“You’re going to stay here? Why? There are hotels in Laconia—”
“I prefer to stay in Cold Spring.”
Penelope nearly choked. Harriet, her mother and Wyatt Sinclair. No…
He paid Terry and walked to the front desk, leaving Penelope to sputter, recover her senses and follow. How could she explain her cousin to him? The dump in the woods was enough to swallow.
Harriet was at the front desk. Tall, plain, blue-eyed, sensitive Harriet. Penelope felt a rush of emotion. Although her cousin was fifteen years her senior, Penelope was the one who was protective, who did what she could to allow Harriet her illusions of gentility and refinement. When she was small, Harriet would read her L. M. Montgomery, Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott, and she let Penelope thumb through her scrapbook of pretty houses and gardens she clipped from magazines. They’d had tea parties, trimming the crusts from their sandwiches, and they’d played dress-up with clothes from the church attic, Edwardian dresses, feathered hats, impossible shoes. With unwavering patience, Harriet had tried to teach Penelope crewel embroidery and needlepoint, but their lessons usually ended with blood all over everything. Penelope had found ways to prick her fingers—and often Harriet’s—with even the bluntest of needles.
Sunrise Inn was perfect for Harriet. It took all her yearnings and all her skills and put them together in a profitable business. She had a suite of rooms on the third floor, as precious and perfect as she could ever want. If she longed for marriage and children, she never said. Certainly no one in Cold Spring expected her to take a husband—who would it be?
She wasn’t naive, innocent or stupid. There was a core niceness to her that people tended to respect, and perhaps, as a result, she brought out the best in them. That was what Penelope found herself wanting to protect. Harriet wasn’t cynical or bitter about anything, including the guests who stayed at her inn. She wouldn’t become one of those businesspeople who griped about the tourists.
But the thing was, Harriet was also just a little odd.
“Penelope, I don’t believe you. I just got off the phone with your father. He said he’s grounded you. All I can say is it’s about time. A wonder you haven’t given that man a heart attack.”
“Harriet, Pop’s going to live to be a hundred. Look, I’ve got to run—”
But Harriet’s brows drew together, and clear, blue eyes—easily her best feature—focused on the tall, dark man next to her cousin. She expected an introduction. Penelope knew she expected an introduction, and she silently cursed her father for not mentioning there was a Sinclair in town. It was the coward’s way out. He knew damned well she’d find out.
Before Penelope could sort through this latest dilemma, Wyatt stepped forward, playing the gentleman. “You have a lovely inn, Miss Chestnut. I was wondering if you might have a room available for tonight. My name’s Wyatt Sinclair. I drove up from New York this morning.”
Penelope groaned inwardly.
Harriet gawked, turning pale. She fumbled around on her antique desk, trying to find something to do with her hands, her fingers finally closing on a pen. Penelope felt for her. This was the day Harriet had waited for her entire life, when she would stand face-to-face with a Sinclair. “Um—are you related to the Sinclairs—the Sinclairs who own the land up above the lake—Colt—”
“Brandon Sinclair is my father. Colt was my uncle. I never knew him. He disappeared before I was born.”
“Oh.” She breathed out, her lower lip trembling. “Oh, dear.”
Wyatt glanced at Penelope, who was making a show of pretending she wasn’t listening. Damn him for being so smooth. She snatched up a jar of maple syrup from a display of goods the inn had for sale and held it to the light. “Harriet, I wouldn’t call this Grade A. I think it’s Fancy.”
Sinclair wasn’t giving an inch. Instinctively suspicious, he was probably wondering why she didn’t want him staying at the inn. “Do you have a room?” he asked Harriet gently.
She nodded, clutching her shirt. She favored cotton button-down shirts and skirts or jumpers, sensible shoes. She didn’t dye her graying, mousy brown hair, just kept it parted in the middle and pulled back, occasionally pinned up. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll freshen it up myself. We’ve had reporters here the past two nights…” She took a breath, steadying herself. “But they’ve all left now that Penelope changed her story.”
“Well,” Wyatt said, “I won’t be leaving for a while.”
Penelope thumped down the jar. “What do you mean, a while? A while could be a week. There’s no reason—”
“I came all this way, I might as well check out the land my family owns.” He glanced at Penelope, his dark eyes unreadable, his mouth neutral, neither smiling nor unsmiling. She had no doubt—not one—that he knew he was getting under her skin. “I’ve never seen it.”
She was beside herself. “It looks like all the other land around here. Steep hills. Trees. Rocks. Brooks. Stone walls.”
“Turn-of-the-century dumps,” he added without detectable sarcasm. Unmoved by her protest, he turned to Harriet. “I’d like to reserve a room for three nights, perhaps longer.”
“As long as you wish, Mr. Sinclair. This is our slow time.”
“I rode with your cousin from the airport. I’ll check in after I’ve picked up my car.”
“You can check in whenever you want.”
He smiled, laying on the charm. “Thank you, Miss Chestnut.”
“My pleasure. Penelope—”
“I’ll talk to you later, Harriet. The scones were spectacular today, as usual.”
Penelope had no intention of chitchatting with her cousin. Couldn’t she tell she wanted Wyatt Sinclair out of town? Not Harriet. There was a simple reason she could deal with the public with such genuine good cheer—Harriet was oblivious to the undercurrents between people. She took them at face value, and that was that. Which was why she’d missed Penelope’s frustration with Sinclair, the phoniness of his charm and how much he was enjoying thwarting her. If she was going to stick to her story, he could at least do something she didn’t want him to do. Jerk her chain. Rattle her.
As if the black leather jacket and the strong, lean build weren’t enough, Penelope thought grimly.
She started for the door, assuming Sinclair would follow. To her relief, he did. She glanced at Harriet. “Oh, and if Mother calls, I’d like to tell her myself I’ve been grounded, not that she won’t have heard it from half the town by now.”
“Your father already told her. She’s staying out of it.”
Just as Penelope had expected. If Robby Chestnut was anything, it was laissez faire when it came to her husband’s relationship with their daughter, especially if flying was involved.
Penelope charged through the door and into the chilly, damp air. She never should have picked the Sunrise Inn, except that during the crisis, thinking about Harriet’s scones had helped her stop berating herself for not properly preflighting her plane.
Her father’s plane, she amended, suddenly feeling quite grouchy.
When she finally had Wyatt Sinclair in her truck, she gripped the wheel and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day. And it showed no signs of improving.
“What’s the matter?” he asked mildly, knowing damned well he’d struck a nerve. “Is Harriet the crazy cousin who snuck out of the attic?”
“No, she’s the crazy cousin we should lock in the attic.” Penelope shook her head, debating how much she should tell Sinclair about her cousin before he spent the night under her roof. Tears rushed to her eyes. Damn. That was all she needed, to start crying. Harriet, Harriet. What am I going to do with you? She took one last look at the Sunrise Inn, shook her head and started the engine. “You knew I don’t want you staying there.”
“Why not?”
“Harriet’s—she’s—” This wasn’t going to be easy. “You’re the first Sinclair she’s ever met.”
“I’m the first Sinclair you’ve ever met. It hasn’t seemed to affect
you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
She thrust her truck into gear and let out the clutch. “It’s not my place, but if you’re intent on sticking around town for a few days, you’ll find out anyway. If no one else tells you, Harriet will herself.” She exhaled slowly, refusing to imagine the results if that happened. Would Sinclair laugh hysterically? Threaten her? Call in the men in white jackets? “Look, she’s a sweet soul.”
“And?”
“Well, she thinks she’s one of you.”
Wyatt frowned. “You’re right. I don’t understand.”
Penelope bit her lower lip. “Harriet is convinced she’s Colt and Frannie’s long-lost daughter.”
Four
T hat was all Wyatt could get out of her. The plain, sweet-souled woman at the inn thought she was Colt and Frannie’s daughter. It was a harmless fantasy, no one believed it, end of story. Just like the turn-of-the-century dump was the end of that story.
He was beginning to think Cold Spring was one weird little town.
He headed for his car. The temperature had dropped noticeably, the sun long gone. Penelope had driven him to the airport, given him a tight-lipped smile and charged off in her truck.
“Sinclair—wait a second.”
It was Lyman Chestnut. He crossed the rutted lot at an unhurried pace, wiping his thick fingers with a black rag. Wyatt waited for him. His patience was at a low ebb. Tea, scones, lies—and those green eyes and flushed cheeks, sexy, challenging.
“Harriet called,” Lyman said. “Says you’re staying a night or two.”
“I might.”
“Penelope tell you her story?”
Wyatt noticed the careful wording. He nodded.
“She was in rough shape when she came out of the woods Sunday night. She was lost most of the afternoon. It was dark—we’d organized a search party and were just about to get started after her. She has a way of losing track of what she’s doing and getting herself in trouble. She’s been doing it since she was a little kid.”
He wiped his fingers on the rag, pretending to concentrate on the task. Wyatt could see he was frustrated, preoccupied, awkward. Having the daughter he had would have its ups and downs. “Mr. Chestnut—”
“Lyman. I make my flying students call me Mr. Chestnut, but that’s about it. Look, Penelope’s been fantasizing about finding that plane since she could walk. Everyone around here has. I’m guessing once she realized she didn’t find anything up in the woods after all, she just tried to figure out a way to save face. She hates to be wrong.”
That Wyatt could believe. “What about this dump story?”
“There are plenty of old dumps around here.”
He wouldn’t counter his daughter, not to a Sinclair. Wyatt acknowledged his statement with a curt nod. “It’s hard to believe she can’t find her way back to whatever it is she found.”
Lyman shrugged. “Maybe she’s just embarrassed.”
“Excuse me, but your daughter doesn’t strike me as a woman who embarrasses easily.”
“That’s the God’s truth.” He almost managed a smile. “Here’s the deal. I don’t want any trouble. Penelope’s a good kid. Her mind hasn’t been on her work lately, but that’s got nothing to do with you Sinclairs.”
“What does it have to do with?”
Lyman inhaled, shaking his head. “Damned if I know. Boredom, I think. She needs—well, hell, I’ll just get myself into trouble if I start talking about what she needs. It’s getting around town, you being here. You know, I searched for your uncle’s plane myself. I walked up and down these hills for weeks, never saw a thing, not one sign a plane had gone down. We all did everything we could, but…” He broke off, shook his head. “What’s done is done.”
Wyatt finished Lyman’s thought for him. “But my family wasn’t satisfied. My grandfather didn’t think you’d done enough. The people of Cold Spring, I mean, not you individually.”
Lyman leveled his frank gaze on Wyatt and nodded. “I guess that’s right. I heard he died—your grandfather. He and my father used to go hunting and fishing together. Well, I guess old Willard thought of my father as a guide. But that’s not how my father saw it.”
He stopped, looking faintly embarrassed, as if he hadn’t strung that many sentences together at one time in years. Wyatt couldn’t tell if this little visit was a shot across the bow, a fishing expedition or just a father not knowing what to do about a daughter he feared was in over her head.
“By the way,” Lyman went on, “this Jack Dunning character’s decided to park his plane here. Mary’s renting him a car.” He paused, his gaze settling on Wyatt. “You’ll go easy on my daughter?”
Wyatt grinned. “I left my thumbscrews in New York.”
He chose not to mention the crazy cousin who thought she was a Sinclair or to stick around for Jack’s arrival. Instead he drove to town, hitting every damned frost heave and pothole in the road, mostly because he kept thinking about Penelope unzipping that flight suit in the heat of the Sunrise Inn. He hadn’t expected any attraction to her. But there it was, impossible to ignore.
Harriet Chestnut, still flustered, put him in something called the Morning Glory Room. She gave him his key—a real, old-fashioned key, not one of those card things—and told him his room rate included a continental breakfast. Nothing about her reminded him of either Colt or Frannie. Coloring, build, features. It wasn’t that it was impossible she was their daughter, just not readily apparent. He thanked her and headed upstairs.
Morning glories, indeed. They were on the wallpaper, a needlepoint pillow and a print above his four-poster bed. It was all tasteful, pretty, elegant, just the sort of room a husband tolerated on a weekend getaway with his wife. A side window looked out on snow-covered gardens, a front window on the lake. In addition to the bed, there was a marble-topped bureau, a writing desk and an antique washstand that served as a night table. Wyatt figured he’d gotten off easy, because he’d passed a rose room on his way down the hall.
He dumped his bag on the floor and tried not to think about what in hell he was doing, or why. He’d never known his uncle. His father hadn’t asked him to come here. Now he’d rented a room at a charming country inn for three nights.
But he knew he wasn’t staying because of Colt or Frannie—he was staying because of Penelope Chestnut. She intrigued him, and he had an odd, possibly unreasonable sense that she was in trouble, perhaps more than she knew. It was the sort of sixth sense he’d come to rely on before his ignominious return to New York and a desk on Wall Street. He could be dead, flat wrong, just as he had been when he and Hal Strong had embarked upon their most exciting and ultimately final adventure, no sixth sense telling him they never should have left Melbourne, that danger and death awaited them in the mountains of southwestern Tasmania.
“So, you could be full of shit,” he said aloud, breaking the spell.
He could. Penelope Chestnut’s only trouble might be him.
The energy required to weave her tale about the turn-of-the-century dump and the snow obliterating her tracks had probably led her to miss her fuel check in her preflight. She was distracted. The truth was seldom simple but at least it was easier to remember.
He wandered into the bathroom, where the morning glory theme continued. Thick, soft white towels and a big, gleaming tub beckoned. He settled for splashing cold water on his face. He noticed little blue soaps and bottles of locally made lotions. When he traveled, he was used to pitching a tent.
The phone rang. Grateful for the distraction, he returned to the bedroom and picked up.
“You’re in Cold Spring,” his father said. “Why?”
The abrupt tone didn’t offend Wyatt. His father prided himself on his self-control and would bury any strong negative emotion under an abrupt, even cold manner. “Jack must have arrived. Obviously he’s reported back to you.”
“I like to know where my son is.”
“Well, you’ve found
me.”
His father inhaled sharply. He wouldn’t yell at his son the way Lyman Chestnut had at his daughter. Open confrontation wasn’t the Sinclair way. “How long are you staying?”
“I don’t know.” He decided, at that moment, not to tell his father about his dealings with Penelope Chestnut and his sense she was in over her head. “Father, Colt was your brother—”
“Yes, he was. I knew him, Wyatt. He was a person to me, not an adventure. This woman has withdrawn her story. Let Jack figure out why. He’ll tie up loose ends and make sure her story checks. That’s his job.” Not yours, was the unspoken rest of the sentence.
No more details were forthcoming for the meddling son. Wyatt said hello to his stepmother, and to Ellen and Beatrix, who begged him to fly down for the weekend and take them snorkeling. They were on school holiday, and he promised to see them when they got back to New York—he’d do whatever they wanted. The rascals were his soft spot, and they knew it.
When he hung up, he stood in front of the window and looked across the lake toward the mountains. It was dusk, quiet, still. His father and uncle had roamed this area as boys with their father, the imposing, exacting Willard Sinclair, who’d died when Wyatt was fourteen. They’d gone swimming, fishing, mountain climbing, camping. He knew from his father that, despite their age difference, the brothers had been close, relishing their time together.
After Colt ran off with Frannie Beaudine, Willard Sinclair refused to let his younger son return to the New Hampshire lakes region. Willard became increasingly difficult in his grief, his surviving son never able to make up for the loss of his firstborn, never able to be the bright spark in his father’s life that Colt had been.
Wyatt had sensed all this, pieced it together over the years through observation, overheard fights between his father and one wife or another, his own conversations with his dying grandfather. Always, always he came away with the unshakable conviction that his father and perhaps his grandfather were holding back on him—not just feelings, not just their private grief, but information, possibly even vital information.
Kiss the Moon Page 6
