deep in blueprints, wiring schematics and political headaches. No chance of him getting anyone pregnant. Not only was there the time constraint, but he had just come off the year-long relationship with Jessica and couldn’t even conceive of jumping back into the saddle, so to speak.
“Selfish” had been one of the least profane terms his ex had used to describe him. Of course, she’d used that adjective as she systematically emptied their shared townhouse of anything her glue-tipped fingers could latch on to. In her defense, he was too consumed with work to spend enough time cultivating their relationship, but one could argue that she’d preferred his money to his company any day.
“Sir, what will it be?”
“Oh, a Sam Adams, please,” Jake answered, still distracted.
The bartender reached for the tap and then plopped down a frosted mug before him.
“Rena?” A voice boomed to his right.
“Hi, Harriet.” The bartender grinned.
“Where’s that gorgeous husband of yours? He was supposed to be here over an hour ago to fix my sink.”
Jake watched the bartender flick her wrist to look at her watch. “The stock market only closed a half hour ago. He’ll be downstairs shortly,” she assured.
Harriet dropped onto the stool next to Jake, her yellow slicker pouring a puddle on the floor around her. She flipped back the hood and cast a long, curious stare at him.
He felt dissected by the rotund woman. Her gray-blond hair was tousled into a mild state of chaos, and her puffy cheeks nearly obscured the intense eyes that watched him unblinkingly. She looked like a fat owl.
“Who are you?”
Jake took a sip of his beer and wished the owl would just fly, or waddle, away. “Just passing through, ma’am.”
Harriet snorted and looked across the bar. “Serena, quit dawdling, where’s my beah?”
The bartender—Serena—smiled and reached for a mug.
Harriet’s probing gaze jabbed at him again. He tried to avoid it. He looked behind the bar at the wide mirror with photographs taped to it. His eyes climbing above that collage, he searched the rows of bottles, the ones on the uppermost shelf coated with dust. The pleasant ding of the antique cash register caught his attention as Serena rang up a sale. She turned just before a plop of water from a freshly cleaned mug landed on the tarnished machine.
“So just taking in the sights, huh?” Harriet persisted.
“Yeah, something like that.” He took another swig of beer.
Jake felt the old woman’s eyes on his attire. His jeans were splattered with mud from the knees down, and his pullover sweater was still moist on the shoulders. Another unladylike snort shot out of Harriet’s nose.
“Mistah, no one comes to Victory Cove this time of year to see the sights.”
“Harriet,” Serena admonished.
“No.” She held up a puffy hand, red and chapped. “This man looks like he’s got a story to tell.”
Serena chuckled. “And you’re just the person to draw it out of him.”
Jake sighed and looked around, hoping for someone to come in and rescue him from this female inquisition. The bar was almost empty now, and only a newscaster chatted away on the TV up in the corner.
“I have no story.” He tried for a menacing inflection, hoping to dissuade them, but to his dismay the big woman in the slicker turned in her stool and gave him her full attention. She set her meaty paws down on her knees and leaned forward.
“When did you get into town?”
“This afternoon.”
“It is this afternoon. Did you come right to O’Flanagan’s?”
“No. One stop.” Why the hell did I say that?
“Where?”
Stubborn, Jake remained mute although it appeared that no one beat Harriet in the mulish department.
“Where?” she repeated and looked him over again as if she could sum up his trek by the shade of mud on his jeans.
“Wakefield House,” he blurted.
Why the hell not? Maybe this intrusive female could give him some answers.
“Ahhh.” Her gray eyebrow shot up and she sat back. “Visiting the Summers girl, were ya?”
“The Summers girl?”
“Megan.” Harriet lifted the frosted mug to her mouth, and in the matter of three long gulps, half the liquid disappeared.
Megan Summers. So the mysterious woman with an attitude had a pretty name to go along with her pretty face.
Jake leaned an elbow on the bar and considered Harriet with renewed interest. “I don’t know any Megan. I was looking for Estelle Wakefield.”
Harriet slammed down her beer. “What the hell would you want to do that for?”
He was startled by her outburst. Startled and curious. Curious enough to divulge, “She may be my grandmother.”
“Whoa-hoah.” Harriet polished off the rest of her beer and shoved the mug forward. “Rena, get me anothah, and get Mr.—”
“Grogan. Jake Grogan.”
“Get Mr. Grogan anothah too.”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I have to drive yet. I thought when I pulled in that this might be a bed-and-breakfast, but now I see that it’s just a pub.”
Harriet snorted again. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, mistah. Right, Rena?”
Another Sam Adams plopped down before Jake as Serena grinned. “Mr. Grogan, the entire second floor is an inn and it could be yours for a very reasonable price. I don’t get many tourists this time of year.” She pushed Harriet’s mug across the bar. “Why, if you can help Brett fix Harriet’s sink, the price will be even lower.”
Jake felt he had taken a turn into the surreal, as if that last sharp twist on the road had propelled him to a parallel universe. He glanced from the pregnant bartender’s smiling face to the puffed-up bird of a woman sitting next to him. Outside, the Atlantic’s gusty wail assaulted the pub, the high-pitched screech enough to dissuade anyone from venturing into the night.
What the hell?
He lifted his mug. “I guess it’s an offer I can’t turn down.”
Chapter Two
“Now, what makes you think that old bat is your grandmother?”
Another beer and Jake was beginning to like Harriet Morgan. “What makes you think that she’s not?”
“Her
only daughter—” Harriet crossed herself, “—God rest her soul—couldn’t have children.”
“Mmm, so I was told when I met Wakefield House’s genial tenant.”
“Megan’s not that bad.” Serena must have caught his derisive tone. “She’s just—shy.”
“Shy? If she had a shotgun, I don’t think I’d be sitting here talking to you fine ladies.”
“There’s definitely something up with that girl,” Harriet concurred. “She came here a little over a year ago, and I don’t think we’ve seen her in town but once or twice, right?”
Serena nodded. “I drop off supplies to her from time to time, and when I don’t do it, Lois goes over.”
“Why?” Jake was genuinely intrigued. “I mean why doesn’t she come into town? My God, that house is literally in the middle of nowhere. Why the hell would she want to stay out there alone? Is she some kind of freak?”
Serena’s eyebrow arched. “She’s a writer. She likes her privacy. Who are we to badger her?”
“You’re badgering me.”
“That’s different.” Harriet gulped her beer. “You’re a man.”
Jake grinned and then caught himself. “Okay, so back to the original topic. What makes Estelle Wakefield an old bat? And is that any way to talk about someone who’s in the nursing home with Alzheimer’s?”
“I don’t believe she has Alzheimahs. That woman is too sharp to fall prey to a disease of the mind. I never liked her when she was young, so why should I like her now?”
“What’s your beef with her?”
“She’s a snot. Comes from rich Wakefield blood. You saw the house.” Harriet leaned forward. “And I’m impressed that you had the eh-hem ‘nerve’ to cross that bridge.”
Memory of that rickety old structure sobered him. “If that thing ever went out, Megan would be trapped out there.”
Another knowing glance passed between the two women. “It’s out all the time. The ocean comes in during bad weather, and you won’t go anywhere till it draws back.”
“That’s why,” Serena injected, “we bring lots of supplies.”
Jake just shook his head, baffled.
“Okay, Mr. Grogan.” Harriet shoved her mug forward, and then grabbed his, motioning for Serena to fill it. He reached a hand up in protest, but Harriet brushed it aside.
“So back to why you think the old bat is your grandmother.”
“Oh, that.” He sighed and reached for the third beer with newfound enthusiasm. “I—I never knew who my real parents were. Didn’t really give it much thought when I found out I was adopted.” Not necessarily true. “But this letter shows up last week, from a woman claiming to be my mother and telling me to go find Estelle Wakefield—that she’s my grandmother.”
Harriet’s meaty paw smacked the bar. “Dammit, I told you this man had a story to tell.” Her eyes narrowed—or did her cheeks puff up?
“I don’t suppose you’re scavenging for Wakefield money?”
“Until just now—” he tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “—all that I knew about Estelle Wakefield was her address—and even that was hard to come by. How can you scavenge for something you know nothing about? And—” He took a long swig. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I happen to be pretty well loaded. I’m just trying to find out if this letter was real or a cruel hoax.”
“Well!” The woman thumped her hand on the counter again. “Don’t go off all half-cocked, Mr. Grogan. I’m just trying to get the full picture.” She scooted her stool closer to him.
“Rena, keep the beah coming.”
“Sure thing.” Serena reached for the remote and clicked off the television. Just before the screen faded, they saw the storm warning flash across the bottom.
“So.” Harriet tried to cross one leg over the other, but gave up the battle. “You went to Wakefield House, and Megan kicked you off the property, I imagine.”
“That she did.”
“So what are you going to do now?”
“I think I’ll try to visit Estelle tomorrow—see what I can find out.”
A door behind the bar opened and a man with dark hair, just about Jake’s height, stepped out and gave Jake a curious appraisal. Immediately, the man’s gray eyes shifted toward Serena. His expression softened, and he moved up behind her.
“What are you two up to?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Nothing,” Serena said. “We have a guest at the inn tonight.”
The man’s glance swung across the bar.
Jake nodded and offered his hand. “Jake Grogan. Your wife, and your—your Harriet have pumped too much beer in me, and in less than an hour have probably pried out more about my life than I’ve shared with anyone in years.”
A quick grin flashed on the man’s face. “Sorry about that.” He returned Jake’s handshake.
“Funny thing is—I don’t seem to mind.”
“It’s a knack they have.” The man chuckled. “I’m Brett. Brett Murphy. You’ve met my wife—and my—my Harriet,” he added.
“Just remember, there is a storm coming if you go back out there,” Serena warned.
More rain. Again, Jake wondered if it was an insane decision to come here. “If you really wouldn’t mind, I’d love to take you up on that offer of a room upstairs. I do believe I’m about to pass out.”
Brett reached behind him and pushed open the door to the kitchen. “That’s sure to dissuade business. Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.” He looked at the two women who were frowning as if they were about to lose their entertainment. “Say good night, ladies.”
“Good night, ladies,” Serena deadpanned.
Harriet barked a laugh and then stopped Jake just before he slipped through the door. “We’ll pick this up later, Mr. Grogan, right?”
Jake grinned. “Oh, I’m sure we will.”
Jake sat before Wakefield House, barely able to discern the structure behind a bulwark of rain so thick it made the mansion seem diaphanous, as if it struggled to coagulate from its netherworld form. He was still shocked that he even made it across the bridge. The tires had skidded on the planks, squealing like a loose belt on a radiator, and he’d thought for sure the Jeep would plunge into the rocks beneath it.
Was he crazy? Or just ticked off because Candlelight Center had a rule that there were no visitors on Fridays? He’d pass another day in this remote outpost known as Victory Cove without any answers. Determined not to make his time a complete loss, he chose to give Wakefield House another go.
Waiting for a lull in the downpour was fruitless. With a curse he shoved open the door and charged into the storm and in only two strides was drenched as thoroughly as if he had taken a swan dive into the Atlantic.
At the top of the steps, Jake flung his arms to shake off excess liquid. He ran a hand through his soaked hair and cursed the water inside his boots. He was miserable and not too sympathetic when Megan Summers answered the door with her predictable look of annoyance.
“Look,” he began before she could interrupt, “I’m wet. I’m irritated. I’m curious, and I sure as hell am not going to turn around and try that bridge anytime soon. So—” he took a deep breath, “—could I please come in for a few minutes?”
Megan measured him with cool eyes. Somewhere in those oceanic depths, he thought he detected a flash of mirth, but it shadowed over quickly enough to dispel the notion. He groped at a trail of water that leaked down into his collar.
“Stay right there,” she ordered.
“Lady, I told you I wasn’t moving.”
A soft eyebrow arched, and again he thought her lips might have twitched with the semblance of a grin, but she clamped them together and turned her back on him.
It was an opportunity for Jake to study the porch. Stubborn wet leaves stuck to moldy planks, but the rain fell at such an angle that rogue puddles carried them away. A few amorphous forms, presumably deck furniture, were covered with tarpaulin, the vinyl edges snapping in the wind. A swing wobbled up clo
se to the ceiling in hibernation for the winter, although he doubted it had been lowered in at least a decade judging by the thick coat of rust on the chains.
On the screech of a hinge, the door swung open and a thick white towel was thrust at him. Jake wiped his face and rubbed his hair, but still wavered on the threshold.
Megan watched him warily. She was pale, although a tinge of color flushed her cheeks as she stood up to his long appraisal. Her lips weren’t so tightly set now. He could see that they were soft, pink, moist—and what the hell was he interested in her lips for other than to have them emit more information about his mother?
That unnerving notion made his eyes jump from her mouth to the knit turtleneck, which cupped a heart-shaped chin that seemed to try to furrow down into it. Megan still looked cold, or did she always tremble?
“Come in,” she whispered throatily.
Suddenly he felt uncertain. He didn’t want to harass this woman, but he also didn’t want to leave here empty-handed.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” She tried to smile. It was a weary gesture that never quite reached her eyes.
For a moment Jake looked outside and contemplated braving the rain and the godforsaken bridge, and leaving this woman to pine away in her anxiety. Curiosity propelled him through the door though.
Curiosity about Estelle Wakefield.
And curiosity about Megan Summers.
Conscious of the 9 mm GLOCK 26 in the hutch drawer only two steps away, Megan opened the door to admit the drenched stranger. She took a quick breath and positioned herself alongside the polished antique, ignoring her reflection in the mirror. Her hand brushed against the oak surface, fingers dusting over the handle for quick access.
“Take your boots and socks off,” she commanded.
A shiver akin to premonition ran down Megan’s spine when the man’s eyes locked on hers. His black hair glistened in a windswept mess atop a face warmed with sun. She couldn’t help but stare as she tried to determine what color his eyes were. First she saw brown, but no, there were flecks of gold, and when he turned his head up to the high-arched ceiling, she thought they might be spiked with jade bursts. He was tall, with wide shoulders that filled the foyer and pressed her back deeper against the hutch.
Endless Night Page 2
