“Bet they’d work just fine.” His eyes were warm when he turned to her. “Good night, Charlotte. Hope the lavender oil works its wonders on you.”
She went up to her room with her book. She mixed a few drops of the lavender oil in a glass of water and then dabbed some behind each ear and along her collarbones. She breathed in the soothing scent, but she knew it would take some time before she felt soothed. The kiss had stirred her up, physically, emotionally.
She’d be asleep by now at home in Edinburgh, but would Edinburgh ever be her home again? She had no idea. A week ago, she’d told herself that facing the unknown was exciting and energizing, but now it felt unnerving. She felt sneaky for not having told anyone about the accident and her leave of absence from the institute.
Maybe, though, her unsettled feelings had more to do with the scrutiny of her sexy, suspicious fellow guest at Red Clover Inn.
She pulled the curtains, got into the most prosaic pajamas she’d packed and climbed into bed. It was still fairly early but she read only a page before her drooping eyelids defeated her and the lavender oil worked its magic.
* * *
A bat swooped low in front of the porch while Greg sat on a wicker chair and read his book. It was well after dark, but he could make out the bat’s silhouette as it disappeared into the night. He swore it joined friends above the adjoining field.
He wouldn’t mention bats to Charlotte.
Probably wouldn’t faze her, though.
But when a mosquito swooped in, he was done. Damn thing was at least half the size of the bat—only a marginal exaggeration. He didn’t need to sit out here in the dark and cool air and fight off mosquitoes.
He headed back inside and upstairs in the quiet, rambling inn. He was on bat and mosquito alert, but he didn’t see anything lurking in the long second-floor hall.
He checked his room, just in case.
All was quiet.
Maybe he was just looking for a little drama now that his inn mate had retired for the night. Listening to mice scurrying in the walls wouldn’t do the trick but chasing a bat might. Was that why he’d kissed Charlotte? The need for an adrenaline rush?
Greg shook his head. No. He was attracted to her, and he had been from the moment he’d laid eyes on her the night before her cousin’s English wedding. It didn’t mean he should act on his attraction or that it’d go anywhere, but it was undeniable.
He washed up, pulled off his clothes and crawled into bed, feeling his fatigue. It wasn’t just physical. It was mental, emotional. A tough, dangerous assignment last fall that had ended with him shot and hospitalized. Then had come the grueling months of recovery with the accompanying second-guessing, boredom and uncertainties. Finally he’d gone back to work, on to another tough, dangerous assignment—by his own choice. Now he was taking a break ahead of a new job, a promotion he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t sure he should have accepted.
He had a good start on The Guns of Navarone with its ass-kicking heroes. He wasn’t sure how much reading he’d do with the kids here. He yawned as he tried to concentrate on a new chapter. His eyes wouldn’t focus. He gave up and shut the book, but he received a text from Laura as he reached to turn off his bedside light.
You’ll go inside the airport to meet the kids?
She was worried. He could feel it as he glanced at her text and responded.
Yes.
You won’t be late?
No.
I’ll follow them on a flight tracker. I’ll know when they land.
Andrew and Megan had flown on their own a number of times, including to visit him, their grandmother, uncles, aunts and cousins during his recovery in New York, but they’d never been to Boston. Laura had never liked them flying on their own. Greg told himself it was to her credit she didn’t throw hurdles in the way, but he could read the tea leaves with her. She wanted him to throw the hurdles. Tell the kids he’d come to Minnesota to see them and they didn’t have to disrupt their lives to visit him.
He wasn’t playing that game.
Great. Enjoy the time on your own.
There was no immediate response. Then, after a full minute, she texted back.
Enjoy your visit.
He suspected she’d been tempted to shoot off some aggrieved remark to him, read into his words and otherwise take offense where none had been intended, but they’d moved on from those kinds of barbed comments, at least for the most part. They shared two teenagers they loved deeply, unconditionally. That would always be the case.
Greg shut off his light and settled under the covers.
He didn’t hear more scurrying in the walls. No bats or mosquitoes got into his room.
Andrew and Megan would get a kick out of the inn. He smiled, thinking of them. He couldn’t wait to see them and spend time with them, but he doubted their presence would stop him from wanting to kiss Charlotte Bennett again. Right now, though, all was quiet at Red Clover Inn.
Twelve
Greg left for Boston shortly after breakfast. Charlotte heard his car in the driveway. She’d slipped downstairs early and made coffee and grabbed cereal that she’d then eaten up in her room. She didn’t want to be alone with him after last night’s kiss. Best to wait until he got back with his kids. She wasn’t nervous about meeting them but she didn’t want to do anything to interfere with their time with their father.
What she needed, she decided, was her own agenda—her own things to do.
With Greg safely on his way, she went back downstairs, grabbed her tote bag and walked into the village. It was another sunny, perfect June morning, but clouds, rain and cooler temperatures were forecast for later on in the week. She resisted pancakes at Smith’s and continued into the village, crossing Main Street to the common. She checked out the war memorials and enjoyed a few minutes in the shade before heading across South Main to the town’s public library, a sturdy late-nineteenth-century building of stone and brick.
Young children were gathered for story hour in a children’s nook. It was led by Kylie Shaw, a.k.a. Morwenna Mills, an animated Knights Bridge children’s author and illustrator whose wildly popular series about a family of badgers had been inspired by the Swift River Valley.
Charlotte had learned that from Clare Morgan, the librarian. Clare had introduced herself as Charlotte checked out the main sitting room, where an oil portrait of George Sanderson, the library’s nineteenth-century founder and benefactor, hung above the mantel of an ornate fireplace. Charlotte was more interested in the old photos taken before the valley had been flooded to create Quabbin Reservoir.
“I understand you’re a diver,” Clare said. She was in her midthirties or so, slim and fair. She smiled at Charlotte’s expression. “I’ve learned not to be surprised by what people know around here. It’s a small town and news travels fast. Samantha told me about you. I moved to Knights Bridge late last year and we’ve become friends.”
“She mentioned you, too,” Charlotte said.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the wedding, but I’m glad she had it in the UK, close to her family. Maggie Sloan has been sending me pictures of their London adventures. We’re friends—she lives around the corner from me.” Clare pointed vaguely in the direction of South Main Street. “Her sons and my son are about the same age.”
And, if Charlotte remembered correctly, Clare was newly married to an ER doctor with Knights Bridge roots. Samantha had filled her in on some of the local gossip during their prewedding dress fitting, a good way to manage any jitters—in Samantha’s case, more like prewedding excitement. No doubts for her.
Clare pointed to a series of underwater photographs of the massive reservoir. “Divers explored the bottom of the reservoir about fifteen years ago. They filmed a documentary. The project was led by a University of Massachusetts biology professor with help from the
state police underwater recovery team. They documented the remains of the four lost valley towns, Dana, Prescott, Greenwich and Enfield. The valley floor was scraped bare to create a pristine bottom for drinking water, but there are all sorts of rumors about what got left behind.”
“The mysteries of the deep,” Charlotte said, studying the photographs. She heard the wistfulness in her voice but didn’t know if Clare noticed.
“Mmm,” Clare said. “The protected wilderness surrounding the reservoir is filled with old stone walls, cellar holes, roads and lanes—the bits and pieces of the lives of the thousands of people who gave up their homes to provide drinking water for metropolitan Boston.”
Charlotte heard whoops from the children at story hour and smiled. “I know more about underwater exploration than I do children’s stories, I can tell you that.”
“Kylie’s badgers are a hit with adults, too, but they have a special appeal for children. She’s a newcomer, too. She came to town for an artistic retreat and ended up staying.”
“Knights Bridge has a way of keeping people here, doesn’t it?”
Clare laughed and agreed. She returned to work, preparing for a book club for seniors, she said. Charlotte wondered if Evelyn Sloan was a member but decided not to ask. She didn’t want to prompt any unwanted scrutiny of their relationship. Having Greg on her case was enough but at least he was an outsider. She’d gotten a hint from Samantha’s first days in Knights Bridge of how fast news traveled and how easily rumors got exaggerated in the small town, especially among the Sloans.
Charlotte wandered into the stacks. From what she could tell, nothing earth-shattering had happened in Knights Bridge sixty-five years ago when Evelyn and her friend had put together their time capsule. Quabbin had finally filled to capacity with the dammed Swift River and Beaver Brook, the last remnants of the valley towns disappearing forever underwater. Amherst, Evelyn’s hometown, wasn’t as dramatically affected as Knights Bridge had been by the years-long construction of the reservoir and the relocation of the valley’s population. New roads were built, other roads discontinued—Charlotte had noticed a photograph of an old country road that ran right into the reservoir, as if it were still 1925 and nothing had changed.
Although she enjoyed her visit to the library, she felt faintly dissatisfied when she left, as if she’d somehow missed clues to what had Evelyn Sloan so determined to find her time capsule and keep it secret. But it was impatience more than anything that had her out of sorts, and also, she thought as she crossed the town common, the knowledge that she’d have to amp up her search.
“Time to go where the spiders live,” she muttered to herself.
When she arrived back at the inn, she had leftover stir-fry for lunch and then tackled the main floor for the time capsule. Best to take advantage of Greg’s absence since it would be hard to disguise her activities. How to explain digging through closets, cupboards and drawers? He’d see through any of her answers. Looking for playing cards, jigsaw puzzles, something to write with, curiosity, boredom—they all sounded lame to her. She supposed she could say she was paranoid about mice and spiders, but Greg would recognize any outright lie.
And she didn’t want to lie to him or anyone else.
Evelyn Sloan would be in much the same position. Even if she could search for the time capsule herself with her bad knee, how to explain herself without making her family suspicious? Staying at the inn allowed Charlotte to slip in her searches with no one the wiser.
If she didn’t get caught, she wouldn’t have to fib.
The main floor consisted of the kitchen, pantry, dining room, library, living room, an office and reception area, a powder room, and the suite where Justin and Samantha planned to live during renovations. Most of the rooms appeared to have been cleared out, probably before the place was sold to the Sloans. What if someone had tossed out the time capsule assuming it was junk? Charlotte doubted Evelyn’s friend Betsy would have hidden it in a main room.
She didn’t relish checking the attic and cellar but they could be her best bets. A controlled descent to a sunken wreck with a professional team above and below water was one thing. Sneaking into an old, unknown attic and cellar was quite another. Who knew what she’d find? Spiders, for certain. With the spotty cell service, she couldn’t count on calling for help if she got into trouble.
A problem she could put off for now, considering the amount of time even her quick search of the main floor had taken. She’d tackle the attic and cellar her next opportunity.
She discovered a few faded black-and-white photographs tucked in a sideboard in the dining room, under a wooden tray. She spread them out on the table. One depicted two teenage girls standing on the steps of the inn’s front porch. Charlotte was positive the one on the left was Evelyn Sloan. Her hair was dark and wavy, one hand on her hip as she smiled at the camera. She wore a sweater and a skirt that came to her midcalf and was cinched at her waist with a slender belt. The girl posed next to her had longer, lighter hair and was dressed much the same—Betsy, Evelyn’s friend whose family owned the inn, no doubt, her coconspirator in the time capsule that was now, decades later, such a source of concern.
The other two photographs of the girls had obviously been taken the same day. There was no notation on the backs. Charlotte wondered who’d taken them, what the occasion had been. Had they been tucked into the sideboard in an offhand manner because they weren’t important, or the opposite—deliberately, because they were important?
* * *
Charlotte returned the photographs to where she’d found them and headed out to the front porch with a glass of ice water. She felt like such a snoop that when Eric Sloan appeared on the driveway, she jumped. She was sure she looked guilty. She tried to cover for herself with a smile as she descended the porch steps and met him on the front walk.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said.
“No problem. I was lost in thought.”
He was in jeans and a T-shirt and was carrying a bag of spinach. “From my grandmother. I stopped by to check on her. Her knee must be better if she’s picking vegetables.”
He sounded dubious about his grandmother’s knee issues, but Charlotte wasn’t going there. She thanked him for the spinach and set the bag on a step. “Would you like a glass of water or iced tea?”
“No, thanks. I’m not staying. Greg’s not here?”
“He’s in Boston picking up his kids at the airport. I imagine they’ll be back here soon. I’m sure he’ll appreciate your grandmother’s spinach. We enjoyed the snow peas last night.”
“She’s always loved to garden. My grandfather could take it or leave it. He was a carpenter. He worked on this place, actually. One of his first jobs. That’s how he and Gran met. She was in town visiting the family who owned the inn.” Eric’s deep blue eyes narrowed. “Gran’s not being a pest, is she?”
“Absolutely not,” Charlotte said without hesitation. She meant it.
“I think she misses Heather since she moved to London. She’s the only granddaughter. Gran always liked Brody when he lived in town.” Eric grinned. “That’s one of us.”
“He and Heather seem happy together.”
“They plan to come back here and build out on Echo Lake.”
“Nice.” Charlotte kept her tone light. “Are you sure you won’t stay?”
“No, thanks. Give my best to Greg. If his kids are a handful and you need to escape, we can find you another place to stay.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Call me if my grandmother becomes a problem. We can’t help but worry about her.”
Charlotte smiled. “She seems on her game to me. Again, thanks for the spinach.”
“Sure thing.”
After Eric left, Charlotte took the bag of spinach into the kitchen and set it on the counter. She filled the sink with water
and tossed in the spinach, although it looked relatively clean and picked over. Still, it was something to do now that she was restless, on edge. She considered Eric’s visit. What if there was no time capsule? What if his grandmother had made it up or she and her friend had dealt with it forty or fifty or even sixty years ago and she didn’t remember? What if she was muddled due to the onset of dementia or something of that nature?
Charlotte shook off the thought. She stuck to what she’d told Eric. Evelyn Sloan was sharp, alert and knew exactly what she was doing—and she had her reasons for wanting to find her time capsule before anyone else did, especially a member of her family.
* * *
It was after eight when Greg arrived back at Red Clover Inn with his two teenagers. Their resemblance to their father took Charlotte by surprise, but she didn’t know why it should have. She’d known he was a dad. Although visibly tired from their trip, the pair were also wired, excited about spending time with their father in a small New England town.
Andrew hoisted his duffel bag over one shoulder. He was strongly built like his father, with tawny hair and blue eyes. “This place would be great at Halloween. Seriously. You probably wouldn’t need fake bats and spiderwebs, right, Dad? You’d have the real thing.”
“Tough to get a bat to fly around on cue,” Greg said.
“Too bad Brody’s not here,” Megan said. Her thick curls shared Greg’s dark auburn color. “I want to meet Heather.”
Her brother snorted. “Jealous because Heather got Brody and you didn’t?”
“No. Jerk.”
Andrew laughed and cuffed her on the shoulder. “Kidding.”
Greg made a face as if he didn’t get this exchange, which, of course, he did. Charlotte smiled but kept quiet. At thirteen, she’d have had a crush on Brody Hancock, too. Look at her last night, kissing Greg in the kitchen.
“What rooms do we get?” Megan asked. “Can I pick my own?”
“Sure,” Greg said. “Any but the ones Charlotte and I have.”
“It’s really nice to meet you, Charlotte,” Andrew said. “Dad already explained that you and he...” The boy reddened. “You know.”
Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel Page 15
