Sara found herself studying his face while he spoke. A thin white scar ran from the corner of his eye, down his cheek. He still wore that serious look, but when he talked about the past, his expression lightened a bit.
“I haven’t been here very long, but I get the feeling they don’t like a lot of changes,” Sara said.
“I get the feeling you’re right.” He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her. “What’s your name?”
“Sara . . . What’s yours?”
“Luke,” he replied. He continued to look at her but didn’t say anything more. Sara suddenly felt selfconscious and eager to end their conversation.
“I’ll just go put this order in. I’ll be right back with a refill on your coffee,” she added.
She turned and walked away without looking at him again. He was just being friendly, she thought. Not bothering her, or anything like that. Still, his gray eyes gave her an odd feeling each time she met his gaze. He was attractive, actually, but not in a typical way. And he hadn’t smiled once. There was something about him, something . . . unsettling.
Remembering that she wasn’t alone in the diner and Fred was back in the kitchen made her feel a whole lot better.
IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN O’CLOCK WHEN THE TOWN council meeting began to wind down. Emily was bleary-eyed, and her throat felt hoarse, but she forced herself to remain sitting tall in her chair, her back straight and chin high, the way her mother had insisted. Good posture came in handy in her job.
Seated at the center of a long narrow table in the front of the town hall’s meeting room, she was flanked by the rest of the council, including the village clerk, treasurer, secretary, police chief, and others. As she’d expected, the debate over parking meters on Main Street had been long and loud. It was now time to call a vote . . . or at least try again.
Emily took a fortifying sip of ice water. She couldn’t wilt now, though she certainly felt as if she might.
Charlie Bates, leading the outraged merchants, was once again stating his case. “ . . . and I’m telling you, we’ll all be out of business in a week if our customers are forced to feed a meter or worried about getting a ticket. And who’s going to run in and out of the diner with quarters while their food is getting cold?”
“The meters will take two hours’ worth of coins,” Harriet DeSoto, the village clerk, reminded everyone. “Maybe you ought to speed up your table service.”
“Or you could open a drive-thru window,” Warren Oakes remarked.
The suggestion drew a laugh. But the argument continued, heated and bitter at times.
“The town needs more revenue. It’s a plain and simple fact,” Clark McCormack, the village treasurer, stated flatly. “Look at these figures. The blue line is revenue. The red line, expenses . . .”
Emily shifted restlessly in her seat as Clark referred to his poster-board chart with its color-bar graph. He was losing them.
“I think Clark makes a very sound point,” she cut in. “Merchants want more frequent sanitation removal, the storm drains improved, and bigger flowerpots on Main Street. The police station needs new computers and squad cars. . . . As we all know from working on this year’s budget, the wish list is endless.”
“I agree with Emily,” Harriet added. “The money has to come from somewhere. Meters will definitely help fill the till.”
Emily saw her moment and moved in to close the deal. “I move that the question be called to a vote,” she said loudly into the microphone. “All in favor?”
Five of the six council members raised their hands and said, “Aye.”
The secretary recorded their votes in the minutes as Emily asked, “All opposed?”
Police Chief Jim Sanborn raised his hand. “Opposed,” he said gruffly. Emily was not surprised. As much as he wanted his new cars, he had balked at seeing his law-enforcement team turned into “a pack of meter maids.”
“The motion is carried,” Emily declared. “Let it be noted in the minutes that the motion to install parking meters on Main Street has been passed by a vote of five to one.”
Grumbles, some louder than others, sounded in the hall. But as Emily had sensed, the opposition recognized that meters were inevitable. The question had come up often over the last few years. It was only a matter of time before it passed. Cape Light still boasted authentic gaslights on Main Street, but the town could not entirely escape the modern age.
“That completes tonight’s agenda,” the town secretary said.
Thank you, Lord. Emily breathed a silent prayer. She removed her reading glasses and raised her wooden gavel. “I move this meeting is adjourned—”
“Wait just a minute.” Charlie Bates rose up as others shifted in their seats, ready to go. “We still have something important to discuss here. Mayor, you’d better call the room back to order.”
Everyone looked at Charlie and then at Emily. She knew if she didn’t recognize him, there would be a stampede out the door in a matter of seconds. But if she ignored him, there was no telling what kind of scene he would make.
“Please keep your seats a moment more,” Emily said wearily. “All right, Charlie. You’re recognized.”
“This isn’t on the official agenda, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be,” he began. “As many of you know, Dr. Ezra Elliot has put a large tract of land up for sale, out on the Beach Road, just northeast of the village. It borders the Warwick estate, and it’s visible to anyone coming in or out of town.”
Emily shifted restlessly. Charlie had missed his calling, she thought. He should have been on Broadway, he had such a flare for drama.
“Yes, Charlie. We know our geography. Please get to the point,” she prodded him.
“My point, Mayor, is that Dr. Elliot just can’t up and sell to the highest bidder. He has a responsibility to this town to make sure that no one is going to buy that land and turn it into some ugly eyesore—a bunch of cheap condos or a fast-food place or a tacky motel.”
“I hear you, Charlie.” Corey Nolan, who owned Nolan’s Stationery, stood up. “Like over in Fairfax. A couple came in, bought some land, said they were starting an herb farm. Before you know it, the place turned into a commune. Took years to get them out.”
“I heard it was worse than that,” Marge Quigley, who taught at the high school, chimed in. “I heard it was a cult kind of thing.”
“Ezra can’t just cash in and leave us with a mess, while he’s enjoying himself down in Florida or something,” Corey Nolan complained.
“I heard Dr. Elliot is getting senile. All his patients are leaving him, you know,” added Lester Pyle, who owned the barbershop across from the fire station.
“That’s not true,” Miriam Nelson, who owned the bake shop on Main Street, countered. “Dr. Elliot is about to retire. He’s referring his patients to other physicians.”
“And he’s never said a word about leaving town,” Gus Potter added. “I just spoke to Ezra a few days ago. He never mentioned Florida.”
Emily wondered if anyone had heard Miriam or Gus. At least half the people in the hall were still in a flurry over the commune comment. If she didn’t restore a rational voice, the meeting would go on till dawn.
“There is a system of law in our village, designed to prevent such unhappy outcomes . . . from ugly condos to communal living,” she explained. “We have zoning laws and building permits. Permit applications that come up before this very board. Dr. Elliot is a private citizen, who has the right to sell his land without interference.”
“Does he have the right to ruin this town? To just ignore and trample on everybody else’s rights around here?” Charlie demanded. “It’s up to the mayor to protect Cape Light’s integrity. We all work hard to keep this village a clean, decent, nice place to live. If the mayor doesn’t stand up for that, who will?” he challenged her.
Charlie, I hope you’ve got a tape recorder hidden somewhere. That was a magnificent campaign speech.
That’s what Emily wanted to say. Instea
d, she took a steadying breath. “When I need you to coach me on my job description, Charlie, I’ll let you know,” she said lightly. “Now, if some of you agree with Mr. Bates, let me ask you this: How many of you would like me to review and approve—or disapprove—all your private business transactions?”
“Now, wait a minute . . .” Charlie moved down the aisle, closer to the table where Emily sat. “That is not what I said—”
“That’s exactly what you said, Charlie,” Emily insisted. “It is not my place—or anyone else’s—to interfere with Dr. Elliot’s transaction. None of us has the legal authority to do so. I don’t see that there’s need for any further debate on what strikes me as an unreasonable and even absurd proposal.” Emily raised the gavel and struck the small wooden block. “I move this meeting is adjourned. All in favor . . .” The council gave immediate, unanimous consent. “Opposed?” She waited a beat, then banged the gavel. “Motion passed. The minutes of this meeting are hereby closed. . . . Good night, everyone.”
She clicked off the microphone and began to collect the papers on the table in front of her. The crowd quickly thinned out.
“Good job, Emily,” Harriet DeSoto said quietly. The older woman gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she passed.
“Good night, Emily. You earned your pay tonight,” Warren Oakes added with a kind smile as he ambled past. A few others also said good night, adding she’d done well to oppose Charlie.
But as the room emptied, Emily felt deflated. I’m just tired, she told herself as she packed her briefcase. Sometimes she wondered why she’d wanted this job in the first place.
As she stood up she suddenly found herself facing Dan Forbes. A reporter usually covered meetings like this one, but since the Messenger didn’t have a very large staff, Dan sometimes filled in. She’d noticed him sitting in the back of the room, jotting notes, his expression interested but neutral.
“So what did you think?” she asked him point blank.
“Pick up a copy of the paper tomorrow, Mayor, and you’ll find out.”
“Spoken like a true reporter,” Emily replied with a weary grin.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dan had a talent for remaining objective, but something in his smile suggested he had agreed with her. “Get a good night’s rest, Mayor. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Tomorrow is today. Didn’t you notice?” Emily opened the door at the room’s side exit. “This was a long one.”
He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “So it was. . . . I’d better get to my computer, or I’ll have a blank front page and nobody to yell at.”
Was he really going to write for the rest of the night? It was nearly one o’clock. Emily was looking forward to going home and crawling into bed.
“Good night, Dan,” she said. With a smile, she slipped out the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE YELLOW POST-IT NOTE FROM SAM, STILL stuck to her blotter, was the first thing Jessica noticed when she sat down at her desk on Wednesday morning.
As she entered the bank that morning, she realized his work there was done. There was no chance she would run into him today. Sam Morgan was gone.
Just as well. I’ll concentrate much better without that distraction, she told herself as she sorted her work into priority piles: “Urgent,” “Important but can wait,” and “Ignore and maybe it will go away.”
She wanted to leave the office early to get ready for her date with Paul. That meant she had to get through all of the “Urgent” pile by lunch time or she wouldn’t make it.
Resolved to forget about Sam Morgan, Jessica tossed his note into the trash basket.
PASSING ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF MAIN STREET, Carolyn Lewis waved at Emily Warwick, but did not cross over to talk. For one thing, Emily appeared to be walking even faster and with more determination than usual, which was saying something. Carolyn imagined that she was late for an early-morning meeting, or just needed to get to her office at Village Hall quickly.
The mayor was an unusual woman, Carolyn thought. On the surface at least, Emily Warwick was so sensible and centered, so reliable and straightforward, she was the very definition of the expression “Ask a busy person to do something and it will get done.” Along with her demanding job and caring for her mother, she still found time to work on church committees, rummage and bake sales, and even cook for charity dinners. She managed to sail through it all with her calm smile and clear blue eyes, rarely voicing a word of complaint or revealing a downbeat mood.
Yet, Carolyn suspected, the image Emily projected was only part of her story. Though Ben was unerringly discreet, Carolyn knew Emily had come to him often for counsel, and merely from his attitude when he spoke of Emily, Carolyn sensed that there was more to their mayor than her still waters suggested. More secrets. More intensity. Everybody knew Emily. Most everyone liked her. But did anyone really know her all that well?
Do we ultimately ever know each other? Carolyn wondered. Even in the most intimate relationships—parents and children, husbands and wives, lovers and friends—it was a common mistake to think we understood and then to pass judgment. Whatever Emily’s private struggles, and Carolyn felt almost sure that she had them, her strong faith surely provided a bulwark.
Unlike Grace Hegman, Carolyn reflected as she approached the Bramble Shop. Grace had such painful memories. How could she bear them without faith?
Grace’s marvelous garden in front of her shop must surely be a source of pride and pleasure and solace, Carolyn thought as she walked up the flower-lined walk. Carolyn had always admired the garden with its sheer horticultural audacity, the way Grace grew huge tomatoes and zucchini alongside daisies and roses and hollyhock, mint and basil in the midst of foxglove and tiger lilies.
The porch of the Bramble Shop was stocked with discounted items. Carolyn couldn’t stop herself from browsing before going in. As always, it was an eclectic and interesting collection—a dressmaker’s dummy, an iron-rimmed wagon wheel missing a few spokes, an antique baby carriage with torn upholstery, half of a salt-and-pepper set, a stained-glass window lacking a few panes of glass.
A bell above the door jangled as Carolyn entered the shop. It was cool and quiet inside. The musty odor of old furniture and the perfume of dried rose petals scented the air. Carolyn already knew what she’d find in each of the small rooms: a mix of antique pieces and garage-sale finds, some beautifully refinished, some needing repair. There were dressers full of linens and a rack of vintage clothes, baskets of antique postcards and shelves of miscellaneous bric-a-brac.
The barn behind the house held larger items, like a marble fireplace mantel, a treadle sewing machine, and a wooden carousel horse. When the barn would periodically become filled to the rafters, Grace would put out her painted wooden placard announcing Barn Sale Today, and the tourists would help her make room for more finds.
That was the Bramble. The scripture “Seek and ye shall find” could hang over the front door, Carolyn thought, reminding her of her morning’s mission.
The piano in Grace’s barn. Despite Digger’s doubts that Grace would ever part with it, Carolyn wanted to give it a try. She’d tried to track down a piano through other sources but had no leads on a suitable instrument. Maybe Grace would be ready to let it go.
Grace usually sat on a stool near the door, next to the jewelry case, with Daisy at her feet. But neither the shop owner nor her faithful companion were in sight. Then Carolyn heard Grace coming down the stairs from the apartment above. She heard her talking to someone but saw only the large yellow dog padding softly behind.
“. . . and he knows he has to see the neurologist in Southport today. He should’ve just stayed home, so we would be on time. Bad enough I need to close up all afternoon. Do you think I can pry him loose from that blasted boatyard if I even find him there? Harry Reilly says he’ll keep an eye on him, but no telling what that means. . . .”
Carolyn softly coughed into her hand. Grace looked up. Her straight chin-length
gray hair swung back from her face. A stack of lace-edged linens, freshly pressed, was cradled like a baby in the crook of her lean arm.
“Carolyn—you startled me.”
“Good morning, Grace,” Carolyn said.
“I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with something?”
“Why, yes, Yes, you can.” Carolyn had thought many times about how to ask Grace for this favor, but now she suddenly drew a blank. Dear God, please give me the right words to persuade her, she silently prayed.
“I came to speak to you about an item in the barn, actually—”
Grace stared at her with a questioning look and blinked her eyes. She carefully put the stack of linens down on the counter.
“That piano. It’s way in the back,” Carolyn continued, “with a green cover over it—”
“I know what you mean,” Grace cut in curtly. “The piano’s not for sale.”
“Oh . . . are you sure?” Carolyn persisted. Then, before Grace could interrupt her, she added, “The reason I’m asking is that I have a new student, very talented, too. Molly Willoughby’s oldest girl, Lauren.”
“Yes, I know who you mean.” Grace nodded. “She and her little sister both come here to see their uncle, Sam. He has a workshop out back.”
“So maybe you know her a little, then,” Carolyn rushed on, encouraged by this small connection. “She’s a lovely girl and a very promising young musician. I told her mother I’d try to help them find a piano for Lauren. They can’t afford much, of course, so it would have to be something secondhand. I was thinking that instrument in your barn would be just right.”
Grace was silent for a moment. She smoothed her hand over the pile of linens. Carolyn watched her, consciously holding her tongue. Grace wasn’t the kind of person who could be talked into things. Carolyn knew that if she said too much, she’d only end up irritating her.
At last Grace shook her head. “No. I can’t do it.”
Carolyn didn’t know what to say. “Are you sure?” she asked.
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