by Adrianne Lee
So why was she furious with Chris?
The question pricked her conscience, demanded she face some truths. Wasn’t she actually angry with herself? Riled because she cared more for him than he cared for her? Because while they made love, she’d allowed herself to feel loved? And wanted? Had she really expected that feeling to endure? Expected him to feel the same? Contrition sifted through her, reproving Nikki. She wasn’t a child. An inexperienced ingenue. But she’d been giving a good imitation of one.
She wouldn’t apologize to Chris, but she would quit snapping at him. “Jorge may not tell us what we want to hear.”
“No matter.” Chris opened the door. “We have to try.”
“True.” Nikki watched him step into the hallway. “Let’s make it early. I want to visit Lorah at the hospital.”
She also intended to stop by the local library and look up old newspapers. More than ever, she wanted to find out whether or not a baby was mentioned in connection with Wedding House. And more than that, she wanted information on Luis De Vega, wanted to try and understand what was behind Chris’s shifting moods. Maybe she could even lay her hands on a blueprint of Wedding House.
THE NEXT MORNING dawned clear and cool. In its wake, the storm left behind a nightmare of branches and debris, disturbing the usual polished appearance of the grounds, and vexing Jorge Rameriz into a clean-up frenzy. He ordered his yardmen about with the efficiency of a ship captain directing his crew. Chris also pitched in, after telling Nikki they’d corner Rameriz later.
Nikki checked her e-mail, but neither Zeus nor Jellybean had responded. She returned to her room, feeling at loose ends. It was too early for the library to be open, too early for visiting the hospital. She glanced around, wondering again about secret passageways. Knowing Chris was occupied outside, she tapped on the inside walls, listening for a change in sound.
Inching along, she knocked and listened, knocked and listened. Once, twice, ten times. Solid thuds each one. Disappointment, laced with relief, saw her to the wall beside her closet. On the one hand, she wanted to believe there was a secret way into her room, an explanation of how the diary page could have been left by someone without a key.
On the other hand, she didn’t like the idea of someone entering her room whenever they wanted. Didn’t like thinking either of the Conrads would sneak in. Didn’t like thinking Chris would do that. She raised her knuckles and rapped the panel beside the closet. A hollow clunk. Nikki froze. Excitement billowing inside her, she tapped the wall again. The hollow sound echoed back to her.
Driven, she pushed, prodded and poked the length of wall from floor to ceiling and tried the same from inside the closet. After several minutes, she stood back and swore softly. If there was some way to open the panel from this side, she couldn’t find it. She needed the blueprints. Once she had those in hand, she’d present Chris with evidence he couldn’t deny and demand he show her how to access the passageways.
Meanwhile she couldn’t bear sitting here, watching the clock tick by. But she might get some answers—if City Hall were open. She called a cab and was soon heading down Hastings Avenue.
Wedding House sat on the shores near Cape George, almost directly across from the town of Port Townsend. Fifteen minutes later the cab slowed as it started along Water Street, the main drag through this charming seaport city.
Here, tourists congregated among the renovated and rejuvenated stretch of aged buildings that hugged Port Townsend Bay and that housed shops and restaurants geared to please with visual and culinary delights. The cab driver informed Nikki that the city was one of only three Victorian seaports on the National Historic Register, that it enjoyed an international reputation for its manufacturing of wooden sailing vessels and state-of-the-art motor yachts, and was famous for its many Victorian homes that had been converted to bed and breakfast inns, making it the B & B capital of the Pacific Northwest.
She already knew the latter. She directed the driver to the curb, thanked and paid him, then emerged near the Belmont Hotel. She intended to walk to her destination. Already the sidewalks were filling with families and shoppers of all ages. Nikki joined the throng heading toward Point Hudson.
As she walked, her gaze automatically scanned the eye-catching window displays. The morning was rapidly warming, but she felt a sudden chill on her neck. That odd sense of someone staring at her, following her. She stopped at a jewelry store and pretended to peer inside, stealing surreptitious glances back the way she’d come. No one seemed to be paying particular attention to her. Nor did she spot anyone pretending to be looking in a store window as she was doing.
Still, the sensation lingered. She ducked into the jewelry store and went to a window display that gave her a view of the sidewalk. She remained there for several minutes, but no one passed whom she recognized.
She started for the door when something in the display case caught her eye. A slew of tiny charms the size of those on Lorah Halliard’s bracelet. She studied them a long moment, then saw the perfect one, a tiny crystal ball. Deciding it would make a much better get-well gift than flowers, she bought it.
As she paid, she asked directions to City Hall and decided to try the old one on Madison first, since it was closest. On the street, another wave of anxiety swept her. Her skin crawled. She picked up her pace. Was someone stalking her? Planning a fatal attack in this pleasant town, on this pleasant day? The tang of salt air and traffic fumes tangled with the acrid taste of fear coating her tongue.
She determined not to glance over her shoulder. Half a block later she did. But if someone were spying on her, or following her, she couldn’t spot them.
Relief crashed through her as she sighted City Hall and hurried inside. She was breathing too hard and forced herself to calm down. She stood in a big empty lobby with a sign that stated the receptionist was upstairs. Council chambers took up the left half of the second floor, and various offices, the right. At the receptionist’s desk, a woman was busily working on a computer. She glanced up as Nikki approached. “May I help you?”
The woman had a beautiful face and a disposition to match, if her face-lighting smile were any indication. Nikki asked where she might find the office where residential blueprints were archived.
The woman’s brows lifted. “Oh, my. I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. You’ll be wanting to see the records manager in Archives. That’s in a building on Washington and Jefferson behind the County Courthouse.”
The receptionist gave her directions, and Nikki realized she was nowhere near it at the moment. She’d need another taxi. Maybe she should try the library first. “Where is the library?”
“Uptown. On Lawrence.”
“Is that within walking distance?”
“Both places are within walking distance, if you don’t mind a real hike, some of it uphill.”
After all the climbing she’d been doing up and down the stairs at Wedding House, Nikki figured she could manage a little more. She thanked the woman and descended to the deserted lobby.
Her sense of danger loomed as fresh and black as a swarm of flies. It gripped her insides with terror. She wanted to run to the door and out into the sunshine and safety of the crowded street. No. She had to quit giving in to this unfounded fear. She forced herself to walk normally.
She heard the footsteps behind her a millisecond before the huge hand landed on her shoulder.
Chapter Twelve
Nikki’s heart thudded. She spun around. Chris. Her breath wobbled from her. Dear God, was part of her actually glad to see him—in spite of the scowl on his appealing face? Anger at herself and at him bit her.
He said, “What are you doing at City Hall?”
“What am I—? You mean, supposing it were any of your business?” She struggled to stern her rising temper, to swallow the anxiety he’d roused. Play the game, Nikki. Find out what he knows. Don’t give anything away for free. She forced a smile. “I took a wrong turn, found myself outside the building and wandered in.”
He studied her hard. She suspected he knew she was lying but wasn’t sure what he should or could do about it. Had he been the one she’d sensed following her? She asked sweetly, “What are you doing here?”
He made a face. “Trying to get a fireworks permit. But it seems I need the Permits Department over by Castle Hill Center.”
Was he lying? Had he tailed her? They walked outside. The sun didn’t warm her as she’d anticipated it would minutes earlier. Had Chris overheard her conversation with the woman in the reception area upstairs? Did he know she wanted blueprints of Wedding House? Her mouth dried.
But why was she worried? Even if he’d eavesdropped, it didn’t mean he knew she was trying to find out about the secret passageways. If he asked, she would say she wanted the blueprints for her book. She wouldn’t tell him the truth until he started telling her the truth.
The annoying frustration she’d been experiencing the past few days sawed across her nerves. Her trip to the building department would have to be put off. She couldn’t go there with Chris in tow.
“Still want to visit the library?” he asked, letting her know he’d overheard at least part of her conversation. “It should be open by now.”
Without touching her, he held her close to his side, linked as acutely as though they shared a pair of handcuffs. What was it about this man that had climbed inside her from the moment they’d met? That demanded she notice him? That wouldn’t let her walk away without a backward glance? Without regrets? Longings?
Was it his erratic behavior that both repelled and attracted her? His roller-coaster ups and downs of one minute flying wild on an emotional free-for-all, and the next clutching the speed lever with white knuckles—controlling himself and everything and everyone? Chris Conrad was one ride she wanted off.
But how, when the sun glinted across his ebony hair, painting it a vivid blue-black? When seeing him seared her heart with longing and the need to feel loved again, as she had felt yesterday in his arms?
The thought sobered Nikki. If discovering the secrets of the past weren’t so important to her future, she’d return to Wedding House, pack and leave this very aftemoon. She had enough information to write her book. But she was no closer to finding her father.
Chris pointed toward the Jaguar parked not ten feet from them. “I’ll drive you.”
She couldn’t help but smile to herself. Chris was trying to control her even now—winding his invisible constraints around her. Why was she so susceptible to him? “Did you talk to Jorge?”
“No. Couldn’t get him alone. Whatever else he is, he’s very protective of the house and grounds. The clean-up was all he could think about.”
Chris opened the car door for her, and, like a good hostage, Nikki sank into the low-slung seat. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Yes.” He circled the rear of the car, waited for a break in traffic, then opened the driver’s door and climbed inside the Jag. “The library’s on Lawrence—in the same area as a lot of the bed and breakfast inns P.T. is famous for.”
He drove a circuitous route, past James House and Starrett House, Rothschild House and Hill House. The wind, briny and fresh, brushed her face, tasting sweet in her nostrils. The sun rose higher. Her view from the convertible was unobstructed, and Nikki admired the different mansions, most of which were built in the late 1800s and early 1900s by the settlers of the seaport town. “They’re wonderful.”
“There are dozens more,” Chris assured her with a chuckle.
His laugh filled her, melodic and resonating, stroking her senses like a master’s bow on a Stradivarius. Unbidden images sprang to mind, roused a deep yearning, an ache for something stronger than physical gratification, a connection of soul to soul. Honesty. Trust. Friendship.
All the things she’d never had with anyone. All the things she’d felt within her grasp yesterday with Chris.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “You know the anonymous note is what gave me the idea for my book. So, Wedding House was always the only B & B in Port Townsend I even considered, and I suppose you realize that I will use it for my book.”
“Yes,” he said with a trace of bitterness. “Its history is irresistible.”
“How that history affects me is the lure.”
“Be careful what you wish for.” He glanced toward her. His brown eyes exuded concern and a harsh glint of pained wisdom. “Sometimes a person is better off not knowing everything about their familial legacy.”
His words tapped the cold spot inside her, made it feel twice its normal size. But even that wouldn’t deter her. No matter what awful things her heritage held in store for her, she had to know.
“THE PORT TOWNSEND Public Library was once endowed by Andrew Carnegie,” Chris said, as he maneuvered into a parking space. “Then there was a big restoration project done with city and privately raised funds in the late 1980s, early 1990s.”
As they entered the library, Nikki was assailed with the smell of aged books and polished wood. She’d expected the inside of the building to be more modern, but the old-time feeling of it wrapped around her, welcoming her into an era she couldn’t otherwise visit. The whole place seemed to declare books and readers had always been its primary treasures and would continue to be so as long as the structure stood.
The front door led into a hallway with a room for children to the right, the main library to the left and stairs straight ahead. “We’ll be wanting old copies of the Leader,” Chris said. “They’re upstairs.”
The upper level consisted of two rooms. Nikki followed Chris into the second, a thirty by thirty space that resembled an old-fashioned parlor with its brick fireplace, upright piano and dark-wood-paneled walls. An elderly couple sat reading the daily news on an antique divan, and a young man occupied one of two reading tables. The musty dry scent of aging paper was stronger here.
Nikki glanced toward the ten-foot-high ceilings. All four walls had windows starting five feet from the floor and shelves below. Magazines, arranged alphabetically, stood on end in cardboard holders of green, burgundy and tan. Back issues included everything from Cosmopolitan to National Geographic.
Chris headed straight to a back wall, knelt before some bound newspapers and plucked one from the group. He laid it out on a nearby table, the portable folding kind with metal legs and hardboard surfaces. “This is the year you want.”
Nikki sat down. Chris took the chair next to her, looming tall and reassuring beside her, smelling too good for someone she’d declared off limits. Her pulse thrummed and her palms dampened. Because of Chris? Or what she might find in this folder of old newspapers?
Gingerly, she turned the seasoned pages of the Leader, hope and anticipation shivering through her. She found stories of a senator predicting the seventies recession, ferry news and scores of obituary notices. But birth announcements were few, only four that year, two girls and two boys, each accounted for by loving local families.
Disappointed, she tried the year before, then the year after. In a February issue she came across the first mention of Wedding House. It was the front-page story of the murders/suicide and the fire. It was obvious the reporter knew little of Luis De Vega, as the details were sketchy. He’d written more about the fire than the people who’d died.
All she learned was that the De Vegas had bought the ten acres near Cape George in the late 1800s, but had left it undeveloped until Luis inherited the property from his grandfather and had had Wedding House built the year before he married.
He and his bride had lived there for two years.
There was no mention of a baby or a child. In fact, the whole story was disappointingly lacking in detail.
Follow-ups included news that the case was closed, and that the mansion would be closed, as well, kept under the supervision of the groundskeeper and Luis’s sister, Delmara Conrad.
Frustration threatened to swallow Nikki. It seemed her only hope of learning more about Theresa and the baby Jorge Rameriz had mentioned was eith
er from Jorge himself, or through her e-mail sources.
“Next stop, the hospital,” Chris announced, appearing not to share her interest, as though he couldn’t wait to get away from the library, from the hateful news articles about his family history, while she ached to embrace any piece of news she could about her own family.
IN THE HOSPITAL PARKING lot, Chris got out and produced an armload of yellow roses from the trunk of the car. Nikki gaped. Given the price of roses, she was floored he bought so many. “Looks like you cleaned out a florist shop.”
“Lorah’s favorite flower.”
“Oh?” How had he known that?
As though he’d read her mind, he answered, “Liv insisted.”
Nikki thought about this, wondering whether or not the Conrads were trying to salve their consciences over Lorah’s collapse, as if by employing Jorge they felt personally responsible.
She supposed they might very well be.
She fingered the tiny charm in her pocket, thinking its price rivaled that of the flowers. Why had she spent so much on someone she barely knew? Her heart was a stone, heavy in her chest. Because she couldn’t forget the way Lorah had collapsed. Kept seeing her mother. Kept praying this would be different. She wanted desperately to celebrate a recovery. Needed it.
They made their way to the Coronary Care Unit and inquired at the nurses’ station about Lorah Halliard. The nurse asked whether or not they were family, then directed them to speak to the woman in the waiting room. Lorah’s daughter. She was a dark-haired woman in her thirties, weeping into a hankie. An older man was consoling her.
Chris said, “Miss Halliard?”
