by Eliza Watson
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Didn’t even think of it. Figured if he’s from my dad’s past, it wasn’t much of a clue for him. Besides, Wisconsin is a big state. If he didn’t know about Five Lakes, he’d have to find something tying my dad to here.”
If this guy wasn’t her dad’s forgery partner, what else would her father have had worth hurting, possibly killing, people over?
She fidgeted with the ring resting between her breasts, her skin gleaming with perspiration. A background check had confirmed she’d never been married. And an engagement ring would be worn on her finger, unless that was some new craze to wear it on a chain. But she hadn’t told anybody besides her gallery partner that she was leaving town. He glanced up to find her watching him.
She placed a hand against the ring, pressing it against her chest. “It was my mom’s… I think.”
He hadn’t kept his mother’s ring. Hadn’t wanted any reminders of her marriage to his father. If he’d thought of it at the time, he’d have made sure she wasn’t buried in it, and he’d have destroyed it. Maybe his aunt had removed it. He’d been thinking about his mother a lot since the cemetery and the parole hearing yesterday.
As though she could read his mind, Olivia stepped forward and cautiously reached out and touched the scar on his cheek, brushing a gentle finger across it. His initial instinct was to pull back, but he didn’t. Her gaze followed her finger as she traced it along his jawline to his chin. She paused a moment before brushing it across his lips, raising her gaze to his.
He wanted her to do a lot more than touch a finger to his lips. He lowered his lips to hers, capturing her mouth, his tongue darting between her lips, wrapping around her tongue. She welcomed his tongue with the same sense of urgency, sweeping her arms up over his chest and around to the back of his neck. She tunneled her fingers through his hair while he slipped his arms around her waist, gathering up fistfuls of her shirt, pressing her soft belly against his hard erection, her full breasts against the plane of his chest.
A coyote howled. His body tensed, and he drew back his head, his gaze darting to the window. Their labored breathing swelled their chests against each other. He felt like they’d just outrun the bad guy.
He was here to protect Olivia’s ass, not feel it up. What if that coyote had been the crazed bomber? He knew the bomber was still in San Francisco, but for how long? What the hell was Ethan doing kissing Olivia, taking advantage of her “knight in shining armor” syndrome? Women under his protection often viewed him as their rescuer, protecting them when their husbands or nobody else could. It was his job to keep things on a professional level. He always had. Until now.
She gazed up at him with a sexy-as-hell look that begged him to take her right there on the stiff, uninviting couch. A look that made him want to say screw professionalism.
He reined in his emotions and stepped back, releasing her from his embrace, her arms slipping from around his neck. “You better try to get some sleep.”
Her gaze narrowed in confusion, then a wounded expression spread across her face and she turned and walked toward her bedroom. He’d take her wounded look over her wounded body any day. He couldn’t let anything happen to Olivia.
Chapter Eleven
The morning sun filtered through the lace curtains, and Bella Newman blinked the groggy haze from her head.
Was it Sunday?
Did she have anything clean to wear to church? On Sunday, she and Stan used to go to church, then out for breakfast afterward. He’d always get cinnamon French toast, and she’d get two eggs over easy with whole wheat toast. Predictable, but comfortable, like much of their marriage. Three years ago, before Stan had died, she couldn’t have imagined not going to church. But she was so tired. She could miss this once.
She slipped on her glasses and peered at the calendar on the nightstand. Unless she’d forgotten to cross off Saturday before going to bed, today wasn’t Sunday anyhow. If tourists didn’t rely on her, some mornings she wouldn’t bother getting out of bed.
The clock read seven. Morning used to be her favorite time of day. She’d get up at five and enjoy a cup of coffee on the porch swing. Now, she didn’t need to be open for business until ten, so she had several hours she could continue lying there.
She eyed the sleeping pill bottle on the nightstand, having difficulty focusing on it. Had she taken four pills instead of two? She often did that, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not. One of these days she might take even more and never get out of bed again. She didn’t fear that day, she welcomed it. Being with Stan and Annie would make her happy once again.
She stared at the bottle of pills. God would forgive her for her sins. She’d had no choice, no regrets. If He could forgive her for helping take someone else’s life, He’d forgive her for taking her own.
* * *
A loud noise filled the air, jarring Olivia from a deep sleep. She bolted upright in bed. The magnetic alarms. Somebody was breaking into the cottage. Heart racing, her gaze darted frantically around the sunlit room. She suddenly realized that rather than a blaring alarm filling the cottage, the noise was a loud clanging outside. Like a cowbell. She walked into the living room expecting to find Ethan glaring out the window, but he was nowhere to be found. She peered out the window in the direction of the clanging, determining it was coming from the camp on the island. She glanced at the clock on the wall, 6:00 a.m. Was that some sort of military camp?
Yet plenty of people seemed to be up at this hour. Several fishing boats dotted the lake, and an old man lounged in a lawn chair on the end of the dock fishing, talking to Ethan.
She yawned, having slept little after Mike’s call and kissing Ethan. She touched her lips, recalling the kiss, and how Ethan had backed off. He’d obviously regretted getting close to her, so she needed to act like nothing had happened. That wasn’t going to be easy when she didn’t regret it. But she should. It was scary how easily Ethan could shut off his emotions. Like her dad.
She went in the bedroom and slipped on a turquoise sundress and flip-flops and tossed her hair up in a clip. Hopefully, the inn had coffee prepared this early. She turned off the front door’s magnetic alarm and stepped outside. Ethan peered over at her from the dock. She waved, and he waved back. She pointed in the direction of the inn.
“I’ll shower and be right in,” he called out.
As she neared the house, her pace slowed. Nervous jitters over meeting her family, and accidentally revealing her true identity, had also kept her awake most of the night. However, keeping her secret had to be easier than telling her family who she really was.
When she walked inside the inn, the aroma of coffee and freshly baked goods led her into an empty dining room. Although vacationers weren’t early risers, it was hard to imagine they could sleep through that clanging bell. Ten place settings lined the perimeter of a long maple table, in the middle of which sat cow salt and pepper shakers and a coffee carafe. She poured herself a cup and took a drink, savoring the vanilla flavor with a hint of nut.
She spied a jar of mints, and one with gummy bears, sitting on top of a small hutch displaying books and brochures on the area. Needing a fix, she opened the jar and dumped some candy into her hand. She popped several in her mouth, making a mental note to buy gummy bears.
A short, slightly plump woman with shoulder-length white hair pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen, humming, carrying a wicker basket filled with muffins. A warm kitchen, rather than makeup, had likely given her cheeks their rosy glow. The years had dulled the brightness in her blue eyes, which were now the color of her slightly faded denim dress, but they still held the same sparkle as in Olivia’s parents’ wedding photo. She had to be Kate Donovan. Olivia had found the photo in the envelope from her dad’s safe. So much for her parents having eloped to a chapel in Nevada.
The woman stopped humming and smiled, setting the basket on the table. “Well, good morning. Don’t usually have guests this early.”
A nervous fluttering trailed from the pit of Olivia’s stomach to her throat. “Hope you don’t mind I helped myself to coffee.”
“That’s what it’s there for, dear. Suppose that darn cowbell woke you up. Today’s the big canoe race. Everyone’s up early to practice. My son-in-law, Jack, brought the canoes over to the island yesterday. They start there and race four miles across five lakes to the finish line.”
“You own the canoe rental next door?”
She nodded. “The mini-golf course and cottages also. I’m Kate Donovan.”
Olivia willed her hand to stop trembling as she shook her grandma’s hand. “O…riana,” she sputtered, stopping just shy of revealing her real name.
“Oriana. Pretty name. Don’t believe I’ve ever heard it before.” Kate took a deep breath, inhaling the morning air drifting through the open windows. “They’re calling for sunshine again today.” A smile, as warm and comforting as hot apple pie straight out of the oven, brightened her face.
Olivia concentrated on Kate’s gentle voice, trying desperately to hear her calling her Livvy rather than Oriana. A person’s voice couldn’t change much over their adult lifetime. Why couldn’t Olivia recall the sound of hers?
“Help yourself to a muffin. Breakfast will be ready shortly. We’re having the kitchen sink. Called that since it contains everything but the sink.” Kate started listing off a slew of ingredients.
Olivia was familiar with the scrambled egg dish. Her dad used to make it on Sunday mornings. He’d throw in whatever was in the fridge: sausage, bacon, onion, cheese, peppers… It was never the same dish twice.
“Sounds good.” Her breakfast usually consisted of a bagel or yogurt, which she’d survived on while growing up, except for Sunday mornings.
“My mother used to make it. Though not exactly one of her Irish specialties.”
Olivia’s dad had been honest about something anyway. When she’d compiled their family tree in fourth grade, he’d claimed they were Irish, which made sense with the name Doyle. She’d started wearing green and a leprechaun pin on St. Patrick’s Day. Family traditions were something she’d seriously lacked.
“She also used to make Christmas pudding with a rum sauce. The sauce was so potent it could knock your socks off. Can’t believe she let us kids eat it. And never a dull moment around the holidays. Tracy went into labor with Megan on Christmas Eve. Had to make an emergency room run with one of my sons Christmas day.” She gazed out the window, wearing a distant, melancholy expression. “That was years ago. They were ice skating on the lake. Andrew was showing off, trying to impress one of the neighbor girls. He did a jump and fell and cracked his head on the ice.” She traced a finger down the bridge of her nose. “Broke his nose. So much blood.” She grimaced. “His brother threw up right there on the ice. He never lived that one down.”
That’s why her dad’s nose had a bump on it. Kate waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Shouldn’t be thinking about Christmas. Winter will be coming soon enough. Time goes too fast.”
Olivia had the urge to tell Kate about their Christmases. About the year her dad had given her a Barbie house. The holiday dinners they’d eaten at buffet restaurants. About her pseudo grandma Gracie. But she couldn’t.
The bell on the front door jingled, and moments later the older man who’d been fishing off the end of the dock ambled in. He had on a Green Bay Packers T-shirt and ball cap, jean cutoffs, and moccasin slippers.
“Big Bernie out this morning?” Kate asked.
The man shrugged. “If he is, I’ll catch him. Been in these waters twelve years, but figure he’s slipping in his old age whereas I’m getting smarter.” He gave Olivia a wink. “I’m Roger Donovan, welcome to Five Lakes.”
While growing up, she’d dreamed of sleeping over at her grandparents and her grandma making a big breakfast in the morning. Now here she was having breakfast with them and she couldn’t even tell them who she was. She suddenly realized she was staring and quickly said, “I’m Oriana.”
Roger smiled. He had the same kind smile as in her parents’ wedding photo. However, thirty years had thinned and whitened his hair and softened him around the middle and in the face. “Nice to meet you.” He poured a cup of coffee. “Better get back down to the dock. Bernie’s a morning guy. Don’t ever see him past eight. You have a nice day.” He turned and strolled out.
“Bernie’s a legend around here,” Kate said. “Last big fish Roger caught was Wally eight years ago, who’s hanging over the fireplace in the den.”
The buzzer sounded in the kitchen and Olivia jumped, more than a tad on edge.
“Be back in a minute.” Kate whisked out of the room, through the swinging door.
Olivia gazed at the place settings around the long table, imagining all the Thanksgiving turkeys, the Christmas hams, the everyday meals, and conversations her family had shared right here. She recalled the first time she’d met Gracie. One Christmas, Gracie had been dining alone at a restaurant, and Olivia had begged her dad to invite her to join them. They’d continued meeting her for dinner on Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas until she’d no-showed two years later on Thanksgiving and they’d discovered she’d passed away a month earlier. Olivia always hoped someone had attended her funeral.
The bell on the front door jingled, and moments later Ethan entered the dining room wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. His unshaven face brought back memories of the rough feel of stubble against her soft finger. The feel of his soft lips against hers. Once she’d touched his scar, she couldn’t stop there. If he hadn’t stopped, how far would she have gone?
“How’s the coffee?” he asked, raking a hand through his wet hair, several strands falling against his brow.
“Tastes good.” She raised her mug and took another sip.
He grabbed a mug from a place setting and leaned past her for the coffee carafe in the middle of the table. The scent of almonds filled her head. Must be his shampoo. She took another whiff before he stepped back.
Kate walked through the door holding a baking dish, steam and the aroma of peppers and bacon rising from it. Memories of Sunday breakfast with her dad flashed through Olivia’s mind.
“Smells good,” Ethan said. Not a glint of recognition shown on his face, although he likely realized this was her grandma. “What is it?”
“The kitchen sink.”
“Mmm… Stainless steel or porcelain?” he asked.
They all laughed. Ethan placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and massaged his thumb over her skin. He had a way of putting her at ease, making her believe everything would be all right, even when she had her doubts. She knew his affection was part of their act, but she was starting to wish it was genuine.
* * *
Roger Donovan sat on the end of the dock watching Vic Richardson speed walking along the shoreline toward him. All that exercise was gonna give the man another heart attack. Roger got plenty of exercise maintaining the cottages and the mini-golf course. Would be a damn shame if he lost them both, along with the canoe rentals. It wasn’t looking good.
“Gorgeous morning,” Vic said, heading down the dock toward him.
“Yep, sure is.”
“Great summer for your business, but the farmers ain’t too happy.”
This year had been dry as a bone. Hadn’t rained a drop in over two months. Unlike last summer, when it’d rained almost every weekend, keeping the tourists away. The weather had damn near put them out of business.
“Much better than last,” he said.
“I hear the lakes are down almost a foot and a half. A twenty-year low.”
A burning sensation flared up in Roger’s chest, and the taste of acid filled his mouth. He glanced across Pine Lake and the connecting Shadow Lake to the bend leading to Sunset Lake off in the distance. Twenty years since he’d had to worry about the lake levels getting too low. A few weeks ago, he’d taken the boat through that remote area of Sunset Lake to check it out. If levels got much lower, they’d be in se
rious trouble.
Even Vic rambling on about the Packers great defensive line and star quarterback didn’t stop the burning in Roger’s chest.
Vic no sooner left when the bobber began hopping around in the water. Big Bernie?
Roger shot straight up, tightening his grip on the rod, preparing to reel in the sucker. He held his breath, praying for the bobber to disappear under water. When it stopped moving, he collapsed back in the chair. Damnit.
He’d caught a boatload of fish in this lake. Kate had one hundred and one ways for preparing them by now. Five generations of Donovans had swum in the lake, and two generations had gone to Camp Winnesaca. He fondly recalled dozens of repeat vacationers he’d gotten to know like family over the years. A rainy season put a major damper on his business financially, but if this season got any dryer, it could not only destroy his business, but his entire family, forever.
He glanced across at Sunset Lake, then up at the sky, praying for rain, promising God he’d start going to church again and stop sneaking a beer behind Kate’s back before bedtime.
* * *
Olivia and her grandma’s reunion had been cut short when a vacationing couple joined them for breakfast and droned on about their children, who were spending the week at their grandma’s house so the couple could have time alone. Yet they chose to talk about nothing but their kids when Olivia was much more interested in hearing stories about her own family.
As Ethan and Olivia walked back to their cottage, he leaned in toward her, glancing over at Roger asleep on the dock. “He and Kate seem like great people.”
“They seem like a really close family.” She glanced over her shoulder at the wraparound porch and the flowers hanging from it. “My great-grandpa started the business in 1905. I can’t imagine having that amount of history in one home. We moved every two years, undoubtedly so nobody could find us or get to know us.” She glanced away from the house. “Even if family members have nothing in common, they have traditions and memories that bind them together. Kate probably taught all her kids and grandkids to swim. She probably taught me, and now I’m terrified to even go near the water. I have nothing in common with these people. My history with them ended twenty-four years ago.”