Edith arranged the skirt. “It looks Edwardian, given the high collar, the gigot sleeves. See how they puff out and then taper to the forearm? And this lace . . . it looks hand-tatted.”
“Well done, Mrs. Draper,” Casper said. “I didn’t know you knew about early fashion.”
“I didn’t get my position as historical society president because of my good looks, sweetie.” She held up the lace overlay. “The skirt is silk, I’m sure of it. And the V-shaped flounce on the bodice was to emphasize the S-corsets of the time. This is a very old dress, probably early 1900s. See if there’s a tag. Often seamstresses of the time would embroider their name into the back, near the waistline.”
Casper turned the dress over, opened the buttons, searching. “It’s from the House of Worth.”
“Oh, my. It’s a Worth dress. That’s . . .” She took his hands, pushed them away. “Darling, this dress could have been made by Charles Frederick Worth, a designer out of Paris in the Gilded Age. We should be wearing gloves.”
“There’s a name on the tag.”
“Fine. Get some gloves on and we’ll take a look.”
Casper had to admit to some chagrin that he hadn’t thought of that immediately. But he retrieved a pair of white cotton gloves and handed another pair to Edith, donned his own, then finished unbuttoning the dress. Took a flashlight to read the initials sewn into the tag. “C. A. F.”
“C. A. F.,” Edith repeated. “Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“The dress is soiled at the hem as if it might have been worn.” Edith lifted the dress, keeping the hem off the floor. “Get a padded hanger and a clothing bag and let’s package it up. And then take those boxes back to the storage room. Just for one final look.”
Her kind way of suggesting he might have missed something. Great archaeological work there, Casper.
After he found the clothing bag, brought it out to the front, he and Edith folded the dress inside. Then he returned the boxes to the storage room while Edith fired up the computer and plugged the initials into a search box of the catalogs and records of the historical society.
“I wonder . . .”
He came out to find her peering at the pictures in the display.
“What?”
“Well, there is a story . . . You know that Naniboujou Lodge, the resort northeast of town, was built in the 1920s, right? It was built as a private club for the elite. Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey were among the charter members.”
“I’d heard that. They had big plans, right before the fall of the stock market.”
“They called Lake Superior the ocean of the Midwest. Had plans drawn up that made it resemble Brighton Beach, complete with swim tents, shuffleboard, tennis courts, and a boardwalk.”
“The playground of the wealthy, tucked into the north woods.”
“The kind of place a debutante might come for her honeymoon?” Edith pointed to a picture in the case, one of a group of men surrounding a roadster, a couple standing next to the running board, waving. The woman wore a cloche, a long string of pearls; the man a dapper suit, his dark hair so shiny with Brylcreem it seemed fresh. “This came from the Naniboujou collection a few years ago. Just a sampling of the pictures they have donated over the years. But I do remember a picture that hung in the foyer for a long time—of a bride and groom, the first wedding at the resort. There was a tale attached to it. The story is that the bride disappeared the night of the wedding. Apparently she and the groom had a terrible row and she ran away. He went after her, and the two were never seen again. I was always mesmerized by that picture, wondering what the story could be.”
He stared at the roadster, and it niggled a smoky memory.
What if the roadster was the same one discovered in the woods near Mineral Springs? The one rumored to belong to Duncan Rothe?
And right then, the flame ignited, the reason to stick around just a little longer. That and the untended hope of solving the mystery at last.
What if . . . ?
No. He needed to stop chasing after lost treasures. Lost causes.
“I wonder if the courthouse has a record of their marriage. You might check—it would certainly add legitimacy to the display.” Edith turned off the computer, reached for her leather gloves. “I have to admit, I haven’t had so much excitement in ages.”
He laughed. And yeah, somehow digging into the past had kept his mind from turning over his confrontation with Monte. Maybe, just for now, the mystery could help him focus on something else. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, see what I can dig up. And I’ll go through each box with a fine eye.”
Edith nodded, again with no judgment, although he deserved it. He flicked off the lights and closed the door behind them, locking it.
The chill had deepened, but it cleared the sky of any cloudy debris and turned on the sparkle, the canopy deep and velvety.
“Good night, Mrs. Draper.”
“Stay warm, young man.”
Casper got into his truck, waited until her car started and pulled away. Then he put his truck in drive.
He intended to take a left at the light, but the vehicle drove through, up to the next block, then turned left down the street.
Past Raina Beaumont’s house, where Monte Riggs’s truck sat outside. Light glowed from the front windows like a beacon, past the porch, into the snowy front yard, and he called himself a stalker.
Enough. “Lord, please bless Raina and make her wise. And safe.”
The prayer loosened his chest, the tight grip of worry or maybe panic easing.
“And help her find peace from the pain of her past.”
He took a right at the next road and headed to Evergreen Resort, not looking back.
The phone rang just as Monte was telling Raina a story about finding a collection of stuffed cats in a woman’s attic, leaning in close to terrify her with a description of each feline. She let it go to voice mail.
He had eyes that could hold her, mesmerize her, toy with her, make her forget anything but right now—Monte and the large pizza he’d brought her for dinner.
She’d lit a candle and called it romantic as they sat on the floor in front of the crackling fire. He had stretched his long legs out on the braided wool rug, leaning on one elbow as he reclined, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie discarded and draped over the end of her sofa.
She’d never dated a businessman before and imagined he had important meetings with county officials. Like a politician, maybe.
Raina liked how he looked at her as though he respected her. Or at least the woman who’d spent the past week helping his grandfather organize his shop. With the subzero temperatures, she couldn’t bear to work in Aggie’s unheated house. Besides, she’d cataloged much of the main collections, bagged up the clothing, boxed the games and books, and bubble-wrapped the knickknacks. Now she just had to dive into the files in the kitchen office drawers, as well as the bedside tables upstairs, where she’d discovered yet more books and the family Bible.
A big Bible, too, with names written inside the cover. She thought about donating it, then decided that she should ask Penny, the granddaughter. It seemed like something the family might want yet had overlooked, so she’d brought it home, intending to mention it to Monte.
Her cell phone buzzed again.
“Go ahead and get that,” Monte said.
“Sorry.” She got up, retrieving it. Frowned at the unfamiliar number on the caller ID. She glanced at Monte, who was freeing another piece of pizza from the box, then answered. “Hello?”
Monte was folding his pizza slice in half like a sandwich. He looked at her and grinned. A boy in a man’s suit. She liked that, too.
“Raina? It’s Dori, from Open Hearts Adoption Agency.”
The voice doused any magic from the evening. Her voice fell, tight. “Is everything . . . uh, is everything okay?”
“Of course. But it’s been over a month, and we like to do a follow-up with the birth mother to check in and make sure we’
re still on track for the formal adoption. Do you think you are ready to sign the final relinquishment papers?”
If she could, Raina would have signed the papers the first day. Just to have it all over, swift and final.
The longer she waited, the closer she came to turning back in a full-out run to snatch Layla into her arms.
To scream the words roaring in the back of her head. No! I made a mistake! I want my daughter.
She wondered if Dori could hear her hesitation, the hiccup of her words, failing at the end. “Yes. Of . . . of course . . .” She glanced at Monte, who’d finished off the slice.
“And you? How are you?”
Monte was watching her now. She gave him a smile, something quick and hopefully easy.
But just for a second, she nearly locked herself into a closet and begged for news about Layla. Was she healthy? Happy? And—yeah, okay, she probably just slept and ate, but suddenly the thought of little Layla bundled in a Plexiglas bassinet swept through Raina, singeing her throat.
She clenched her jaw against the swift urge to cry, but her voice still emerged tremulous and high-pitched. “I’m good, thank you.”
“Feeling all right?”
She swallowed, found her breath. “Yes. I’m . . . great.”
Or she would be in another month, once the final papers were signed. She wanted to tell Dori to send them now, but somehow the words lodged in her chest.
“Have you found a job?”
She glanced again at Monte. “Uh-huh.” He was getting up now as if to walk toward her. Oh no—but he disappeared into the kitchen.
“You’ll let us know if anything changes or if you can’t make it to court—”
She heard water running in the kitchen, cut her voice low. “Actually, about that. Can you just have the papers sent to the court up here?”
“Uh, sure. I think we can work that out. Don’t you want a final good-bye?”
“I had my good-bye. Thanks for calling, but please, don’t bother me again.” She hung up just as Monte emerged from the kitchen.
He had untucked his shirt, his hair tousled, looking delightfully disheveled. “Everything okay?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said, nodding.
“I thought you mentioned something about court?”
She lifted a shoulder. “A speeding ticket in Minneapolis. I . . . uh . . . contested it.”
“You gotta watch those cops. Especially around here. They’ll arrest you for going two miles over. I swear they have it in for me.” He took her hand, caught her phone, and set it on the sofa side table. “Now, where were we?”
He set his cup down, and she glanced to make sure it landed on a coaster. The last thing she needed was to mar Liza’s—
Monte’s hand slipped behind her neck. Raina looked up to see his eyes in hers, focused, intense. His intentions written in them.
Oh—
And just like that, he leaned down to kiss her. It took her by surprise—his smooth grip on her neck, the other hand sliding around her waist. With her arms crumpled up against his chest, she didn’t quite know what to do. He was kneading her lips with his and it felt natural to yield, except nothing of desire or even warmth rushed through her.
In fact, she stood there, feeling awkward, as he made a little sound as if he might be enjoying the kiss more than she.
Suddenly he leaned back, looked at her, desire in his eyes. “You are so beautiful, Raina Beaumont.”
She was just . . . scared, maybe. Or even, well, traitorous. Because while this handsome man entwined her in his embrace, all she could think about was the taste of pizza and how the last time she’d really been kissed, and kissed someone back, she’d been nestled in Casper’s arms.
For a split second, she heard the waves, smelled the summer sun on his skin, felt the rub of his whiskers on her neck as he trailed kisses—
“Oh . . . uh . . .” She swallowed.
Monte leaned back again, cupping her face, his eyes gleaming, almost . . . victorious? “You’re trembling. Are you okay?”
She nodded, smiled, just wanting to untangle herself from his grip. But a gal couldn’t start over by running away, so . . .
She looped her arms around his neck, lifted her face.
He kissed her again, this time with more vigor, and she put real effort into kissing him back. Wanting to be here and calling her heart a turncoat for comparing him to Casper. Monte deserved better, so she even let him lower her to the sofa, press her into the cushions. Let him scoot his body close to hers as he ran his hand down her cheek, then lower.
It stopped at her shirt, the top button. That’s when she came to her senses. She shook her head, levered her hand against his chest, making to scramble out of his grip.
However, he didn’t quite catch up and lowered his mouth again, this time to her neck, his lips following a trail down her collarbone.
She pushed his shoulders. “Monte, I . . . uh . . . I’m not ready for . . .” She shook her head again, wishing for the right words. Love? A relationship?
A tawdry one-night stand?
All of the above.
He lifted his head and for a second appeared stricken as if he’d hurt her. He scrambled back and sat on the other end of the sofa, a blush rising in his face. “Sorry. I guess I forgot myself there.” He gave her a sheepish look. “You have the ability to drive a man a little crazy, Raina.”
Probably he meant it as endearing, but she only heard her sins in his words. She straightened her shirt and got up. Smiled, trying to find a voice that could put the entire thing behind them. “It’s fine. I mean . . . of course, I like you and . . . but . . .” She exhaled, gathering her hair up, adjusting it into a clean ponytail. “Can we just take this slow?”
He stood, kicked the pizza box shut, and reached for his tie. “Of course.” As he looped it around his neck, she felt like a tease. She must send off some unknown vibe that told men she was easy.
Other words popped into her head, but she refused them, wrapping her arms around herself. “Thanks for the pizza. You don’t have to go. We could . . . watch a movie or something?”
He tucked his shirt into his pants, reached for his jacket. “Actually, I have an early meeting tomorrow, but I’ll call you, okay?”
Right. She had the urge to grab his hand, apologize, tell him—what? That at the first opportunity she’d be glad to hand over her pride, herself, to him?
No. Not again.
She saw him to the door and tried to hold in the wail as he kissed her on the forehead, then hunched over and fled to his car.
Leaving her to stand in the family room, staring at the flickering firelight with a half-eaten pizza growing cold on the floor, as she tried not to call herself a fool.
CASPER BARELY RECOGNIZED the sun when it appeared from behind the clouds, glorious and high in an azure sky, adding warmth to the crisp morning. He stood at the window, drinking a cup of coffee and staring at Evergreen Lake, watching a doe nudge her black nose out of the woods and tiptoe across the pristine stillness of the white expanse, her tawny body heavy with young.
Stillness fell in the lodge after the whir of guests, and he relished it, even to simply hear his own thoughts. To feel, for the first time, that he had broken free. Somehow, praying for Raina yesterday—on the way home and when her image slid into his thoughts later—had started to unlatch the terrible grip she’d claimed on his heart.
This morning he’d awoken with the sense that somehow Duncan Rothe and the mysterious wedding dress might be connected.
If so, maybe he had a real shot at finding the treasure of Duncan Rothe.
Now he dumped his coffee, rinsed his cup, and headed out to the truck. He’d stop on his way to Wild Harbor, see if Signe still had her day job in county records.
Turning on the radio on his way to town, Casper hummed along. “It might seem crazy what I’m about to say. Sunshine, she’s here; you can take a break . . .”
In all his years of causing trouble in Deep Haven, never
had it merited a trip to the courthouse. He pulled up to the three-story brick building, parked, and found the records office location on the directory in the lobby.
He rang the bell at the open window. Indeed, Signe, with her pretty long blonde hair and warm smile, came to the counter. “Casper Christiansen,” she said as if his name were a song, and he found a smile for the girl he’d run track with his junior year. “I told you I was glad to see you the other night, but I didn’t expect a visit so soon. I’m taken, you know.”
He laughed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
“You and Ned never change. He still flirts with me every time I come into Wild Harbor to rent a kayak.”
“You can rent from me next time.”
“Really?”
“I’m a . . . manager there.” Almost. Except as the words fell from his mouth, they felt sedentary and pedestrian.
In his mind’s eye flashed the silky beaches of Roatán. How had he ended up back in the frozen wasteland of northern Minnesota?
“Cool,” she said. “So that means you’re sticking around? I heard you were in Mexico or something, digging for treasure.”
“Honduras, but yeah, I’m back. Actually, I’m working at the historical society too. I have to dig up an old marriage certificate. I’m looking for someone who might have gotten married at Naniboujou back in the early days. Maybe with the initials C. A. F.”
“Hmm.” She went to the door, opened it. “Come in. This might take some sleuthing.”
She gestured for him to follow her to a computer workstation. He sat on a straight chair while she typed in the search request.
“I don’t see anything. You don’t have a name at all?”
“How about Duncan Rothe?”
She put that request in and got a hit. “Yeah, I got one here. The license was issued to Duncan Rothe and . . . a Clara Augusta Franklin in June 1930.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Duncan Thomas Rothe—his full name. But it was never refiled, so it wasn’t registered. I have a record of the signatures in the ledger, but no official marriage certificate.”
Always on My Mind Page 15