Secrets of the Lost Summer

by Carla Neggers

Dylan parked in the driveway. For once, Noah wasn’t wearing a black suit. He was in his idea of wilderness clothes: black jeans and an L.L.Bean hiking shirt. He’d felt mildly guilty at pulling Dylan from his mission in Knights Bridge and had insisted on flying east with him.

  “It’s beautiful here, though,” Noah said as he got out of the car and breathed in the clean country air. “What a spot.”

  “But you’re not staying,” Dylan said. It was more like an order than a question. The last thing he needed to do was to find a place for his friend to sleep in the crumbling house. Noah had been particular about his comforts even when he’d been broke.

  “Not a chance. Relax.”

  “Olivia Frost is highly annoyed with me.”

  “Like you’re not used to people being annoyed with you.” Noah motioned toward the woods behind the house. “Do all these trees make you claustrophobic?”

  “No.”

  “Not even now that they’re leafing out?”

  “No. There are fields, too, Noah. You’re just focused on the woods.”

  “I don’t think I’m cut out for New England. I don’t need four seasons. Let’s take a walk. I want to stretch my legs.”

  In other words, he wanted to see The Farm at Carriage Hill and meet Olivia Frost. Dylan didn’t dissuade him, and they headed down the narrow road. He explained what he could about the Quabbin Reservoir and what the area must have been like in 1938 when Lord Ashworth was being robbed in Boston to the east.

  Noah was quiet. “Have you considered that your father might have been scammed by these people?”

  “How? He got a good price on the house. The land alone would sell for what he paid.”

  “That’s because the house is worthless. It should have been a negative. Think of what you’ll have to pay to have it torn down.”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  Noah glanced at him. “You know where you’re headed but you focus on where your feet are planted right now. It’s why you don’t get blindsided by jackasses.”

  “We all get blindsided by jackasses.”

  “This jewelry heist. Suppose these people lured your father to their quaint little town in order to manipulate him into finding the missing jewels. What if he found them, and they’re hidden away in this old lady’s bank vault, or the Frost family vault?”

  Dylan had told Noah about the robbery because he was his friend and was good at patterns and connections. Now he regretted opening his damn mouth.

  Noah took a few more long strides. “You might want to keep your eyes open for anyone with a sudden influx of funds.”

  “That’s conspiratorial even for you, Noah.”

  Dylan had discovered long ago that Noah Kendrick tended to be naive. At the same time, he had a conspiratorial mind. The two weren’t as mutually exclusive as people often thought but played off each other, the naïveté fueling the conspiracies and vice versa. He didn’t think in straight lines. Dylan could cut to the chase with people. Love, greed, fear, sex, violence. Motivations were everything. He had met people who acted out of a sense of honor, integrity, courage, but his sole focus was whether they were okay or not okay for Noah and his business.

  “You’re a guy’s guy, Dylan,” Noah said, matter-of-fact. “Your father was, too. Women like you. They liked him. This Olivia Frost never met him?”

  “No. What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing. Just taking a walk on a fine spring day. I’m waiting for a cloud of blackflies to descend. I read about them. They can be nasty this time of year.”

  They came to Olivia’s house. Dylan felt as if he’d been gone for weeks instead of just a few days. Purple, white and yellow tulips blossomed beneath a sign she’d put up for The Farm at Carriage Hill, painted with chives like the ones on the card she’d sent.

  Noah gave a low whistle. “Very nice. It’s more upscale and tasteful than I expected. Not cutesy. Does that describe your Liv Frost?”

  “She’s not mine, and you tell me,” Dylan said as she came out the door, obviously not expecting them. Her hair was pulled back, and she had on jeans and a dark green top that brought out all the colors in her eyes. He smiled. “We were just admiring your new sign.”

  “Thanks.” She brushed her hands off on her jeans. “I’ve been digging in the dirt since first thing this morning. For some reason I thought it’d be fun to plant a hundred yellow pansies out back.”

  Dylan noticed her muddy knees but realized he was starting to stare and jerked himself back to the business at hand. He introduced Noah. “Olivia, this is Noah Kendrick. Noah, Olivia Frost, proprietor of The Farm at Carriage Hill.”

  She came forward on the stone walk, smiling graciously. “It’s great to meet you, Noah. Welcome to Knights Bridge.”

  “Great to meet you, too, Olivia. This place is fantastic.”

  “I’m glad you like it. I’m hosting a mother-daughter tea tomorrow. It’s sort of an unofficial opening day.”

  “Terrific. A tea. That’s just what I expected from the note card you sent Dylan, but Carriage Hill itself isn’t as unfinished and rustic as what I expected from his description.”

  Olivia glanced at Dylan with an unexpected spark of humor. “We’ll have to work on your talking points.”

  Noah winced. “Dylan was enthusiastic about the place—”

  “Mmm. I’m sure.” She was clearly not insulted at all, but she added, her tone more guarded, “Dylan didn’t bring you here to help him dig for buried treasure, did he?”

  “You mean the long-missing Ashworth jewels,” Noah said, innocent.

  Dylan grimaced at his friend’s bluntness, but Olivia didn’t seem surprised that he’d told Noah the story and not her. She motioned toward her house. “Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink?”

  “That’d be great,” Noah said. “I’d also like to see your gardens, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’d love to show them to you.”

  She seemed genuinely pleased and started up the walk. Noah hung back and gave Dylan a tentative look. “I’m not screwing things up for you, am I?”

  Dylan shook his head. “Just be yourself. Don’t worry.”

  The ground was soft and moist as they followed Olivia around to the back of the house, but Noah was dressed for the conditions. Dylan was, too, but that was nothing new. He watched Olivia leading his friend through the parsley, chives and such, her easy manner slowly wearing down Noah’s self-consciousness. He was less awkward, and genuinely interested in the various herb, flower and vegetable gardens and, especially, for reasons only known to him, the potting shed with its bags of soil, fertilizer and compost, mounds of small stones and stacks of old pots.

  “My sister found this one in back at the mill,” Olivia said, pointing to a blue-glazed pot that came to her knees. “Isn’t it great? I’m loading it up with red flowers and putting it on the terrace. The red should attract hummingbirds. I love finding old things that I can make new again. I look clever when I’m just pinching pennies.”

  “You’re very talented,” Noah said. “Dylan, would you know what flowers to plant to attract hummingbirds?”

  “Probably not,” he replied, teeth clenched. Was Olivia deliberately turning on the charm with Noah, or was he just bringing it out in her?

  “You have a decent garden at your place on Coronado,” Noah said.

  “The house came with landscaping. I didn’t plant anything myself.”

  “Got an urge to dig in the dirt at your house up the road?” his friend asked, amused.

  Dylan gave him a sharp look, but Noah was oblivious and asked more gardening questions as Olivia led them inside. She pulled a large mason jar out of the refrigerator filled with what Dylan assumed was tea. Noah took it upon himself to get glasses out of the cupboard, add ice to them and set them on the counter.

  Olivia poured the tea. “It’s regular old black tea, in case you’re wondering.”

  Dylan was. He took a glass, remembering their kiss in the kitchen.
He noticed her cheeks color, as if she could read his mind.

  For all he knew right now, she could.

  “I’m trying a new vegetable soup recipe,” she said, handing Noah a glass of tea. “You’re welcome to stay. I have some homemade bread. I’ve been experimenting. It’s all good, though. I’ve tried everything—well, not the soup, but you can’t go wrong with vegetables.”

  She was as unselfconscious as Noah was self-conscious. He tried his tea and gave Dylan a pointed look. “Knights Bridge is full of surprises.”

  “We don’t have to stay,” Dylan said.

  “I’m going to resist homemade vegetable soup and homemade bread? I don’t think so.”

  “Olivia has a big day tomorrow—”

  “I can give you some to take with you,” she said.

  She had the windows open and the house was cool, the temperature dropping with the waning afternoon. Everything about Carriage Hill exuded her personality, her taste, her warmth, but Dylan could also see just how much work she had to do before The Farm at Carriage Hill was a profitable business. He remembered what it was like to be working night and day toward realizing a dream while at the same time knowing deep down it might not happen despite his best efforts.

  She wrapped the bread in foil and put it and a container of soup into a brown paper bag for him and Noah to take back with them.

  “Good luck tomorrow,” Noah said.

  Olivia thanked him, obviously taken in by the founder and chairman of NAK, Inc.

  Dylan carried the bag and scowled at his friend when they reached the road. “When did you go to charm school?”

  “What? I was trying to make a good impression. I figured if I was a jerk, she’d be more likely to think you’re a jerk.”

  “She does think I’m a jerk.”

  “Because you didn’t tell her about your father’s interest in this 1938 jewelry robbery.” Noah continued up the road, finally shaking his head. “You’re in trouble, Dylan, my friend. Big trouble.”

  “I don’t belong, do I?”

  “You’re the stranger in quiet and quaint Knights Bridge.”

  “It’s not that quiet and quaint.”

  “It is compared to our world. Time stopped here when the buggy whip went out of style.”

  “I suspect we underestimate these people at our own peril. They’re as much in this century as you and I are.”

  “Maybe, but I know you, Dylan. You won’t stop until you figure out what happened with your father and this place—why he bought it, these missing jewels, Grace Webster, the Frosts, Quabbin Reservoir. You’re relentless.”

  “Maybe Olivia wants answers as much as I do.”

  “Your presence threatens this little town. Hers doesn’t.”

  “She lived in Boston for several years.”

  “And she’s here now. So is her family. It’s her home. She has roots here. Now she has a business here. You’re a nomad like your father, and…” Noah frowned. “And there are blackflies.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying falling for her could be a big mistake.”

  Dylan nodded. “I know.”

  Noah waved a hand, swiping at the tiny flies. “I’m also saying there really are blackflies. Damn.” He slapped at a gnat on his cheek. “Olivia won’t hurt you. You’re tough as nails, Dylan McCaffrey. You could hurt her, and you could hurt the people she cares about, even if you don’t mean to.”

  “Trying to get me back to my desk?”

  “As if you ever worked at a desk for more than twenty minutes at a time. I’m speaking as a friend, Dylan, not as a business partner.”

  “I thought you were the one who didn’t notice things.”

  “Well, out here in the woods, a beautiful brown-haired woman is bound to get my attention.”

  “She’s too good for me?”

  Noah grinned. “Damn straight. You’re caught, my friend. You can’t have Olivia Frost if you pursue the Ashworth jewels, and you can’t have peace of mind if you don’t.”

  “What if the jewels have nothing to do with her or Knights Bridge?”

  “That’s why you found that file on your treasure-hunter father’s laptop and why he bought the house of an old woman who was in turmoil in the 1930s. That’s why your father’s card was in the Knights Bridge town library.”

  “There’s a reason you’re a billionaire.”

  “Yeah. Luck, and at least one person on this planet I trust. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading back to the land of concrete and five-star hotels.”

  Dylan was silent a moment, taking in the quiet, the lush green of the landscape. “Think I could settle down here?”

  “And what, grow beans?”

  “I could coach youth hockey. My father and I used to talk about getting into adventure travel. Knights Bridge would be a good base.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Noah said, “but if anyone can figure this out, you can.”

  Dylan grinned at him. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”

  A black Lincoln pulled into the driveway—Noah’s hired car. He wasn’t staying. He’d never planned to stay. He had meetings in New York. As the driver got out and opened the back door for him, Noah hesitated and looked at Dylan. “I’m used to having you at these meetings, Dylan.”

  “You’ll be fine. You’ve built a team you can trust.”

  “No, you built a team I can trust. You played hockey. You’re the team type. I’m not.” Noah glanced down through the trees toward Olivia’s house. “Neither is Olivia Frost. We’re solo operators. Teamwork doesn’t come naturally to us. It takes some effort for us to learn how to build a team, trust a team—trust ourselves. I don’t have good instincts about people, but I can recognize someone else who gets burned because they can’t see a son of a bitch coming down the road.”

  It was probably the most Noah had said at once since eighth grade. Dylan frowned at his friend. “Think she’s here licking her wounds?”

  “Count on it,” Noah said. “I’m sorry I’ll miss her soup and bread.”

  He climbed into the car and was gone. Dylan went inside and set the bag in his little refrigerator. He wasn’t hungry yet. He was restless, not quite sure what he was supposed to do next, which wasn’t like him. He changed into running clothes and took off in the opposite direction of The Farm at Carriage Hill. Blackflies found him, which he figured served him right for the thoughts he was having about his neighbor down the road.

  When he returned, he tackled the claw-foot tub again and put on clean, dry clothes, as if somehow that would help him make a fresh start. He went back downstairs and, restless and out of sorts, searched through a cupboard in the living room and found a stack of old maps. He took them into the dining room and spread them on the table. One was a copy of a 1903 map of the Swift River Valley. It showed the towns that were disincorporated with the building of the Quabbin Reservoir thirty years later. He noted the three branches of the Swift River, roads, a railroad, tiny black dots marking where houses had been. It was a topographical map, and he could see the shape of the valley that ultimately had filled with water and the surrounding hills and ridges.

  There was no way to know if the Ashworth jewels had ended up somewhere in the eighty-thousand acres of limited-access wilderness, or under water altogether.

  What if Lord Ashworth had made them up?

  Noah was right, Dylan thought. Either he had to leave Knights Bridge now and give up on getting answers, or he had to stay and try to dig into the reasons his father had bought this place and let the chips fall where they may.

  If he left, would Olivia forget what she knew, or would she look for answers herself?

  She would look. She wouldn’t forget.

  Dylan smiled and got out the soup and bread. At least he and his hazel-eyed neighbor had something in common.

  Sixteen

  On a hot afternoon in early September, toward the end of that long, lost summer of 1938, our last summer in the Swift River Valley, I
read about a jewelry robbery in Boston in my hideaway cabin. My spot by Carriage Hill Pond hadn’t changed, not yet, but work on the reservoir continued everywhere for miles and miles around me. Cutting, chopping, ripping, digging, burning. It went on all the time. The land was being scraped clean, creating a pristine bottom for when Beaver Brook and the three branches of the Swift River finally had nowhere else to go.

  The story of a British aristocrat robbed of valuable jewels at his expensive hotel was a welcome diversion. I read about it in a newspaper already several days old. Lord Charles Ashworth and his fortune in missing jewels captured my imagination. I wondered if the thief had been caught already. Was he British? I couldn’t imagine he would come all the way to our valley. Daddy had finally taken the state’s offer and bought a house in Knights Bridge but he didn’t want to start over there or anywhere else. He wanted to pretend the politicians would change their minds and the valley could go back to the way it had been.

  He must have known that was impossible. The valley towns no longer officially existed. They’d been “disincorporated” in April. Most of the residents had moved out. We were still living in Gran’s house, but Gran had started packing for our move to Knights Bridge. I was like Daddy. I didn’t want to pack until the last minute.

  Safe in my little cabin, I reread the article on the jewelry robbery. I had to force myself to breathe calmly. I’d had drowning nightmares for months and would wake up gasping for air, but lately I often had trouble breathing during the day, too, just thinking of water inundating everything I knew. I didn’t tell anyone. We had to bear what we had to bear for the sake of progress, and millions of people would benefit from our sacrifice. Boston would have pure, unfiltered drinking water for the foreseeable future.

  As I pictured the missing Ashworth jewels, I could smell the clean water of the pond and tried to pretend the rest of the valley was unchanged, still filled with people, homes and businesses. It was getting harder and harder to pretend. People said that in ten or twenty years, we would all come to love Quabbin. I hoped so. I wanted the destruction to end and the scars to heal.

  That evening I slipped out of the house at dark. In the distance I could see the glow of the fires from the burning of brush and trees. When I got home, I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore. Daddy and Gran didn’t like me to cry. We were to carry on. I expected one of them to come to my bedroom door and tell me to hush, but neither did. I thought they didn’t hear me, didn’t realize I’d sneaked out. Now, with the benefit of time, I think they knew. I think they heard me and said nothing, did nothing, because they, too, were grieving for all we were losing. I don’t know if things would have been different if we’d talked. I pulled the curtains that night and crawled into bed, still seeing the glow of the fires.