Sweet Haven

by Shirlee McCoy

  * * *

  Sinclair Jefferson had seen a lot of things in his thirty-four years of living, but he’d never seen anything quite like the woman who was barreling toward him. Body encased in a skintight orange thing that could have been a dress or a costume, she sprinted down exterior metal steps as if all the demons of hell were chasing her.

  If she saw him, she didn’t let on.

  As a matter of fact, if she kept coming at the pace she was, she’d crash into him. He stepped to the side, pulling his real estate agent, Janelle Lamont, with him.

  “Watch it,” he cautioned.

  “How can I not? It’s like a train wreck. I can’t look away,” Janelle murmured, her attention focused on the orange-encased lunatic who skidded to a stop in front of them.

  “Mom!” the lunatic yelled. “There’s someone in Granddad’s apartment.”

  Mom?

  This had to be one of the Lamont sisters, then.

  Not Willow. He’d gone to school with her. She’d been as polished as a brand-new penny, every bit of her perfect. Hair. Makeup. Clothes.

  This Lamont wasn’t polished or perfect.

  As a matter of fact, it looked like she’d split the zipper of the ugly outfit she was wearing. He caught a glimpse of taut pale skin as she crossed her arms over her stomach and hid the gap in the fabric.

  Janelle sighed. “What are you talking about, Adeline?”

  Adeline.

  The middle sister.

  He had a few vague memories of a quirky-looking kid with wild red hair, but none of them quite matched the woman in front of him. Wide, almond-shaped eyes; a curvy, compact body; long braid of hair falling over her shoulder; she was almost pretty and almost not. Interesting was probably the word he was looking for.

  “What I’m talking about,” Adeline responded, enunciating every word, “is someone being in Granddad’s apartment. I walked into the living room and heard a door slam.”

  “A vacuum effect from you opening the front door. There’s no one in there.” Janelle’s gaze slid to Sinclair and she offered an apologetic smile. “This is a very safe town, Sinclair. Just like it was when you were a child.”

  “I’m sure it is,” he responded, because, as far as he could tell, nothing much had changed in Benevolence since he’d left sixteen years ago. The streets were still clean, the houses and properties neat and tidy. Except for his brother Gavin’s property. The one they’d both inherited from their grandfather. It was still a mess—old cars and trucks rotting on acres of riverfront property, weathered farmhouse filled to the brim with decades of junk, piles of trash scattered across what should have been a beautiful lawn.

  Sinclair had come to town to take care of that. To turn the place into a home that his sister-in-law would be proud of. Gavin was supposed to be helping. Maybe if he could stop whining about missing his wife long enough, he’d be able to.

  “It’s why so many people prefer Benevolence to the big city,” Janelle said with a beatific smile. “Come on. Let’s see if Byron’s place will work for you. If not, I’ve got another in mind. On the opposite side of town from your brother’s place, but it’s quiet. Just like you want.”

  She started up the exterior staircase, metal clanking under her feet as she hurried up to the apartment she was hoping Sinclair would rent. She’d spent the past twenty minutes singing the praises of the place, describing in detail all the benefits of living in an apartment over a chocolate shop. Sinclair wasn’t all that concerned about the benefits. As long as it was cleaner than the last place they’d seen, quieter than the second, and didn’t smell like wet dog and cigarette smoke like the first, he’d take it. He had too much work to do to waste time looking for an apartment. Unfortunately, the closest hotel was thirty miles away. He could have continued staying with his brother, but Gavin had spent the last five days whining and moaning about the fact that his pregnant wife had walked out of their single-wide trailer and gone to live with her family.

  Seeing as how the single-wide trailer was packed to the gills with stuff, Sinclair couldn’t blame Lauren for walking out. He’d have done the same. He was doing the same. No way did he plan to spend another night in that hellhole. He’d sleep in his truck first.

  “Here we are,” Janelle called cheerfully as she stepped over what looked like jeans and a T-shirt and walked into the apartment. “Built in 1887 for railroad magnate Lincoln Bernard. His family lived here for nearly twenty years before they built that beautiful home on River Bluff. Grandview Manor.”

  He nodded because he knew the place and because he thought that Janelle expected a response.

  “My senior prom was there,” he offered, stepping over the clothes and walking into the apartment behind her.

  “My daughter Willow’s, too. You graduated together,” she reminded him. As if he could have forgotten. There’d been thirty-five kids in his graduating class. He’d known every one of them by name. They’d known him too.

  That was the way things had been in Benevolence. Unless he missed his guess, it was the way things still were.

  “I really don’t think we should be in here,” Adeline interrupted from the doorway.

  “Of course we should.” Janelle flicked on a light in a small galley kitchen and motioned to the dinette set that sat in an alcove created by a window dormer. “What do you think, Sinclair? Perfect for a bachelor, yes?”

  “Sure.” He moved past the kitchen, peered down a dark hall. There was a window at the far end, moonlight filtering in through the glass and speckling the floor with gold. The place looked homey, clean, and comfortable.

  Good enough.

  And, that was all Sinclair needed.

  “I’d like to look at the bedroom,” he said, but Adeline grabbed his arm before he could walk down the hall.

  “I’m telling you, someone is in here.” She gestured into the dark hall, the jeans and T-shirt Sinclair had stepped over clutched to her chest. “He’s probably hiding in one of the rooms, waiting for his chance.”

  “His chance at what?” Janelle asked, her smile brittle. “Stealing a five-year-old computer? Or maybe you think he’s after the television we bought Byron for Christmas?”

  “Maybe he’s after someone, Mom,” Adeline replied, a sliver of her taut abdomen flashing every time she moved. “He could be biding his time, waiting for one of us to come in here alone.”

  “You’ve been watching too many horror movies,” Janelle said with an exaggerated sigh.

  “I hate horror movies,” Adeline replied.

  “I hate standing around when I could be getting something done,” Sinclair murmured, running his hand along the wall until he found a light switch. He flicked it on. Wide-planked pine flooring stretched along the length of the hall, the scuffed and nicked wood adding a layer of charm to what might otherwise have been a boring interior. Two doors flanked each wall and a small cushioned bench sat under the window. The ceiling was high, the paint fresh. Nothing special, but he didn’t need special. He needed a place to sleep. Far away from his brother’s whining.

  He opened the closest door, glanced into a tiny office. No one there, but the room was clean and didn’t smell like dog.

  He opened the next door and the next, Adeline right on his heels. A bathroom. A nice-sized bedroom. No one in either. The last door opened into the largest room. The master bedroom, he’d guess, the furniture heavy nineteenth century. There were two doors on the far wall. One opened into a small closet filled with suits, dress shirts, and polished shoes. The other door was locked. He turned the knob twice. Just to be sure.

  “That goes into the building next door,” Janelle said as she swiped her hand over the antique dresser and frowned at the layer of dust on her palm. “May Reynolds had a fabric store there up until a month ago. I’m sure you remember it from when you were a child.”

  Maybe. He’d been too busy trying to keep the farmhouse from falling down around his ears to pay much attention to what anyone else was doing, but he thought he remembere
d May—a tiny little woman with a lot of nervous ticks. He also thought he remembered sweeping the sidewalk in front of her shop for a little cash or a couple of home baked cookies.

  “She was a nice lady,” he said, mostly because he thought Janelle expected it.

  “Nice?” Adeline plucked at the shiny orange fabric of her . . .

  What was it? A dress?

  “That’s debatable,” she continued with a scowl.

  “Adeline!” Janelle snapped. “You know that May is one of the kindest human beings on the face of the earth. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “No. She’d just dress one like a giant pumpkin and make them stand in front of the entire population of Benevolence while she married the love of her life,” Adeline muttered.

  Sinclair’s lips twitched, a bubble of something that felt a lot like laughter settling right in the middle of his chest.

  “Is May getting married?” he asked, meeting Adeline’s eyes.

  Despite the orange outfit, she didn’t look like a pumpkin.

  She looked more like a peach. The kind he used to pluck from the neighbor’s tree. Round and ripe and delicious.

  “May is getting married,” Janelle said, moving between Sinclair and her daughter. “But, that’s not what we’re here to discuss. What do you think of the apartment?”

  “Is the door locked from the other side?” He wriggled the knob again.

  “Of course! It would take a tank to get through it.”

  Sinclair thought a well-placed foot might do the trick, but he didn’t say that. He’d done two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. He’d slept in dugouts and under the stars. This place, locked door or not, was way safer than those had been.

  “Byron had a new metal door installed,” Janelle continued, obviously hell-bent on convincing him to rent the place. “If you’d like to go next door and take a look at the door from the other side, I’d be happy to take you.”

  “I’d like to take a look. If it’s not locked, maybe that’s the door I heard slamming,” Adeline said. She smelled like chocolate and berries, and something that reminded Sinclair of home.

  Or what he’d always imagined home should be like.

  Home growing up had been a house filled with junk, a grandfather who drank himself into a stupor every night, and cold soup served in chipped white mugs. Home now was his high-rise apartment overlooking Puget Sound. Clean lines. Modern. Dinner out most nights because he didn’t like to cook.

  “Adeline, really.” Janelle sighed. “Let it go. No one is in the apartment. No one was in the apartment. The door on this side and the other both need keys. Byron and May are the only people who have them.”

  “I know that, and I also know what I heard.” Adeline’s hands settled on her hips, the clothes she’d picked up hanging limply, the gap in her dress revealing that sliver of creamy flesh. His gaze dropped to the spot. How could it not? The woman had curves. Nice ones. And the kind of smooth, silky skin that begged to be touched.

  “For God’s sake, Adeline! Put your shirt on,” Janelle snapped. That got Adeline moving.

  She pulled the clothes back over her stomach, her entire face the color of overripe tomatoes.

  She had freckles.

  He hadn’t noticed that before.

  And eyes that might be violet.

  She left the room too quickly for him to see.

  “I’m sorry about that, Sinclair. Adeline has always been very imaginative.” Janelle ran a hand over her perfectly styled, perfectly highlighted hair. She had to be in her fifties. She looked a couple of decades younger.

  He knew how much time and money it took to achieve that.

  Kendra had been thirty and determined to never look older than twenty-one. He’d put up with her obsession because she’d been smart and driven. They’d been a good match. Until they weren’t.

  Then they’d both walked away without a second glance.

  Just the way he’d wanted it.

  No months of back and forth sparring. No breaking up and getting back together. None of the overly emotional stuff Gavin was going through with his wife. Just this isn’t working out anymore. It’s time to move on.

  “How do you know Adeline was imagining things?” he asked, running his hand over the doorframe. Old wood. Probably original to the house. Too many layers of paint, but that could be removed if the owner cared to do it. “It’s possible she heard a door closing.”

  “Whatever she heard, it wasn’t someone lying in wait to commit some horrible crime. This is Benevolence, Washington. The crime rate is so low we barely need a sheriff’s department.”

  That wasn’t quite true, and they both knew it. There’d been a murder when Sinclair was a kid. Quite a few petty crimes. Vandalism. Drug use. Domestic violence. Those things existed in every town. Even ones that seemed as perfect as Benevolence.

  He didn’t bother correcting her. The apartment was as good a fit as any would be. He had an overnight bag in his truck, a six-pack of Pepsi, and enough paperwork to catch up on to keep him busy until dawn. He wanted to sign the lease and get on with things. “I’m not concerned with the crime rate or lack thereof. I’m concerned with having a place to sleep. I think this will work.”

  “Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I had a feeling it would.”

  “You’re sure your father-in-law is willing to give it up for a couple of weeks?”

  “The lease is for a month,” she reminded him, as if they hadn’t spent the better part of the afternoon hashing out the terms of his rental agreement. He’d pay for a full month, but he had no intention of being there that long.

  “With the option of extending for a second month,” she continued. “You never know. You might decide Benevolence is the place for you. You won’t believe how many people come here for a visit and end up staying.”

  He’d believe it.

  The place had plenty of small-town charm, lots of interesting architecture, and enough appeal to attract people from all over the country.

  What it didn’t have was enough appeal to keep him there for any longer than necessary. He’d seen the beauty of Benevolence when he was a kid. He’d seen the ugliness too. The gossip, the whispers. The pointed fingers. His family had always been on the wrong side of those fingers. He and his brother had been the topic of one too many whispered conversations, the focus of one too many sad shakes of the head.

  They’d grown up in the shadow of the tragedy that had taken their parents. Sinclair had no intention of living here again.

  He followed Janelle into the living room.

  Adeline was there, a gray T-shirt pulled over the orange outfit, her long braid tucked into its collar. She eyed him as if he were a snake in the garden, her pale-pink lips pursed together.

  Janelle must have noticed.

  She hurried across the room and grabbed her daughter’s arm. “I’m going to get the rental agreement. Why don’t you come with me, Adeline?”

  “Rental agreement, huh?” Adeline said, pulling away from her mother. “If you’re leasing the place, I’d better look around, make sure there’s nothing here that Granddad might need.”

  “I already packed up most of Byron’s things.” Janelle frowned.

  “Did you clean out the guest room? I bet there are a couple boxes’ worth of stuff in there.”

  “No need to move everything out,” Sinclair cut in. “I just need a place to sleep. If Byron needs anything, you’re welcome to come in and get it when I’m not here.”

  “A place to sleep?” Adeline pulled the braid out of her collar and flicked it over her shoulder. “Good luck with that. I’m running the chocolate shop for my grandfather while he recovers, and I work pretty late. I also make a lot of noise.”

  “Adeline!” Janelle nearly shouted. “Please, will you just leave well enough alone! Byron agreed that a short-term rental while he was recuperating was a good idea.”

  “He’s on morphine, Mom. He’d agree to anything.”

  “For God’s sake
! The man knows his own mind. No matter how much morphine he’s been given. I’m getting the lease!” Janelle stalked from the apartment, her high-heeled boots clicking against the metal stairs.

  “That went well,” Adeline said, dropping onto the couch, shiny orange fabric shimmying up her pale thighs.

  Sinclair thought of those peaches again.

  The ones hanging from the neighbor’s tree.

  The ones he’d never quite been able to resist.

  “What went well? Pissing your mother off?” he asked, and she smiled.

  “Getting her out of the apartment so I could cut myself out of this . . . thing.” She stood, silky orange fabric sliding down over her thighs again.

  “You’re stuck in it?”

  “Stuck is such a subjective word, Sinclair,” she responded. “I prefer to say that I am temporarily constrained by a broken zipper.”

  “And you don’t want your mother to know it?”

  “I don’t want May to know.” She strode down the hall, and he followed, the scent of chocolate seeming to fill the air. “And my mother is just the kind of person who would tell her.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you think very highly of her,” he remarked, watching from the hallway as she rummaged through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

  “Of my mother? She’s great. Perfect, as a matter of fact. She would never ever get herself temporarily constrained by a broken zipper.” She pulled scissors out of the cabinet, held them up triumphantly. “Success! Excuse me while I extract myself from the sausage casing.”

  She closed the door with a quiet snap, and Sinclair realized he was smiling.

  He didn’t want to be amused by her.

  He didn’t want to be amused by anything in Benevolence.

  He’d spent most of his childhood planning his escape from it. He’d wanted to put it all behind him—every moment of living in that house on that property in a town where perfection was the chosen sport and people competed for the honor of having the best garden, the best Christmas decorations, the best-kept yard.

  The only thing his family had ever competed for was the title of laziest homeowner.