by Bailey Cates
Having delivered my neighbor back home, he was suddenly there, filling the doorway with his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped silhouette.
“Katie?”
“Oh, Declan.”
In a few long strides, he was gathering me into his arms.
“You saved my house,” I sobbed into his shirt. “You came back and saved it.” I seemed to be repeating myself, but I couldn’t help it.
He held me close and murmured into my hair. “You really love this place, don’t you?”
“Yes! I love it. And I love you.”
And then came the ugly cry.
Not the gentle tear wending its way down a genteel cheek. Not the eyes welling and gracefully spilling over. Not even the tear-streaked face of sadness or melancholy.
No, the ugly cry is the one where you can’t talk, can barely choke breath in and out of your lungs. Can’t form words, can’t even think words, only animal grunts and wails and groans. The cry that takes over your whole body, tightens every muscle, makes you consider the possibility that you might be, just might be, completely losing your mind. And there are so many tears coursing out of your tear ducts that they splash on your shirt and his shirt and the dog, and you come out of it dehydrated and weak and shaking, your eyes and face so puffy and swollen that you look like an alien from another planet, and you can barely see, and you feel like you could sleep for days once you’re through.
That kind of ugly cry.
And Declan just stood there and held me, saying, “I didn’t know. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
It might have gone on for even longer if the flashing lights and sirens hadn’t pulled up in front.
“I called them,” Declan said, almost apologetically.
“Right. Of course,” I managed, pushing back from his now double-soaked shirt and wiping furiously at my streaming eyes.
I ran into the kitchen and blew my nose on a paper towel, then went to the freezer for ice to shock myself into normalcy. Instead, I found myself reaching into the fridge and pulling out my jar of moon potion. I slopped out a handful and rubbed the chilled liquid on my face.
It helped. I stopped crying in record time. I blew my nose again. I breathed deep.
And with a hiccup, I went out to greet the firemen.
The front yard was lit up like a stadium, and Declan had gone out to talk to the responders. Someone was standing in the living room, but with the bright light behind him, I couldn’t make out who it was until he turned.
Detective Peter Quinn.
Great.
Eyes smarting from smoke and tears and xenon lights, I turned and went out to the backyard.
Quinn trailed behind me all the way out to the gazebo.
I climbed the steps and pulled over a thrift-store chair. He grabbed another one and sat down across the small table. Mungo put his paws on my thigh, and I reached down and scooped him up. His warm, furry form gave me some comfort as I tried to figure out what to tell Quinn.
Wait a minute. . . .
“Why are you here?” I asked. “No one’s dead.”
“Orla Black is dead. And from what you told me yesterday, you came close.”
“You believe me now?”
“I got another call from John Black a few minutes ago. Since I’d talked to him before, they forwarded it to my cell. He told me his nephew-in-law tried to kill you tonight.”
“The Molotov cocktail through my front window.” Of course, technically I didn’t know if Taber had done that or forced Margie to.
“Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No more hypnotism?” Quinn asked.
With great control, I set Mungo on the floor and then stood. “Listen, I’ve had a really difficult day, so I don’t need your condescending, holier-than-thou attitude, Detective Quinn. I don’t care whether you believe me or not. Taber O’Cleary hypnotized me yesterday and nearly made me run my car head-on into a chunk of cement. In fact, I went to your very capable Dr. Borlof this morning, and she removed the posthypnotic suggestion he left.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes. You can ask her. I’ll sign whatever she wants so she can answer your questions. And as a result of that single session with her and then seeing the jerk tonight, I remember exactly what he did when he hypnotized me. I’ll testify to it in court. Furthermore, I’m positive that he did the same thing to Orla.” I shoved the chair under the table, hitting the leg and making it rock back and forth. “But don’t believe me. Oh, no, don’t even bother. Ask John Black himself. If he’s willing to tell you that Taber tried to kill us here tonight, then I hope he’ll be willing to tell you all about his nephew-in-law’s abilities with ventriloquism and hypnosis.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see if I can salvage any of my clothes to take to Declan’s for the night, because we obviously can’t sleep here after the fire. Good night, Detective.”
And with that, I exited the gazebo and walked back to the house with as much dignity as I could muster. When I looked outside later, he was gone.
• • •
It was nearly midnight when we got to Declan’s apartment. I’d salvaged some clothes from the armoire, the doors of which luckily had a very tight seal. Now I threw them in his washer and plopped down on his sofa. He poured two glasses of wine, which we both were quite ready for by then, and joined me.
Handing me a glass, he said, “Are you going to tell Cookie, or am I?”
“Tell her what?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “That we’re not going to make an offer on the house she showed us today.” He looked at his watch. “Make that yesterday.”
I was silent for almost a minute. “You’re sure you don’t want to make an offer? It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He laughed. “I thought it was what you wanted.”
“But what do you want?” I insisted.
“First off, I want you to be happy.” When I opened my mouth to speak, he held up his hand. “Let me finish. Having said that, there are a few things I wouldn’t mind having that we don’t currently have at the carriage house.”
“Like a lot more space.” I sipped my wine.
“No, not a lot. A little more, yes. And I would like a garage. Not just for the truck, but for some of my hobbies.”
My forehead creased. “Like what?”
“Like woodworking.” He took a swallow and replaced his glass on his beat-up bachelor coffee table.
“Since when do you like woodworking?” I asked.
“I’ve always liked it, but I’ve never had a place where I could do it. Heck, I don’t even know if I’m any good at it. I just enjoyed it in school, and I’d like to take it up.”
“I had no idea. Why didn’t you say something?”
He shrugged. “I said I wanted a garage.”
“And more living space.”
“We need a little more room in the kitchen,” he said. “Again, not a lot more than we have now in the carriage house. Say, another ten square feet. Maybe fifteen. And a full bath with a tub. A separate room for the washer and dryer. And honestly, I think we need another bedroom. At least I hope we’ll need one at some point. We can always have guests stay in the loft like they do now, but someday we might need another bedroom for, you know . . .”
I raised my eyebrows.
“More family.”
“Is your mother going to come live with us?” I teased.
“You know what I mean. I’m just thinking ahead. I mean . . . you do want children, don’t you?”
“At least one,” I said. “After that, we’ll see.”
He grinned. “It’s a start.”
“So you just gave a long list of all the things we need, and all those things are in the house we looked at today. But you also said
something about putting guests in the loft. There wasn’t a loft in that house.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” he asked. “You love that carriage house. I mean, it’s like a part of you or something. Taking you away from it would be like taking away a family member.”
I shuddered, thinking of Orla.
“Sorry. You know what I mean. That was you crying in my arms a few hours ago when you realized your home hadn’t burned to the ground, wasn’t it?”
“It was a very long day, and someone had just tried to kill me, and you, and the Molotov—”
“Katie!” he interrupted. “That fire was an opportunity.”
“You mean . . . ?” I was afraid to hope.
“We’re going to have to make repairs anyway. Why don’t we add in a few renovations as well?”
“To the carriage house?” I asked in a small voice.
“Yes! Katie, we’re living together there now. Have been for months. When was the last time I stayed here? We’ve been doing okay with the space we have at your place, really. But there have been times when it’s too crowded, and a little more room might be nice for the long haul. We can build an addition off the back hallway and the current bedroom, in order to add another, smaller bedroom and increase the size of the bathroom. Plus, there would be space for a little laundry room. Then we extend the kitchen a few feet on the other side. That will actually make the patio deeper, which will make it more of an outdoor room.”
“And the garage?”
“A freestanding one at the end of the existing driveway. How does all that sound?”
I get to keep my carriage house. Our carriage house. All the gardens. The stream. The rowan tree.
Tears welled in my eyes. “It sounds perfect,” I said in a warbling voice.
Declan looked alarmed.
I laughed and wiped my eyes. This was not the occasion for another ugly cry. This was an occasion for happy tears.
Yip!
Mungo apparently agreed.
Chapter 22
Cookie didn’t take the news too badly. In fact, she didn’t take it badly at all. When we told her we’d decided to renovate the carriage house and continue to live there, I might even have detected a flicker of relief that she wouldn’t have to deal with our fussy real estate demands anymore. Plus, she’d managed to sell the town house down the street from Lucy and Ben, and was getting her full commission from that sale rather than the half that she’d offered to take from Declan and me.
She was also distracted as anything, reading parenting books and augmenting her maternity wardrobe with only slightly more conservative styles than usual. Then she brought in the ultrasound, and I knew the shopping was about to increase tenfold.
“Can you tell if it’s a girl or a boy?” Lucy asked, leaning closer. The spellbook club was gathered in the reading area of the Honeybee, with a new pile of books to supply the bookshelves. I’d brought back Telling Fortunes for Fun and Profit in case someone else needed it and thrown in a copy of Julie Andrews’ classic orphan tale, Mandy.
“Nope,” Bianca said. “At three months, it’s still a little bean of a thing. Maybe the next time.”
Mimsey, today dressed head to toe in fuchsia, looked over at Cookie. “Do you want to know?”
The mother-to-be shrugged. “I don’t know. Oscar kind of wants it to be a surprise. I can work with that. I’m already starting to decorate the nursery in gender-neutral colors. Actually, all colors.” She whipped out a catalog. “Look at this adorable little mobile for over the crib!”
Jaida, who was finally back to working in her newly decorated office, leaned closer. “Is that a constellation night-light?”
And so began the shopping. . . .
• • •
Steve walked in, and I reached for a cappuccino mug. He laid a copy of the Savannah Morning News on the counter. “Have you seen this?”
I peered at the article he was pointing at, and Ben took over making his drink. When he was done, he set it down in front of Steve and asked me, “What is it?”
“Taber O’Cleary has been arrested for Orla Black’s murder.” I looked up, unable to keep the surprise off my face. “He confessed.”
Steve nodded. “From what I hear from my former sources on the crime beat, John Black encouraged him to cooperate with the police.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I wonder what form that encouragement took.”
He shook his head. “Apparently, Taber was a kind of enforcer for his uncle. But then Orla began lobbying her son and daughter to move to California with her. Fern was open to the idea, but Taber didn’t want to go. So to prevent the breakup of the family—his own small one and the Black clan as a whole—Taber killed his mother-in-law—who happened to also be the woman John wanted to marry. That was bound to end poorly.”
“But Orla didn’t want to marry John.”
Steve smiled. “Rejection doesn’t make the heart grow less fond.”
A less-than-oblique reference to our history? “How’s Angie?”
His face softened, as did his smile. That was enough to put my mind at rest. “She’s opening her own nursery,” he said. “It’s hard work.”
“Her own business? That’s great.” And I had no doubt that Dawes Corp. was bankrolling it.
Good for them.
• • •
A smiling Vera Smythe came into the Honeybee. Her hair was back in a precise French twist, her eye makeup was flawlessly applied, and her pale pink lipstick immaculate. She wore a beige twinset with white slacks and beige heels that would have killed me in less than ten minutes.
Her arm was looped through that of a handsome man. He was a bit older than her, with a salt-and-pepper brush cut and soulful brown eyes. I noticed she was still wearing her wedding ring, then saw that he was wearing one, too. Then I saw that both rings had the Greek letter omega in the setting.
Matching wedding rings. This was Vera’s husband, not a date.
“You came back,” I said. “I’m so glad. What would you like to try today? We have caramel-dipped vanilla whoopie pies for our daily special. Or if you like a little tartness, the lemon bars turned out especially good.”
“A lemon bar sounds great,” he said. “And a cup of black pekoe tea, if you have it.”
“Coming right up,” I said.
“Katie, this is my husband, Robert,” she said. “This is Katie Lightfoot. I met her at Vase Value, and now I’m addicted to the baked goods here.”
He reddened a bit when she mentioned Mimsey’s flower shop.
“Welcome to the Honeybee Bakery, Robert. We hope you’ll come back again and again.”
“I’ll try the rosemary Parmesan muffin,” Vera said. “And lemon water.”
Rosemary for fidelity.
“Good choice.” I put their selections onto a tray, and Vera handed it to Robert. He carried it over to a table, while Vera lingered by the register.
“Are the flowers arriving again?” I asked with a smile.
“We’re not including flowers in our budget anymore,” Vera said.
When I looked surprised, she added, “I wanted to bring these books back. They were very helpful, but I don’t need them anymore.”
She placed the books she’d borrowed from the Honeybee library on the coffee counter. I recognized the one on divorce, but hadn’t seen the title of the other one: Mindful Loving.
“I’m glad,” I said. Vera could easily have returned the books to the shelves with no one the wiser. She wanted to talk.
“Well, one was helpful. The other one, it turns out, I didn’t need at all.” She sighed and looked at Robert over her shoulder. “See, that fortune-teller told me my husband was distracted from our marriage. Naturally, I immediately assumed that to mean he was having an af
fair. Then the carnations he’d sent every week for years stopped coming, and I was sure of it. I was devastated, but I wasn’t going to let him take advantage of me. Then I read that book.” She pointed to the second one. “And I decided to simply ask him why he wasn’t sending the flowers anymore. No accusations, no blame or defensiveness. And do you know what he said?”
I shook my head.
“That he was having financial problems in his business, and had to cut back.” She sounded almost delighted. Then she sobered. “It’s only temporary, but he was too ashamed to tell me. Poor man. And here I was, all ready to find a lawyer and start divorce proceedings.” She wagged a finger. “So whatever the fortune-teller told you, be careful about how you interpret it.”
Thinking of my worries about having to give up the carriage house in order to be with Declan, I had to agree. Maybe not all sacrifices felt like sacrifices in the end.
• • •
“I like deviled eggs. I could eat them every day,” Iris said.
“They’re okay,” I said. “But I think I like egg salad better. With lots of sour pickles, dill, and a little mustard. Some chopped capers, maybe. Scooped onto a soda cracker, or open-faced on a toasted English muffin.”
Iris slowly worked cold cubes of butter into a bowl of flour with her fingertips. I was cleaning while she practiced her scone-making technique, and we were passing the time by discussing options for using up leftover Easter eggs after the holiday.
“My stepmom soaks the peeled eggs in red wine before making them into deviled eggs,” Iris said. “They’re really pretty on a plate.”
I made a note to try that.
“You know the best recipe I’ve found for hard-boiled eggs is in chocolate chip cookies,” I said.
“Very funny.”
“No, I’m serious.”
Iris’ fingers stilled in the bowl as she peered at me. “Seriously?”
“Yup. You cut them up really small, and add them to the batter instead of raw eggs. The batter is a little drier, and the end result is a little more dense, but they’re really good.”
