Bolted

by Meg Benjamin

  She started to drop her purse on the dresser, then opened it and took out her cell phone. She’d turned it off to save the battery. Yeah, right, Greta. After a moment, she turned it back on.

  She checked the voice mail—nothing. Texts—nothing. Nice to know her absence had made such a dent in everyone’s day.

  Nine o’clock. Her mother might still be up. She started to punch in the number and then paused. What exactly would she say when her mother picked up? Hi, Mom, I ran away because I couldn’t bear to tell you your other kid’s marriage is in the toilet too. I’ll be back sometime. Don’t wait up.

  Right. That would really work well. After a moment, she touched the text message icon, then the keyboard. I’m all right, she typed. Don’t worry. Suitably vague but maybe enough to be reassuring. Her mother undoubtedly had other things on her mind at the moment. She turned the phone off again, dropping it back in her purse. Maybe one of the Dubrovniks had a charger she could borrow.

  Or maybe Hank did. She paused, then stepped back into the hall again. A quick inspection showed no light under his door. Then again, he might be sitting in the dark. It was still relatively early. She knocked gently but got no response. After a moment, she opened his door.

  Hank sat in his chair, head back, snoring faintly. His feet were stretched out in front of him. A plate on the coffee table held the remains of crackers and peanut butter.

  She wondered if she should wake him and help him get to bed, then rejected the idea. She wasn’t his mother, after all, and lugging him off to bed might seem like a bit much.

  She studied his face for a moment. Good bones there. Not exactly chiseled—more like sculpted. Skin slightly tan, probably from working in the sun. And that casually mussed, sandy hair, like he’d run his fingers through it.

  She’d like to run her fingers through it too.

  Okay, Greta, time for bed. More than time, in fact.

  She turned back to the hall again, closing Hank’s door softly behind her. If nothing else she was going to shuck off this dress and the Crinolines from Hell. And then she was never going to wear anything like them ever again.

  Chapter Five

  It was the smell that woke Hank the next morning. He’d finally stumbled to his bed around one o’clock, vaguely disgruntled over the fact that Greta Brewster hadn’t bothered to wake him to say good-bye, although he knew being disgruntled over that fact was stupid. Still. He’d hoped to get one more glimpse of those dark brown eyes before she sped back to wherever it was she came from.

  Oddly enough, he didn’t think she’d ever told him where she came from or where she was going during their adventures the day before. He knew it had something to do with a wedding, and judging from the dress, she and the bride hadn’t been on the best of terms.

  The buttery, sweet smell of something baking seeped up through the floorboards, reminding him his room was more or less over the kitchen. Of course, normally the smells that issued from the kitchen wouldn’t have enticed him out of bed. They were more likely to make him put his head under his pillow.

  He stood up cautiously, checking to see if his foot would bear his weight. Although he was fairly sure his foot wasn’t broken, he wasn’t absolutely certain and he didn’t want to end up in a heap on the floor. Standing on his bruised foot was painful, but it was less so than yesterday. He could probably even make it to the dig if he wore loosely tied running shoes rather than his boots. It wouldn’t be fun, but it would be doable.

  After he had breakfast. Assuming that whatever he currently smelled turned out to be edible. With Nadia, you never knew. One fragrant concoction a few weeks ago had turned out to be a vat of hand cream she was getting ready to bottle.

  He shuffled downstairs carefully, keeping most of his weight on his good foot. It seemed a little early for Nadia to be up, but the Dubrovniks were nothing if not unpredictable. Maybe she’d had some kind of inspiration during the night. He could only hope it had to do with actually learning to cook. Maybe she’d been visited by the ghost of Julia Child.

  He headed through the dining room toward the kitchen door at the side. Odd that he didn’t see anybody sitting at the dining table as he passed by. Nadia usually demanded that meals be served there, with china and silver. Maybe Alice had finally managed to convince her that meals eaten in the kitchen didn’t result in the decline of Western civilization.

  He pushed open the door to the kitchen and paused, transfixed.

  Greta Brewster was taking a pan of what looked like muffins from the oven. She was wearing jeans and an oversize blue T-shirt that had Tompkins Corners splashed across the middle in red. Her feet were bare, and her hair looked slightly damp, as if she’d only recently stepped out of the shower.

  She raised her head and caught sight of him, breaking into a sunny grin. “Morning. How’s the foot?”

  “Um…fine.” He watched her walk across to the kitchen counter, where she placed the muffin pan on a trivet. Unless he was very much mistaken, she wasn’t wearing a bra under that T-shirt.

  He went hard almost instantly. Well, crap. Geez, it hadn’t been that long since he’d been with a woman, had it? Apparently, the answer to that particular question was yes.

  He sank into a chair at the sturdy oak table beneath the windows, covering his lap with a napkin. “So you’re…staying?” He was still trying to find a polite way of asking what the hell she was doing in the kitchen.

  “I am, yes.” She gave him another grin. “Alice has hired me to cook. In exchange for room and board.” She glanced down at her chest. “And clothes.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t realize you needed a job. Or clothes.”

  “I didn’t exactly realize it myself. But here I am.” Another grin. “Of course, the clothes thing was pretty obvious.”

  “Oh.” He watched her upend the muffin tin on a plate. Suddenly he was salivating to go along with the whole sexual arousal thing. Interesting way to approach breakfast. “God, those smell great.”

  “Applesauce muffins,” she explained. “Not exactly inspired, but I was stuck with what was in the pantry and the pantry doesn’t have much. I’ll troll through the general store today and see if there’s anything better.”

  “Don’t count on it,” he muttered.

  “Oh well, I saw a garden out back. Should be something I can scavenge out there.” She brought the plate over to the table. “Eat up. There’s coffee.”

  Nadia’s coffee was sort of glorified dishwater. He regarded the pot with some suspicion. “What kind?”

  She shrugged. “Supermarket generic. But I made it double strength. That usually helps. Let me pour you some. Rest your foot.” She opened the cabinet next to the sink and pulled out a cup, then walked over to the automatic coffeemaker at the end of the counter. The coffeemaker that he suddenly noticed smelled really good.

  She stood poised next to the counter, the cup in her hand. “Sugar? Cream?”

  He shook his head and she set the cup on the table, followed almost immediately by a muffin on a plate. He tore off a small piece of pastry and placed it cautiously into his mouth. A month of Nadia’s cooking had cured him of taking large bites of anything without first testing the waters.

  He tasted apple and spice, cinnamon and a hint of something that might have been nutmeg. It was the best thing he’d tasted since he’d arrived in Tompkins Corners, but that wasn’t saying much. Hell, it was probably one of the best things he’d tasted for a long time before that. Somehow he managed to keep himself from stuffing the entire muffin into his mouth in a single bite.

  “This is really, really good,” he mumbled around the crumbs.

  “Thank you.” She gave him a bright smile. “What else would you like?”

  That particular question evoked a sudden flurry of lascivious images that he promptly suppressed. “This is fine. I’ll just take another one to eat on the road.”

  She frowned. “You’re going back to the excavation?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “We�
�re behind now since I lost a day yesterday.” Which was entirely his own fault, of course, although he didn’t feel like bringing that up.

  “But you’re hurt. And what happens if you get stuck again?”

  He grimaced. “Theoretically, I have an intern. Although he didn’t show up yesterday. With any luck, he’ll show up today. Anyway, if I don’t make it back by this evening, you can always come and rescue me again.” He gave her a grin that was supposed to be winning but apparently wasn’t.

  Greta still frowned. “You shouldn’t be out there by yourself.”

  “It’s okay. Like I said, intern.”

  “Who didn’t show up yesterday when you almost ended up spending the night in a hole.” She rested her hands on her hips.

  He sighed. “Look, it’s a very small dig for which I have a very small grant that will run out at the end of the summer. I can’t afford to lose a day because my foot hurts. I was stupid yesterday. I’ll do my best not to be stupid again.”

  Greta rubbed her hand across her nose. She didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup. It didn’t make any difference. He still wanted to jump her.

  One of her eyebrows arched up. “What if I bring you lunch?”

  “Lunch?” He shook his head. “Alice doesn’t provide lunch.”

  “So? I’m cooking. There’ll probably be leftovers.” She sat down beside him at the table. “Indulge me, okay? If I spend the day worrying about you out in that hole, it may affect my cooking.” She gave him another of those grins, and his body once again went on high alert. What the hell is it with this woman, anyway?

  He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t want anything to affect your cooking. Considering these muffins, I want to make sure your cooking works overtime.”

  She looked absurdly pleased. “Thank you. You’re the first one to taste them. Hope everybody else feels the same way.”

  “I’d say that’s more or less guaranteed.” He started to push himself away from the table, then stopped, frowning. “Crap. I just remembered. I need a ride to the dig. I left my truck there yesterday.”

  “Can you drive it back by yourself?”

  “Sure. Once I get there.”

  “If you can wait until everybody else gets up, I’ll be glad to drive you. But I need to stick around to make sure they have everything they need.”

  “I can wait.” In fact, he’d be glad to. He really wanted to see what happened when the Dubrovniks confronted edible food for a change.

  As if summoned, the door to the Dubrovnik family living quarters swung open behind them. Hank couldn’t see anyone, which told him immediately who it was. “Hey, Hyacinth.”

  The child approached the table somewhat warily. “Why are we eating in here instead of the dining room like we’re supposed to? And where’s Aunt Nadia?”

  “I don’t think she’s up yet,” Greta explained. “I just thought it was easier to eat in the kitchen, but I can set you up with a plate in the dining room if you’d like.”

  Hyacinth shook her head, climbing into a chair. “No ma’am. This is fine. What’s for breakfast?” She sniffed the air cautiously, then with more enthusiasm.

  “Muffins. And whatever else you’d like. Just tell me what you usually have.”

  “Usually?” Hyacinth gave her a contemplative stare. “Usually it’s burned toast and cereal. Do I have to have that?”

  Greta shook her head. “Definitely not. Would you like cereal? We can skip the toast since we have muffins.”

  “I’d rather just have a muffin.” She began tearing one of them into decorous pieces, chewing them cautiously. After a moment the caution disappeared, and she reached for another muffin. She gave Greta a beatific, crumb-laden smile.

  Greta smiled back. “Glad you like them. But I can still fix you some cereal or maybe some eggs if you want. And you need a glass of milk.” She headed for the refrigerator while Hyacinth turned to Hank.

  “Do you feel okay now?” she asked. “Aunt Nadia said you were sick.”

  “Sure. I’m fine.” He smiled at her reassuringly and considered taking another muffin. There were only five left, though, and Alice and Nadia still weren’t around.

  The door swung open, and Alice walked in, iron-gray hair standing in stiff curls around her head. “What’s that smell?”

  “Muffins,” Hyacinth and Greta chorused and then broke into mutual giggles.

  Alice narrowed her eyes. “Muffins from where?”

  “The oven.” Greta’s smile turned dry. “With the help of the pantry. There’s also coffee. I couldn’t find any juice, though.”

  “Never drink the stuff.” Alice walked to the cabinet and took down a cup, then headed for the coffeepot. “Where’s Nadia?”

  “I haven’t seen her.”

  “Aunt Nadia wasn’t cooking with you?” Hyacinth’s eyes widened.

  Alice looked a little concerned herself. “I told her you’d be cooking yesterday, but I expected her to be up supervising.”

  Greta shrugged. “Like I say, I haven’t seen her. Nobody was here when I got up this morning.”

  Hyacinth and Alice glanced at each other uneasily, apparently some kind of Dubrovnik secret code.

  The child reached for her grandmother’s hand. “It’ll be all right.”

  Alice stared at her for another moment, then shrugged. “Of course it will. Now eat your muffin. It looks good.”

  As if on cue, the door swung open one more time, and all eyes turned toward Nadia. Who looked…pretty much like she always looked, as far as Hank could tell. She had on the same flowered silk caftan that she usually wore, along with the fluffy, wedged slippers that clacked as she walked across the kitchen floor. Her dark hair was pulled up on top of her head in a bow, with a few wisps hanging loose around her face. Her makeup was impeccable.

  If she’d been forty years younger, he’d probably have wanted to jump her as much as he wanted to jump Greta.

  Nadia smiled, picking up one of the muffins. “Oh my, these do look good.” She dropped into a chair next to Hank, then beamed up at Greta. “Could you bring me a cup of coffee, dear? Everything smells delectable.”

  Hank had a feeling that all the people in the room had just let out the collective breath they’d been holding. Greta nodded and turned back to the counter.

  “You going back to your hole?” Alice asked him, tearing into another bite of muffin.

  He nodded. “If Greta can give me a ride. I left my truck there.”

  Alice shrugged. “I’ll give you a ride—I need to go to Promise Harbor for supplies. What about that sorry excuse for an intern?”

  Hank sighed. His intern was a constant trial. “I left a couple of voice mails for him. If he doesn’t show up again today, I’ll call his advisor.”

  Greta frowned. “Advisor?”

  “Professor Mitchell works at Broadhurst College,” Hyacinth recited. “He’s associate professor of arthropology.” She gave him a glistening smile.

  “Archaeology/anthropology,” he corrected gently. “Thank you, Hyacinth.”

  “Not arthropology?” Her smile dimmed.

  “No. But that would be sort of cool. Arthropods are invertebrates. I guess then I’d be a professor of bugs.”

  “That would be cool.” Hyacinth’s expression turned thoughtful. “Can I come along, Grandma?”

  “All right, but everyone needs to get moving.” Alice pushed herself to her feet.

  Hank considered shaving so that he could wait around for Greta. Forget it. Time to slow this whole thing down a little. He really did have to get back to the dig, and waiting around for Greta might lead to more time-consuming activities. “Okay, let me get my hat and I’ll join you.”

  Greta gave him another sunny smile. “See you at lunchtime. Don’t work too hard.”

  He grinned back without really meaning to. The woman was infectious. “I never do. See you.”

  Only after he’d walked out the door did it occur to him that he’d just left Greta alone with Nadia. Which might or mig
ht not be a good idea.

  Greta studied Nadia from the corner of her eye as she piled the dishes in the sink. She didn’t look like she was ready to commit mayhem, but who knew? She was willing to bet that Alice hadn’t been particularly sensitive in her explanation as to why Greta was taking over as cook. She really didn’t want to rub salt into any open wounds.

  Nadia sipped her coffee, staring out the window at the backyard garden. In the morning sunlight, the color of her hair looked even more unreal. Greta wondered if she’d be as gray as Alice without the not-particularly-effective dye job.

  After a moment, Nadia put down her cup and picked up the remaining half of her muffin. “I’m really not angry, you know.” She gave Greta a quick smile over her shoulder. “I’ve been trying to get out of cooking for at least two years, ever since Alice decided it was my job. You’d think two years of canned spaghetti and overdone peas would have convinced her, but she’s always been stubborn.”

  Greta paused, then ran her dishrag around the muffin pan. “You did that on purpose?”

  “Well, of course I did it on purpose.” Nadia frowned. “You don’t think I really enjoyed having my food taste like that, do you?”

  “I didn’t know for sure,” Greta hedged. She stared down at the sink, trying to think of what she should say next.

  As it turned out, however, Nadia didn’t need her reply to keep talking. “Alice thinks I don’t contribute enough to the household, which is bunk, of course. My creams and lotions are doing quite nicely, and I expect a much bigger bump in sales once my website is fully functional.”

  “Creams and lotions?” That at least seemed safe enough as a topic.

  “Indeed.” Nadia swiveled in her chair so that she was facing the sink. “I have a complete line of hand and body lotions. I’m planning on expanding into soaps, too, but that requires either lye or glycerin and I’m not ready to work with either one yet.” She gestured toward the backyard. “I’m growing lots of herbs for the lotions, though, that I could use for the soaps as well. Rose geranium, verbena, lavender, sage and several others like basil that I haven’t done much with so far. Perhaps you might like some of them for cooking too.”