The Comfort of Secrets (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 2)

by Christine Nolfi

  “Don’t waste your time looking for a logical reason. She’s being silly. Ryan and I have only discussed the future in a tentative way. It’s not like he’ll pop the question soon. We’ve only been a thing for two days.”

  “Sorry, Cat. She’s got reason to worry. I’ve seen how Ryan looks at you.”

  “Me too,” Jada agreed. “The man’s got a bad case of the love bug.” She wagged a finger before Cat’s nose. “I’m happy for you, but no eloping. Linnie may string Daniel along forever, but we all agree you’re more impetuous. If you decide to tie the knot, we’re hosting a big reception at the Wayfair. I’ll bake a killer cake.”

  Happy to indulge in the daydream, Cat imagined church pews festooned with bunting, and Ryan eagerly waiting at the altar. Promptly she brushed off the sweet reverie. She was impetuous, but not reckless. Considering marriage this early in a relationship was a major no-no.

  Linnie, apparently scalded by Jada’s comment regarding her perpetually cold feet, narrowed her eyes. “I’m not stringing Daniel along. We’ve only been living together since July.”

  “And courting for a decade before that,” Jada teased her.

  “Get your facts straight.”

  “Face it, Linnie. You’re a chickenshit.”

  “I’m careful—totally not the same thing.” Ditching the mock anger, she grew thoughtful. “Want me to mention the kiddie tokens to Frances? She might have an idea of how Julia learned to make them.”

  Cat gave a mock shiver. “Confide in Frances, and we’ll put her in hot water with my mother. They’re best friends.”

  “Geez, I hate when Silvia goes on these rampages.”

  “Like I don’t? We leave Frances out of this. She has finely tuned diplomatic skills, which we’ll need to get through dinner.”

  “When are you taking Julia to meet your parents?”

  “Wednesday night, if she’ll agree.” Cat winced. “Assuming Mami cools down enough to extend a second invitation. Julia turned down the Tuesday night invite. Guess she needs time to settle in.” She wasn’t even sure Ryan would convince her to have dinner with just them tonight in the Sunshine Room.

  The suspicion proved disappointingly accurate. At dinnertime, Julia called down to the kitchen for a sandwich and a pot of chamomile tea. Attentive to her comfort, Cat saw no reason to explain about the inn’s lack of room service, especially since Jada offered to ferry the simple meal upstairs.

  As promised, she also managed to ingratiate herself with their timid guest. Their mingled voices drifted into the corridor as Cat went downstairs to meet Ryan for dinner.

  After last night’s weighty discussion regarding Twin Falls, they forged an unspoken agreement to keep the conversation on lighter topics, the tasks requiring their attention during the lead-up to next weekend’s concert, and the marketing efforts they were wrapping up. The passion Ryan had exhibited Sunday night was nowhere in evidence as he escorted her back to the south wing.

  With a chaste kiss, he deposited her outside the room where she now bunked with Jada and murmured goodnight.

  Frances weighed the wisdom of resorting to swordplay.

  At minimum, she’d like to rescue her expensive sun parasol from Silvia. The co-leader of the Sirens had taken complete and utter leave of her senses. Burning a trail across the living room, she whipped the parasol in dangerous arcs to accent her complaints.

  After listening to the tirade about Julia D’Angelo for twenty minutes and counting, Frances reached her wit’s end. If her comrade refused to shut up, there was no choice but to grab the parasol and pop her on the head.

  “Stop pacing, please. You’re giving me vertigo.” From her virtual captivity on the couch, Frances rubbed her pounding temples. “Ryan’s mother declined a dinner invitation. We aren’t talking about a major breach of etiquette. Why not suggest tomorrow? I’m sure she’ll come.”

  “She refuses for tonight, so I should invite her again for tomorrow night?”

  “Rant all you’d like. Marco will insist on asking. Let’s not forget Cat. She’ll expect you to extend another invitation. Be a courteous hostess, and do so.”

  Silvia pointed the parasol like an accusing finger. “Dream on, Frances. Three days now, and I have yet to meet Julia. If the situation were reversed, I would’ve picked up the phone first thing Monday and introduced myself. The relationship between her son and my daughter is getting serious. Why hasn’t she reached out to me?”

  “You must have shared a few words when she canceled for tonight.”

  The comment glazed her comrade with outrage. “You believe the reclusive old bat called to decline?” The parasol whipped through the air. “Julia didn’t make the call—Cat did. I have a feeling my daughter may end up with Ryan. I wish someone had checked if I wanted Emily Dickinson for an in-law.”

  “If your daughter weds, Julia will become her in-law, not yours. As for Emily Dickinson, she suffered from social anxiety disorder. I doubt Julia is in the same league. Didn’t Cat mention she’s bashful?”

  Silvia resumed pacing. “Yes, and why is that the sum of my knowledge? When I spoke to Cat this morning, I asked for background on Ryan’s family. You’d think my daughter were the secretary of defense, and I’d demanded a launch code.”

  “What did she say?”

  “‘Mami, I can’t tell you right now.’”

  “A mystery,” Frances murmured, intrigued. “How fun.”

  “This isn’t a game. Can’t you see I’m upset? This is the first time Cat has kept secrets from me.”

  “Pardon me for pointing out the obvious, but you’re delusional.”

  “Go on, Frances. Keep laying on the sugar. I ought to string you up by your varicose veins.”

  “As if I’d let you.” She found a patient tone, adding, “Cat is thirty years old, a mature adult. I’m sure she’s kept a few secrets from you.”

  “She hasn’t!” Silvia thumped the tip of the parasol on the carpet to emphasize her disgust. “My daughter’s involved in a serious romance, but I don’t know the first thing about the family. I’ve only seen Ryan once, when he stumbled out of the woods with my daughter, and his mother stays holed up in the south wing. Is there a father in the picture, or is Julia divorced? Has she been married five times? Maybe she’s Elizabeth Taylor, with a man in every port.”

  “Silvia, you’ve been kidnapped by your imagination. A woman past middle age doesn’t keep a man in every port. She doesn’t have the energy.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious about her?”

  When Frances merely sighed, Silvia veered toward the window. Halting on a dime, she peered out. The parasol flopped to her side.

  “There’s a girl doing yoga on the hood of her car. Of all the—she’s in the street.”

  The announcement brought Frances to her feet. Highland Avenue didn’t see much traffic, but she wasn’t keen on adding a 911 call to the day’s list of chores.

  Wresting the parasol free, she dropped it smartly in the brass umbrella stand.

  On the front stoop, she bit back a gasp. Sure enough, a girl sat on the hood of an old Buick in sukhasana pose. The Buick was smack-dab in the middle of the road.

  “You, there!” In her haste, Frances went diagonally across the lawn at terrible risk to her imitation-snakeskin pumps. There were no cars in either direction, but she couldn’t very well leave the meditating girl parked like a bull’s-eye. “Hello, miss?”

  The breeze spun ribbons of long, honey-gold hair across the girl’s high cheekbones. Her thick lashes fluttered. They parted to reveal eyes of an arresting dark green.

  Her serenity in the face of danger was perplexing. “You’re in the middle of the road,” Frances stated flatly.

  “No biggie. There’s no one around.”

  “You can’t stay there. You might be killed.”

  “Oh, I have great ears, like a bat.” Hopping off the hood, she appraised Frances, who’d lifted a hand to her fluttering heart. “Did I freak you out? I’m sorry.”


  “Will you please move the car?”

  “Sure—I’m out of here.” Her keys sang out as she held them up. She yanked open the driver’s-side door. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

  Curiosity brought Frances closer. She knew every family in Sweet Lake, from the fresh-faced babies to the town’s oldest citizens. Yet something about the girl’s well-defined features, combined with her deep-green eyes, gave Frances the sensation of homecoming.

  “Why were you meditating in the street?” An intoxicating taste of déjà vu made her desperate to prolong the conversation.

  “Oh, I meditate in all sorts of places. It’s the best way to deal with nerves.”

  “You’re nervous?”

  “Yeah, the nerves hit on the drive down here. I need to find my Zen.” Slowly she shut the Buick’s door. Leaning against the side, she fiddled nervously with her keys. “They must call your street mansion row. It’s incredible.”

  Many of the homes on Highland were lovingly restored, ornate Victorians with filigreed porches, and pillared mansions in the Greek Revival style. Frances’s white colonial, one of the largest residences in Sweet Lake, drew the girl’s appreciative gaze.

  “You’re here visiting family?”

  “Hopefully next weekend, when Midnight Boyz play on the beach. I’ll come back down with my roommate. We booked Saturday night on Airbnb.”

  “You must be staying with one of my friends.” Following Ruth’s cue, half of the Sirens were listing guest bedrooms on Airbnb.

  “I haven’t met the woman renting us the room yet. I set up the reservation online. Her name’s Penelope.”

  “Ah, she’s mentioned you.” Frances recalled their conversation while helping Cat prepare the south wing for the D’Angelos’ arrival. “Penelope said she’d rented her guest bedroom to college students. You attend Kent State?”

  The query visibly helped put the young woman at ease. “Second year,” she volunteered proudly.

  “If your family get-together is next weekend, why drive down today?”

  “One of those spur-of-the-moment decisions.” She toed the ground, apparently unsure how much to reveal. Frances smiled encouragingly, and the student added, “I begged my roommate to let me borrow her wheels, and took off. It was a dipshit move, actually. I wanted to practice.”

  “Practice what?”

  “The meet and greet with a long-lost relative.”

  The explanation left Frances scrambling for meaning. The loose, beaded top over the young woman’s navy yoga pants hinted at sophistication. Yet her expression wore the earnest desire of a child eager to master a difficult task.

  Sensing her bafflement, the girl explained in a nervous rush. “I figured there’s no harm in coming down early to get the lay of the land. I want to do a little rehearsing on what to say, decide where to make my big move so he doesn’t flip out—he knows exactly zip about me. I don’t want to give him a major coronary. Never mind. It was a stupid idea. One of those dumb impulses you shouldn’t follow.”

  “Were you heeding your heart?”

  “Totally.”

  “Then the impulse wasn’t stupid.” Following her own wild impulse, Frances motioned toward the house. “Would you like to come inside? I was about to make tea.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  Silvia trooped across the lawn. “She doesn’t mind.” Apparently she’d thrown off her fit of temper to eavesdrop. With keen interest, she gave their visitor the once-over. “Mind telling us who you are?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Gemma Mills.”

  Frances and Silvia exchanged a pregnant look. Whatever seemed familiar about the girl had caught Silvia too.

  After the car was safely parked in the driveway, they went out back to have the tea at the wrought iron table overlooking Frances’s gardens. Autumn was always a difficult time of year for her, when the cooler weather ushered in memories and regrets. Yet she smiled with pleasure when Gemma admired the fire-tipped maples and the many flower beds dotting the grounds. Silvia barely waited for their guest to take her first sip of oolong before launching into questions.

  “You’re meeting family next weekend for the concert? They live here?”

  “I’m not sure where he lives. He’s going to the concert.” To her merit, Gemma located the inner resources to continue. “He’s my older brother. Half brother, actually. He’s totally clueless that he has a younger sister.”

  “How odd.”

  “Not really.” Gemma shrugged, and a gratifying hint of defiance lit her eyes. “Our mothers never met, so we didn’t either.”

  Frances took control of the conversation. “Your half brother, what is his name?” If Silvia grilled the girl relentlessly, she’d scare her off.

  “Do you mind if I don’t say? I’m feeling awfully superstitious. I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  The wistful comment touched Frances. Broken families were sadly common, and yet Gemma appeared determined to repair hers. “You mentioned your half brother is older. So your mother’s relationship with his father came later?” Reaching for the pot, she refilled Gemma’s cup.

  “Ten years later. My dad was real good looking, even for a guy way older than Mom. They dated on and off for years.”

  “Your mother never considered marrying him?” Given all the unwed couples today, the question seemed terribly outdated. Even so, Frances couldn’t restrain her interest.

  A nervous laugh escaped Gemma. “She wasn’t that dumb. No, they just messed around whenever he showed back up. I don’t really think of him as my dad . . . more like a sperm donor with itchy feet. He moved in and out of Ohio a lot when I was little.” She glanced longingly at the gingersnaps. Frances pushed the confections closer, and she snatched one up, nibbling thoughtfully on the crisp edge. “He’d already left Ohio again when Mom got pregnant with me. She moved back in with Grandma and Gramps—they told her not to list him on my birth certificate. Gramps is really protective. He helped Mom buy a condo right after I was born.”

  “You’re certain this . . . sperm donor is your father?” From the telling, it seemed a blessing that Gemma’s grandparents kept his name off her birth certificate.

  “Mom told me as soon as I was old enough to understand. Guess I was five or six, used to seeing him float through our lives.”

  “How did you find out you had an older brother?”

  “My dad kept a shoebox with lots of personal stuff inside. The last time we saw him, Mom snitched my brother’s birth certificate, photos of when he was a toddler, and some other stuff. She figured if I ever wanted to find him, I should have the tools to get started.”

  “Your mother is a smart woman.”

  Finishing the gingersnap, Gemma shyly reached for another. “She’s not the only one. Simon was behind the decision to root through the shoebox.”

  The intricacies of an unusual family were becoming difficult for Frances to digest. “Who’s Simon?”

  “Doesn’t every story with a happy ending have a charming prince somewhere in the plot?”

  “I’m glad this one does,” she murmured. Given the girl’s precarious background, she deserved a helping hand.

  “Without Simon, Mom never would’ve had the guts to snatch the stuff. My dad kept coming around when I was little. He’d move into the condo for short stays—it really pissed off Gramps, but he mostly kept his opinions to himself. The guy never paid me much attention. Didn’t treat Mom very nice, though.” Gemma reached for another cookie, her voice strangely animated. Now that she’d begun, she seemed compelled to finish the story. “Anyway, the last time my dad showed up, Mom was already dating Simon. They planned the whole charade. Mom let the loser believe he could move back in. She took the stuff on my brother right before Simon dropped by to kick him to the curb.”

  Silvia rose from her unprecedented silence. “Please tell us your mother married Simon. He is a prince.”

  “Five months later. Once they were hitched, Simon adopted me.” Finishing her tea, Gemma re
garded them with ill-concealed relief. She’d needed to share the story. “I have three younger brothers. Well, half brothers.”

  “And soon you’ll meet your fourth brother.” Frances patted her hand. “I wish you’d tell us his name. We promise to keep your secret.”

  “I shouldn’t.” Gemma sighed, and the possibility of rejection put something poignant in her eyes. “If he tells me to get lost, the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  Bobbing between relief and bafflement, Ryan came to a standstill in the Wednesday afternoon light streaming through the lobby. On the overstuffed couch in the seating area beyond the front desk, Ruth Kenefsky leafed through the ad sketches that had gone missing from Cat’s desk.

  Cat was still in Linnie’s office finishing the first of several radio interviews he’d lined up this week. The purpose of the interviews was twofold—to bring in a last surge of ticket sales for Saturday’s concert, while also touting the lodging specials featured on the Wayfair’s new website. Thanks to Ryan’s gentle nudging, Adworks’s tech staff was launching the site weeks ahead of schedule.

  “Ruth, I need those sketches. I’m working on the copy.”

  Why she’d taken them in the first place was a mystery best not explored. Ruth didn’t think highly of him. Lowering her opinion further wasn’t wise.

  Hunched over the coffee table, she shook her head with disapproval. “Ryan, you don’t spell worth crap. There’s a typo, right there.”

  He peered at the headline. “The ads are still rough. I would’ve caught it.”

  “What sort of an ad man screws up the headline? Cat should dock your pay.”

  “Take the issue up with her.” He reached for the stack. “If you don’t mind.”

  She pushed the sketches out of reach. “I do mind.” She looked past Mr. Uchida talking on the phone at the front desk. “Where’s your better half?”

  “With Linnie.”

  “That was a trick question, hotshot. I wasn’t sure you’d own up to your hankering for Cat, or that she’s better than you. Speaks well of your manliness if you have an ounce of humility.”