by Jacie Floyd
“Probably not.” No point letting them see his disappointment over yet another dead end. “I guess it doesn’t matter so much why Old Maine closed.” Unless his uncle had lied or misled him about it for some reason. But Dylan wasn’t sure how that information fit in with all the rest. “But closing the plant seems to have worked out well for you.”
“Ay-uh, it did. I was master carpenter there, but I prefer being my own boss.”
“Lots of people do.” Gracie moved to take her grandfather’s pulse.
The old man pulled his wrist out of her grasp and took her hand in his. “Let me be, missy,” he grumbled. “Clay’s my doctor, not you.”
“Master carpenter,” Dylan repeated. “Sounds important. Did you know my father well?”
“Well enough.”
“How often did he come here?”
“About once a month. Sometimes more. Less after his election to the Senate, of course.”
“Who came in his place after that?” Gracie pushed her grandfather’s shoulder forward to fluff his pillow.
He frowned at her continued fussing and settled back, but Dylan caught the look of fondness the old man cast toward her. “One of his brothers, usually. Tommy or Arthur.”
“How often did any of them come here unrelated to work?”
“They came down to sail or fish some. But if they didn’t stop in at the factory, I usually didn’t see ‘em.”
“They often stopped at the bakery,” Mrs. Lattimer offered. “Tommy especially had a fondness for my snickerdoodles.”
“Snickerdoodles, huh?” He flicked a hot glance toward Gracie and smiled. “I’d like to try those.”
“Did you ever see any of them around at a time or place you wouldn’t have expected to?” Gracie asked her grandparents, but her cheeks colored at the look from Dylan.
Mrs. Lattimer frowned. “Are you asking about their relationship to Lana?”
“Or anything unusual you might remember.”
The old couple sealed their lips in exact replicas of one another.
“We’re not asking you to gossip, Gran. We’re asking you to help Clay.”
Mrs. Lattimer features relaxed slightly. “I really don’t recall anything useful. Do you, Chester?”
“No.”
Just Dylan’s luck. Two of the few lucid people still living with a good opportunity to have witnessed his family’s activities would have to be as closed-mouthed as clams. “I saw the picture Mrs. Lattimer took of Gracie with my father the day he died. Is that the last time either one of you saw him?”
“Chester wasn’t there that day, were you, dear? If he had been, he would have gotten Cuddles out of the tree for Gracie.”
“The last time I saw him was the Saturday before that,” Mr. Lattimer said. “I always regretted not getting a chance to talk to him.”
“Why didn’t you, Granddad?”
“I went to the factory that night to get a tool I needed. I was making a cradle for Tricia Schultz. Remember that, Nora?” He waited for his wife’s head nod. “Tricia saw a picture of a fancy British nursery in a magazine and nothing would do for her but that I duplicate the cradle. She’s one of our godchildren, so I told her I’d try even though she hadn’t left me much time. The baby was due within a couple of weeks.”
“So, you went to the factory on a Saturday night?” Dylan asked. “And my father was there?”
“When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw him closing his car trunk. I thought he’d see me driving up and wait. But by the time I parked the truck, his taillights were disappearing down the road.”
“If you only saw him at a distance, late at night,” Gracie said, “how do you know it was Dylan’s father?”
Mr. Lattimer harrumphed. “I guess I’d recognize that cream-colored Mercedes of his, shinin’ like a pearl in the moonlight.”
Dylan remembered that land yacht. A beauty and hard to mistake. His mother had kept it at the Connecticut house, even after they moved to New York. “Are you sure it was the week before he died?”
Mr. Lattimer looked to his wife for confirmation.
“That fits with Gretchen’s Halloween birthday,” Mrs. Lattimer said.
Dylan’s glance sought Gracie’s across the room. She seemed to be trying to fit the pieces together, too. “The same weekend Lana disappeared.”
“Ay-uh, it was.” The old man’s head bobbed up and down like a buoy at sea. “The next day David came by with young Clay in tow. He left the boy with us while he filed the missing person report on Lana. You and Clay helped me plane the cradle rockers, remember that?”
Dylan’s stomach lurched over the coincidence that placed his father in the vicinity on the night of Lana Harris’s disappearance. His throat constricted, cutting off any comment he might have made.
“Of course.” Gracie chose to steer the conversation down a more innocuous road. “I always loved helping you in the workshop. After you come home, you’ll have to show it to Dylan. I’ll bet he’s never seen anything like it.”
“It’s not much compared to the setup we had at Old Maine.” Mr. Lattimer shrugged. “But it suits my needs.”
“I peeked inside the other day.” Dylan understood from Gracie’s veiled look that she wanted him to give the questions a rest. “But I didn’t know what half the stuff was. And I could sure use some carpentry advice before I tackle my cabin.”
“Have you been down to the dock? The last time I was out that way it looked in need of repair. Getting the cabin in livable condition must be your top priority, but the dock could be dangerous if someone tried to put a boat in down there.”
“I’ll check it out this afternoon. I have a lot of good memories of sailing and boating with my dad.”
Gracie scanned the medical chart again, then checked her watch and pushed a button.
A nurse Gracie knew from high school entered and took the chart from Gracie. “Gracie, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “Did you know Mindy’s back in the hospital?” The woman picked up Chester’s arm and wrapped it in a blood pressure cuff. “I was hoping you can stop by and see her. You know, not as a doctor, since you’re not licensed in this state, just as a friend.”
“Is it her asthma again, Gina?”
“Yep. Every time we think she’s doing fine, it flares up again, and she doesn’t bounce back as quick as she should.”
“I haven’t seen her in ages. Does she still have that American Girl collection? I’ll stop in later with something new for her.”
“Thanks, Gracie. You’re so easy to talk to, she always relaxes around you.” Gina rolled her eyes and checked Chester’s temperature. “Not like some of the other doctors that scare her.”
“You take good care of Granddad and I’ll look in on Mindy.”
“Sure thing,” Gina agreed. “He and I get along great, don’t we, Chester?”
Dylan and Gracie made their goodbyes and left Gina with her patient. They boarded the elevator and stood across from one another. Dylan was content to watch her. Gracie fidgeted beneath his regard.
“Are you going to check on Clay’s trust?” She tripped out of the elevator and into the lobby. He steadied her with a hand on her elbow.
“I’ll do what I can by phone.” They turned in opposite directions at the hospital entrance. “Will I see you later?”
“Sure, I’ll be around.” She backed a couple of steps away, hesitated, then returned. “Why’d you decide to have the DNA testing?”
Now it was his turn to fidget. “I still don’t believe Clayton’s my brother. But if he is, he deserves better treatment than he’s gotten from us.” He shrugged at her raised eyebrows. “Grandfather always said ‘Bradfords take care of their own.’”
She drew his head down and gave him a long, hot, steamy kiss that sizzled his lips, fried his brain, and made his cock as stiff as a poker.
“Thank you,” she said as she slipped away.
Hell, he’d agree Clayton was his clone for another kiss like that.
&
nbsp; “You’re both assigned to the strawberry team,” Gracie informed a pair of ice cream volunteers at the church. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the noise in the social hall where members of the congregation manufactured the last batches of frozen heaven for the start of the festival the next day.
“Don’t worry about us, Gracie.” Jeannie lifted a bib apron over her head and tied it behind her ample frame. “Our strawberry will be so good that people will come back for seconds.”
Gracie leaned in to speak confidentially. “Gran always says your ice cream is the best.”
“She says that about anyone who volunteers.” Jeannie’s cackle shook her row of chins. “Dishing out compliments is how your grandmother gets everyone to help every year.”
“True,” Reverend Jonathon Peterman chimed in from a nearby table. “Gracious volunteers and generous praise are the keys to our success.”
His wife, Polly, provided another team with a quart of chopped cherries. “I love how everyone in the congregation pulls together to work on worthwhile projects.”
“The festival is a good way to meet people. Sooner or later, everyone stops by to help.”
“Even Clayton.” The reverend nodded at someone over Gracie’s shoulder. “Good to see you outside the hospital, Clay.”
“Hello, Reverend and Mrs. Peterman.” Clay stopped beside Gracie, tense and taut as a bow. “Gracie.”
“Didn’t David come with you?” the reverend asked. “I thought I saw his name on the list of volunteers tonight.”
“He’s not feeling well. I offered to take his place. Would you stop by to see him tomorrow, Reverend? I think he’s doing too much and should cut back. Maybe he’ll listen to you better than he does me.”
The reverend shook his head as he mashed bananas. “I’ll talk to him, but I don’t know if it’ll do much good.”
“You know what a strong sense of duty he has.” Gracie fought the urge to drop everything and go check on him. “He’ll never say no if someone needs him.”
Clay brushed his hair off his forehead. “That’s usually his greatest attribute. But right now, it’s a flaw where his health is concerned.”
“I’m surprised he let you come to work for him tonight,” Polly said. “He must really feel bad.”
“He wasn’t happy about it. Put me to work wherever you want, but I’d like to talk to Gracie first.” He shot her a guarded look. “Do you have a minute?”
“Oh, my yes,” Polly answered for her. “I can hold down the fort while she takes a break. No problem.”
“Thanks, Polly. Hang on a second, Clay.” Gracie opened one of the freezers, took out a small plastic bowl, snagged a couple of spoons, and led the way to the church parlor
When they sat side by side on a loveseat, Gracie lifted the lid on the bowl and handed Clay a spoon. “It’s peach.” She wiggled her eyebrows in invitation. “Your favorite.”
“We’re eating the festival ice cream?” He feigned shock. “Is this legal?”
“Quality-control check.” She dug right in. “I’ve been dreaming about this all day. The first bite is always the best.” Closing her eyes, she rolled the rich creaminess over her tongue. “Consider it a taste test.”
Clay took the dish and inserted his spoon. “Mmmm. Delicious.”
Gracie hoped this peace offering would smooth over the ill-will from the afternoon, but didn’t expect immediate success. Clay usually took his time putting unexpected change into perspective.
He looked tired and pensive, and still bruised from the fight the night before. After a second bite, the companionable silence came to an end.
“Gracie, about this afternoon...”
She held up her hand in a stop sign. “Stay out of it.”
“If you’re saying it’s all right for you to poke your nose into my business, but I’m not allowed to even comment on yours, you can forget it. For your information, I’d just as soon you butt out of Dylan’s investigation.”
“I’m doing it for you.”
He snorted. “Bull.”
“If it weren’t for me, the two of you wouldn’t even be talking to one another.” Not technically true, but close enough.
“If it weren’t for me,” he countered, “Dylan Bradford wouldn’t be within five hundred miles of here, which is why I feel responsible for your involvement with him.”
“There’s no involvement,” she denied too quickly.
“It sure looked that way to me when you had your tongue down his throat.”
“Clay...” She blew a breath upward, displacing wisps of hair from her forehead. Since she didn’t understand the attraction between Dylan and her, she sure didn’t know how to explain it to Clay. “It was one kiss. That’s all. I’m not his type. He’s not mine. And I’m not in over my head.” Much.
Clay frowned before licking ice cream off his spoon. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She smiled in acknowledgment of his concern. “I won’t.”
“Right.” He tossed up a hand in resignation. “Just like you didn’t break your arm that time I told you not to jump off the roof of the garage into your sandbox.”
“You loved it when that happened. You got to practice your first-aid skills until Mom and David showed up to find out what I was squalling about.”
“If you had stayed still like I told you, it wouldn’t have hurt nearly so bad.” He smoothed his hand over her forearm, as if still trying to relieve her pain.
“I never would follow good advice.”
He shook his head ruefully, a corner of his mouth quirked into a near grin at the memory. “And I guess you never will.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” Gracie wasn’t nearly as sure as she sounded. “He won’t be here much longer, and neither will I. We’ll go our separate ways, and I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren that in a brush with the rich and famous, I kissed a Bradford once. Of course, he won’t be able to pick me out of a lineup within a week of being back in town.”
Clayton’s eyelids dropped down, and he cut her a look out of the corners of his eyes. “You make more of an impression than that.”
“Oh, sure.” She wanted to believe him, but good sense overruled wishful thinking. Besides, Clay’s opinion was always biased in her favor.
“When I’m acknowledged as a Bradford,” he said with his slow smile, “Dylan will have to accept you as part of my extended family.”
“That might be sooner than you think. Things are really moving along. Aren’t you thrilled about the DNA tests?”
The slow smile disappeared. “I guess.”
“You don’t sound thrilled. What’s bothering you now?”
He brooded so long she didn’t think he was going to tell her, but finally he came out with, “Something David said. This morning when he told me about the money, I asked him why he hadn’t told me about it sooner.”
“He’s always downplayed the possibility of a Bradford connection.” She was well aware of David’s stand on the subject.
“Right, but when I asked him why he was so reluctant to admit that it might be a possibility, he said…” The words came to a standstill.
She punched his shoulder. “He said what, for God’s sake?”
“He said he thought Matthew had killed my mother.”
The anguished statement caused Gracie’s heart to wrench for both Clay and Dylan. The knowledge that their father might have killed Lana would destroy any pleasure Clay would have in being acknowledged as a Bradford. And what would it do to Dylan? “Why does he think that?”
“I don’t know.” With elbows propped on his knees, Clay studied his shoelaces. “When I questioned him, he became so agitated that he had to take his nitro. I insisted he lie down, and I haven’t brought it up since. But you know David as well as I do. He’d never make an accusation without solid information to back it up.”
Gracie searched for something positive to offer. “On the other hand, he’s such a straight arrow that if he had solid inf
ormation, he would have shared it with the police a long time ago. So it must be something he suspects, not something he’s sure of. He could be wrong, you know.”
Clay’s despondent “Right” mirrored Gracie’s doubts. He lifted his head to look at her with troubled eyes. “Have you ever known him to be wrong before?”
“No, but you should try to talk to him again. Find out what he really does know.”
He sighed heavily. “That’s the plan, but he seems so fragile right now.”
Polly knocked on the door and popped her head inside the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Gracie, but the Taggertys accidentally put strawberries in a batch of peach ice cream. What do you suggest?”
“Fruit smoothies.” Standing, Gracie linked her hand with Clay’s and pulled him up with her. “C’mon, back to work.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dylan flicked a wall switch. A single overhead fixture provided him with enough light to locate the kitchen counter where he dumped a bag of cleaning supplies. Earlier, the electrician had strung cords with bulbs to augment the existing lamps. Dylan moved through the living room and kitchen flicking them on.
The scarred walls, buckled flooring, and sorry furnishings almost made him prefer the darkness. Only the spiders and rodents that dove for cover convinced him that the brighter the lighting, the better.
Years of decay and neglect permeated the room. He grimaced at the stench. With the woodsy noises outside providing background music, he rolled up his sleeves and tackled the shambles in the kitchen.
He’d hoped to have dinner with Gracie. But when he’d stopped by the B&B earlier, she was out. Probably just as well. In between the day’s chores, his thoughts had veered with tedious regularity between his father, Clayton, and Gracie.
Another phone call to Gilmore had gotten his assistant busy digging into Clay’s trust fund. Natalie promised to look through their father’s papers. He’d left another message for Uncle Arthur, urging him to question the law firm that had handled the deed and the trust as soon as possible. Both documents seemed connected with Clay’s paternity, but Dylan cast about for some scenario that didn’t end up with his father as the villain of the piece.
