Secrets of the Lost Summer

by Carla Neggers

  Dylan narrowed his eyes on her. “Loretta?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. I have to go.” She scooped up her shoes and bolted for the steps. “Let me know what you decide to do.”

  “I’ve already decided.”

  She glanced back at him. “You’re going back to Knights Bridge.”

  He smiled. “All the snow and ice should be melted by now.”

  She descended the stairs, muttering to herself as she disappeared down the walk.

  Dylan collected the laptop and bottles and went back inside. Before he headed east again, he’d go through every file on his father’s laptop and every scrap of paper in the trunk. He wanted to know what his father hadn’t told him, and what Loretta knew and wasn’t telling him about his run-down little house by Carriage Hill. She wasn’t herself. Stalling, parsing her words, changing the subject—probably trying to avoid lying to him.

  Near the bottom of the trunk, he found a small-press history of Quabbin tucked in a letterbox. The Day Four Quabbin Towns Died by J.R. Greene. It proved his father not only knew about the massive reservoir but had wanted to read about its history. Dylan flipped through the pages of the slender volume. A yellowed newspaper article about the Ashworth robbery fell out onto his lap. He carefully unfolded it. There was handwriting in the corner—a woman’s handwriting, he thought. It was as if someone had torn the article out of a Boston newspaper and jotted a note to herself.

  Isaiah Webster, Knights Bridge.

  Was it Grace Webster’s handwriting?

  Who was Isaiah?

  Dylan refolded the article and slipped it back into the book. He reached for his phone. He’d be on a plane tomorrow, with no answers, just a fresh set of questions.

  Eleven

  Olivia told herself that a trio of daffodils blooming by the front steps had lured her into Dylan’s yard, but she knew better. She loved daffodils and the ones at her house were in a cooler spot and not yet in bloom, but it wasn’t their cheerful welcome that had prompted her to head up her neighbor’s driveway. It was curiosity.

  On another walk that morning with Grace, the older woman had said something that had been on Olivia’s mind ever since. “A house is not a home. I didn’t mind leaving my house and moving into my apartment here at Rivendell. If Duncan McCaffrey thought I left behind clues to a lost treasure…”

  Grace didn’t go on, but Olivia had prodded her. “Did you?”

  “Of course not. Where would I get a treasure? This,” she’d said, dramatically gesturing toward the nearby fields and woods, with Quabbin in the distance, “is a true treasure.”

  Maybe so, Olivia thought, but as she mounted the sagging steps to the back porch, she had the feeling that Grace had deliberately played the sentimental card to change the subject.

  Olivia realized her heart was pounding. She didn’t know why she was so on edge. It wasn’t as if she had to worry about passersby or a police cruiser catching her sneaking into her neighbor’s house. No one ever came out here.

  She found a mud-encrusted key under an empty, cracked flowerpot and scraped it clean, then tried it on the back door. The door opened, and she went inside, heading straight for the dining room. She sat on the floor in front of one of the bookcases and emptied it, examining each volume before she returned it to its shelf. Had Dylan done the same before he flew back to San Diego?

  After almost an hour, she’d gone through every one of the books Grace had left behind in the dining room.

  No treasure map with an X marking the spot, no cryptic notes, no hollowed-out pages with gold coins inside.

  Nothing at all of interest to a treasure hunter, Olivia thought with a sigh as she rolled to her feet and stretched out her lower back. There could be more books in the living room or upstairs. She supposed it was crazy to think she’d find anything in them.

  She heard a car on the road and crept to the front window in the living room. A dark blue Audi similar to the one Dylan had rented was pulling into the driveway.

  Could it be Dylan?

  Whoever it was, Olivia didn’t want to have to explain why she was inside his house. She ran into the kitchen and slipped out the back door, shutting it quietly behind her. She tiptoed down the steps to the overgrown yard, dozens of violets mingling with the grass in the late-afternoon sun. She could make a break for the stone wall, then sneak through the woods back out to the road and walk innocently to her house.

  She got halfway to the stone wall before Dylan caught up with her, hooking a strong arm around her waist. “I wonder if I could get anyone in Knights Bridge to arrest you for breaking and entering.”

  “I didn’t break in. I had a spare key.” In fact, she thought, she still had it in the right hip pocket of her jeans. “I saw Grace this morning—”

  “Grace doesn’t own this place anymore.”

  Olivia could see he was enjoying himself. “I didn’t expect you,” she said, aware her fleece shirt was askew, his arm settling on bare skin just above her hips. “Why are you back?”

  “Maybe because of you.”

  She wriggled loose from him and adjusted her shirt. “Did something happen?”

  He didn’t answer. His canvas jacket was unbuttoned over a dark brown shirt that fit closely to his chest. Olivia felt a rush of warmth and suspected it showed in her face, but she hoped he’d assume it was due to the cool air or her mad dash across the yard.

  She nodded toward the house. “I wasn’t snooping. I was just curious. Because of your father.”

  “Were you hoping to find lost treasure?”

  “Clues, maybe,” she said lightly. “How long are you staying this time?”

  “For a while.”

  “‘A while’ meaning forty-eight hours or forty-eight days?”

  “A few days, at least. I’ve already been by the general store and stocked up on basics. Food, a camp bed, a refrigerator—”

  “A fridge? It’s in the back of your car?”

  “It’s a dorm-size fridge.” He started back across the yard. “I have some planning and thinking to do, away from any distractions in San Diego.”

  “Wine, women and song? Maybe no song.” Olivia kept up with him as he headed for the back porch. “You don’t seem like the singing type.”

  He glanced sideways at her. “How did you learn about my father’s work as a treasure hunter? You were vague when I asked you before. Was it Grace? She knew?”

  “She told me after you turned up here and weren’t seventy. Then I looked him up on Google. Why?”

  “How many people around here know?”

  “I have no idea. It’s not a secret, is it?” Olivia studied Dylan, noticing a seriousness about him that hadn’t been there before. “I’m a graphic designer, Dylan. Up until recently I had a busy, demanding career in Boston. I got in touch with you because of junk in your yard. I didn’t look up you or your father because of any treasure.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  She stopped abruptly. “You don’t believe me?”

  He went a few steps ahead of her, then turned, his blue eyes dark, unreadable, as they settled on her. “I didn’t say that.”

  Something, she realized, had happened in San Diego. “I didn’t expect to stir anything up when I contacted you. I thought you’d tell me to go ahead and clean up the yard myself. If I hadn’t written to you, where would you be right now?”

  Some of his tension seemed to ease. He winked at her. “Running on the beach, probably, or drinking beer on my front porch. It doesn’t matter. I’m here.” He looked over at the porch steps. “Where’s the key?”

  She dug it out of her pocket and handed it over. “It was under the flowerpot. You probably should hide it somewhere else. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have mopped the floors. I didn’t have time to do the windows.”

  “Funny, Olivia.” He tucked the key into a jacket pocket. “Imagine if I’d caught you upstairs instead of out here.”

  It was exactly what she’d been imagining since she’d m
ade a run for the woods. She smiled at him. “You move fast. I thought you’d need skates to cross a yard that fast.”

  He grinned. “I was highly motivated.”

  “No wonder Grace thought you were a scoundrel.”

  “You have dust in your hair,” he said, coming a bit closer to her.

  “At least it’s not mouse droppings.”

  “I’m not sure I’d want to kiss you with mouse droppings in your hair. Dust, though…I don’t mind dust.” He tucked a finger under her chin. “I’d come back here for you. I don’t need lost treasure.”

  “You’re making my head spin, Dylan McCaffrey.”

  “Good.” He lowered his mouth, brushed his lips across hers, then drew back. “Say hi to Buster for me.”

  “Dylan—”

  “I’ll try out my new camp bed tonight with Grace’s musty blankets. Safer.” He smiled. “I’m on California time. I don’t want to keep you up late.”

  Olivia breathed again. “Must have been a long flight across the country.”

  “Hell of a long flight.”

  Now wasn’t the time to try to talk to him about what was going on between them. Too much adrenaline. Too much testosterone, she thought, glancing at her ex-hockey player neighbor. She could see him hip checking an opponent, no question.

  “If you need anything,” she said, “you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a lot of neighbors out this way,” she added, as if he needed reminding.

  As she walked back down the road, Olivia noticed daylight was lasting later into the evening, a sure sign that spring had arrived. Once back at her house, she dragged out one of the tables Jess had found and set it on a drop cloth in the back room, where she did all her painting. A deep, rustic gold with a sponged finish would be nice, she decided, trying to focus on her work and not her sexy neighbor, her tingling skin and lost treasure.

  She set up her painting supplies and wiped down the table. She wanted everything in the house to look as if it belonged, had been there awhile. She opened a window for ventilation. She still could feel Dylan’s mouth on hers and sighed, wondering if she should have gotten a few friends together and cleaned up Grace’s old yard and not bothered contacting the owner. He’d never have been the wiser, and she wouldn’t be thinking about when she’d get to kiss him again.

  She opened the can of paint.

  Wherever Dylan was sleeping tonight, it was just as well it wasn’t under her roof.

  Dylan had ordered breakfast and was drinking his first cup of coffee of the day when Olivia eased onto the stool next to him at the counter at Smith’s. His neighbor looked refreshed and energetic, he thought, but then again, she’d spent the night in a real bed. He’d spent the night on his new camp bed. It was more comfortable than his pile of musty blankets but he hadn’t slept well. He wouldn’t have, even if he’d been in a proper bed. He’d tossed, turned and stared at the ceiling, asking himself what, if anything, Grace Webster, Olivia Frost and the rest of the population of Knights Bridge knew about Lord Charles Ashworth and the missing Ashworth jewels.

  “The omelets here are great,” Olivia said cheerfully. “No caviar, though.”

  “I ordered the one with local cheddar, peppers and onions. What would you like?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Did you follow me?”

  Her changeable eyes sparked. “Maybe.” She waited for the waitress to deliver a mug of coffee, then added cream and glanced at him next to her. “You look more like a hockey player this morning than an executive for a major corporation.”

  “I’m not an executive. I’m Noah’s friend from first grade. I have his back.”

  “You’re a glorified bodyguard?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “Not exactly.”

  She added more cream to her coffee. Evidently she liked it very light, or she’d forgotten she’d already put cream in it. “Don’t underplay your role because you think we can’t handle the truth out here in Knights Bridge.”

  Dylan shrugged. He had the feeling Olivia had been reading more about him, Noah and NAK, Inc., on the internet. “Okay.”

  She snapped up her mug with such force that hot coffee splashed onto her hand. She grabbed her paper napkin and blotted the spill. “Do you have that effect on everyone?”

  He suppressed a smile. “What effect?”

  She muttered something under her breath that he couldn’t quite make out.

  His omelet arrived. It was damn near perfect and came with homemade toast and a little bowl of homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam and another little bowl of soft butter. At home on Coronado, he’d be having Cheerios and a banana.

  At home on Coronado, it was five o’clock in the morning. He’d be asleep.

  He decided to satisfy Olivia’s curiosity about him. “I helped Noah with people and structure so that he could focus on what he does best. We took a few risks that paid off. Yes, I’ve done well. Yes, I can afford caviar, but I don’t like it.”

  “You’ve tried it, though.”

  “Once. At a party in L.A.”

  Olivia swiveled on her stool so that she was facing him. She had on a marine-blue corduroy shirt over cargo pants and trail shoes with wool socks. April, he thought, and still wearing wool socks. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, strands of gold-streaked dark hair falling into her face. He doubted she even noticed.

  “A party for what?” she asked.

  “Just a party. Noah likes parties, or he says he does.”

  “He’s known for having a string of women in his life. Actresses and models and such. I read that on some gossip page on the internet.”

  “Noah’s single—”

  “As are you.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

  “I don’t, but I saw a picture of Noah with a babe on his arm. I doubt she was his sister.”

  “Noah’s trusting.”

  “And you?”

  Dylan handed her a triangle of toast. “Eat. You look hungry.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are. That’s what I bring to my work with Noah—I’m pretty good at reading people.”

  “You can tell I’m hungry? That’s just a lucky guess.” But she took the toast and bit right into it. “You keep unpleasant people at bay in order to let Noah focus. Is that right?”

  Dylan spread another triangle of toast with the jam, the tiny chunks of strawberry and rhubarb just the right size, and grinned at her. “‘Unpleasant people.’ That’s a polite way to put it.”

  “I don’t mean to be intrusive. What you do and how much you’re worth are none of my business. Did you investigate me before you came out here?”

  He laughed. “I threw caution to the wind after seeing your picture and came out here without a complete dossier on you.” He was enjoying himself and couldn’t quite explain why. “How’s everything coming along for opening day at The Farm at Carriage Hill?”

  “Everything’s going just fine, thanks. I don’t need you to warn me off any jerks and scumbags. That would have been handy when I was still in Boston.”

  She seemed to think she’d said too much and jumped down from the stool. She started to reach for her bag, but Dylan put his hand on her arm and leaned close to her. “I’m not worth a billion, but I can afford to buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I can pay my own way.”

  “You can, but sometimes you don’t have to. Sometimes you can just say thanks and let it go.”

  She smiled. “Thanks.”

  “I still want to know what happened to you.”

  “I came home to Knights Bridge.”

  After she left, Dylan had a refill of coffee and finished his breakfast, feeling as if he might have just landed from Mars and had nothing in common with Earth’s population. An out-of-the-way New England town, a stubborn, independent, attractive woman with secrets? What the hell was he doing here?

  He drove over to Frost Millwor
ks. Olivia’s sister, who worked in the family business, lived in the picturesque original nineteenth-century sawmill by the old dam and millpond. The Frosts had converted it into a residence. Dylan hadn’t needed to do any digging to find out that tidbit. All he’d had to do was sit at the counter at Smith’s and listen to his fellow patrons, then put the bits and pieces of different conversations together.

  He entered the surprisingly modern mill building. He’d also gathered from his eavesdropping at Smith’s that Randy Frost was well liked and something of a force of nature in town. Dylan found him in the toasty warm front office, eyeing a row of photographs taped to the top edge of the rolltop desk.

  “That’s Cambria,” Dylan said, pointing to one of a familiar street in the small town on California’s scenic Pacific Coast Highway. “Nice spot.”

  “You’ve been to Cambria?”

  “Many times.”

  “They say the road can be downright scary.”

  “Depends on what scares you, I guess.”

  “You weren’t scared,” Randy Frost said, making it a statement.

  “Nah. Are you planning a trip west?”

  “My wife is. She says she wants me to go with her, but I don’t know. She’s not one to travel. She might want to slay this particular dragon on her own.” Randy pointed to a large sheet of white sketch paper on the desk. “I just unfolded this. I thought it was something work related. Louise will kill me dead if she walks in here and sees me with it, but what do you think it is?”

  Dylan took a closer look. In the middle of the page was a blue dot, probably done with a crayon. It was surrounded by other crayon dots in various colors, with a few stray dots farther from the blue dot.

  “It looks like dots,” he said.

  “That’s what it looks like to me, too.” Randy refolded the paper and stuck it under a magazine with an enticing photograph of Malibu on the cover. “Keep your mouth shut, all right?”

  No worries there, Dylan thought. “Sure.”

  “Damn. What a mess. I shouldn’t have said anything, but what the hell. You didn’t come here to listen to me talk about dots. What can I do for you?”