Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel

by Carla Neggers

  It was Andrew’s suggestion to play Clue. Charlotte joined in, but Greg could tell she only went through the motions. Her mind was elsewhere, and he suspected it was once again somewhere off the coast of Scotland on her dive that had gone bad. He recognized the kind of distracted daze she was in and didn’t try to drag her out of it. He wasn’t positive what had triggered her inward turn. Being around water, being rested, not having the wedding distraction, Megan’s mishap—whatever it was, Charlotte Bennett was caught in the grip of things that troubled her.

  Plus she was no damn good at figuring out whodunit in their game.

  Greg guessed the identity of the bad guy and the weapon early on, but Megan won when she nailed the room. “It’s Professor Plum in the conservatory with the wrench!”

  “Rats,” Andrew said. “I thought it was the vase.”

  “There’s no vase, Andrew,” his sister said.

  “Oh. No wonder I lost.”

  Megan muttered something under her breath. All considered, Greg was pleased by how well she and her brother got along. He appreciated the comfortable banter between them. His kids were doing okay. Their mother deserved the credit for helping them manage their separations due to his work, the ambush that had resulted in his long recovery, their divorce. He’d be closer to their home in Minneapolis with his new job, but he didn’t delude himself that the substance of their daily lives would change. Andrew and Megan were getting older and had their own lives. Same for their mother—and for him, he thought, as they put the game away.

  “You aren’t married, Charlotte?” Megan asked, tucking the weapon cards into their slot.

  “Any kids?” Andrew asked.

  “No and no.”

  Megan looked as if she wanted to follow up with more questions. She had matchmaker eyes but she didn’t pursue the subject. Greg saw no indication Charlotte was worried he might have told his kids about her history as a runaway bride. He was amused by her short, direct answers, but in addition to not being easily offended or intimidated, she didn’t embarrass easily, either. She wasn’t shy or self-conscious—not by a long shot—but she was private by nature, something he didn’t find contradictory.

  “When did you start diving?” Megan asked.

  “As a kid,” Charlotte said. “My parents worked in underwater salvage. So did my father’s cousin, Malcolm, Samantha’s dad—she’s the woman who invited me here and owns this place with her husband. These days I work with a maritime archaeology institute based in Edinburgh.”

  “That’s in Scotland, Megan,” Andrew said.

  “Jerk.” But she grinned, turning back to Charlotte. “We do that to each other sometimes. Treat each other like we’re idiots.”

  “It was possible you didn’t know,” her brother said, all innocence. “I’m just helping you out.”

  “That’d be the day.” Megan splayed her fingers in front of the fire. “The fire feels good, Dad. I didn’t realize how cold I was.”

  “Hypothermia can do that,” Greg said. “I’ll put one more log on the fire before we call it a night. Heat this place up good and hot and burn the fight out of you both.”

  “We’re not fighting,” Andrew said.

  “What do you call it?”

  “Being brother and sister.” Megan grinned. “That’s what Mom says, anyway. You should see us really fight.”

  Greg got a log out of the wood box. “Not while you’re here, I hope.”

  “I don’t think we need another log,” Megan said. “Really. I’m warm enough.”

  Andrew raked a hand over his head. “Yeah, Dad. I’m already about to sweat to death.”

  “I like it warm,” Greg said.

  His son moaned. “We know.”

  “Okay, we’ll let the fire die down.” He set the log back in the wood box. His kids had a point about the heat. Warm was good but he was turning the library into a sweatbox. He glanced at Charlotte, her cheeks pink with the heat in the library. “Should we open a window?” he asked her.

  “Can’t hurt.” She got to her feet, cracked a window and then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire as she peeled off her sweatshirt to a tank top underneath. “I like watching the flames but it is warm in here.”

  Greg tore his gaze from her in her tank top. Fortunately, Megan plopped next to Charlotte with more questions. “Is it hard to make a living as a diver?”

  “I’m actually a marine archaeologist. That’s how I make my living, not specifically by diving. I just wrapped up a project locating and researching sunken World War II German U-boats. It involved a considerable amount of diving.”

  “What’s next now that you’re done with that project?” Andrew asked.

  “I’m not sure yet.” She inhaled, her cheeks going from pink to red, whether from the fire or the questions, Greg didn’t know. “The truth is, the diving accident—the rescue I mentioned—might make it too risky for me to dive again. I suffered decompression illness. It occurred on a rapid ascent. It seemed mild, all in all, but it turns out I now could suffer serious complications if I dive again.”

  “Not like diving into a lake, right?” Megan asked. “Deep-sea dives?”

  “That’s right. It’s the reduction in ambient pressure around the body that causes the problem. Sometimes it’s random. Other times there’s a triggering event. Diving safeguards have always worked for me. Just not in April.”

  Greg settled onto the love seat, saying nothing. His daughter frowned at Charlotte. “But you’re okay if you don’t dive deep?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good, anyway. You can still be a marine archaeologist if you can’t dive, right?”

  “To do the kind of projects I have always done, diving is a definite plus and often a necessity. To be a marine archaeologist in some capacity doesn’t require diving.”

  “Are there jobs for you at your institute in Edinburgh if you can’t dive?” Andrew asked.

  “We’ll see. I’m still with the institute.” Charlotte smiled. “It’ll all work out. I was lucky I didn’t suffer a worse case of DCI—decompression illness. I was also lucky I got medical attention early on, since I didn’t have severe symptoms that clearly indicated there was a problem.”

  Megan paled slightly. “Could you have died?”

  “No one died,” Charlotte said without hesitation. “All’s well that ends well.”

  Greg noticed the vagueness of her response, but Andrew and Megan decided it was too hot in the library and went up to their rooms. “Guess I should let this fire die down before we pass out,” he said, shutting the glass doors on the fireplace.

  “It feels good after diving into Echo Lake,” Charlotte said with an exaggerated shiver. “The water’s cold enough as it is but I hit a spring.”

  “You’re used to Scottish waters, though. That must have helped.”

  She smiled. “No doubt.”

  He sat next to her on the floor in front of the fire. “Thanks for looking after Megan.”

  “You’re welcome, but she’d have been okay without my help. I just didn’t want to take any chances. I didn’t know if she’d snagged a tree root or cut herself on a sharp rock.”

  “Good thinking.”

  He placed his hands flat on the rug behind him and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a quiet evening in front of a fire. Years, probably. Charlotte looked comfortable, more relaxed after his kids’ mini interrogation.

  “What’s on your mind, Agent Rawlings?” she asked, her eyes on the fire.

  “What are your options as a marine archaeologist if you can’t dive?”

  “There are a number of viable options.”

  A brush-off answer. He let it go. “Who did you rescue in April? Our pal Tommy?”

 
“One of his friends. A recreational diver with attitude.”

  “And Tommy says you were distracted because the guy was a reminder that you’d jilted him. Stirred up all the old history between you two.”

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  “A guess. I met him, remember?”

  She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of the fire, close to his legs but not touching. “The accident happened a year after we ended our engagement. It had nothing to do with our relationship. I wasn’t distracted. I helped another diver who was in a dire situation. I came up too fast. It was a close call for both of us, but he’s fine and I’m...” She paused. “I’m recovered.”

  “Recovered if you stay on terra firma. You can’t dive.”

  “I didn’t say I can’t dive. I said there are risks. The alternative to what I did that day was certain death for both of us. I’d say we had a good outcome.”

  “The guy you saved grateful?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “No surprise,” Greg said.

  “He blames me for his mistake. Macho guys. Can’t ever be their fault.”

  “I’m macho and it’s often my fault.”

  She laughed. “Thanks for that bit of humor.” Her dark eyes connected with his. “Your kids are fun. I enjoyed today.”

  “Sorry about the tension at the lake. I’m kind of glad Megan took a bit of a risk. She didn’t do well when I got shot.” He left it at that. “We’re checking out the reservoir tomorrow. We’ll drive out to Winsor Dam, see what’s what. Join us?”

  “Can I let you know in the morning?”

  “Sure thing. That’ll give you overnight to work me out of your system.”

  “I’m ignoring that comment,” she said.

  Greg noted she hadn’t denied he had a point, but he said nothing further as she said good-night and headed upstairs. He shut the cracked window before the cool evening air could seep into the library and sat back on the floor.

  He wasn’t sleepy. It would be a good time for a mouse to scurry across the floor. Give him a distraction. A bat swooping into the library would be more work, but he’d handle it. Action beat thinking tonight, he decided. But he lingered by the fire until the flames died to coals. Then he went upstairs and checked on his kids. Both were in bed but awake, reading.

  Charlotte’s door was shut tight.

  He continued down to his room and settled in for the night, alone, with his book.

  * * *

  The next morning, Charlotte woke up at five to fog, drizzle and a silent inn. The dreary weather was forecast to clear by midday, but it didn’t bother her. She pulled on jeans, a running top and running shoes and slipped outside without bothering with coffee first. Let the Rawlings family sleep in. She tiptoed off the porch and out to the driveway, then turned right and continued past the field. The cool air invigorated her, chasing away the last of a series of dreams and nightmares. She couldn’t remember them all. She didn’t want to, either. Lying awake had produced its own problems, chief among them her reaction to Greg. It wouldn’t do. She needed to get a grip.

  As she reached Main Street and looped back to the inn, she received a text from Samantha’s uncle Caleb in London.

  All okay in KB?

  Charlotte paused in front of the country store and read the message twice, in case she was missing any subtext. She was annoyed with herself for thinking he might be doing anything beyond checking in with her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t.

  She typed her response.

  Just fine. It’s pretty.

  When do you head back to Edinburgh?

  Booked for next week.

  What about DC?

  Not sure. Soon.

  Selling Max’s place?

  Charlotte noticed Caleb’s texts were coming rapidly, as if he’d had his questions stored up and wasn’t simply responding to her answers. She continued past the country store, not yet open for the day.

  Maybe. How are you?

  Sam’s new in-laws are visiting. Nice folks.

  Enjoy.

  Hi to your DS agent. I hear he’s there with his kids.

  Knights Bridge’s news would naturally work its way to the Sloans and through them to Caleb. Charlotte wasn’t alarmed, but at the same time, she seldom heard from him. Why now? Because they’d just seen each other at Samantha’s wedding? Because she was in the United States—in Knights Bridge? His son Isaac was headed this way soon for college.

  Charlotte decided to keep her response simple. Yes. She didn’t explain further. Hi to your gang.

  You bet. Bye. Hope I didn’t wake you.

  She slipped her phone into her jacket pocket. An unusual exchange, for sure.

  No one was up when she arrived back at the inn. She made coffee and toast and took them out to the front porch. She sat on a wicker chair. Her robin was hopping in the dew-soaked grass. Charlotte picked up her coffee mug. She didn’t hear the sound of a single car as she took the first few sips of her coffee and contemplated Caleb’s texts.

  He knows about my leave of absence.

  Had to be, she thought, although her confidence in that assessment grew shakier as she ate her toast. Samantha could have found out in Edinburgh but Caleb, a maritime historian, had his own ties to the marine archaeology community in the UK. Samantha’s connections were a bit more dated because of her treasure-hunting work with Duncan McCaffrey and her months going through pack rat Harry’s London apartment and Boston house.

  Had Samantha’s parents, Malcolm and Francesca, found out about the leave of absence? They hadn’t seemed to know at the wedding, but Charlotte had avoided any discussion about her work.

  “Who talked?” she asked, gazing out at the quiet, green landscape.

  Tommy Ferguson knew about the accident but not about the extent of her injuries, and he had no reason to know about or be interested in her leave from the institute.

  She sighed. She had a good idea who the source was.

  She found a spot with just enough signal to send a text. She typed a message to Alan Bosworth in Edinburgh, debated a moment and then hit Send.

  My family knows I’m on leave, not just on vacation.

  Thirty seconds later, he blithely admitted her cousin had stopped by the institute with her new husband.

  I’m afraid I spoke out of turn. I didn’t realize they didn’t know.

  Of course, Alan didn’t know everything about her situation, either. Charlotte reined in any irritation with him. It wouldn’t be fair, and it wouldn’t do any good now, anyway. He knew about her leave, yes, but not about her caution against diving.

  No problem. Edinburgh’s a great spot for newlyweds. What are you working on?

  Sunken cities. My favorite.

  Charlotte smiled as she wished him well. It was Bosworth’s standard answer. He loved sunken cities. She ate her toast and finished her coffee. She couldn’t flirt with denial any longer. Last night, talking about the accident, telling the Rawlings family about the risks she faced with her diving career, had been a start.

  She thought about Knights Bridge. She felt like both a part of the small town, given Samantha’s marriage to a Sloan, and an outsider. She was that way in Edinburgh to a degree, too. Insider, outsider. Underwater, there’d never been any question that she belonged, doing deep-sea dives for her work as a marine archaeologist. Now that was done, at least most likely done.

  Who was she kidding? Her doctors had been clear about their assessment. She risked her health and potentially her life if she dived again and had a more serious bout of DCI.

  Her mood sinking, she decided not to go to Quabbin. Let Greg have time on his own with his kids.

  Their outing would give her a solid window on her own to investigate the cellar and attic fo
r Evelyn’s time capsule. Charlotte had no illusions that her elderly neighbor had given up on her quest, and nothing like digging through a rambling old New England inn to improve her own mood.

  * * *

  By midday, the sun had burned through the fog and any hint of rain had ended. Greg walked with Megan and Andrew on the top of Winsor Dam, along a narrow road that had been barred to public vehicles since 9/11. On one side was the pristine reservoir, created when the huge earthen dam had stopped the natural flow of three branches of the Swift River and allowed the north-south valley to flood. Aqueducts carried pure drinking water to metropolitan Boston to the east.

  Andrew and Megan climbed onto the stone wall above the steep, grassy slope formed by the dam. Elly O’Dunn had told them that when she was a kid, she and her friends used to roll down the dam in blankets or slide down on cardboard. Madness, as far as Greg was concerned. No wonder it was forbidden now. He’d driven the kids through the visiting area, up past the spillway and out to the lookout tower. They’d read about the small valley towns of Dana, Prescott, Enfield and Greenwich, taken by eminent domain to create the reservoir and all now lost to history.

  “What’s on your mind, guys?” Greg asked, enjoying the sun. Today would be the warmest day he’d had since arriving in Knights Bridge.

  Andrew sat on the low wall and squinted up at his father. “Mom has a boyfriend.”

  “I know.” Greg kept his tone casual. “Good for her. I hope she’s happy.”

  “He works in insurance,” Megan said. “He likes baseball and hockey.”

  “He came to one of my baseball games,” Andrew added.

  More than Greg had been able to do lately. “One of the games you won?”

  “Lost but I got a hit.”

  Greg nodded. He knew the game Andrew was talking about. He kept track of his kids’ activities, and he got back to Minnesota to see them when he could. It wasn’t as often as he’d have liked. Video chats helped but there was no substitute for being together in person, the way they were now—the way they could have been if he and Laura had worked out their marriage and she and the kids were coming with him to Washington. But that ship had sailed months ago. If he hadn’t been shot—if he’d been sent to a place where his family could have joined him—the outcome of his marriage would be the same.