‘‘Stiles. Julian Stiles.”
“Hellfire.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” I’m doomed-doomed! He’s supposed to be a stodgy old Yankee! Not half a day in Mill Brook and I’m already up to my neck in boiling water! But she managed to give a nonchalant sigh. “Really, I’m going to freeze if I stand here another minute.”
“You won’t freeze,” he said.
She wondered if maybe she looked as hot and trapped as she felt. “Sorry about the mess, but this place is such a wreck, I don’t think it makes a whole lot of difference.” She was serious: he already had to contend with peeling plaster, leaks, filthy wallpaper, rusty sinks, crumbling fireplaces, cracked windows, nasty words spray painted on the walls. What was a little hole in the ceiling? She went on. “You know the owner, give him my apologies.”
“I am the owner.”
She feigned surprise. “You?”
“That’s right. I’m the one who boarded up the window you pried open and posted the signs you ignored.”
His green eyes glared at her, and now she could see the Danvers and Stiles devil dancing behind them. Driving up to Vermont from warm, sunny Florida, Holly had wondered what Julian Stiles would be like. She’d imagined a slick preppy type who knew how to turn a fast profit and didn’t give a damn about a family’s honor. A man who’d think the descendants of Zachariah Wingate had forgotten about the outrageous lie that had driven their great-grandfather out of his hometown. If those snobs from the Mill Brook Preparatory Academy for Boys had thought to ask, any Wingate would have told them Zachariah hadn’t blown town with Revere sterling-silver goblets.
Grandpa Wingate had told Holly the whole story when she was eight. When she was twenty-five and the academy, its endowment depleted and enrollment down, had gone under, she and Grandpa had toasted its demise.
“You know,” Julian Stiles said, “you could have been killed.”
“I wasn’t.”
He took a step toward her, the stranger who’d invaded his territory. If not overtly menacing, he seemed determined to stake out his rights. He would be that way about the goblets, too, Holly realized—suspicious, protective, possessive. Too bad, though. They weren’t his.
“You’re not leaving without an explanation.”
She laughed in disbelief. “Says who?”
“I can have you arrested for breaking and entering.”
“Well, you’d look like a fool if you tried.”
He almost smiled; she was sure of it. “Dare I ask why?”
“If you’d like.” She didn’t go on; she wasn’t about to make this any easier on him. Also, she was stalling. She needed an extra minute to flesh out her story, make it believable. “You certainly don’t have to ask me anything. You can go ahead and contact the police and wait and see.”
“No, I’m game.” He bent one knee and settled back on his heels, his arms crossed on his chest. “Why would I be the one to look like a fool?”
Holly adopted an expression of unrelenting innocence and looked him straight in the eye. “Because everyone sympathizes with lost puppies.”
“I was wondering if something like a lost puppy was going to come into this.”
“Not one.” Holly said gravely. “Two.”
“Of course.”
“I was driving by, you know, just checking out the scenery, when I spotted these two little guys on the side of the road. They were shivering like crazy, their tails between their legs—oh, they looked so forlorn.”
“I’m sure they did.”
“I’d say they were maybe twelve, fourteen weeks old.”
“What breed?”
“Golden retriever mostly, I’d say.”
“Difficult to resist.”
His dry tone suggested he was humoring her against his better judgment, but Holly persevered. “Impossible to resist. I pulled over and went to grab them, but they charged off. Maybe they thought I was playing—or maybe they’d been abused by their owner and didn’t trust humans. You know how puppies are. Anyway, I followed them here.”
“To Danvers House,” Stiles called.
“Is that what this place’s called? Well, whatever. They got ahead of me and disappeared, and I just assumed they’d found a way inside here—a puppy-size hole they could squeeze into.”
“And you just happened to have along your crowbar, so you pried open a window and climbed in.”
He had her. Holly didn’t wince or moan, just took a prudent step backward toward the entry. “More or less.”
“You chased two stray puppies with a crowbar?”
“I believe in being prepared.”
“That much,” he said, “I do believe.”
His eyes rested on her, seemed to soak her up, and for the first time since landing at his feet, Holly wondered what kind of picture she presented. Not a very good one, she supposed. Her chin-length strawberry hair was sticking out everywhere. She had grime all over her. No makeup on her small features—just plaster dust. Given the temperature and lack of heat in the place, her nose had to be red. She touched two fingers to her temple and felt blood coagulating around a scratch. How nice. But not enough to melt that cold Yankee Danvers-Stiles heart.
“Look,” she said, “the rest—”
He cut her off with a shake of the head. “The rest is pure fiction, just like the beginning.”
“Your word against mine.”
“Fine. There were no puppies.”
“Prove it.”
“Okay. Let’s walk outside and have a look at the tracks across the football field to your van. If I’m not mistaken—and I’m not—there’ll be two sets: yours and mine.”
Holly bit her lip and swallowed. Tracks?
“No puppy tracks.” he said.
Tracks! She’d forgotten about the snow. Seeing the pried-open window, Julian Stiles had followed her tracks to her van. No wonder he’d found it.
She was going to have to bone up on New England life in winter. I remember details like the snow. Remember she was in enemy territory. Stay extra alert.
But those were tasks for later. Right now, her sole desire was to get herself off Julian Danvers Stiles’ turf and out of his reach.
When the mouth fails, Holly thought, when cunning, imagination and alertness desert you—when you’re caught there’s only one sane option.
Your feet.
She about-faced, and bolted out the front door.
IF NOT FOR the amount of work he had to do, Julian might have gone after Holly Paynter of Houston, Texas. It wasn’t the pried-open window or the mess she’d made of his ceiling so much that aroused his suspicions.
It was her eyes.
They were the most dishonest pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Squinting in the bright sunlight streaming through the front door, he watched her slim figure race across the snow-covered football field. She had a head start and she was fast, even in the snow. Still, he figured he could have caught up with her before she slunk off in her van. But then what? Another tale, no doubt.
Lost puppies.
He went back into the living room and plucked her red hat from the lath where it hung by its multicolored pom-pom. Red hat, white-and-rose jacket, green gloves. Quite a mishmash.
Holly Paynter was a woman who bore watching.
Crushing her hat in one hand, Julian headed back to his Land Rover parked in front of the house. Off in the distance he could see the dark green Texas van pull out onto the road. He hoped he hadn’t put such a scare into the strawberry-haired liar that she didn’t pay attention to her driving. Somehow he didn’t think so. For one thing, Holly Paynter didn’t look like much intimidated her. For another, she seemed very committed to looking after her own skin.
He thought about following her, but didn’t. He might have changed his mind, he supposed, if he suspected he’d never see her again. He was a thorough man. He didn’t like loose ends. A strange woman crashing through his cei
ling and then taking off without explanation—or with one that didn’t wash—was a loose end.
Holly Paynter would be back.
Some things were just meant.
Holly was so relieved to have escaped the Danvers House relatively unscathed that she hardly noticed the bedraggled condition she was in until she arrived at Old Mill Brook Common. There were two distinct parts of Mill Brook, Vermont. Old Mill Brook was where the original settlers had come in the early eighteenth century, building their homes and traditional white-steepled church around the still-pristine village green. The business district, a mile farther down the valley, had grown up around the Mill Brook—a river in Holly’s book—during the early part of the Industrial Revolution. Many of its old sawmills and small factories had been converted into shops, boutiques and restaurants that were a favorite with tourists.
Every house around the snow-covered common was painted white with black shutters. Only the doors were of different colors—but all scrupulously subdued and colonial. Being of a recalcitrant, anti-Mill Brook nature, Holly would have loved to have bought the biggest house there and painted it robin’s egg blue. But she had to admit the sight was picturesque, even curiously peaceful. She had determined to keep her prejudices against Mill Brook at bay confident present-day residents would defend their town just as surely as their predecessors had. Julian Danvers Stiles already had a head start on them.
She found her way to the Windham House, where she had a reservation. It was one of the handsomest of the old colonials on the green, and exactly what Holly had pictured from its description in her New England guidebook. It had narrow white clapboards, black shutters, traditional landscaping and flagstone walks, and it was welcoming in a reserved Yankee manner.
Hair sticking out, covered with plaster dust, and still flushed from her near-disastrous adventure up the road, Holly doubted she looked like the average Windham House guest. She tried to dust off and spruce up, but there wasn’t much she could do without soap and hot water. Finally she gave up. She hoped the proprietor of the Windham House had a soft spot for lost puppies.
Proprietress, Holly amended a few minutes later when Dorothy Windham answered the door. She was a distinguished-looking woman in late middle age, with strong features and graying, neatly coiffed hair. She wore a classic navy blazer and wool trousers, and she adored puppies.
“Of course I understand.” she said when Holly started in about the puppy fiasco.
Guiltily Holly followed her into a cozy country kitchen, where sweet, yeasty smells permeated the air. The colors were all deep and rich, the furnishings practical and in quiet good taste. A large old-fashioned wood stove, a wrought-iron teakettle bubbling on top, occupied most of one wall, alongside an efficient work area with a butcher-block island. At the opposite end of the rectangular-shaped room was a pine trestle table overlooking the backyard where a score of birds were pecking at an array of feeders. The welcoming atmosphere and honey scents worked at unraveling Holly’s tensed muscles and improving her spirits. As she’d hoped, the Windham House was proving to be just the refuge she’d need from the rest of Mill Brook.
Dorothy Windham briefly explained that Holly had free run of the downstairs rooms and the grounds and should make herself at home. “I’ll be serving tea at three-thirty—come if you like, but don’t feel obligated.”
Thanking her warmly, Holly listened as Dorothy gave her directions to the attic suite. “We added it just this fall,” the older woman said. “My nephew Julian did most of the work. It’s my favorite room now for winter.”
Her nephew Julian? How many Julians could there be in a town the size of Mill Brook?
“Anyone who isn’t a Danvers in that town’s a Stiles,” Grandpa Wingate had told her, so long ago. “A Danvers founded the academy in the eighteenth century, and a Stiles endowed it in the nineteenth. You go to Mill Brook, you got to deal with ‘em. Myself, I’d just as soon not.”
A wise choice, Holly thought.
Making her way upstairs, she congratulated herself on not being more specific on where she’d gone after her lost puppies and hoped Mrs. Windham and Julian Stiles didn’t get a chance to compare notes on her. Right now, she was too tired and rattled to find another place to stay. And anyway, Mill Brook or no, she wasn’t used to tucking her tail between her legs and retreating.
The attic room had more charm than size, with slanted ceilings, tastefully papered walls, fresh white curtains, rag rugs and a painted floor. There was a double brass bed, an oak nightstand and dresser and a cross-stitched sampler hung above a small antique rocker. From the dormer window, Holly could look out on the backyard and birdfeeders. Julian Danvers Stiles did physical work. Amazing.
Within minutes, she’d peeled off her dusty clothes and settled in a tub filled with hot, scented water. She had to get her bearings, think about her next step. No more bulldozing her way around. Patience wasn’t her long suit, but she’d just have to be more careful.
An image of Julian Stiles’ clear green eyes flashed into her mind. He was the kind of man who memorized other people’s license plate numbers. How the devil was she going to get her goblets off him?
She’d just have to think of a way, that was all.
Chapter Two
Holly Awoke The next morning stiff and sore from her escapade in the Danvers House, but she felt altogether more in control of her situation. She would just have to cope with whatever the members of the Danvers and Stiles clans of Mill Brook, Vermont, had to throw at her. She dressed Yankee style in hunter-green corduroys, a plaid flannel shirt over a turtleneck, warm socks and her gum shoes, which her trek through the snowy football field had conveniently cleaned of plaster dust.
She nodded with satisfaction at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Texan by birth and nomad by choice, she was a New Englander by heritage. It wasn’t anything she wanted to brag about, but she figured she could fool the entire population of Mill Brook if she had to.
Except maybe Julian Stiles, who was top on her list of people she needed to fool.
What she could use now, she knew, was a dose of good luck. But since when had a Wingate ever been lucky? Luck wasn’t their long suit and she was no exception. Everything she’d ever gotten in life, she’d had to work for. She didn’t count on free lunches, inherited wealth and luck. She hoped Julian Stiles had forgotten all about yesterday’s encounter. More likely it had only aroused his suspicions and he’d be on the lookout for her.
Well, she’d just have to be prepared. But that was a problem for later.
Postponing breakfast, she bundled up and headed outside, walking along a shoveled path across the Old Mill Brook Common. The morning was cloudy and still relatively mild. The First Congregational Church on the common was one of the most photographed in New England. Holly could understand why. It was puritanically simple and stark white, its steeple the highest point in Old Mill Brook. According to Grandpa Wingate, several Wingates had married in the church. Before the Zachariah Wingate scandal over the Revere goblets. For the moment, however, Holly was interested in the old Mill Brook Burying Ground that adjoined the beautiful church.
A breeze was blowing and her cold ears reminded her of her missing hat and Julian Stiles. She repressed the thought of him and pushed open the wrought-iron gate, feeling a sense of overpowering peace descend upon her as she looked out at the thin stone slabs marking the graves, many two centuries old. The Wingates, she recalled from Grandpa’s tales, would be toward the rear. She could see that no one had ventured along the paths among the gravestones since the last snow—perhaps since the first snow of the winter.
“How perfect.” she murmured and stepped into a snowdrift up to her knees.
Julian Poured Himself a mug of coffee from the thermal pot at his aunt’s kitchen table. “I noticed a van outside with a Texas license plate.” he said, sitting down. “New guest?”
Dorothy Windham was busily kneading a mound of dough for her famous sweet rolls. Converting her large house into a bed-and
-breakfast had become a project for her after her husband’s death a few years ago—an excuse for hanging on to the place, a way of going on and being whole without Roger. Julian, his brother, sister and cousins had all helped out in any way they could. Including, he thought, remaining on the alert for any unscrupulous guests, even ones with fetching strawberry hair and bright, lying eyes.
“Oh—yes, she arrived last night,” Dorothy said absently. “Her name’s Holly Paynter. She seems quite charming. She had a near-disaster getting here, however, when she tried to rescue a pair of lost puppies.”
That damned Texan was relentless! “Aunt Doe...”
“I gave her the attic suite,” she added blithely, but not one to gossip, changed the subject. “Julian, I’ve been meaning to ask you about those Revere goblets. Have you made any effort to investigate how they ended up buried in the Danvers House cellar?”
“Not really, no. Seems like a cold trail to me.”
“It makes me uncomfortable to think we might have been wrong about Zachariah Wingate all these years.”
Julian couldn’t help but laugh. “You weren’t even born when Zachariah was run out of town. What happened that night’s not our responsibility—”
“Legally, perhaps not. But I believe we have a moral and ethical obligation to look into the matter.”
“We?”
She sighed. Polite though she was, Dorothy was not one to back down. “You, then.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
Dorothy gently patted the mound of dough and covered it with a clean white cotton cloth. “You might call Felix Reichman.”
“Who?”
An organized woman, she quickly produced her address book and jotted down a number and an address for a former American history professor recently retired to Mill Brook. Julian promised he’d think about giving Reichman a call, but as far as he was concerned, what happened in 1889 was over; he owned the Danvers House, and the goblets were a case of finders keepers. But he understood his aunt’s sensibilities—and her long view of local history.
Finders Keepers: Mill Brook Trilogy, Book 1 Page 2