by Meg Donohue
“It’s there!”
I hopped off the counter to let Ogden take my place. He reached his long arm down into the space behind the stove, pulled the book out, blew the dust off its cover, and handed it to me, beaming.
“I can’t believe it,” I murmured. It must have fallen behind the stove in the days before my mother’s death. The book was smaller than I remembered, its black leather cover butter-soft in my hands. I flipped through the pages and the sight of my mother’s sloped handwriting drew a knot in my chest.
“Why don’t you sit?” Ogden suggested softly. When I didn’t move, he took my elbow and guided me over to the couch. I sat down heavily. Passion fruit meringue. Ginger cookies. Apple-cinnamon empanadas. Coconut flan. The recipes were all in English—my mother had wanted me to read them someday. But jotted down here and there in between the recipes were my mother’s diary entries, and those were in Spanish. I let the pages fall slowly through my fingers until, about halfway through, the writing stopped. So many blank pages left! My throat tightened with sorrow. She’d only just begun.
The final pages she’d written were in Spanish—not recipes then, but diary entries. I let my eyes work their way slowly down the pages, translating the words as best I could. I felt an icy chill run through my body as I realized what I was reading. I was so immersed, forgetting even that Ogden was still there, that I jumped when the door to the carriage house swung open.
“Annie?” Tad said, his brow furrowing as he crossed into the room. Lolly stepped out from behind him looking strangely pale in her cornflower blue silk robe. They glanced at Ogden and then back at me. “Are you all right? What are you doing here?”
“I—I found my mother’s book,” I gasped. I held the book in front of me, as though it might explain everything, and then, thinking better of it, clasped it tight to my chest again.
“We heard about the fire, dear,” Tad said gently. “Inspector Ramirez—”
Lolly interrupted, “We wanted to come to the hospital, but we’ve been waiting for word from Julia.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Where’s Julia?”
“We don’t know. She’s not here. She’s not answering her phone.” Lolly’s voice was as close to panicked as I’d ever heard it. “Wesley is out looking for her now.” She seemed to be thinking something, on the verge of saying more, but before I could question her, my phone rang. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled it out. Ramirez.
“Annie, hi,” he said quickly. “We were able to pull an image of the arsonist from the security camera. We haven’t been able to ID him, but maybe you can. Can I e-mail the image to you?”
“Yes, go ahead. I can look at it on my phone.”
“Good. Is Ms. St. Clair with you?”
“No,” I said, nearly swallowing the word. “We don’t know where she is.”
There was a beat of silence. “When was the last time someone saw her?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “A few hours ago?”
I heard Ramirez breathing into the phone as he considered this. “Let’s start by seeing if you can ID this guy,” he said finally. “I’ll send the photo now.”
I ended the call and looked around the room at the solemn faces gazing at me. “Inspector Ramirez is sending me a photo of the guy who set the fire.” Ogden took a step closer to me and squeezed my arm. We all stood in silence, listening to the refrigerator click and hum in the kitchen. When my phone chimed, Lolly sucked in her breath and seemed to grow even paler.
As I pulled up the image, I felt a mounting sense of dread in my heart. I’d already guessed whose face I would see on the screen—my mother’s diary had told me all I needed to know. I realized then that everything I’d believed about my mother’s death was wrong, that a person I had thought of almost as a father figure for much of my life was not who he pretended to be. And I suspected that Julia, wherever she was, was in much more danger than she realized.
Chapter 30
Julia
Curtis hadn’t said anything in what felt like a very long time. Whenever I began to speak he glared at me until I fell quiet. He was on his fourth beer by then, and each time he’d left me alone to retrieve a cold bottle from the kitchen, I’d half risen from the couch and then sat back down heavily when I’d heard the fridge shut. It’s just Curtis! I told myself, trying to slow my nervous, shallow breaths. I’d known him my entire life. He was my father’s friend. This was simply a huge misunderstanding.
“Curtis, it’s really late,” I said, trying again when he returned to the room and sat back down. “Why don’t I head home now and we can talk more in the morning?” I started to stand from the couch. As I did, Curtis rose abruptly and his chair made a heart-rattling clatter as it toppled over backward behind him.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat back down heavily, and he righted his chair and did the same. I felt my teeth begin to chatter. Was I really being held captive at Curtis’s house? Despite everything, the idea was ludicrous. When another long stretch of stony silence had passed between us, I decided to try again.
“I don’t understand. You’re going to keep me here all night but not say anything?”
He shrugged and took a long slug of beer.
“It’s just me, Curtis,” I said quietly. I had to find a way to get him to remember that I wasn’t the enemy. “You know me. We can figure this out. I don’t blame you.” When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “Don’t you remember when I was little and you’d drive Annie and Lucia and me to get ice cream after school? And we’d always bring you a chocolate-fudge scoop on a pretzel cone? You told me once it was your favorite. I never forgot.”
The overhead light cast long shadows below Curtis’s hooded eyes. He seemed to sway a moment before speaking. “I never wanted to hurt her,” he mumbled. His voice was so quiet that I almost wondered if he realized he was speaking out loud. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Hurt who?” I asked. I regretted the question even as I asked it.
“Lucia,” he choked, his voice suddenly thick with anguish. “Stop lying! That’s the real reason you’re here. You don’t give a damn about your father’s watch or any of that crap. Everything I did tonight was for nothing, wasn’t it? I was too late. You found the book.”
I stared at him. “Curtis, what are you talking about?” My mind bounced over his words like a needle hitting a snag on a record. What did Lucia have to do with anything? What had Curtis done tonight?
“I loved her,” he said. “I never meant to hurt her, but she found out about the stealing.” His eyes roamed the room and for a moment he looked so agonized that I had an urge to comfort him. Then, slowly, what he was saying began to sink in. “She didn’t like it. The second she found out about the whole thing she decided she was too good for me. She didn’t like that I gambled. She didn’t like that I owed people money. What she did like was pretending she was all prim and proper, but wasn’t she the one who got pregnant at sixteen?” He barked out a laugh and then glared at me, daring me to argue. I wanted to scream for him to stop speaking. I wanted to press my hands to my ears and not hear another word. But all I could do was look at the floor.
“She said she was going to tell Tad everything,” he continued. “Interesting where her loyalties lay, isn’t it? Who knows—maybe she was sleeping with him, too. That might explain something. Maybe I’m on to something there.” Curtis suddenly bent forward and cradled his head in his hands. “No,” he muttered. “No. She wasn’t like that.” Now, again, he seemed to be speaking to himself. I stole a glance at the door to the living room, wondering if I could outrun him if I needed to. As if reading my thoughts, he lifted his head and stared at me, his eyes narrow and gleaming.
“She just made me so mad,” he hissed. “Why would she tell on me? I needed that money. She knew that. So we argued and I shoved her, but I never meant to hurt her. I just forgot she was so
little. I get so angry sometimes. Her head hit the wall and she shut her eyes and she just looked like she was smiling a little or sleeping. But her eyes were just shut a minute! Not even—a few seconds! Then they were open again and she was fine. She said she was fine and I trusted her because I loved her. And then a few days later, in the kitchen . . .”
My mouth fell open. “She died,” I said before I could stop myself. Curtis killed Lucia. I felt my entire body begin to tremble and struggled to hold myself still.
Curtis’s face seemed to crumple. “But that wasn’t because of me,” he said. “That wasn’t me. The doctors said it was an aneurysm. That’s what everyone said.”
I nodded and tried to blink back the tears that had sprung to my eyes. As Curtis watched me, his face hardened again. “See—you’re blaming me.” He shook his head angrily. “Everything would have been fine if Annie hadn’t come back,” he said. “You two couldn’t stand each other. Why couldn’t you have just kept hating each other?”
He seemed to really want an answer to this, but I could think of nothing to say. I looked at the floor and swallowed.
“Instead you had to team up and hunt for Lucia’s journal,” he muttered. “I know she wrote some really big lies about me in there, didn’t she? She was always writing something and she’d never let me read any of it. But that was all in the past and everything was fine and then you girls had to come back and stir things up. I’d forgotten all about the whole mess, really. That book, and whatever lies it had in it, was gone—I’d looked everywhere! But you wouldn’t let it drop. And then you made me start doing those things to the bakery. I didn’t want to do that! But I knew if Annie were gone you would all forget about looking for that book, and that stupid cupcake shop was the only thing keeping her around. She certainly wasn’t hanging around because she actually liked you. And then last week your mother starts following me around the house looking for the damn thing. That woman always gets what she wants. All of you do. One of you was going to find that book sooner or later. I had to do something.”
Curtis was the one who broke into Treat and spray painted the window and bar! Of course. He was the only one who could have known how hurtful those particular words would have been to Annie. He’d been trying to tear us apart for months. Stealing my father’s watch was one thing, but trespassing? Destroying property? Threatening us? And most terrifying and heartbreaking—Curtis was responsible for Lucia’s death. I don’t know this man at all. A chill ran down my spine. What exactly had he done to Treat tonight?
“You’re wrong, Curtis,” I told him quietly. “I don’t have Lucia’s journal. That’s not why I’m here. Besides,” I said, thinking quickly, “it really doesn’t matter. What happened with Lucia was obviously an accident. And my father’s things—I think that was all a big misunderstanding. I think my father knew the whole time. He wanted you to have those things. They were gifts.”
Curtis shot me a plaintive look. “Do you think so?” he asked. An instant later, his face darkened. “You’re lying.”
He stood, swayed a moment, and then took a step toward me. I felt myself sink back into the couch, my body coiling into a position of defense or offense, I had no idea which. Suddenly, there was a rapid burst of knocking at the front door and Curtis immediately stretched out his arm and flipped off the living room light. I gasped as the room fell into darkness.
“Get down,” he hissed, and before I realized he’d crossed the room, I felt his hands on my shoulder shoving me down into the couch cushions. I lay there with my face pressed into the couch, Curtis’s grip painful on my shoulder, listening as the knocks grew more urgent at the door. Moments later, Curtis seemed to change his mind. He sat up.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. His sour breath was warm on my face. He crossed the room and turned the light back on. Before me stood the old, familiar Curtis, his face a stoic mask, his dark, sunken eyes distant, but almost kind. “It was an accident, like you said,” he whispered. “So don’t move, okay?”
I nodded silently from my half-curled position on the couch. He nodded back at me, a grateful smile playing at the corner of his lips. And then he was gone. I listened to his footsteps in the short hall and heard him open the door. From the front steps, a man’s voice, familiar but unplaceable, drifted toward me. I strained to make out their words. The man outside sounded brusque; Curtis answered him in a slow, detached voice. I straightened to a seated position on the couch and rubbed my throbbing shoulder.
What the hell am I waiting for?
I stood and as quietly as I could darted across the room and into the kitchen at the back of the house. My heart leaped when I caught sight of the door in the corner of the kitchen and I ran to it, no longer caring how loud I might be, just wanting to be out of that house. I pulled the door open, felt the crisp night air fill my lungs, and hurled myself down the steps and then down the long, narrow walkway next to the house. If I hadn’t seen the police cars, I might have run all the way home. I could have done it if I’d needed to—I’d been training for a run like that all my life. But there they were: three cop cars lined up on the street in front of Curtis’s house. I slowed and looked back at the house. Inspector Ramirez was in the process of putting handcuffs on Curtis, who looked out onto the street, his face a blank, shadowed mask.
I jumped when a cop cleared his throat near me. “Miss?” he asked.“You all right?”
I looked beyond the cop’s shoulder and saw Wes sprinting down the sidewalk toward me, trailed closely by my parents and Annie. “Yes,” I said breathlessly, and began running toward my family. I am now.
May
Chapter 31
Annie
Julia St. Clair and Wesley Trehorn were set to be married on the sort of mild-weathered, raspberry-sunset-sky, bug-free spring evening on which you might expect a couple like Julia St. Clair and Wesley Trehorn to be married. I had spent the entire afternoon scurrying around the sprawling Woodstone property, trying to help Lolly and the wedding coordinator and her team of vendors as much as possible without imparting sweat stains on my pale pink maid of honor dress. That’s right: Julia had asked me to be her maid of honor. And, yes, I was wearing pink.
Over the previous few weeks, I’d finally perfected the Julia St. Clair wedding cupcake: classic lemon cake with a hidden heart of my mom’s boldly flavored passion fruit filling, slathered high with Julia’s favorite vanilla buttercream icing and glammed up a bit with sparkling curls of candied lemon rind. The entire Treat baking team had worked through a late night of frenzied mixing and pouring and icing to create the three hundred and fifty cupcakes that would be wheeled into the dining tent on an enormous tiered stand after dinner. Despite my desire to keep a close watch on that precariously cantilevered display of cupcakes, Julia, who had made a complete about-face on the whole wedding involvement thing following her New Year’s Eve heart-to-heart with Wes, had decided that it was perfectly within her right as bride to micromanage my every move that day. In between trips to ensure the menus lay straight on each plate (“Yes, Julia, they’re perfect. Yes, I promise.”), the peony to ranunculus to garden rose ratio in the centerpieces was just right (“Three to two to one, Julia. Yes, I counted.”), and the espresso-stained Chiavari chairs were in perfectly straight rows (“Straight as an arrow, Julia. Yes, I used the yardstick.”), I kept ducking my head into the kitchen to ensure the swarm of caterers and waitstaff hadn’t smudged any cupcake icing or knocked loose any candied lemon rinds.
As I was about to pop into the kitchen yet again, Julia, still in her white terry-cloth sweat suit (“Mrs. Trehorn” bedazzled in Swarovski crystals across the sweatshirt’s back), strode down the long stone hallway toward me. With her blond hair styled in glamorous, Old Hollywood waves behind her ears, and her makeup a slightly more dramatic version of her usual refined peaches-and-cream look, even the ridiculous sweat suit couldn’t keep her from resembling Grace Kelly—a semblance that I was fairly certain
she’d cultivated as precisely as a gardener prunes and shapes a rosebush.
“Julia!” I cried. “Why aren’t you dressed?” I checked my watch. “The ceremony starts in less than an hour!”
Julia pursed her glossy lips and glared pointedly at my oversized man’s watch. I’d chosen to forget that she’d instructed me not to wear any jewelry save the glittery diamond stud earrings—blood-sweat-and-tears diamonds, as I’d joked to Becca—she’d gifted to me in thanks for finally accepting my role as her humble servant. Er, maid of honor. Whatever. I put my hand over the watch, and she raised her eyes to my face.
“I need to talk to you,” she said solemnly.
“Okay, sure,” I said. I glanced toward the kitchen door. “Let me just check on one—”
“Annie! I’m about to get married!”
“Right. Excellent point. I can check on the cupcakes later. Let’s chat.” Julia had been expertly playing the I’m-getting-married! trump card for weeks, and today, I realized, was not the day to rebel.
I followed her down the hall into the bedroom she was using as a base camp for all things bride. Her sumptuous silk gown hung on the door of an antique armoire, and her whisper-thin, elbow-length veil was draped carefully over a gray velvet slipper chair in the corner.
“Sit down,” she ordered. I flopped onto the bed, my dress rustling loudly beneath me. Julia cringed. “Maybe you should stand. You still haven’t mastered the whole sitting-without-wrinkling thing we talked about, have you?”
