Chelsea had ordered a Greek salad wrap, which had sounded insubstantial at the time but looked delicious.
The lake sparkled in the afternoon sunshine. Boats motored past, some pulling children on inner tubes, others followed by water-skiers.
“It’s pretty here,” he said.
“Daddy called me Ayasha sometimes.”
He glanced her way. “Your pet name was after a lake?”
“Ayasha means little one. I don’t know which Native American language it comes from, but they called the lake that because it’s smaller than Squam, and way smaller than Winnisquam and Winnepesaukee.”
“Ayasha. It’s a pretty nickname.”
Quiet settled again, and the tension between them dissipated.
Beyond the tree-shaded park, the beach teemed with people, and the sounds carried on the warm breeze—children playing, parents calling, friends laughing.
Chelsea lifted her hair off her neck. “I wish I had a ponytail holder.”
“I left all mine at home.”
She offered her first smile in hours. “I can’t picture you with long hair.”
“Had it when I was a teenager. Not long, really. Shoulder-length.”
“Quite the rebel you were.”
“Hardly. I walked the straight and narrow.”
She tipped her head to the side, amusement apparent in the squinted eyes, the slight upturn of her pretty lips. “Always? You never rebelled?”
He shrugged, tossed the last of his gyro into his mouth.
“Why?” she asked.
He chewed slowly, not in any rush to answer her question. When he’d swallowed, he asked, “Did you?”
Her amusement faded. “We’ve talked enough about me.”
“You a sports fan? We could talk about football. Or are you one of those European types who think football is soccer, and soccer is better?”
“Patriots fan, obviously.” Her English accent notwithstanding. “But I want to talk about you. Tell me why you never rebelled.”
He balled up his napkin. “My parents had enough grief without me adding more.”
“From…?”
He didn’t want to share this with her, with anyone. But she had told him a lot about her life, and he figured he’d have to ask more probing questions before they were finished. And… maybe, a little, he did want her to know. Maybe in some needy place deep in his heart, he wanted to connect with someone about what he’d gone through. Not just someone, though. With Chelsea. Who’d had her share of grief and survived it. Who was surviving it still.
“My sister went missing when I was nine,” he said. “She was fourteen. She snuck out one night—she’d done that a few times.”
Dylan had heard the window slide open in the room across from his. A few minutes later, he’d felt the February chill seep under his door. He went into her room to close the window. Not all the way, though. She needed to be able to get back in. He didn’t want her to get caught. Because all he’d wanted in life was for Bridget to like him. She had, when she was younger. But once she entered the teen years, everything changed. He wanted his happy-go-lucky sister back. So he didn’t tell his parents she was gone. He never told on her.
“What happened?” Chelsea asked.
“She was missing for two weeks before the police found her body.”
Chelsea’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “No. Oh, that’s terrible.”
He looked away. Couldn’t bear to see the shock in her eyes. He’d worked hard to stifle it in his own mind, though it was still there, bubbling under the surface.
The evening Bridget had snuck out, for the first time in what felt like ages to his young mind, she’d hung out with him. They’d watched a rerun of 90210. She’d even acted like she liked him, for about thirty minutes. Then she’d done her homework, gone off to her bedroom without arguing with their parents, and turned off the light before ten. And then, she’d left.
Just like that.
“She was lured out by a man she met online,” he said. “The police tracked him down through her computer. He’s serving a life sentence.”
“Dylan, that’s…” She swallowed hard. “I can’t imagine.”
He tried to smile, to put Chelsea at ease. Based on the look on her face, she wasn’t buying his expression. “It’s the reason I became a cop. And the reason I quit being a cop. Because I wanted to catch bad guys, but catching them after they’d committed the crime…”
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
He should have told his parents Bridget had left.
He knew it wasn’t his fault. His sister had made a bad decision, and she’d paid the price for it. But the fact that he could have prevented what happened, that he could have protected her… It plagued him.
Men were supposed to protect women and children, not prey on them.
When Angel Gilcreast, his confidential informant, had almost been killed because Dylan’s partner had left her unprotected, Dylan had known he was in the wrong profession. He wanted to prevent crime, not clean up after it.
Problem was, trying to prevent evil was like trying to stop the ocean tide by standing in the waves. The water just seeped around and in and through. It soaked everything it touched. It left nothing unscathed.
Chelsea took his hand. “I’m sorry, Dylan.” Her voice hitched, shook when she continued. “I always wanted a sister. I can’t imagine losing one.”
He forced a steady voice. “I can’t imagine losing a parent.”
“It’s awful.”
“What a thing for us to have in common.”
She looked up at him, her sapphire-blue eyes brimming with tears. She blinked, and one escaped, dripped down her cheek.
He wiped it with his fingertip. Her skin was smooth, her cheeks pink. Everything about her pulled him in. This woman who understood heartache and kept fighting despite it.
He would do anything to protect her.
She was too vulnerable, and it was his job to take care of her, not to take advantage of her.
He needed to back away.
Yet, he couldn’t seem to make himself move.
Except forward. His lips brushed hers, the slightest graze.
When she didn’t shove him away, he did it again.
“I hate you!”
The shout came from behind them.
Dylan turned toward the voice just in time to see something hurling toward Chelsea. He reached to intercept the object. Made contact, sent it off-course an instant before it hit her in the head.
An ice cream cone. Some of it hit his hand. The rest splattered on the ground behind their picnic table.
Dylan was off the seat and standing between Chelsea and the attacker before he’d processed what had happened.
The attacker was a teenage boy. Shaggy brown hair, red-rimmed eyes, hands fisted at his sides. He glared at Dylan. No, past Dylan. At Chelsea. Was he hyped up on drugs? Drunk?
Chelsea stepped out from behind Dylan.
He moved to keep between her and the kid. “Stay back.” The words were directed at both of them.
The kid blinked, and… Were those tears? “It’s your fault. It’s all your fault!”
Chelsea, stubborn woman, moved again. When Dylan tried to step in front of her, she said, “No.” Then focused on the boy. “What happened?”
“Chelsea, he’s—”
“He’s upset.” She looked at the boy again. “Is there anything I can do?”
“If you cared about anybody but yourself—”
“Hey,” Dylan said. “You want to talk to her, then be respectful.” The kid wasn’t high or drunk. He was angry, though, and anger could be dangerous. “Men don’t throw things at defenseless women, no matter what they think they’ve done.”
The kid straightened at being called a man. Crossed his arms. Then lowered them.
“You have something to say?” Dylan asked. “Then say it.”
The boy pointed at Chelsea. “You’re going to close down the fact
ory and destroy our town.”
It wasn’t the town the kid was worried about, though. This was personal.
Chelsea said, “Do your parents work for HCI?”
He crossed his arms again. “Dad. But he quit when he heard the factory’s closing down, got a job in Nashua.”
“I’m so sorry.” Chelsea seemed genuinely grieved at the information. She took a few steps toward the boy.
Dylan stayed at her side, glared at the teen—a warning.
A crowd was gathering. Mostly women, children, teens. A few men, who stood at the edge of the crowd, maybe prepared to step in and help. Maybe not.
“Please,” Chelsea said, “tell your father I have no intention of closing the factory in Coventry. I don’t know how those rumors got started, but they are only rumors. The factory isn’t going anywhere.”
“For how long?” A woman from the crowd stepped forward. “For a few more months? A year? Then what?”
Chelsea turned toward the woman, who wore a bathing suit and had two toddlers at her side, one trying to yank her back to the beach.
“I have no intention of moving the HCI factory this year or next year or ever,” Chelsea said. “HCI and the town of Coventry are a team.” Dylan could tell she was working hard to quell her English accent. “Coventry is my home, too, and, just like my mother and father, I intend to stay here and fight for it.”
“What’s going to Mexico, then?” another woman shouted.
Chelsea turned to her. “There are no plans to move anything to Mexico. All of HCI will stay right here in Coventry.” Her voice was strong, confident. “Things have been unsettled since my mother’s death. For HCI and Coventry.”
The woman who’d shouted didn’t smile, but she added, “And for you, I guess.”
“Yes.”
Dylan didn’t dare look at her, though he could hear the emotion in her voice. Too many threats, all around. His gaze roamed the crowd. Maybe fifteen adults, plus kids. They didn’t look angry anymore, just worried.
Chelsea faced the boy who’d started the whole thing. “What’s your father’s name?”
“John… I don’t want him to get in trouble.” He glanced at the ruined ice cream cone. “He’d kill me if he knew…”
“He’s not going to be in any trouble,” Chelsea said, “and neither are you. What’s his last name?”
The boy muttered, “McGregor.”
“Thank you.” Dylan could hear the smile in her voice. “If your father would like his job back, please have him call Tabitha Eaton. I’ll ask her to hire him back immediately.”
“Yeah, okay.” The boy’s fists had unclenched and hung at his sides. “I’ll do that.”
Dylan said, “You owe Miss Hamilton an apology.”
The kid shrugged. “Sorry.”
Dylan muttered to Chelsea, “Grab our trash and your purse, please.”
He assumed she did what he asked but kept his attention on the crowd. When she straightened beside him, he said, “You folks have a nice day.”
They got the message, started wandering back to the beach and other picnic tables. The kid slouched away, too.
He walked with Chelsea toward the trash can, where she deposited their wrappers. “I would’ve gotten it, but I didn’t want to turn my back—”
“I understand,” she said. “I’m sorry about that.”
As if it were her fault.
She’d done nothing wrong.
Dylan was furious with himself. Instead of keeping his eyes on the surroundings, he’d let himself be distracted. Talking about his past. Staring into Chelsea’s mesmerizing eyes. Kissing her.
It had been an ice cream cone this time, one he’d been able to intercept. If he wasn’t more careful, next time…
It could be a bullet.
Chapter Twenty
Chelsea trembled. An ice cream cone. Nothing else. But the angry words, the angry crowd… Thank God Dylan had been there.
She glanced at him. His gaze was forward, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as he maneuvered through the parking lot.
“Thank you for—”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It wasn’t your fault. That kid—”
“Not for that. For the…” He swallowed, didn’t glance her way. “It won’t happen again.”
Oh. The kiss. His lips had barely brushed hers, so she wasn’t sure it could even be called a kiss. And it wasn’t as though she’d pushed him away. In fact, everything in her had wanted to draw closer.
And then he’d protected her. Gotten her safely back to the truck.
A wave of affection and desire skimmed her like a warm breeze. Except… what had he said?
It wouldn’t happen again.
Fine, then.
She’d never asked if he had a girlfriend. Or, maybe he was one of those married men who couldn’t be bothered with a ring.
No. That didn’t seem right. And, in all the time they’d spent together, surely a woman’s name would have come up.
She studied him, tried to guess what he was thinking. A fruitless activity, to be sure. “I’m not saying I disagree,” she said. “We barely know each other. Though the time we’ve spent together…” Where was she going with this? She should just shut up. But they had spent a lot of time together, eaten multiple meals together, gotten shot at together… It seemed equivalent to a few dates, anyway. Not that she’d been thinking along those lines, not until he’d kissed her.
Right. She’d only imagined him as a Scottish warrior, kilt and all. Because she was starved for love and affection. Ridiculous woman.
A muscle in his cheek pulsed.
“What are you thinking?” There, that was a simple question, and it didn’t reveal too much.
“I let myself get distracted. It won’t happen again.” He stopped at the main road. “Do you know where Laura Blanchette lives?”
“Of course.”
He tapped the wheel with his fingers.
“Turn left.”
He did, and, except for her occasional directions, they drove in silence.
A few minutes later, Chelsea said, “Turn into this one,” and pointed at Mrs. Blanchette’s driveway. Chelsea hadn’t been here in years, not since before Daddy died, before she’d been shipped off to school in England. The trees surrounding the property seemed taller, the bushes that lined the front of the house larger. Otherwise, the two-story Colonial hadn’t changed much over the years.
“How long were she and your mom friends?”
“As long as I can remember,” Chelsea said. “She has a daughter who’s mentally ill. She’s been institutionalized as long as I’ve known the Blanchettes. I think Daddy and Mum helped pay for her care. I think it was because of the daughter that the Blanchettes divorced, though I can’t be sure.”
“How long has she been on the board?”
Chelsea thought back. “I don’t know. A long time.”
When he parked, she didn’t wait for him to come around but hopped from the truck and started toward Mrs. Blanchette’s door. Her foot hurt, but she managed.
It opened before she got there, and the woman rushed outside. Her silver hair was puffy and coiffed, her makeup perfect. She took Chelsea’s hands. “I’m so glad to see you. I wish you’d called. I’d have had something prepared.”
Chelsea kissed her cheek. “We just ate. I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing more important than you.” She turned to Dylan and held out her hand. “Laura Blanchette.”
“This is Dylan O’Donnell,” Chelsea said.
“The private investigator.” She shook Dylan’s hand. “Frank told us about you.”
“Us?” Dylan asked.
“Well, me, and I assume the rest of the board members.” She turned back to Chelsea. “You two come in.”
When they stepped inside the house, memories assailed Chelsea. Mrs. Blanchette was quite a bit older than Chelsea’s mom, but the two had been good friends, and she and Mum had com
e here often over the years. She could still remember where Mrs. Blanchette kept the toys—in the antique wardrobe in the sunroom, the addition Mrs. Blanchette and her then husband had built that overlooked the treed backyard. When she was a child, Chelsea had always gone straight to the cabinet and pulled out the old wooden puzzles and antique dolls. The stack of games, everything from Candyland to Monopoly, the boxes browned and faded with years, stayed in the wardrobe. Chelsea used to dress up the dolls while her mother and Mrs. Blanchette drank coffee. There were always warm cookies and milk if she let the ladies visit without interrupting.
Chelsea had spent a lifetime playing alone, so that hadn’t been difficult.
Now, they walked through the formal dining room and the kitchen before coming to the bright sunroom. There was no central air, but with the trees shading the house and the ceiling fan overhead, it was cool enough. Chelsea paused to take in the familiar space. The old brown couch had been replaced with an off-white leather sectional, and the carpet had been replaced with tile. The windows, which covered the top half of three walls, were open, and a breeze carrying the scent of Mrs. Blanchette’s prize roses lifted the gauzy curtains.
Chelsea settled on the soft couch. Dylan chose a ladder-back side chair as far from Chelsea as he could be.
“How’s Emmy?” Chelsea asked.
“Oh, about the same.” Laura focused on Dylan. “Paranoid schizophrenia.” She turned back to Chelsea. “The meds help, but…” She shrugged as she sat beside Chelsea. She rested her hand on Chelsea’s knee. “How are you?”
“Holding up.”
Mrs. Blanchette looked at Chelsea’s boot. “Is the story true, then? Frank said you were hurt?”
Chelsea gave her a quick rundown on the events of the previous couple of days. Mrs. Blanchette’s face paled as she talked.
When she was finished, Mrs. Blanchette said, “First Maeve, now… I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Mrs. Blanchette.” Dylan took out his notebook and pen. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Laura, please.” She patted Chelsea’s knee. “You, too, dear.”
That’d take some getting used to. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs.… Laura turned back to Dylan. “I’ll help if I can.”
Legacy Reclaimed Page 14
