Kiss the Moon

by Carla Neggers

  Like most of the other villages on the lake, Cold Spring was busiest in the summer and fall, but from the mix of shops on its maple-lined Main Street, Wyatt guessed it had a strong year-round population. Signs were discreet, storefronts neat and pretty even on a dreary March afternoon. Wyatt noticed shops that sold antiques, vintage clothing, quilts, gifts and the like, which the tourists would enjoy, but he also saw a pharmacy, a diner, a photo and print shop, a clothing store—the sort of shops one needed when a mall wasn’t close at hand.

  He pulled into a parking space in front of the diner, fed the meter and went in for a very late lunch and whatever local gossip he could pick up about one Penelope Chestnut. So far, no sign of Jack Dunning, not that Jack would willingly share his findings with his boss’s son.

  The diner was crowded for four o’clock on a bleak Tuesday afternoon. A plump waitress with perfect mauve nails was moving down the counter with a pot of coffee. Five booths lined the opposite wall, three of them filled. Reporters, Wyatt guessed. They’d be up from Boston and New York and God knew where else to check out the sighting of Frannie Beaudine and Colt Sinclair’s plane. The story had probably evaporated before they’d arrived, and now they were having a bite to eat in a country diner before heading back to the city.

  Wyatt slid onto the one unoccupied stool at the counter and listened.

  “Of course she’s lying,” a middle-aged man at the other end of the counter said. “The question is why.”

  A skinny woman yawned. “No one gives a shit, ace. The people don’t care about Penelope Chestnut. The people care about the fate of Frannie and Colt.”

  “One of these days I want to meet ‘the people,’” an older woman grumbled, “because I don’t give a rat’s ass about Frannie and Colt, either. I just care about that last piece of coconut pie sitting over in that case.” She raised her voice. “Miss, you earmark that pie for me, okay?”

  Wyatt managed to get in an order of grilled ham and cheese on rye and coffee while listening to the reporters grouse and catching the locals—two men in flannel shirts at one of the booths—grinning at the wild-goose chase Penelope Chestnut had put them on. From what he gathered, she’d done this sort of thing before. Maybe not this precise thing—crying wolf about a famous long-missing plane—but stirring up trouble in her small lakeside village.

  Then he got it. A scrap of conversation, a link between what was being said on one end of the diner and the other.

  Miss Penelope was a pilot.

  Wyatt smiled. Pilots he understood. He wasn’t one himself, but he’d hung out with them, used their services and appealed to their sense of adventure for most of his twenties and the first two years of his thirties. Now he was thirty-four, a suit behind a desk. He grimaced and drank his coffee and ate his sandwich. When he paid his tab, he got directions to the airport from the waitress.

  “Penelope won’t be there,” she said. “She’s flying today. And she’s not talking to reporters.”

  Wyatt didn’t disabuse her of her notion that he was a reporter. As instructed, he followed the main road the way he’d come, turned left at a flower shop, followed that road—its massive potholes and frost heaves required bright orange warning signs—until he came to a perfunctory green sign that said Airport. Bingo. He turned onto a barely paved country road, bounced over it until he came to a precious stretch of flat land. The Cold Spring Airport. It wasn’t much of an airport, but he hadn’t expected much. The one runway and three small hangars fit with his image of the woman who said she’d found Frannie and Colt’s plane, then said she didn’t.

  He rocked and rolled over the undulating dirt parking lot and did his best to avoid the huge holes that had opened up with the warming temperatures. They’d filled with water that, presumably, would ice overnight and melt again tomorrow. Leaves on the trees, flowers and green grass all seemed a long, long way off.

  Wyatt parked next to a mud-spattered hunter-green truck. It had four-wheel drive. So did the SUV next to it. His car did not. The air was damp and cold, the kind that got into the bones. He picked his way through water-filled holes to a small, squat building with a crude sign indicating Office. People did get to the point around here.

  A sixtyish man stood out front, glaring at the gray tree line. Without even glancing at Wyatt, he said, “If you’re from the press, the story’s over. You can go home.”

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  He turned, but Wyatt sensed his mind was still on whatever he expected to find on the tree line. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Penelope Chestnut. As I said, I’m not a reporter, but I would like to talk to her about what she found in the woods.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re a Sinclair.”

  His tone hadn’t changed. He fit the stereotype of the naturally stoic, taciturn New Englander. Wyatt checked his surprise. “Yes, I’m Wyatt Sinclair. Colt was my uncle.”

  “You’re Brandon’s boy.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Wyatt said, “That’s right.”

  A heavy, fatalistic sigh, as if he should have expected a Sinclair to wander into town. “Your father sent his own investigator, you know. Jack Dunning. He’s flying up—he’s taking a detour over your family’s land first. I suppose he’ll try to spot Penelope’s dump.”

  “Jack’s thorough. I’m here for my own reasons.”

  “I see. Well, Penelope’ll be coming over those treetops in about three minutes. She’s low on fuel. Not paying attention. Too damned much going on. I never should have let her fly today.” He bit off an irritated sigh. “I’m her father, Lyman Chestnut.” He put out a hand, and they shook briefly. “I knew your grandfather, and your father and uncle.”

  Wyatt nodded. His father had never mentioned Lyman Chestnut.

  “I was fifteen when Colt disappeared,” the older man went on. “Tough break. It happens. We had a plane go down about an hour west of here a couple years ago, and it still hasn’t been found.”

  He stared at the horizon, and Wyatt got the message. Whatever he might believe about what his daughter had found on Sunday, Lyman Chestnut was on her side.

  The office door opened, and a heavyset woman thrust her hands on her ample hips and said, “Jesus Christ, Lyman, I can’t believe that girl! She says she’s running on fumes. She’s going to land. You want me to get the ambulance and fire department up here?”

  “Get the police, because when this is over, one of us is going to be arrested. Her or me. I’ve had it, Mary. She’s crossed the line.”

  Mary snorted. “Now, how many times have I heard that?”

  A small Beechcraft materialized above the treetops, and Lyman Chestnut held his breath. Wyatt thought everything looked just fine. It seemed to have good speed. A normal descent. It landed smoothly on the single paved runway without a hitch.

  Lyman breathed out with a whoosh, but his relief only lasted a moment before he clenched his teeth. “Goddamn it, this time she’s grounded.” He turned to the gray-haired woman, who still had her hands on her hips and was shaking her head in disgust, whether because Penelope had landed safely or didn’t have the close call she apparently deserved Wyatt couldn’t tell. Lyman pointed a thick finger at her. “Mary, you hear that? I’m grounding her. I own the goddamned plane. I’m her goddamned boss. I can goddamned ground her.”

  So much for stoic and taciturn. Wyatt judiciously kept quiet.

  “For how long?” Mary asked.

  “Thirty days.”

  “She’ll go crazy. She’ll drive all of us crazy.”

  “Three weeks, then.”

  Wyatt stood between two dripping icicles and watched Lyman march up to the Beechcraft. He moved at a fast, determined clip. He wasn’t a big man, a couple inches under six feet, and his granitelike features didn’t bode well for the woman in the cockpit, given that they were related.

  By the time he arrived, Penelope Chestnut had jumped onto the runway, beaming, no indication she’d given herself a scar
e.

  “Well, well,” Wyatt said under his breath.

  He assessed her from a distance. Gray flight suit that would have done NASA proud, dark blond hair in a fat braid that had long since gone wild, athletic body, height just an inch or two under her father’s—and attractive. Not cute or elegantly beautiful, but striking. Unless the package all fell apart a few yards closer, Penelope Chestnut was not what Wyatt had expected. On his way north, he’d developed two different images of what he’d find. Both were older than he was. Neither had her flying planes. In one, she was the stereotypical pinch-faced New Englander with no makeup, faded turtleneck and tweeds, sensible shoes. In the second, she was the dairy farmer and earth mother. Cows, kids, land, gardens, dogs, cats, maybe a few chickens.

  Obviously he’d been way off the mark.

  Lyman Chestnut started in on her, pointing a callused finger, and Penelope about-faced and walked off as if they’d done this all before. Her father hollered so half the state of New Hampshire could hear. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you were in control of the situation, you’re still grounded!”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. Without turning around. That bit of prudence was the only point Wyatt had seen so far in Lyman’s parenting favor.

  “I saw that, Penelope Chestnut,” Mary said from the office door. “You’re lucky you have a father who cares about you. You’ve scared the bejesus out of him more times than any daughter has a right to and still live.”

  Penelope took a breath. Up close, Wyatt saw that the last few minutes had taken their toll on her, after all. She was a bit paler and shakier, he expected, than she wanted anyone to see. He also saw that she had green eyes, greener even than her father’s. She said, “I’ve scared the bejesus out of myself a time or two.”

  “Ha. The day you’re scared, I want to be in the front row. Do I need to call the FAA?”

  “No, Aunt Mary. Good heavens. I didn’t crash. I just didn’t get an accurate fuel reading before I left Plattsburgh. I never should have told you.”

  Mary sighed loudly. “Your father’s right. What you need is a break, and a break’s what you’re going to get. I still have the paperwork from the last mishap, before Lyman softened. He won’t this time. I won’t let him.”

  “Damn it, Aunt Mary, this is collusion. I have rights—”

  “Not here you don’t, missy.”

  Mary withdrew into the office, and the door banged shut behind her. Wyatt thought he saw a glimmer of humor—and affection—in Penelope Chestnut’s eyes. Then they focused on Wyatt, and he could see the wariness come into them—but no hint of embarrassment over the scene he’d just witnessed.

  Before Wyatt could introduce himself, Lyman caught up with his daughter and, containing his obviously still-boiling anger, jumped in ahead of him. “Penelope, this gentleman wants to see you about the junk you found in the woods. Talk to him. Then come talk to me. Wyatt, this is my daughter, Penelope Chestnut. Penelope, Wyatt Sinclair. Brandon’s son.”

  He stood back as if expecting fireworks. Penelope tilted her head, slightly, studying Wyatt with a frankness that somehow didn’t surprise him. Boots, jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket, no hat, no gloves. She seemed to take in all of him with that one appraising look, no problem shifting from her troubled landing and her quarrel with her father to a Sinclair on the premises.

  “I drove up from New York this morning,” Wyatt said.

  “I see. Well, I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, but I don’t have anything to tell you except that I screwed up. Low blood sugar, bad light, an overactive imagination.” She shrugged, matter of fact. “I didn’t find your uncle’s plane. I found an old dump. That’s all there is to it. Look, I have to see about my plane—”

  “I’ll be seeing about your plane,” her father broke in. “You might as well have a cup of coffee with Wyatt here. You’re going to have three weeks to kill. And that’s just for starters. If I don’t like what I see in three weeks, you’ll have another three weeks to cool your heels.”

  “I don’t need a break. I need to fly more.”

  “You don’t fly to get your head together. You fly when your head’s together.”

  She turned to Wyatt. “Never fly for your own father.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Wyatt saw that immediately, even if Penelope didn’t. Her father swallowed his anger and allowed his natural stoicism to reassert itself. He said calmly, making it impossible to be misunderstood, “I am not acting as your father right now. I am acting as a responsible owner of six charter planes and a flight instructor for the last thirty years who has the right and the duty to ground an unfit pilot. And you, Penelope Chestnut, are unfit to fly.”

  “Fine,” she said without missing a beat, “then I’ll boil sap.”

  Wyatt would have throttled her right then and there.

  “Have coffee with Sinclair here,” Lyman said, teeth gritted, patience spent, and headed to the runway and his daughter’s plane.

  His departure left Penelope alone with a Sinclair, which made Wyatt wonder if his family’s reputation was as bad in Cold Spring as he’d been led to believe. Then again, Lyman Chestnut could simply believe a Sinclair would insist on talking with his daughter and best get it over with.

  With one hand, Penelope stuffed stray hair behind her ears, missing even more than she captured. She had a face that was all angles and straight lines—except her mouth, which was soft and full. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and she wore tiny silver hoops on her ears. Her green eyes narrowed on him. “I’m sorry you had to witness that little spat. Pop worries too much— I don’t know, maybe I should go easy on him. It’s been a crazy couple of days. Do you really want to go for coffee? I don’t have a thing to tell you.”

  No question in his mind she had a lot she could tell him—if she would. “I’d love some coffee.”

  She shrugged. “As you wish.”

  He made a move to go into the office, but she shook her head. “Not here. Aunt Mary’s into flavored coffees. I think today’s is raspberry. Blechh. My mother and cousin own an inn on the lake—they serve coffee and tea in the afternoon. And they make the best scones in New Hampshire, maybe all of New England. I think today’s are currant.”

  “Sounds fine.”

  “You’re not the investigator your father sent up here, are you? I had the impression it was someone he’d hired.”

  “That would be Jack Dunning. He’s supposed to arrive soon—he’s flying up from New York, scoping out the landscape. He has his own way of doing things.”

  “Does he know you’re here?”

  Wyatt shook his head.

  “Your father?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I guess you’re a big boy and can do what you want to do. Let’s go. We can take my truck.”

  So the truck was hers. Here was a woman who flew planes, drove a truck and was off to have tea and scones at a lakeside inn. Definitely not what he’d envisioned—never mind the wild, wavy blond hair, the green, green eyes, the tight, sexy body, the flight suit, the keen wit.

  She stopped abruptly in the middle of the parking lot, tilted her head at the sky and took a deep breath. She held it a moment, then exhaled. “It’s a fine spring day. I’m glad I didn’t crash.”

  Yep, a pilot. She liked life a little on the edge. Maybe a lot on the edge.

  And suddenly Wyatt could see how she might have made the leap from old dump to Frannie Beaudine and Colt Sinclair’s plane. A missing plane was more exciting to find in the woods when you were lost and tired—and this woman would hate to be either—than an old dump.

  Which meant his trek to New Hampshire could be for nothing.

  “I’m glad you didn’t crash, too,” he said dryly, “but this isn’t spring.”

  She grinned at him. “Technically, no. But the ice is melting and the sap is running—it feels like spring to me.”

  Three

  A black-haired, black-eyed, suspicious-minded Sinclair in a leather jacket.
Just what she needed. Still jumpy from her mishap in the air, Penelope waited for Wyatt Sinclair to climb into her truck. “Whoops—hang on a sec.” She whisked a little blue calico bag off his seat onto the floor. “Rose petal potpourri. I let Pop drive my truck and it came back smelling like an ashtray. He’s taken up smoking cigars. Disgusting.”

  “You have strong opinions.”

  “About cigars. Anyway,” she said, starting her truck, “opinions are by definition strong. Otherwise they’re not opinions.”

  She backed out over the rutted, washboard lot, which seemed even worse this year than usual. On the main road, she drove faster than was necessary, swerving around potholes, braking hard for frost heaves. She knew just where the worst ones had formed in the freezing, thawing, refreezing cycle of late winter and early spring that wreaked havoc on the roads yet made the sap run sweet.

  Beside her, Wyatt Sinclair didn’t say a word. He was exactly what she’d expected of a Sinclair. Suspicious, probing, good-looking. He had a natural arrogance that she didn’t find as off-putting as she’d anticipated. It was just so…easy for him. Her research into Frannie and Colt had led to facts about the entire Sinclair family, including this first of his generation. He was well-educated, he spoke four languages, he was an expert mountain climber and outdoorsman, and he came close to killing himself every year or two.

  Two years ago, his luck ran out and tragedy struck during a climbing expedition in Tasmania, when bad weather and bad judgment combined to leave him bug-infested, dehydrated, infected, with three broken ribs, a broken leg and his hiking companion and best friend dead at his side. Penelope had read about the incident in the papers. Even the Cold Spring Reporter had picked up the story.

  She didn’t notice any obvious lingering effects of such a terrible ordeal. Maybe he’d gnashed his teeth and pushed, pulled, argued, rebelled and thrown himself into enough danger over the years to have established a certain peace with himself. Except he didn’t look peaceful, either.