Nothing like changing the subject, turning the spotlight back on her.
“I knocked the box on the floor last night,” Diana replied casually—which was technically true; she was a lawyer, after all, and knew how to split words like hairs—but her insides tightened and the ease she’d felt with him dissipated.
Ethan cocked an eyebrow, letting her know he didn’t quite believe her. It arched like a dark, inverted vee, the point edging into his hair. “And two cards ended up on the desk, nice and neat?” He gave a little laugh, adjusting his position on the chair.
“Well, yes,” she replied. That was also, technically, true. But her cheeks heated again and she realized she was biting her lip in consternation.
He looked at her with an exasperation. “You aren’t going to give even a little, are you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said firmly. “The cards are nothing to me.”
He shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. His biceps shifted smoothly, round and sleek. “Diana, everyone has instincts and gut feelings. It’s evident in every culture, all over the world, all through the ages. Believe me—I’ve been studying various cultures for decades. I’ve seen both evidentiary and experiential proof that there’s more to the world than meets the eye.
“Some people have honed those innate intuitive skills to become even more than just a sixth sense. If you have such an ability, it’s a gift. And if you want to talk about what’s been going on with those cards you dropped on the floor, I’ll listen.”
“There’s nothing going on with them.” She felt the force of the denial like a Biblical Peter, and pushed it away. “I just had a few odd coincidences and it unsettled me a little.”
Even as she said it, Diana felt the air shift a little. Like a nudge. The faint scent of sandalwood wafted to her nose. She felt her insides clench, and held her breath. No. Not now. Not with him here…
Ethan didn’t seem to notice. “You aren’t ready to believe me, or to talk about it. That’s okay,” he held up his hand to fend off her intended fiery retort. “Just think about it, Diana, think about it rationally—the way you always do. A card—The High Priestess—that has shown up randomly three times signifies that one should look beyond the obvious and listen to your inner voice. Isn’t that a bit hard to swallow as mere coincidence?”
He unstraddled the chair and stood, looming down over her as she tried to ignore the scent of roses in the air and the light breeze that was not coming from the window behind him. It was getting colder in the room, and behind Ethan, in the hallway, Motto stood frozen, staring up at something behind Diana. Crap. The cat’s tail swished angrily and she looked ready to hiss.
“Like I said—when you’re ready to talk, Diana, I’ll be happy to listen. Until then, I guess I’d better get going. You must have a lot to do.”
“I appreciate the work you did in the yard.” What else could she say besides, Go. Now. Before something happens…
“No problem.” He gave her one last easy smile that, in spite of everything, sent a long, slow curling through her stomach. Then he ambled to the front door.
“By the way,” he said, leaning his head against the doorjamb and giving her a calm look, “I don’t study ghosts. Just people.”
Chapter Six
When Diana had asked for directions to Maxine Took’s eightieth birthday party, Cherry Wilder insisted on picking her up so they could ride together.
“That way you can have a glass of wine or two and not worry about driving back home in the dark,” she said. “And it’s not very intuitive to find, Trib’s house. It’s kind of tucked away.”
When they arrived at the party shortly after seven, Diana realized she was a little nervous—and she didn’t understand why. She wasn’t a big socializer, but neither was she shy and retiring. You simply couldn’t be shy and retiring or unable to skillfully manage small talk if you wanted to make partner at a firm like McNillan, et al.
But she didn’t have a chance to dwell on her inexplicable nerves, for Maxine spotted her and Cherry as soon as they came into view.
“You’re late,” she said, jabbing her cane toward them from across the broad stone terrace, narrowly missing a slender redhead in long, flowing skirts with wild, curling hair. “Party started at seven, you know.”
Diana took one look at the guest of honor and the large, throne-like chair on which she sat and choked on a giggle. Cherry elbowed her and muttered, “If you laugh, she’ll never let you get over it. She might even skewer you.”
“Happy birthday, Maxine,” Diana said instead, controlling herself, and brought the gift bag forward as if she were making an offering to a queen. The woman was, after all, wearing an actual tiara over her iron-gray hair—which had been tamed into a cloud of tight curls for the evening. She also wore a flowing, sequined gold evening gown that, thankfully, had a high neckline and wasn’t a tight fit. It actually suited her quite well, despite being overly formal for the occasion. “You look lovely tonight. Very festive.”
“Nice words, but you’re still late,” the old woman grumbled again, but she seemed taken by the bag Diana offered. “Lots of sparkles on that one,” she said, sniffing a little—but she reached for it with greedy fingers. “Lemme see it.”
Diana had taken a chance, selecting the fanciest, most glittery and lacy gift bag—which had cost almost as much as what was inside—and added sparkling tissue paper. Apparently, she’d made the right decision, for Maxine spent a good amount of time admiring it—although she complained about the sequins and crystals and tulle flowers adorning it (“don’t know what’s wrong with plain old brown paper wrapping anymore”).
Once she finished examining it, Maxine relinquished the bag to Diana with the command, “It goes on the table over there. I’ll look inside later.”
Thus dismissed, Diana made her escape and edged over to the table laden with gifts.
The party was outside on Trib’s three-tier stone terrace staggered into the side of a hill. It overlooked the lake and was surrounded by a colorful, well-tended landscaping of blooming trees, sprawling bushes, flowering plants, fountains, and arbors. The view from the terrace—and the relatively small house attached to it—was magnificent, and the entire outdoor space looked as if it belonged in a photoshoot for some architectural or celebrity magazine.
Lanterns of yellow and white hung near each set of broad, stone steps that led from one level of the patio to the next, sofas and chairs were arranged in conversation groupings (surely he didn’t have all of this leather furniture out here all the time?), strings of lights wove and dangled like fairies through the trees, bushes, and along the edges of the patio. Flowers—in the sprawling gardens as well as in vases and pots—added color and scent to the scene. A large fire pit enclosed by an ornate wrought iron enclosure was situated on the highest level, but as it was still warm and the sun hadn’t lowered too far, the logs hadn’t yet been lit.
And the food…it smelled sensational, and seemed to be everywhere on little tapas tables. Diana saw chicken satay, tiny crab cakes, macarons of every pastel color, and a tower of fresh fruit just in her vicinity.
“There you are! Finally!” Trib descended upon Diana the moment she’d placed Maxine’s gift on the table. “Jean’s lovely niece! I hardly had the chance to speak to you at the funeral; it was just so awful and sudden, and of course I had to see to the food. Only the best for our fabulous Genevieve. But here you are. You look smashing! As cool and summery as a tall glass of ice wine.”
“It’s very nice to see you again,” she replied as Trib crushed her to his designer shirt of lemon silk, and she inhaled the expensive, spicy scent of his cologne. He wore a lavender and purple paisley bow tie and creamy tailored trousers of sharply creased linen—without a wrinkle in sight.
The restauranteur and chef was in his forties with close-cropped white hair and a neat black-to-gray goatee. “You have a lovely home, and a wonderful place for a party,” she told him after he kis
sed her enthusiastically on both cheeks.
“Thank you, my darling Diana. If only I had someone to share all of it with,” he said with a dramatic flap of his hand.
“Oh, pish,” Cherry said from behind them. “You’d be—what was the word you used—smothered if you had to share your perfect space with anyone for more than a weekend.”
Smothered. Diana’s belly dropped sharply at the word, and the ugly thought of Aunt Jean’s death. And, unfortunately, the reminder made her think of Ethan Murphy—which she’d been doing far too often since their amiable chat in the kitchen yesterday.
Far too often, especially for a maybe-engaged woman.
Come to think of it…she hadn’t given Jonathan or his ring a single thought since the phone call Sunday night. And the blue velvet box remained unopened and ignored in the depths of her suitcase.
Diana looked around and saw Ethan. He was standing two levels down on the lowest terrace, talking to the tall, gorgeous redhead who’d nearly been stabbed by Maxine’s cane a moment ago. The woman’s long hair billowed sensuously around her face and shoulders, and her magenta and violet maxi dress—which somehow did not clash with her hair but instead looked fabulous—fluttered at her ankles. The two of them appeared very intent in their conversation, and as Diana watched, the woman leaned forward to slide a hand over Ethan’s cheek in an intimate fashion.
Diana’s belly tightened, and she tore her attention from them, furious with herself that the sight bothered her so much. She was still technically in a relationship, and even if she hadn’t been, Ethan Murphy was not anyone she’d be interested in.
He was too eccentric. Too different.
Too…male.
Besides that, he was practically a celebrity. He’d never be interested in Diana.
“Here you are my lovely,” Trib said, shoving a tall slender glass flute (using glass vessels on a stone patio for a party was surely tempting fate) at her, and bringing Diana back to the moment. “One of my specialty champagne cocktails. Now, come with me. There are tons of people who have been absolutely clamoring to meet Jean’s niece!”
“Now, Fifi,” Ethan said as his sister patted his cheek a little harder than necessary, then ended with a sharp pinch. “Ow. You know how I feel about your little hobby.”
“Hobby?” Fiona retorted, then tried to snatch his hand. “You try saying that to Claudia—calling our family tradition, and how she made a living when you were born, a hobby—and see if you live past the lecture. She’d skin you alive. Come on, let me see it. I want to see if anything’s changed.”
Long practiced at avoiding her grabby fingers, he tucked his hands behind his back, barely managing not to spill his beer in the process. “No. You are not reading my palm again. Especially here, where everyone can see. Why don’t you go take a look at Maxine’s? Tell us how much longer we’re going to have to avoid being thwacked by that lethal cane.”
“Ethan!” Fiona gasped, laughing as she pushed the curling hair from her face and tried to glower up at him. “That’s terrible.”
He was laughing too. “I know. You know I don’t mean it.”
“It’s a good thing I do—and that no one else heard you.”
“Not that anyone else here has ever wondered when The Cane was going to be put to rest.”
She looked up at him, sobering. “It’s nice to see you laughing again.” She searched his face with her eyes—the same amber-brown ones he had, with the same thick lashes and black flecks in the iris. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just sad about Jean.”
“I wish I’d met her.”
“You would have loved her. You and another one of her friends—Iva Bergstrom; you haven’t met her either—and Jean? The three of you would have had a lot to talk about.”
“Well, sadly, that ship’s sailed.” Fiona looked around, pushing her hair back again. He wondered why she never wore a clip or pinned it up; she was always having to brush it out of her face.
“Yeah. I was…” Ethan’s voice trailed off when he saw Diana Iverson standing at the top of the terrace.
She looked cool and elegant in a slim, ice-white dress that ended well above her knees, left her arms bare, and showed off her curves without being too obvious. Her short velvet hair was full and tousled, kissing the nape of her neck—but not out of control like the wild mess with which Fiona contended. A wide bracelet glittered at one slender wrist, and the pale pink lipstick she wore was a subtle, sexy slash of color that drew the attention to her lush mouth even from a distance.
“Who is that?” Fiona asked, poking him in the side.
“Ow. That’s the second time you’ve bruised me tonight.”
“Well, pay attention when I’m talking to you,” she snarked back. “She’s gorgeous, but even from here I can tell she looks really uptight. Who is she?”
Everyone seemed uptight to Fiona—but in this case, Ethan couldn’t disagree. “That’s Jean’s niece. Diana.”
“Really. Are you—”
“No. She’s got someone.”
Fiona frowned. “Well, that bites. I haven’t seen you look at anyone like that for years.”
“Christ, Fi, you haven’t seen me hardly at all since you moved to Grand Rapids. How do you know how I look at women?” Ethan wasn’t sure why he was so irritated, but he supposed that was part of the deal when it came to sisters. Especially bossy ones who liked to try and manage his life, when their own lives were pretty topsy-turvy.
“My, my,” she replied, looking at him with an expression that made his hair want to stand on end. It was the way she looked when she was planning to make like a witch and stir the pot. “Aren’t we touchy tonight. Maybe I should just go on over there and introduce myself to this Diana.”
“Do not try and read her palm,” he said from between clenched teeth, but Fiona had already laughed gaily and spun away.
He thought about going after her, but as he turned, he nearly ran into Melvin Horner, Wicks Hollow’s veterinarian.
“Ethan, nice to see you again.” Horner was drinking a thin, colorless beer that was definitely not one of Baxter’s. In fact, Ethan was surprised Trib even allowed the likes of a Budweiser on his property. Maybe the vet had sneaked it in.
“How’s that black lab of yours?” Horner was a short, stout man of sixty-something with a bristling mustache and a shock of straight white hair. Ethan thought that if Albert Einstein had been caught in the rain and his famous bushy hair gone flat, he’d have looked just like Doc Horner.
“Cady’s just fine—swimming in the lake, chasing her tennis balls every day, barking at the squirrels and chipmunks. You know, the usual.” He smiled at Juanita Alecita, who was making a beeline across the terrace toward the two of them as quickly as her bulk allowed.
“How are you tonight, Mrs. Alecita?” he said as she approached. It was as close as he could get to giving the warning “Incoming!” for Doc Horner—in case the man wanted to make an escape.
“Just fine, Ethan, just fine. What a lovely sunset it’s going to be. Good evening, Mel,” said Juanita, fluttering her soft, pink-tipped fingers at him. “You look very handsome tonight.”
Ethan considered the options of playing buffer for Horner—who looked as trapped as Cady did when she was dragged into the vet’s office—or trying to waylay Fiona before she said something regrettable to Diana.
The latter, more selfish option won out, and he slipped away as Juanita moved in on her prey. The last thing Ethan heard was her asking about some malady affecting Bruce Banner.
Ethan had taken two steps when Baxter caught him, and they got talking about the sad start to the Tigers’ baseball season, which led to a discussion about the upcoming college football schedule. Then Joe Cap and his wife Penny joined them, and Ethan sincerely wanted to hear all about their children—who were teens at the high school and kept an eye on his cabin when he was in Chicago. They were what most people called “good kids.”
“I got Helga driving up to
Jean’s house and check things out a few times tonight,” Joe Cap said in an undertone to Ethan. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
“That’s good.” Ethan looked around at the crowded terrace. “With everyone in town here at the party—and everyone in the county knowing about it—I figured whoever’s been poking around there might take the opportunity to get back to whatever they’re up to. I don’t want Diana coming home to a surprise again.”
“It was a good thought, and Helga’s already been over there twice since seven—it’s a slow night with most of Wicks Hollow here at Trib’s.” Cap grinned and reached up as if to adjust his nonexistent ball cap—then dropped his hand. “Penny wouldn’t let me wear my hat to the party. Don’t know why it matters, but it sure is good at keeping the bugs away.”
“There’s Emily Delton,” Baxter said, his eyes going to the blond with a nice rack and shapely legs displayed by tall, impractical heels. “She’s talking to Declan again,” he muttered. “He’s a nice guy, but damn—I saw her first. Three years ago,” he added dryly.
“Well, their daughters are friends. They’re both fifteen you know,” Penny said with a knowing a smile. “I’m sure they’re just catching up on kid-stuff.” Everyone in town seemed to want to set up Baxter James and Emily—except Emily, a recent divorcee who seemed oblivious to the brewmaster’s interest and, obviously, fascinated by the newcomer blacksmith.
“And besides—if I’m reading his body language right—and of course I am—he’s not really into her, Bax. But she’s trying. Oh, and there’s Diana Iverson—over there, talking to Fiona,” Penny went on. “She’s very nice-looking too, though I think she was at the Lakeshore Grille last week with a man. But who knows. And of course Fiona—she brought that big blond guy with her. Are they dating, Ethan?”
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