Finders Keepers

by Carla Neggers

  By the end of the month, Julian knew she was climbing the walls.

  And up to something.

  That was fine with him. So was he.

  “How do you like springtime in Vermont?’’ he asked her, one month to the day she’d returned to Mill Brook. It was a Saturday morning late in March; they’d stayed in bed late, making love. Now they were lingering over a pot of coffee.

  “Just because the calendar says it’s spring doesn’t mean it’s spring,” she countered. ‘There’s still snow on the ground!”

  “Corn snow. It’s qualitatively different than the snow that’s on the ground in the dead of January. And there’s not that much of it left. Up here, sure. We’re in the woods and fairly high, but in town—hell, daffodils will be blooming before you know it.”

  “When they are, I’ll call it spring.”

  “First day I sink up to my shins in mud, I say spring’s come.”

  She laughed. ‘Then I guess it’s spring all right because I swear I’m going to sink up to my neck in mud on that blasted driveway.”

  “Keeps life interesting.”

  ‘That it does. Julian...”

  “Come on, let’s go down to the brook. It must be fifty-seven degrees out there already—perfect March weather.”

  She sighed, not arguing, and they put on their mud boots and jackets and headed outside. Pen and Ink trotted along ahead of them. The path down the hillside was so muddy it was unpassable, so they went through the “corn snow” in the woods. The winter runoff had caused the brook to rise over its banks. The clear, cold water rushed over the rock-studded streambed.

  “In summer,” Julian said, “the water comes through here at barely a trickle. You can sit out on that rock in the middle and read a book.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  He smiled, believing her. “It is, until the mosquitoes find you.”

  While she stared out at the brook, he loosened up a stock in the slowly melting snow and pitched it into the water, watching it float downstream, toward the river. One way or another, he thought, everything’s connected.

  “Getting restless?” he asked.

  “No—it’s beautiful here.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Your month’s up. Holly, I know you’re stir-crazy. Hell, I’m climbing the walls.

  You’ve been in Mill Brook four weeks straight, it’s spring, the weather’s getting warm—it’s okay to feel like breaking loose.”

  She looked at him, squinting her vivid eyes in the sunlight. “What do you usually do this time of year?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “Tap trees for making maple syrup. Adam, Beth and I’ve been doing that since we were kids, and now Abby and David are into the act. But sap collecting’s already begun. I decided to skip it this year.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Because of both of us.”

  She turned, looking back down at the rushing brook. “I don’t want you to change your life because of me.”

  “Now you sound like me. Fair play’s turnabout, Holly. To build a life with someone else—anyone— means the life you had before is going to change. The trick is to be ourselves, to fulfill our own needs, without destroying anyone else, especially the person we love most. We can be strong and independent and still be together.”

  “That’s possible, you think?”

  “It has to be possible, is what I think.”

  She nodded. “I agree, but...”

  “But you’ve got itchy feet and a series of storytelling engagements in Atlanta the first week in April.”

  “I’ve loved every minute I’ve been in Mill Brook—”

  “I know you have. I also know you’ll go bananas if you stay here much beyond another minute.”

  “That’s overstating the case.”

  “Not by much.”

  She didn’t reply, instead bending down and working her own stick out of the snow, pitching it into the water. Hers snagged in a mass of dead leaves caught on a fallen branch, then freed itself and went zipping along downstream. She blew on her hands, cold from the snow.

  “Holly,” Julian went on, choosing his words carefully, “I have a confession to make.”

  She gave him a sharp look that softened almost at once. “What is it, Julian?”

  “I’ve had your van worked on.”

  The softness in her expression changed to amused suspicion; she no longer suspected him of being capable of doing anything truly rotten. “My van? What did you do, disable it so I can’t go anywhere?”

  “Tempting as that was,” he said, “no. I made a necessary adjustment so I could go somewhere in it with you.”

  Then, before she could badger him with questions, he grabbed her hand and they ran up the hill together, slipping and sliding in the melting snow and mud. She called him crazy, a maniac, a sexy mountain man, a damned wolf since he was so good moving through the woods, and would he please slow down. He did, reluctantly. His heart was pounding not with exertion, but anticipation. What if being on the road was just her way of being alone? He didn’t think it was. Nothing in their time together had suggested that was the case. And yet he worried. Not for long—you’re going to find out, the hard way.

  Her van was parked off to one side of his driveway, apparently unmoved since her arrival in Mill Brook. He’d urged her to toddle around town in one of his four-wheel-drive vehicles, and she’d complied.

  “Have a look.” he said.

  The doors were unlocked. Eyeing him suspiciously, she opened up and crawled in back while he waited nervously outside.

  In a few seconds he heard a tremendous hoot of pure glee.

  “You scoundrel,” she yelled, delighted.

  He poked his head inside. “I gather you don’t object?”

  She was stretched out on the new sofa he’d had installed. It opened up into a full-size double bed—a step up from her too-narrow cot. “At least I know what’s important to you,” she said, grinning.

  “You are, love,” he said, and he crawled into the van, shut the door and helped her initiate their new bed.

  That afternoon they hit the road for Atlanta. Before they’d left, Holly had interrogated him about everything. What about the dogs? Beth would take care of them. The driveway, should it snow again? The neighbors. The Danvers House? His friends—now their friends—who were starting the restaurant would supervise while he was gone. His work at the sawmill? He was due a vacation, despite Adam’s workaholic example. And Adam? Julian was going with his brother’s blessing.

  “Holly,” he’d told her, “I’ve taken care of everything.”

  “Quite the plotter you’ve become.”

  “I’ve learned a few tips from the master plotter.” Who, he reminded himself as they headed south on the interstate, hadn’t admitted to what she was up to.

  But that was all right. They had all the time in the world; he’d just wait.

  They were back in Mill Brook by the end of April. The buds were coming out on the trees, spring flowers were blossoming everywhere and Julian’s driveway was dry and easily passable. Spring was Holly’s favorite season, and she didn’t mind experiencing it more than once a year. She breathed in the fresh, warm air as she carried the box of mail the neighbors had collected into the kitchen and set it on the counter. Julian followed with a couple of bags of essential groceries.

  Halfway down the box was the large manila envelope she was looking for. She tore it open at once. “Perfect.”

  “Reading my mail?” Julian asked, unconcerned.

  “Uh-uh. Reading mine. It’s something I had sent in care of you.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “A contract for a radio program I proposed—it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while, but it requires cutting back on my travel and I wasn’t quite ready for that.”

  Julian peered over her shoulder. “That’s the logo of the local public radio station.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Holly-”

  �
��They’ve agreed to my proposal and arranged funding. We’ve got a few details to iron out yet, but basically, I’m all set. What do you think?”

  “I think.” he said in an ominous tone, “you’re a big schemer who could’ve told me about this weeks ago—”

  “I like surprises,” she countered.

  He was about to go for her when they heard the telltale sounds of a vehicle bouncing down the driveway. Out that far, the arrival of company was great excitement. The dogs started howling and both Julian and Holly looked out the window.

  “Felix,” Julian pronounced.

  “Your New England historian?”

  “I’ll bet he’s finished his report on the goblets.”

  Intrigued and somewhat apprehensive at Julian’s obvious optimism, Holly greeted Felix Reichman warily, her Wingate paranoia clicking into gear. She wasn’t going to let the goblets stand between her and Julian, but still. They did belong to the Wingates.

  Which Felix verified in his report. Holly didn’t even try not to gloat.

  “As I told you, Julian, I investigated a very interesting letter written by Paul Revere,” the historian explained as they sat at the kitchen table, the silver goblets in a neutral spot in the center. “It clearly states that he had crafted a pair of silver goblets for Zachariah Wingate’s great-great-grandfather, in gratitude of services rendered during the War of Independence—the American Revolution. The goblets described match beyond a reasonable doubt the pair in question.”

  Julian scowled. “You’re sure?”

  “I have copies of all pertinent materials. You can decide for yourself. Now—as for the night the goblets disappeared.” He licked his lips and adjusted his glasses, not even glancing at his notes. “Julian, did you know your Aunt Dorothy had had in her care for years an untouched collection of letters and diaries from your great-grandfather, Adam Stiles?”

  Clearly Felix didn’t approve of such a wealth of information sitting around unexamined, but Julian merely shrugged. “She’s mentioned it once or twice. I never thought much about it. I wouldn’t call it a collection, just a bunch of old papers.”

  Felix gave a long-suffering sigh. “That’s why you do what you do in life and I do what I do. You see, I’ve spent the better part of the past month going through the collection, item by item. And I discovered several diary entries I think you’ll find most illuminating.”

  “Apparently Zachariah and your great-grandfather were friends, and Adam didn’t appreciate Edward Danvers’s harsh punishment for what he, Adam, viewed as an honorable gesture, especially when no proof was forthcoming that the goblets were m fact stolen. Adam was at the Danvers House that evening when Zachariah came to plead his case. He—Adam-had tried to persuade his uncle, Jonathan Stiles, to overrule Edward’s expulsion of Zachariah. When Jonathan decided he had to back the headmaster and Zachariah left in despair, Adam stole the goblets and buried them in the cellar, hoping one day to restore them to his friend. But he died before he was able to locate Zachariah, and the goblets remained where they were until you discovered them.”

  Julian digested Felix’s tale in silence, then laughed. “I’ll be damned—so Zachariah wasn’t a crook.”

  “I told you he wasn’t,” Holly said.

  “Well, Edward and Jonathan weren’t crooks, either, just a little stiff-necked—and my great-grandfather was a hero. He believed in Zachariah. Without him, who knows what would have happened to the goblets.”

  Holly allowed him that point. “Well, I guess we can name our first kid Wingate Danvers Stiles. Imagine what our ancestors would think! Grandpa Wingate will be haunting me yet.”

  Felix’s eyebrows rose. He quickly gathered up his materials, left them for Julian in a neat pile and retreated.

  Julian didn’t notice. He was busy scowling at Holly next to him at the table. “How can you give a kid three last names? What’s wrong with Peter or Jane or something?”

  “We could call him or her Win for short.”

  “Win Stiles? Sounds like a lottery game.”

  Holly shrugged, undeterred. “We could use my name: Win Paynter. Except we’d have to work in Stiles somehow, wouldn’t we? Wingate Danvers Stiles Paynter.”

  “That’s four last names.”

  “But what a monogram. WDSP.”

  “It’s awful. Are you serious?”

  She laughed. “No, not about that.”

  He turned around in his chair and took both her hands into his. “Then about what?”

  “Oh... you never know.”

  “That’s true, I don’t.”

  “But this time I think you’ve probably got a fair idea. I mean, why would I be talking about naming babies if I wasn’t thinking about having babies—about the future.” To her surprise, she wasn’t nervous at all. She was too much in love, too sure of him and of herself to be nervous. “You know, this is a small town.”

  He wasn’t going to give her an inch. “Seeing how I’ve lived here most of my life, I guess I know that.”

  “And at least a third of the town’s a Danvers or a Stiles.”

  “At least.”

  “People have been talking about us.”

  “I know. I hear,” he went on, “there’s a pool down at the diner on our wedding date.”

  Holly nearly choked. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “Adam told me when I called before we left Atlanta. I think he started it, but he’d never admit as much. He says Abby’s lobbying to be a junior bridesmaid, David’s already figuring out ways he won’t have to wear a suit and Beth’s drawing up plans to sell us an addition to the house, seeing how I’ll be too busy honeymooning to think of such things myself.”

  “Well,” Holly said, “it’s even worse than I thought.”

  He laughed. “Mill Brook’s been trying to marry me off for years.”

  “But you’ve never really been tempted?”

  He gave her a long, searching look. “Not until now.”

  “Julian, are you sure?”

  “Marry me, Holly. Well travel the world together and we’ll always have our place here in the woods to come back to. We’ll grow together and be together because that’s where we belong.”

  “I’m... I’m at a loss for words...”

  “At first, I’m sure. Just say you love me.”

  “Oh, I do. I love you.”

  “And say yes.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Yes.”

  And she leaped into his arms, sealing their promise with a kiss while beside them on the table, the silver goblets sparkled in the spring sunshine.

  Read an excerpt of

  Within Reason (Book 2)

  * * *

  “Only you, Char.”

  Adam Stiles could hear the lack of affection—not to mention patience—in his voice as he sat behind the wheel of his rented car. It was early autumn in Nashville, the weather hot and steamy. He had switched off the air-conditioning and rolled down the window to get a better look at the Belle Meade Mansion. He’d parked in the visitors’ lot and left the engine running, a sign, he supposed, of just how much he didn’t want to do what he was doing.

  Squinting, he looked across the oak-shaded lawn at the antebellum mansion with its clean Greek Revival lines. The quiet day should have had a calming effect on his nerves. It didn’t. Nothing Charity Winnifred Bradford did had ever had a calming effect on his nerves. And she was directly responsible for his sweating to death in a rented car, wondering what Char was up to this time.

  He snatched the photograph she had sent home off the passenger seat. He didn’t need another look, but he took one, anyway. The house across the lawn and the house in the photo were the same.

  He flipped it over and read the address neatly printed on the back: 110 Leake Avenue, seven miles southwest of downtown Nashville. In her more normal scrawl, Char had added, Come see me.

  She hadn’t meant him. That much Adam knew. Whatever he and Char were, they couldn’t be called friends. For as long as he could remember they
had argued about the merits of life in the hills of southern Vermont. He saw many positives; Char saw none, or to be totally accurate one: the area was, she had to allow, pretty. But she would add, perverse woman that she was, how much scenic beauty can a person stand? She was training and breeding horses in Tennessee these days, she’d told everyone in her hometown of Mill Brook. Not just regular old horses, either. Thoroughbreds. Winners. One had Triple Crown written all over him.

  Charity Winnifred Bradford had always been a levelheaded woman not prone to exaggeration. Irascible, direct and often irritating, she had, nevertheless, a good head on her shoulders. She just didn’t do crazy things. But who knew what horse fever did to people?

  Not that it was any of Adam’s business, as Char would be the first to tell him. If she wanted to live in a beautiful Southern mansion and raise horses, that was her affair.

  Still, here he was.

  Seldom at a loss for action, Adam didn’t know what to do next. Char had been impossible as long as anyone in Mill Brook could remember. Apparently a year in the mid-South hadn’t changed her—not that anything would. She was argumentative, stubborn, independent, resourceful and blunt. And smart. He had to give her that.

  She was also his sister Beth’s best friend from way back, and Adam had promised he’d look in on her while he was in Nashville on business. He hadn’t understood why Beth was worried. For one thing, Char had to be doing all right if she lived in that big mansion in the photograph she had sent Beth. For another, if there was anyone in this world who could damn well take care of herself, it was Charity Bradford.

  Beth being Beth, she had persisted, and Adam had finally given in. His business in Nashville on behalf of Mill Brook Post and Beam, the sawmill and manufacturers of high-quality housing kits owned by the Stiles family, wasn’t all-consuming. And, like most people in Mill Brook, he owed Charity Bradford, no matter how much she bugged him or how much she would scoff at the idea. For the past five years she had been one of Mill Brook’s very few lawyers and its very best. She was known in her practice for being closemouthed, tenacious and absolutely convincing. People—Adam included—had assumed she had come home to stay.