“Olivia,” Grace said quietly.
She snapped out of her thoughts. “Sorry. Dylan and I went out in a boat today. We wanted to find the spot where you grew up.”
She smiled. “Did you catch any fish?”
“Not a one.”
Dylan had seemed taken in by both the history and the beauty of Quabbin. Olivia had been taken in by him. He wasn’t just a sexy jock or just a hard-driving businessman. Out on the water, those stereotypes didn’t hold, and, she realized, they had nothing to do with him. He was who he was. He didn’t play games. He was, she thought, completely authentic, and would stand for no less from the people in his life. It was why he and Noah Kendrick got along. Noah couldn’t be anyone but who he was.
Grace mounted the steps slowly but without hesitation. She straightened when she reached the porch. “This place looks seedier than I remember. Was it this seedy when I sold it to that rogue Duncan McCaffrey?”
“I wasn’t in town when you sold it,” Olivia said.
Grace sighed at the cracked, warped front door. “I suppose one’s eye gets used to certain things. In my last years here, I was terrified that I wouldn’t notice bathroom odors as I aged. I was staying home for longer periods. One’s senses adjust. It’s like people who don’t notice pet odors.” She glanced at Olivia. “I made your grandmother promise to tell me if she walked in here and the place smelled like pee.”
Olivia laughed in surprise. “Grandma probably would have told you even if you hadn’t asked her to.”
The door opened and Dylan greeted them. “Hello, Grace, Olivia.” His tone was polite, neutral, as he stood back and motioned for them to come inside. He’d obviously showered since fishing on Quabbin that morning. The ends of his dark hair were damp and he’d changed into a warm gray sweater and canvas pants that fit closely on his athletic, muscular frame. “I was restless and cleaned this afternoon,” he said with a smile as they stepped past him. “Don’t forget to notice the floors. I mopped.”
Olivia suppressed an image of him with his sleeves rolled up, cleaning house. She had to get her attraction to him under control. If Grace noticed, she made no comment. She entered the living room, placing a hand tentatively on the door frame. The floors did look better, and the room smelled fresh, not as dank and musty.
After a moment’s hesitation, Grace walked through the living room to the dining room. “I used to grade papers here,” she said, rubbing her fingertips over the newly polished table. “You can see the marks from my red pencil. I always used a red pencil.”
“My folks remember,” Olivia said.
“Your father enjoyed Shakespeare but he pretended he didn’t like reading. He could have made the honor roll all through school, but he didn’t want to put in the effort. Your mother was different. She pushed herself to do well.”
“She wasn’t as smart as Dad?”
“I didn’t say that. Randy could get by with no work. Louise couldn’t, not because she wasn’t smart. She would get paralyzed if she wasn’t prepared. Your father didn’t mind winging it.”
Dylan stood in front of the bay window. “Were they artistic like Olivia?”
“Randy liked to draw but I wouldn’t know about artistic skill. I taught Latin and English. It was a long time ago but I remember him and Louise well, perhaps because Audrey and I were friends.”
“No secrets in a small town,” Dylan said.
Olivia followed his gaze as he glanced out the window. No rain yet, but it was gray, blustery.
Grace looked past him to the overgrown yard. “I beg to differ. Small towns have their secrets, possibly more so than the city because we in small towns have reason to keep them. The city can afford more anonymity. What difference does it make if a stranger discovered your secret? You can just blab away and go home, knowing you’re unlikely ever to see them again.”
“Do you have any secrets?” Dylan asked.
She ignored him. “The house is clean but it’s so run-down. I suppose I’m spoiled. Everything at Rivendell is new.” She moved over to one of the bookcases. “I didn’t do much when I was here. I kept it clean, but I hated to spend money on anything but the most critical repairs. I loved the view, the gardens, my favorite chair and my books. I tidied up but I never saw any need to redecorate or to replace anything that still worked. My family…” She paused, deep in thought. “Gran liked it here well enough, but my father never felt at home. I did, but my idea of home changed after the state took our land.”
“Who owned Olivia’s place before she did?” Dylan asked.
“There were several owners during my time here. The most recent—the couple who sold her the house—planned to convert it into a bed-and-breakfast but ran out of money. They put a lot of work into the place. A new roof, new furnace, new wiring.”
“Which helped me,” Olivia interjected. “I can concentrate on cosmetic work instead of infrastructure.”
“Did you always live here alone?” Dylan asked, standing by the piano.
“After both my father and grandmother died, yes. I often considered taking in a boarder, but I never did. I would see students and teachers all day.” Grace ran her fingertips over a row of books. “I’d go to church, and to dinner and the movies with friends. I loved the quiet here and I appreciated my solitude. I’d watch the birds, work in my garden, read, build puzzles. I’d listen to the radio but I seldom watched television. I got a DVD player when I couldn’t get out as much anymore.”
“A good life,” Olivia said.
Grace turned from the books. “It still is a good life. Since I never married and have no close family, I never had the illusion that I would have someone else around to take care of me in my late senior years.” She laughed, her light blue eyes sparking with sudden humor. “Although I never thought I’d live this long.”
Dylan nodded to the shelves of adventure novels. “You’ve left me some good reading.”
A little unsteadily, Grace touched the copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel. “I loved these books. I have no room for them in my apartment. When I get a hankering to read about swashbucklers and such, I borrow a copy from the library.”
“These don’t have sentimental value?” Dylan asked.
She looked up at him. “They have great sentimental value. I left them for your father to enjoy. I’m sorry he didn’t get that chance. I hope they’re not too far gone for you.”
“Not at all. I’m reading The Count of Monte Cristo.”
Grace smiled. “That’s a good one. You’re enjoying Knights Bridge, then? Have you had a chance to hike up Carriage Hill yet?”
“I have,” Dylan said.
She walked over to the bay window, pulled back a sheer curtain, then craned her neck as if to get a view of the hill. “I haven’t been up there in years. There’s a pond on the other side. Carriage Hill Pond. When I was a girl…” She seemed to struggle to find the right words as she let go of the curtain and stood straight. “I used to read books in a small cabin there, before it was torn down for Quabbin.”
Grace was visibly tired, and Olivia exchanged glances with Dylan. He slipped an arm around Grace. “Will you allow me to walk you back to the car?”
She beamed a smile up at him. “You are a scoundrel.”
He laughed. “I think I prefer swashbuckler.”
Once Grace was safely into the passenger seat, Olivia returned to her house and collected her grandmother, then took both women back to Rivendell. A half-dozen residents were gathered around a large television, cheering on the Red Sox against the Yankees. Olivia’s grandmother joined them, but Grace wasn’t interested. “I’m going to have hot chocolate, read and go to bed early,” she said, pensive.
“Sounds good,” Olivia said cheerfully. “I might go home and do the same.”
“Are you happy being back in Knights Bridge, Olivia?” Grace asked as they came to her apartment door.
“Yes, absolutely. I was never far away in Boston. In some ways it’s as if I never left.”
Grace unlocked the door and pushed it open, then turned to Olivia, her steady gaze a reminder of her reputation as a stern teacher. “Dylan McCaffrey is a nomad at heart, isn’t he?”
“Maybe. I don’t know him that well. His father was, at least from what I can gather. Dylan must have been on the go all the time as a hockey player. Nowadays, he has the means to do whatever he wants.”
“He can even wash floors if he so chooses,” Grace said with unexpected levity.
Olivia left her to her hot chocolate and drove back to Carriage Hill. She had deep roots in Knights Bridge. Dylan had none, but it wouldn’t have mattered. She’d seen that morning that new things—new discoveries, new adventures—energized him. His work and his lifestyle opened the world up to him. He could get on a plane in a heartbeat if he wanted to go somewhere.
Her hands shook, and she felt light-headed, early signs of a full-blown panic attack at the thought of flying. Buster didn’t seem to notice her agitated state. He wandered into the mudroom and lapped the water in his dish.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Olivia said, grabbing his leash.
She welcomed the cool air and light rain as she and Buster headed out the driveway and down the road. Dogs weren’t allowed in Quabbin but they wouldn’t go that far. She just wanted to give the exercise and quiet surroundings a chance to soothe her. It wasn’t just the thought of flying that had frayed her nerves, she realized. It was Grace. It was her mother, Jess, Mark Flanagan. The uncertainties of her own life and work. Duncan McCaffrey and the Ashworth jewels.
And it was Dylan, she thought.
She smiled as she and Buster rounded a curve. Mostly it was Dylan.
He was strolling toward them in the mist as if he’d lived in Knights Bridge his entire life.
Olivia did her best to cover for any lingering visible effects of her moment of panic. “The rain’s nice right now, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I think Grace appreciated seeing the house again. Thanks for doing that, but don’t you wonder what she isn’t telling us?”
He nodded. “Whatever it is might not have anything to do with my father or the 1938 robbery.”
“Weird to think Grace could know anything about a fortune in missing jewels.”
“Maybe she doesn’t.” Dylan patted Buster on the head.
“How far do you two plan to go? The rain’s supposed to get worse.”
“Not far. We can turn back now and walk with you, unless you’d rather be alone.”
“I’m alone enough at that house.”
Olivia let his comment go at that but no sooner did she get Buster redirected than the rain picked up. Within a few seconds, they were in a downpour. She hadn’t brought a jacket and was just in a lightweight sweater. She was drenched almost immediately.
Dylan grabbed the leash from her. “Want to run?”
Olivia figured she was soaked no matter what she did. “Just remember who’s an athlete and who’s not an athlete.”
He laughed and jumped over a pothole rapidly filling with water, then picked up his pace. Buster got right into the spirit of things and trotted alongside him. Olivia kept up as best she could, but not only was Dylan a trained athlete, he was taller. She tended to take almost two steps for his one.
When they reached her house, it was practically raining sideways, water streaming down her driveway in cracks and splits in the dirt. She and Dylan were both soaked to the skin. He hooked Buster’s leash over his wrist and then caught her by the waist, lifting her off her feet.
She gave a little whoop of surprise and pleasure. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you.”
She knew that much. She could tell because her feet weren’t on the ground but her body was still moving up her walk. He kicked open her front door and set her on the floor. He wasn’t winded. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He got Buster’s leash off and let the big dog shake off in the middle of the kitchen, rainwater flying everywhere.
Dylan grinned. “Guess I’ll have to get acquainted with your mop now.”
“Getting caught in a chilly rain is a cardinal sin,” Olivia said with a shiver. “We’re lucky we don’t have hypothermia.”
“I’ll build a fire. You should get out of those wet clothes.”
“You, too.” She still could feel his arms around her. Every stitch of her clothing was completely drenched. With a shaking hand, she pulled off her soaked shoes and socks and left them by the kitchen door. Her heart was racing, her blood pounding as she manufactured an easy smile. “Amazing how you can be dry one minute and soaked to the bone the next.”
“Uh-huh. Amazing.”
Olivia was aware of his eyes on her, then realized that her thin, wet sweater was clinging to her skin from the waist up, revealing more than she was prepared for him to see. She took in a shallow breath. “I’ll get changed upstairs. Feel free to borrow a towel. There’s a half bath down here and a full bathroom at the top of the stairs.”
Dylan gave her a head start, at least. She was up the stairs and on the landing before she heard his first step below her. He moved deliberately, in no apparent hurry, but she doubted he was tired after their morning on Quabbin or their run in the rain. She stood back, not sure if she was pausing to catch her breath or just waiting for him. She was freezing now and wanted to get dry and warm and by the fire.
He didn’t look cold at all when he reached the top of the stairs. She noticed his broad shoulders, his slim hips, his muscular thighs—he’d obviously kept in shape since his peak hockey days.
She pushed back her wet hair and searched for something to say. “Why are you so interested in an old jewelry robbery? You can’t possibly care about any reward or profit from the jewels themselves. Is it the hunt, or is it because of your father?”
“Maybe it’s because of you and your note.”
“Ah.” Her senses were on overdrive, tuned in to his presence, reacting to his sexiness. “It was the chives, then. On my card.”
He smiled. “The Farm at Carriage Hill got me, too.” He curved two fingers and wiped water from her hair off her cheek. “You’re not what I expected.”
“As the owner of Carriage Hill pestering you about your yard?”
“That, and this.” He lowered his mouth to hers, just skimming her lips with his, then staying close. “I didn’t expect I’d come out here and fall for you.”
“You came because of your father. Otherwise you’d have just hired someone to deal with me.”
“Aren’t you glad I didn’t? Go on. Change before you freeze.”
“I’m not likely to freeze now,” she said half under her breath as she slipped into her bedroom.
Dylan leaned in the doorway. “Will I turn into a toad if I step over the threshold?”
“You’re the big risk-taker. Try it. See what happens.”
She pulled open an oak wardrobe she’d found at a yard sale last fall and had painted a warm, restful cream, never imagining she’d be living here come spring. Pretending to have nothing else on her mind, she grabbed dry wool socks, jeans and a shirt, then subtly tucked underwear between them. As she turned, she remembered that she’d had some of her antique linens out first thing that morning, before Dylan had whisked her off to Quabbin. They were laid out on her bed, sorted according to color, fabric or edging.
Dylan had stepped onto the wide-board pine floor. He was fine. He was, she thought, more than fine. Just looking at him made her tingle with desire.
“You probably don’t have lace-edged pillowcases in San Diego,” she said.
“Not probably. Definitely.”
She suppressed a touch of self-consciousness and set her clothes on the foot of the bed. The room overlooked the backyard, and on warm mornings, with the windows open, she could hear the birds and smell her gardens on the breeze. That morning, she’d imagined Dylan with her.
He planted his hands on her hips from behind and turned her to face him. “Olivia.”
“I collect them.” Suddenly she was ha
ving a tough time forming a coherent thought. “Antique linens. I thought I could use them here, especially when I start taking in overnight guests. I can make things out of some of them. Sachets, pillowcases. The lace on one is so fine, so beautiful, I can actually cut it out of the rest of the pillowcase, which is a disaster, and frame it.”
“Good. Excellent. You’re an amazing woman with an amazingly creative eye.”
She draped her arms over his shoulders. “You don’t care about antique linens, do you?”
“I do because you do.”
She smiled. “I actually like hockey.”
He’d had all he could take. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the tightening of his hold on her. He eased his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers again, and in the split second before his lips touched hers she knew this wasn’t going to be a soft, gentle kiss. As if just to torture her more, his palms somehow found the bare skin of her lower back, eased under her wet sweater and up her midriff to just beneath her breasts. When she gave a little gasp, he deepened their kiss as he let his thumbs ease up and under her soaked bra.
Emboldened, aching with anticipation, Olivia coursed her hands over his shoulders and down his back, drawing him tightly to her. When she came to his leather belt, all she could think of was unbuckling it, stripping off his wet clothes, and her own.
He gave a ragged moan, then raised her sweater. “Time to get this off,” he whispered, kissing her again before he pulled back just enough to get the sweater up over her head. He tossed it onto the floor. His gaze swept over her. “You’re beautiful, Olivia. You’re so damn beautiful.”
“Dylan…”
In the next two seconds, her bra was off, on its way to the floor with her sweater.
He took her hand, placed it on his jeans, under his belt buckle, so that she could feel the size and shape of him. He kissed her again, then lowered his mouth to her breasts.
She was melting, aching, dying for him to be inside her.
If she hadn’t slipped in her wet feet, on the wood floor, anything could have happened. Everything could have happened. Instead, she found herself on her bed tangled in antique sheets and pillowcases.
Secrets of the Lost Summer Page 21
