Dearly Beloved

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  When Liza questioned Jasper Hammel about the message, he’d shrugged and told her he wasn’t the one who had taken it—must have been the hired girl, but she had already left for the weekend.

  And when Liza asked Jasper Hammel what he knew about the famous author, he’d shrugged again. Yes, Yates had a house on the island. No, Hammel had never met him. Didn’t Liza know he was a recluse?

  “Of course I know that,” Liza had snapped, biting her tongue to leave off the you idiot that would have followed naturally.

  Jasper Hammel hadn’t seemed fazed by her tone. He’d regarded her calmly from behind his wire-framed glasses, then said, “You will be joining us for dinner in the dining room, won’t you? Eight-thirty sharp.”

  “No, thanks,” Liza had muttered.

  And now here she is, hurrying down the stairs to the main floor, lured by the rich, mouth-watering scent that fills the air.

  She hesitates in the entryway for only a moment before following her nose through the archway to her left, passing through a cozy parlor and into the dining room.

  Though she hasn’t seen or heard any of the other guests until now, for some reason, she’s expecting to find a crowd gathered for dinner.

  Instead, only two other people are seated at the enormous, polished wooden table, tucked away at the far end, across from each other. Classical music plays softly in the background, and it’s especially fitting in a room like this, with its old-fashioned furnishings and decor.

  Candles glow on the ornately carved sideboard and in the center of the table. Heavy burgundy-colored drapes are drawn over the two windows, and the elaborate crystal chandelier gives off only a dim glow.

  It takes a moment for Liza’s eyes to adjust to the lighting. When they do, she’s startled to recognize the woman from the ferry—the one with the kind, lilac-colored eyes and the straight dark hair. The other person seated at the table is a pudgy, round-faced woman who’s wearing too much makeup and yammering away to the brunette, who’s obviously trying to seem interested.

  At first, neither of them sees Liza.

  Then the chatterbox turns around and spots her.

  “Hi!” she says brightly, waving.

  Liza clears her throat and wishes she’d stayed upstairs. But it’s not too late to go back. She mumbles a reluctant “hello,” but before she can take a step backward, Jasper Hammel sweeps into the room carrying a huge platter. On it is an elaborate presentation of lobsters and shellfish and what looks like heaps of wild rice and vegetables.

  “Oh, good, Liza, you’ve decided to join us,” he says, spotting her in the doorway. “I was counting on you.”

  He motions to the head of the table, where a third place setting waits.

  Liza moves toward it and slips into the chair, aware that both of the other women are regarding her curiously. She focuses on the table, taking in the hunter-green brocade place mat, the delicate china with its ivory background and gold trim, and the silver that’s obviously been lovingly polished. An etched crystal goblet sits in front of her place, and it’s already filled with amber liquid.

  “The wine is great,” Sandy says, and Liza looks up to see that she’s watching her with wide, friendly brown eyes. “Not too dry. I hate dry wine.”

  “Really? I like dry wine.” Liza reaches for the glass, taking a sip. Not as fine as the bottle of chardonnay she’d shared last night on her first date with Albert, a stockbroker, at Le Cirque on the Upper East Side. But not bad, either.

  “Liza Danning, this is Sandy Cavelli,” Jasper says, sweeping a hand to indicate the chubby woman, then motioning toward the brunette, “and Laura Towne. I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the kitchen again.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sandy says cheerfully, turning back to Liza.

  “You, too.” Liza glances at Laura, including her.

  The woman seems subdued, merely nodding over her own wineglass.

  Liza recalls the way she snubbed her on the ferry. Well, how was she to know she’d be sitting at a dinner table with her later?

  Nothing like an awkward beginning, though.

  “So you’re staying here alone, too, huh?” Sandy asks Liza, breaking the strained silence.

  “Yes.” Liza frowns slightly, realizing that no other places are set at the table. The other guests must have gone out to eat—even though it’s raining steadily outside now. And where could they have gone? She hadn’t noticed a single open restaurant, or even a sign of life, on the boardwalk.

  Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen any signs of other guests, either. . . .

  “What a coincidence,” Sandy comments.

  Liza catches her hungrily eyeing the platter full of food on the table.

  “What’s a coincidence?” Laura speaks for the first time, putting down her glass.

  “You know, that three girls would all come to a place like this, alone.”

  Liza arches a brow at Sandy’s reference to them as girls. She’s about to open her mouth, but Laura says, “I don’t usually travel alone. My—I won this trip, and it was only for one person.”

  “You won it? How? I never win anything,” Sandy tells her wistfully.

  “It was one of those charity sweepstakes things.”

  “What charity?”

  “I can’t remember,” Laura says simply and reaches for her wineglass again. She doesn’t sip it, just spins the stem in her fingers, and Liza decides she’s looking for something to do with her hands. For some reason, she looks uneasy.

  “How about you, Liza? What are you doing here alone?”

  Doesn’t she ever mind her own business? Liza wonders, studying Sandy’s eager, curious expression.

  “I’m here on business,” she informs her tersely, and waits for the inevitable.

  Sure enough . . .

  “What kind of business?”

  “Publishing.”

  “Wow. Are you an editor?”

  Liza nods.

  “Where?”

  “New York.”

  “What publisher?”

  “Xavier House.”

  “Wow.”

  Liza can’t tell if Sandy’s ever heard of them or if she simply says wow to everything.

  Sandy clears her throat and says, “I don’t usually travel alone, either.”

  Liza nods. She can tell Sandy wants her to ask what she’s doing on the island this weekend. But she doesn’t really care. And she isn’t in the mood to be polite.

  After a pause, Sandy looks at the platter of shellfish and rice and licks her lips.

  Liza glances at Laura again and sees that she’s staring off into space, still fiddling with her glass.

  After a few more moments of silence, during which the strains of classical music and the pattering of raindrops against the windows seem to grow steadily louder, the door leading to the kitchen suddenly swings open.

  Jasper Hammel breezes back into the room, carrying a cloth-covered basket that gives off the unmistakable yeasty aroma of hot bread.

  “Here we are,” he says, setting it on the table and reaching for a silver serving spoon near the platter of hot food. “I’ll serve. Sandy, why don’t you lift your plate for me?”

  “Sure. Um, what is it?”

  “Steamed fresh shellfish on a bed of wild rice with grilled spring vegetables. I prepared it myself, and I’m sure you’ll find it tasty.”

  “Steamed and grilled . . . that’s great. Low fat.” Sandy lowers her heaping plate and smiles at Liza and Laura. “I’m on a diet.”

  They nod.

  As Jasper fills Laura’s plate next, Sandy goes on, “I’m meeting a guy here this weekend. A surgeon. He’s totally great-looking. And he’s flying in on his private plane.”

  Liza arches a brow. Either Sandy’s lying or the great-looking surgeon is pretty hard up. Why else would he date such a dumpy, unsophisticated chatterbox?

  She finds herself asking, despite her vow not to make conversation, “Where did you meet him?”

  “Oh, we
haven’t met yet. It’s a blind date.” She hesitates. “He . . . uh, he answered an ad I placed in the personals.”

  That explains it.

  Liza lifts her plate for Jasper, who dumps a heaping serving of rice on it, then scoops up some oysters and mussels.

  The food is delicious, which isn’t surprising. Liza would expect to find excellent shellfish on Tide Island, and Jasper Hammel strikes her as the kind of man who would enjoy cooking.

  As they eat, he hovers, pouring wine and urging them to have more rice, another piece of bread. He makes conversation about the island as he bustles about, telling them that it’s a lovely place, particularly in the winter, when there aren’t many tourists around “to spoil it.”

  “We’re tourists,” Liza can’t resist pointing out.

  The man actually blushes, and his mouth quivers nervously beneath his trimmed brown mustache. “Oh, but I didn’t mean you,” he says quickly. “I meant all the people who have no regard for the wild, natural beauty of the place. They litter and they stomp all over the dunes and they make a dreadful racket with their blasting radios and screaming children.” He shudders. “It’s not pleasant.”

  “How long have you been running the inn?” Sandy asks.

  “Not long. Oh, I almost forgot—the dessert! It’s in the oven, and I can’t let it burn. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He darts into the kitchen again.

  Sandy looks at Liza and Laura, then whispers, “He’s kind of strange, isn’t he? Do you think he’s gay?”

  Laura’s lilac eyes widen.

  Amused, Liza asks, “What makes you say that?”

  “My father said there are a lot of homosexuals on this island. That’s part of the reason he doesn’t like it. He’s not very—you know, liberal.”

  And you are? Liza wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She just spears a chunk of eggplant with her fork and pops it into her mouth.

  “So what do you think?” Sandy asks again.

  “I have no idea,” Laura says. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course not. I was just wondering.”

  Sandy turns her attention back to wrestling with the lobster claw on her plate.

  By the time Jasper Hammel reappears five minutes later, they’ve all finished eating and Sandy has initiated a new conversation, mostly one-sided, about whether a person should count calories or just fat grams when trying to lose weight.

  “Why don’t we have coffee and dessert in the parlor?” he suggests, starting to clear the table.

  “I’ll pass,” Liza says, rising and tossing her green-brocade napkin onto the table.

  “Oh, but you can’t!”

  Startled, she looks at the man, who offers a nervous little smile. “It’s a tradition here at the Bramble Rose for all of our guests to adjourn to the parlor for dessert.”

  “Well, what about the other guests?” Liza asks.

  “They’ll join us. . . . Won’t you?” Jasper asks Laura and Sandy.

  Laura offers a reluctant nod, and Sandy says cheerfully, “Sure we will. I can never pass up dessert. What is it?”

  “Chocolate raspberry torte with real whipped cream,” Jasper tells her. “And we have wonderful fresh berries to serve over—”

  “Not these two guests,” Liza interrupts him. “I’m talking about everyone else who’s staying here at the inn.”

  “There’s no one else staying here, besides me,” Jasper informs her. “You three are the only guests.”

  There’s no one else staying here.

  Jennie can’t get Jasper Hammel’s words out of her mind—nor can she shake the memory of that floorboard creaking above when she and Sandy were checking in earlier.

  If there’s no one else here at the inn, then it must have been Liza lurking on the floor above. But why?

  Jennie isn’t crazy about the sleek, snobby blond. But she certainly doesn’t seem like . . .

  Well, like she’s up to something.

  And ever since she’s arrived at the inn, Jennie’s been feeling uneasy. As though things aren’t what they seem. As though something odd is going on.

  If Liza wasn’t the one who was eavesdropping at the top of the stairs, then Jasper Hammel is lying about there not being anyone else at the inn.

  That wouldn’t be hard to believe. The man seems distinctly nervous. It could just be his personality type, but Jennie can’t help wondering whether there’s more to it than that.

  On the other hand, why would there be something sinister going on at a quaint island inn?

  You must be imagining things Jennie tells herself again. And it wouldn’t be the first time she’s done that since that horrible day three years ago.

  Sometimes, she would be standing in line at Stop and Shop with a cartful of groceries and manage to convince herself that the person behind her had a gun.

  And once, when she had been driving on the Mass Pike, she’d been so certain that she was being followed that she’d had to pull off at the rest area, so shaky that it was over an hour before she could calm down enough to keep driving.

  Lately, those episodes were fewer and farther between. But she knows she still isn’t entirely okay—that sometimes, her mind plays tricks on her, sending her into near-panic over imaginary threats.

  And that’s all it is this time, Jennie assures herself as she settles into a Victorian rosewood parlor chair and looks around.

  This is a cozy room, cast in a warm glow from a fringe-shaded Victorian floor lamp and the small blaze that crackles in the hearth. The lace curtains and floral-patterned wallpaper are similar to the decor in Jennie’s room upstairs; and the parlor, too, is filled with antiques.

  Jennie’s skilled eye notes that all of the furniture and bric-a-brac appear to be authentic period pieces—and expensive. She bought a nineteenth century coatrack like the one in the corner at an auction in Marblehead just last week and paid a fortune for it.

  She glances at Liza, who is perched on the edge of the matching parlor chair on the other side of the fireplace. The woman runs a manicured hand over her smooth blond hair, looking bored.

  Sandy flops her heavy body onto the sofa beneath the only window. “Hey, did you notice there’s no TV?” she asks, looking around. “There’s not one in my room, either. Do you guys have them in yours?”

  Liza ignores her, concentrating instead on adjusting the belt buckle on her trim black slacks.

  Feeling sorry for Sandy, who’s obviously trying hard to make conversation, Jennie says, “A lot of inns don’t have television sets in the rooms, and some don’t have them in the public areas, either.”

  “Why not?”

  Jennie shrugs. “Probably to maintain authenticity, in this case. After all, television didn’t exist a hundred and twenty years ago, and that’s probably when this place was built.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right—you’re an antique dealer, aren’t you?” Sandy asks. “You must love this place. Everything looks really old.”

  “It is.” Jennie runs her fingertips over the curved arm of her chair, noting the worn spot in the nubby raspberry-colored fabric.

  “My room looks like it popped out of a Laura Ashley catalogue,” Sandy tells her. “I love it. But I don’t think my brothers would be crazy about it. I guess not all the rooms are so frilly.”

  “Probably not,” Jennie agrees, though her room has lilac-sprigged wallpaper and a lace-covered canopy bed.

  Liza, who hadn’t even appeared to be listening, comments, “I don’t know about that. My room looks like it was decorated for a ten-year-old girl. The wallpaper’s covered in pink roses, and the bedspread has eyelet trim. Definitely not up my alley.”

  “Well, I think my room’s beautiful,” Sandy says, almost defiantly. “How about you, Laura?”

  Jennie nods.

  “I’ll bet you have all kinds of antiques in your house in Boston, too,” Sandy says. “What kind of place do you live in?”

  “It’s an apartment, actually.” Jennie shifts on her chair.

  “
Do you live alone?”

  “No.” Then, because she knows Sandy is waiting for her to elaborate, she adds, “I live with my sister.”

  “What does she do?”

  “She works at the Gap. Liza,” Jennie said, turning away from Sandy in an effort to change the subject, “what part of New York do you live in?”

  “Manhattan. The Upper East Side.”

  Jennie nods, because there isn’t much to say to that. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to be up in her room, alone, where no one is prying into her personal life and where she doesn’t have to make forced conversation with strangers.

  Or, better yet, she wishes she were back in her familiar town house in Boston, even with Laura blasting Pearl Jam from the stereo and spilling something or other on the carpet or upholstery. And it’s a Friday night, so right about now, Keegan would probably be on his way over with a pizza. . . .

  No, she corrects mentally. He wouldn’t be. Not anymore.

  It’s so hard to believe she’ll never spend another night with Keegan—cuddled on the couch under the antique wedding-ring quilt she’d bought at her first auction, watching a video and eating pizza and wearing matching thick gray cotton socks with red-banded tops, the kind that are toasty warm but tend to unravel in the laundry, leaving red threads all over everything.

  Jennie thinks about how Keegan always likes to have his feet sticking out of the bottom of the quilt—he can’t sleep with them covered, either. He has huge feet, and so does she—he always teased her that when they had kids, they would have to order special custom-made giant baby shoes.

  When they had kids—not if.

  Keegan was always so certain of their relationship, right from the start. But then, he’s like that about almost everything—casually confident, breezing through life with an easygoing, happy-go-lucky assurance that things will go his way.

  Jennie pictures the stark pain that took over his handsome features when she told him it was over. Pain, and surprise, as though he couldn’t believe she would do this to him—that she would abandon him.

  She feels a stab of sorrow in the vicinity of her heart—a distinct physical sensation that nearly takes her breath away.