The Season of Silver Linings (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 3)

by Christine Nolfi

  Linnie didn’t have money to spare, not with the Wayfair only recently in the green. But Daniel? He’d gladly raided his nest egg. Philip was still amazed at how his older brother had leapt into the feminine world of wedding planning with gusto.

  Life is full of weird turns.

  Jada smiled. “Fancy doesn’t understand the expense going into the wedding. From her perspective, this is a party like any other.”

  “What does she want to wear?”

  “Have you fastened your seat belt?” she teased, no doubt relishing his quandary.

  “No,” he tossed back, grinning.

  Drawing out the suspense, Jada took a sip of her wine. Darkness spread across the grass in inky pools. Slipping off her loafers, she wiggled her toes while inhaling the night air. From the corner of his eye, Philip checked out the nail polish she’d chosen for this week’s pedicure. The metallic bronze shade looked fantastic against her dusky skin. She pointed her feet and the movement—lazy, languid—drew his attention like hounds to the chase.

  With effort, he looked away. Having a thing for a woman’s beautifully shaped feet was certifiable. He couldn’t help himself.

  She said, “Remember the dress-up clothes I gave Fancy for Christmas?”

  “The stuff you found on Amazon?”

  Jada had gone overboard, buying a large box of costumes for his kid. Princess gowns and assorted headgear—she’d even purchased a cool magician’s costume with a magic set, in case Fancy was ready to expand her imaginative play.

  Finally, he caught her drift. “Hold on. Fancy wants to wear dress-up clothes to the wedding? Please tell me this is a joke.”

  “No can do. Your kid has tons of ideas. She’s mulling over the yellow gown and the magician’s cape. She might add a feather boa, or the top hat. If she decides on the top hat, she wants to add flowers to the band. The jury’s still out.”

  “Take me out behind the barn and shoot me.”

  “You don’t have a barn.” Merriment sparked in Jada’s eyes, but she managed to douse it. “Should I tell Linnie and Daniel?”

  “No way am I forcing you to make them cry,” he joked. “Talk about an ugly scene. They’re going for wedding glamour, and my daughter isn’t playing along. All their plans brought crashing down by a six-year-old.”

  “They have been going all out with the arrangements, Daniel especially.”

  “Like a worker bee intent on building the hive single-handedly. Good thing he’s got a soft spot for the munchkin. She’ll turn the affair into Halloween.” Philip picked up his wine, took a swig. “I’ll assume the noxious duty of telling them.”

  “You’re sure?” The merriment returned to her eyes. She looked warm and inviting, and he didn’t want the moment to end.

  Elation tripped through him. “My brother, my problem,” he replied, fighting it down. “The flower girl dress didn’t come cheap. I was hoping Fancy wouldn’t grow too much, and we’d retool the dress for her first high school prom.”

  A silly visual, and he felt triumph when a chortle popped from Jada’s lips. “As if she’d let you. Keep her away from Cat’s fashion mags, or she’ll want French couture for her first prom.”

  “I’d better start saving my nickels. What’s the going rate for French fashion?”

  “Got me.”

  Their gazes caught, and held. The moment drew out with silvery promise. Rarely did Philip have the opportunity to regard Jada full on, without fear of appearing impolite or caveman rude. A heady experience.

  Too quickly, Jada snuffed the connection. The air between them cooled. Something about the way she searched the shadows pooling across the backyard gave him the impression she wanted to broach another subject. She seemed unsure where to begin.

  In her lap, she wove her hands together. Her fingers clenched tightly.

  A jumpy sensation invaded him.

  “Philip, while I was helping Fancy with her bath . . . she mentioned something else. A conversation she overheard between you and Daniel.”

  If Jada was Linnie’s rock, Daniel was his. There was little he didn’t share with his older brother. Much of what they discussed was out-of-bounds for his daughter, conversations about Philip’s ill-fated marriage and the events he’d never fully processed. Since the days when Fancy was a fat-cheeked toddler, he’d taken care never to excavate those memories if she was nearby.

  At length, he found his voice. “What did she overhear?”

  “You told Daniel you hate the month of March.”

  “I did,” he agreed slowly. “Last weekend.” They were sharing beers in the living room when the conversation wheeled to the anniversary of Bodi’s death.

  What if he’d been discussing his late wife in more direct terms? Altering his daughter’s quixotic opinion of the mother she’d never known would’ve been an unforgivable breach.

  Torn between relief and self-chastisement, he elaborated. “Daniel stopped by to set up a date for our tux fitting. The conversation went from the wedding to the anniversary of Bodi’s death. I was feeling pretty low, but I thought Fancy couldn’t hear what we were talking about. She was playing in her bedroom.”

  “She heard enough to wonder why March is the weepy month. She’s aware we’re all sad this time of year. You, me, and Daniel.”

  “We’re not the only ones who are low this time of year. Penelope is too.”

  Seven years ago, Penelope had gone to Columbus to visit relatives. The big-hearted Siren was crossing a Columbus street when a sullen eighteen-year-old bumped into her. Bodi Wagner’s attempt at purse snatching failed.

  Most women would’ve shouted with outrage at the assault. Penelope, as perceptive as she was kind, barely noticed the contents of her purse tumbling across the pavement. She did notice the trembling thief: Bodi was paper thin, but arrestingly beautiful despite the too-tight clothes and heavy makeup.

  Over donuts in a nearby coffee shop, the girl shared small pieces of her story. A nonexistent home life and parents who were uncaring, or worse. Bodi striking out on her own soon after graduating from high school, with nothing but her wits to survive on the street. After listening to the story, Penelope encouraged her to come to Sweet Lake and take a job in the consignment shop. How she put up with the daily pillaging of her cash register was anyone’s guess. A less-charitable soul would’ve thrown Bodi Wagner back onto the street.

  “Penelope does a better job hiding her grief than the rest of us,” Jada said. “She’s older, more experienced with loss.”

  “When Fancy asked why I hate March, what did you tell her?”

  “That you don’t hate any month of the year. I didn’t go into why we’re all blue in the springtime. She’s too young to understand, and I’d never want to change her opinion of her late mother. Fancy views Bodi as a fairy godmother or an angel, depending on the day. It seemed wiser to change the subject.” Jada unclenched her hands. Rubbing her palms together, she glanced at him briefly. “Does she ask why her mother died?”

  The question surprised him. They’d never discussed Bodi. Which made sense—Jada’s memories of his late wife differed starkly from his own.

  “Rarely,” he said. “Fancy hasn’t mentioned Bodi since the start of kindergarten last year. Penelope was helping us clean out closets. We came across old photos of Bodi right after she came to town.”

  “The ones taken in the consignment shop?” Jada guessed.

  Philip nodded. “Penelope threw together a story about how some mothers are called back to heaven for special duties, even if it means they must leave a baby behind. The story seemed to work. Fancy never asks for details about her mother’s death.” Sickness washed through him. And anger, for all the pain left in Bodi’s wake. “I guess she’d ask more questions if she did have memories.”

  “I’m glad she doesn’t remember. She was just a few months old when Bodi . . .” Jada’s voice trailed into a hard silence. Emotion crossed her face. “Doesn’t matter. Fancy now understands we’re grieving. The more she senses that
something is up, the higher the chances she’ll ask the difficult questions.”

  The possibility frightened him. “We have to do better, hide our grief. She’s too young to deal with the facts.”

  “I’m still lost on the facts. How did we miss all the warning signs?”

  “We didn’t miss them. We were burned out from the theatrics. You, me, Penelope—we gave Bodi the sense of belonging we thought she craved. How did she repay us? She took all the caring we offered, and twisted it into something ugly.”

  “Philip, you’re being awfully harsh.”

  The judgment in Jada’s eyes felt like a punishment. He’d tried to do the right thing. He’d married Bodi with the conviction they didn’t need love to build a decent life. With a baby on the way, they needed to assume their responsibilities and act like adults. He’d tried, but during those first months of marriage, Bodi found viciously creative ways to destroy his trust.

  Jada only knew part of the truth. He damn well never intended to give her the full picture. Sharing the rest would scar his manhood in ways he couldn’t abide.

  Overhead, the dome of stars twinkled. The flecks of brilliant light beckoned Jada’s sorrowful gaze.

  “We should’ve tried harder,” she whispered. “I’ve always wondered if we’ll ever forgive ourselves. If we should forgive ourselves. Aren’t we put on this earth to help each other? There’s so much we could’ve done.”

  We? The admission nearly gutted Philip.

  Guilt followed.

  “Jada, you did nothing wrong,” he said softly.

  She kept her attention fixed on the starry dome, as if the deep silence of the black universe held the secret of how to forgive herself—and him.

  A responsibility he quickly assumed, adding, “It was all me.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, it was. That first night, when Bodi came by my apartment, I should’ve sent her home. You’re not responsible for what happened. I doubt Bodi was capable of trusting anyone, but she came the closest with you. She looked up to you like a big sister.”

  “For all the good it did. She needed professional counseling, not encouragement to stay in Sweet Lake. Those first weeks after Penelope gave her a place to stay, she talked about leaving a dozen times. Every time, I talked her into staying here.”

  “You were only trying to help.”

  “Changing geography doesn’t change a person. All I did was keep her troubles in Sweet Lake.”

  The inference wasn’t lost on him. Jada meant her friendship kept Bodi in Sweet Lake. It kept her in town long enough for her to land on his doorstep that fateful night. Now he wondered if Jada also blamed herself for the hellish months of his marriage. She’d always been too honorable. He couldn’t recall a time when she wasn’t capable of carrying the heaviest loads.

  Self-loathing surged through him. The millstone of his reckless choices was his to carry.

  The soft hum of Jada’s smartphone pulled him from the reverie. Picking up, she walked across the porch to the railing.

  “Ms. Earhardt, hello. No, I’m not busy. The girl at the front desk gave you my number?”

  Jada cast him a sideways glance as if to say, I don’t believe this. To the caller, she said, “Will you give me ten minutes? I’m at a friend’s house. I’ll get back to you the moment I’m home.”

  Philip collected the wineglasses. “Problem at the inn?”

  “I hope not. Too early to tell.” Irritation glazed the statement. “Why would the front desk give out my private number? I mean, seriously. What would make them think it’s okay?”

  “That’s the point. They weren’t thinking.” He followed her inside.

  Jada scanned the kitchen table, retrieved her purse from a chair. “Sorry about cutting our night short. I have to go.”

  Clutching the purse, she appeared ready to move in to kiss him on the cheek. Since she’d begun coming around more often, assuming Daniel’s role of filling in with ready meals and good company, the casual affection was MIA.

  Sparing her the decision, he started toward the living room.

  In the foyer, she hesitated. “Will you be okay tonight? I hate to leave you alone on the anniversary.” She began to add something else, then sighed instead.

  “I’m good,” he lied.

  “You’re sure?”

  Her concern bruised his ego. “Don’t worry about me,” he assured her. “I’m used to flying solo. Been doing it for years.” Not exactly what he’d meant to say, but he didn’t want her to view him as weak. Shrugging it off, he asked, “Since when does the front desk give out your private number?”

  “Never, but the woman booking a suite in the south wing is persistent. This morning, she told Cat to have me call her. I assumed I could put off the call until tomorrow. Obviously not.”

  “Why does an incoming guest want to talk to you?”

  The glance Jada cast was rife with frustration. “I can’t even begin to guess.”

  Chapter 5

  Millicent Earhardt was a historian with a regrettably truncated history.

  The irony wasn’t lost on her. A fortune spent on private investigators, a thatching of grey invading her dirty-blonde hair, and she wasn’t any closer to the truth than she’d been years ago.

  On the mantelpiece, the mahogany clock chimed the hour. The sound quickened her strides past the leather couch. She trod in an impatient circle before the fireplace. Fourteen minutes had passed, and Millicent’s blood pressure responded by thumping painfully in her ears. What was taking the pastry chef so long?

  In the fireplace, the flames leapt and snapped. The warmth barely reached her calves. With fitful movements, she tugged at her cashmere sweater. Impatience stole the agility from her fingers as she worked the buttons, growling and muttering at her arthritis and Jada’s delay in returning the call.

  Unimpressed by her bad temper, Vasily strode past.

  Despite Chicago’s wickedly cold winter, the doctoral student did his best to keep the mansion’s cavernous rooms from growing icicles. In return for cooking meals, helping with the physical therapy sessions her spouse required, and running the errands Millicent inevitably forgot each time a clue turned up, she paid the absurdly handsome Vasily Pruszynski well. He put up with her foul moods as she read through reports from private detectives scouring the United States for the smallest leads. Her moods grew fouler at each critical juncture, when closure seemed tantalizingly within reach.

  Vasily sauntered to the wet bar. “Brandy?” he asked. “You need one.”

  “Not now.”

  “Something stronger, perhaps? A sedative? Keep marching in circles and you’ll wear through the rug.”

  “It’s my rug. I’ll do what I please.”

  “Have a drink. A quick shot to ensure you aren’t peevish when she calls back.” He held the Waterford decanter aloft like a model in a men’s magazine. “You’ll scare her off in the first act, and I’ll never learn how the play ends.” The pose made her wonder why the doctoral student planned a life in dusty classrooms teaching American history. Six-foot-two, with defined pecs and gleaming brown hair, Vasily could earn bundles modeling for romance novels.

  “Stop coddling me. You know how much I despise it.” Millicent tapped her smartphone, as if demanding it awaken. “Why hasn’t she called back?”

  “Give her a chance to drive to her parents’ house.”

  “She doesn’t live with her parents. She has an apartment.”

  “Millicent, you’re mixing up the Sweet Lake file with the dead end from Indiana. The woman whose name turned out to be Janelle, not Jada?” Vasily studied the decanter as if needing a brandy himself. The uncertainty was never easy on him either.

  “I’m not mixing up the files,” she snapped.

  “According to your diligent PI, the stunning Jada Brooks of Ohio lives with her parents.”

  “Not now, she doesn’t. She moved into her own apartment last month.” On his second trip to Sweet Lake, the private investiga
tor chanced upon Jada ferrying boxes into the apartment. The photographs he’d sent were Millicent’s current obsession, but she’d forgotten to share them with Vasily. “Jada doesn’t spend much time at her place. Either she works late, stops by to check on her parents, or visits at the Kettering household.”

  “Philip Kettering, previous loser, now the proprietor of a budding landscape firm.” Vasily ticked off the basics with ease. A devilish glint entered his gaze. “Are they dating?”

  “Who cares if they are? They’ve known each other since childhood. Friendship may characterize the extent of their relationship.”

  “I wish there was more personal information on the inn’s website,” Vasily mused. “She is about the right age for the profile you drew up.”

  “Early thirties, which does fit.” They’d both gleaned every page of the Wayfair Inn website, searching for clues. There weren’t many, and Millicent was eager to reach Sweet Lake to learn the truth. “A small town in the Midwest, an African American baker named Jada working at an inn—thank goodness we haven’t been searching for a woman with a more common name, like Mary or Sarah. We never would’ve narrowed down the field.”

  “Don’t get your hopes too high.”

  “I’m aware this may be another dead end. A reminder isn’t necessary.” She threw her thunderous gaze on the phone in her fist. “How long does it take a perfectly healthy woman to drive three blocks to her apartment?”

  “Have patience. She’ll call.”

  “Please. When have I ever had patience?”

  “You’re not too old to learn. Are you?”

  Mockery tinged the comment. It was standard operating procedure for the chummy doctoral student, whose respect for his elders rarely extended past dead white men with the distinction of having signed the Declaration of Independence. Millicent wasn’t sure how to react to his intimate tone, or the friendship he was determined to extend.

  Confide in the young, and they assume you are BFFs for life.

  Rounding the couch, Millicent laid down new tracks of frustration. “Don’t you have a book on Monticello to read? Something about a dissertation you’re nowhere near completing?”