by Darci Hannah
“Get in,” he commanded, shoving me toward the Gator.
“Good man, MacLaren.” Tate gave a nod coupled with a sly grin. He appeared keenly aware of the situation. “Sorry bro. Only room for one in this Gator. Besides, looks like your girlfriend’s hot to chat with you.”
“Take Whitney,” Jack said. “Get her out of here. I’ll handle this.” He turned, glanced at Greta, and looked back at Tate. “Former girlfriend, bro.”
“Yeah, bro. Whatever. Brace yourself now.” Tate winked. Jack groaned and slapped the hood of the utility vehicle.
With a two-finger salute, Tate stepped on the gas, abandoning Jack to the mercy of his former hot girlfriend and man-eating reporter, Greta Stone.
Fifteen
What are you doing here?” I was so befuddled I just had to ask the question again, all while glaring at the hunky blond-headed man next to me. He was the type of man it was hard not to stare at, and that was part of the problem. Tatum Vander Hagen, or “Vander Licious” as he was known in the cove, was the reason I’d avoided coming home. We’d started dating in high school, then dated on and off again throughout college, and then had a bout of serious dating after graduation until a year and a half ago. I’d come home for the weekend to surprise him and found him in bed with another woman. We had a long history, Tate and I. My parents still adored him, but I was not about to get sucked into his lethally alluring, deep-set Scandinavian blue gaze again.
His focus was conveniently straight ahead—as if he didn’t already know every nuance of the grounds by heart. “Look, I know this is a shock to you. It’s a shock to us all. The short answer is that I’m here today because Jeb isn’t. I’ve volunteered to conduct the orchard hayride. Baxter wanted to do it, but he’s been a sack of nerves all morning. Besides, he’s a murder suspect and the owner of the inn. Not sure the guests want to spend that much time in his company just yet.”
As much as I hated to admit it, it did make sense. “Okay, but why you?”
Tate looked affronted. “It’s what friends do, Whit. And because your mom asked me. I’m not going to tell her no.”
Mom! I should have known. She’d always harbored hopes that one day Tate would be her son-in-law, and I had squashed that dream. I’d never told her the real reason why. She assumed it was because of my need to pursue a career in advertising, and I’d let her believe it. Now that I was home again, she was meddling. Well, it wasn’t going to work.
“Listen,” Tate said, “I know things are a little strained between us right now, but the truth is your folks are like family to me. And with you down in Chicago and your brother off to God only knows where chasing ghosts, they need someone here they can rely on in a pinch, and that someone is me. We’re a close-knit community here in Cherry Cove.”
He wasn’t exactly lying, and that’s why it hurt to be reminded. And Tate was right; Cherry Cove was a very tight-knit community. Although it was a tourist town with a population that swelled into the thousands during the summer months, the actual number of permanent residents was less than three hundred. Most were families who’d lived here for generations, and a few brave newcomers. Tate was a local boy. Our parents had been friends ever since I could remember. And when the Vander Hagens decided to retire to Florida, Tate stepped up and took control of the Cherry Cove Marina, the Vander Hagen family business. He also lived in the home he’d grown up in, a modest ranch house beside the marina. Tate was a good son. My younger brother and I had been more selfish. I’d left the orchard in search of fulfillment in advertising, and Bret had left to study film and television production at Columbia University in Chicago. My brother was now host of his own international ghost-hunting show, which aired on a cable channel. Since he traveled so much for the show, Bret returned home even less than I did. Tate, meanwhile, was now the sole owner of his family’s marina, and I knew that he loved it. This was also part of the problem between us. He’d been content to stay in the Cove. I’d needed to spread my wings and experience life beyond our sleepy little village.
I looked at him again, and, in a softer voice, asked, “Do friends abandon each other to the mercy of a crazed reporter?”
“You’re referring to MacLaren?” Tate allowed the creases at the corners of his generous mouth to deepen. “Had to make an executive decision. MacLaren understands. The dude’s a cop. Takes his life in his hands every day, or so he tells me. It’s what he signed up for. And I think you’ll agree, he handled the situation like a pro.” Again, the smile.
“Like a pro? He looked terrified. I’ve never seen him so nervous.”
“Neither have I. Begs the question, what did she do to him? Whatever it is, I think it’s good for him. Everyone has to face their demons sometime. It builds character.”
I looked closely at Tate, noted the way he talked about Jack, and hit upon an unlikely conclusion. “Don’t tell me the two of you actually hang out together?” For some reason, I’d never pictured Tate and Jack as friends. Of course, they’d always known each other—we’d all gone to the same high school—but Tate was older. He was also louder, a bit brash, outgoing, and had his own group of rowdy friends. But the ease with which he and Jack had just spoken led me to believe that things had changed between them since I’d last lived in Cherry Cove. Jack’s pursuits and friends were always the kind that escaped notice unless you knew what to look for, and Tate never did.
“You find that surprising?” he asked, stopping to avoid hitting a group of guests walking across the back lawn. They were heading for the large white tent that had been erected for the festival. A group of young men and women from the restaurant were busy setting up tables and chairs and putting the finishing touches on what looked to be an elegant outing. The tables were topped with white linen and cherry blossom centerpieces. At one end, a bar was currently being stocked. Beside it was a large circular table where later in the day platters of local cheeses, artesian breads, and crackers would be served.
I looked back at Tate. He was resting his hands on the steering wheel, staring at the tent and the seemingly endless expanse of dark blue lake beyond. “We both live here, Whit,” he continued. “MacLaren’s a solid guy. He really knows his micro-brewed beers. Besides, he keeps his police boat in one of my slips. But enough about MacLaren. MacLaren’s boring.” He turned and held me in his magnetic gaze. “Let’s talk about you, me … and the fact that you’re back here in Cherry Cove.”
“Ah … ” I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t tripping away double time, because it was. It was my primal reaction to the man. My head, however, knew better. Tate had said it was good to face one’s demons, and, dear Lord, I was trying. However, instead of building character, I was more afraid of losing my self-respect. I shook the thought away and told him, “There is no you and me. Remember? From what I recall it was you, me, and whatever trampy summer floozy happened to find her way aboard your boat.”
“I’ve changed since then,” he stated softly. “So have you.” Then the corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “And I probably should have changed the name of that boat. It would have saved me a lot of trouble. It drew them in like flies, and I was flattered by the attention. But Whitney, you must know that you were the only one I ever wanted aboard the Lusty Dutchman. You were the best first mate I ever had.”
Why did he have to remind me of that now? Of course I was the best first mate he ever had! I was young, impressionable, and totally in love with him. Those were the moments one never forgot; and they still had the power to infiltrate my dreams. My cheeks grew unnaturally hot at the thought of Tate and his aptly named sailboat.
“I took you for granted back then,” he added, “and that was wrong of me.”
I waited for a teasing grin, but it never came. I was suddenly struck by the unlikely idea that maybe, quite possibly, Tatum Vander Hagen had finally grown up. He was nearly thirty, and I’d read enough women’s magazines to know that men at nearly thirty tended
to think of marriage and raising a family just a little bit more than they did of engaging in meaningless sex, orgies, and one night stands, although I was pretty certain they still did that too. But I supposed it was bound to happen sometime for Tate. However, his timing, as usual, was horrible. The sad truth of it was, I wasn’t getting any younger either. I should have been thinking of marriage and having babies too; and perhaps if I’d made something of myself by now, I would be. Tate was offering me an olive branch. It was tempting to reach out and grab hold of it, letting myself get caught up in the dream. But I couldn’t allow that to happen, especially not with Tate. Then, too, there was the fact that I lived in a shoebox apartment in Chicago. I baked cherry pies to make ends meet. I had failed at advertising, and I longed, just once, to find real success. I mean, how was I to be trusted with a baby when I couldn’t even be trusted with a feminine hygiene account? The thought depressed me.
“Listen,” I said, still looking squarely at his handsome face. “We’re not going down this road right now. Jeb Carlson was murdered in the orchard last night and you’re suddenly remorseful about us—about the way we ended? What’s wrong with you?”
“Jesus, Whit, you think I’m not torn up about it? Jeb was my mentor. I’ve known the guy all my life, same as you. And then there’s your dad. Baxter’s in a heap of trouble. I’m sick just thinking about it … and thinking of you, with your mom here, trying to run this place all by herself and your dad in prison. And you,” he added with a deprecatory look, “what’s wrong with you? It took an old man dying to bring you back to the orchard. Maybe if you’d made it a point to be here more often, this wouldn’t have happened.”
I was agog. “What?” I uttered, my anger subdued by a bolt of white-hot guilt. Could it be true? I could feel the sting of tears, and my chin gave a slight tremble.
“Damn it,” he cursed. “I didn’t mean that. Look, we’re all a little on edge right now. And seeing you, why, I don’t mind telling you it’s like a ray of sunshine peering through a thunder cloud. I’m going to say it again and I don’t care if it makes you angry, but I’ve missed you, Whitney.”
“You do know that I’m only home for a short while … just until we can lay the matter of Jeb’s death to rest and set the inn to rights again.”
“I’m aware, but about that … what was the deal with you and McCopper back there, anyhow?” Although Tate’s voice was conversational, the look in his eyes was anything but. Confusion? Displeasure? Perhaps a flare of jealously? Yes, most definitely jealousy. Alpha dog jealousy. It was so foreign a look on him that it made me smile. This made Tate flinch. He turned from me and concentrated once more on driving aimlessly across the lawn while trying his hardest to not hit any of the guests. “Baxter said you went to the morgue with MacLaren today.”
“I did,” I replied. “I wanted to see the body for myself.”
“Talk about messed up.” Tate gave a disparaging shake of his head. “Why’d you want to see the body?”
“I thought there might have been some mistake. After hearing what happened last night—about that couple finding the body, and the fact that Dad’s croquet mallet was lying beside it—I just felt that something about Jeb’s death didn’t add up.” I didn’t mention that Jack had thought so too, or the fact that he’d been correct in his suspicions. And because Jack had been correct, everyone at the inn was now to be treated as a suspect, including my ex-boyfriend.
“Wish you’d talked to me about it first,” Tate said, his voice losing all trace of flirtation as he spoke. “Could have spared you the trouble. I saw the old man’s face last night. Very nasty. And it does add up, Whit. Baxter was playing with that mallet all day, and he most likely had it when he was heard arguing with Jeb over that secret wine they were making that got lifted.”
My heart stilled a moment at the mention of the wine. “How do you know about any of that?” I demanded. “That wine was a secret endeavor between Jeb and my father. No one was supposed to know they were making wine.”
“You’d be surprised at what people know around here,” Tate said cryptically. “I also happen to know your father explodes into fits of anger over troubling things. He could have hauled off and chucked his mallet in anger, not knowing Jeb was in the orchard. I’ve seen him throw his golf clubs tons of times. Do you know what I think? I think poor old Jeb was in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught the business end of Baxter’s mallet square in the face. And if that isn’t terrible enough, Sorensen confided to me last night that Baggsie might very well lose the inn over it.”
I was alarmed not only by Tate’s candor but by how much he knew about Dad, Jeb, and their secrets. He knew far more than I did, including the fact that a murder at the inn might be more devastating than anyone thought. My parents couldn’t really lose the inn over it, could they? It was more than I cared to consider, and just the mention of it set off a wave of sweat-inducing panic. Then I looked at Tate. “Sorensen?” I asked. “Who’s this Sorensen you’re talking about?” It was the first I’d heard the name.
“Brock Sorensen. The new business manager. He works for your dad.”
I remembered hearing something about Dad hiring a Sorensen a while ago, but I’d been too busy with my own affairs to give it much thought. Then I thought of something else. “Last night, after the body was discovered by the McSweenys, who went out to the orchard to check out their story?”
“We all did,” he replied.
“The entire inn went to look at the body?” It was a morbid thought.
“No. What I meant was, after the McSweenys came back to the inn believing they’d found a dead body, we all kind of freaked, especially when we realized that Jeb was nowhere to be found. I went with Briz to investigate, and when we found Jeb … ” Tate’s eyes began welling up with tears. “When we found the old guy looking like that, we couldn’t leave him. It was … ” He looked at me. I was moved by the genuine look of distress seizing his handsome features. I’d never seen Tate so overcome with emotion before. “It was totally barbaric,” he finished.
I reminded myself that Tate didn’t know Jeb had been poisoned first. Or if he did, he was doing a very good job of keeping it a secret. It was something to consider. Another thing to consider was the latest name I didn’t recognize. “Who’s Briz?” I asked.
“A friend of mine, Carleton Brisbane. He’s an independently wealthy businessman who has a sweet yacht that he keeps at my marina. Met him last year. Stayed nearly the whole summer, he loved Cherry Cove so much, and when he heard about the Cherry Blossom Festival, he just had to come. Made his reservation the very day he heard of it. Didn’t realize there were going to be so many couples, though. Thought there’d be more single women here. I mean, there are a few. There’s the three in the Cherry Suite up from Sheboygan for a girls’ getaway, and also a couple of older gals. The kind who wear sweaters with little cherries all over them.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” I added.
“And then there’s the ladies in the Woodland Suite from Whitefish Bay, but those two aren’t into men, if you know what I mean. And of the three in the Cherry Suite, two are divorcees in their forties and currently in their male-hating phase, and the other is a … well, she’s not exactly Briz’s type.”
I raised a brow at this. “Sorry to hear it. Well, no one can really predict who’s going to make reservations for such an event. But I think I remember Dad mentioning that name.
“Yeah. Briz is a friend of your dad’s as well. We all hung out quite a lot last summer. Briz is a golfer, and, like I said, he has a sweet yacht.”
I recalled how easily impressed Tate was. Then again, a wealthy man with a yacht might not be such a bad catch for a girl who baked pies for a living. I flashed Tate my sweetest smile. “And he’s single, you say? You must introduce us.”
Apparently Tate had never considered this before, and, from the look on his face, the thought wasn’t sittin
g too well with him. Deciding to let the matter drop, I asked, “Who else came out to the orchard when they heard about the body?”
“Your dad, of course, and Dr. Engle, Brock Sorensen, Briz, and me. It was just the five of us. No one else.”
I thought about that. I’d known Dr. Engle and Tate for a very long time. The other two I’d never met, and that made me instantly suspicious of them. “Tell me, was anyone eating cherries when they went to the orchard?”
Tate raised an eyebrow at this. “Not that I know of. Christ, we were all so full from that amazing dinner Boner whipped up that I don’t think anyone could’ve stomached eating cherries.”
Boner—or more correctly, Bob Bonaire—was head chef at the inn’s renowned restaurant. Bob was a kooky guy but an excellent chef, and had acquired the nickname Boner very early in his career. Obviously, it had stuck.
“Tate,” I began, placing a hand on his arm. I wanted to get his attention but instantly realized my mistake. Dang it, if I didn’t feel the living warmth of his skin, or how my heart quickened at the thought of what secrets lay hidden behind his sensuous smile. For my own self-preservation, I removed my hand instantly, but it was too late. We had both felt it. “Hahem.” I cleared my throat and scooted over as far as I could without falling out of the Gator. “I appreciate you telling me all this, just as I appreciate you saving me from that reporter. I don’t think I could have stomached talking with her just now.”
I was trying hard to ignore the heat in Tate’s eyes. He’d let his gaze settle on my hand a moment before looking me in the eyes again. His foot, I realized, had come off the gas. The reason, I saw, was that we’d finally arrived at the private back entrance to the family quarters. Tall grass and wildflowers flanked the pathway, and the faint yet distinct smell of cherry blossoms tickled my nose.
