Without making a sound, Jones came to stand behind her, not touching but close enough that the heat radiating from his body warmed her back and the scent of his cologne replaced the mustiness of the cottage in her nostrils.
Together they watched, Mick trembling with alertness beside them, as the Jag parked next to her truck. Reece’s breath caught on the lump in her throat when the door opened and the driver appeared in the bright sunshine.
Curiosity killed the cat.
Meow.
She might not have seen him in fifteen years, but she had no doubt it was Mark. He’d gotten taller, carried too much weight in his midsection and his hair was thinning, but he still possessed the ability to make her hair stand on end, to raise goose bumps down her arms and to make her stomach hurt.
“Want to go say hello?” Jones murmured.
Both she and Mick looked back at him only briefly before focusing on Mark again. The dog growled, a quiet, bristly sound, and she felt like doing the same thing.
But she had no choice. She would have to face him sooner or later. Besides, he was a grown man now. He’d probably changed. And he well might have some of the answers she was looking for.
Drawing a deep breath, she laid one hand on the screen door.
“Want company?”
Going out there with Jones at her side—better yet, in front of her—sounded so lovely and safe. But he would probably have to face his own run-in with Mark once her cousin found out about the garden project.
“Thanks, but…I’d better…”
It took another deep breath to get her out the door and down the steps. She’d reached the drive before something made Mark turn in her direction. He stopped near the fountain, just looking at her as she approached, then slowly a smile spread across his face and he extended his hand, moving the last few feet to meet her. “Clarice! God, it’s been a long time.”
The instant his fingers closed around hers, he pulled her into a close embrace. Panic rose in her chest, but she controlled it, holding herself stiff. After just a moment, he released her, stepped back and gave her a thousand-watt smile. “You’re no longer that skinny little kid I used to torment. Of course, I’m no longer that snotty little brat who liked to torment. Grandmother must be ecstatic about having you here.”
Not so you’d notice.
Nor did he notice that she didn’t answer. “Grandmother’s kept me up on you. Living in New Orleans, still enjoying the single life. I’m married, you know. We were sorry you couldn’t come to the wedding, but Valerie told us how busy you were. We have one kid, Clara, and another on the way.” He pulled out his cell phone in a practiced manner and called up a photo of a brown-haired chubby-cheeked girl. She was about eighteen months, sweet and looked far too innocent to carry her father’s blood.
“She’s a doll.” Reece’s voice was husky, her tone stiff.
“Yeah, she’s my sweetheart. Next one’s going to be a boy, though. Just think of the fun I’m going to have with him.” He returned the phone to his pocket, then settled his gaze on her again, his features settling into seriousness in an instant. “I made life pretty awful for you, didn’t I? I’m sorry about that. I was a dumb kid, and I was so jealous of you being here. It was my summer visit, too, and I wanted Grandfather and Grandmother all to myself. I behaved with all the maturity of…well, a dumb kid. It’s a wonder you didn’t beat the crap out of me back then.”
Something passed through his blue eyes with the words. Chagrin? Regret? Or something a little more…hostile?
Reece was sorry she couldn’t be unbiased enough to tell.
Then he shrugged, a careless gesture she remembered well. As a kid, he had literally shrugged off everything—her pleas, Grandmother’s requests, Valerie’s infrequent attempts to admonish him. The only person he’d never tried it with was Grandfather. They’d been two of a kind, the old man had laughed.
“Let’s go in and find Grandmother,” Mark suggested, taking her arm. “I try to check on her every day. She’s not as young as she thinks she is. Macy and I have asked her to consider moving into town—we have a guest cottage at our place that we built just for her—but you know how stubborn she is. She’s convinced that she can do everything she did thirty years ago, but we worry about her out here alone.”
Half wishing she could pull away and make a wild dash for her truck, Reece let herself be drawn across the patio to the door. Everything inside was just as it had been when she’d left a half hour ago: cool, dim, quiet, oppressive. Maybe a little more so than before…or was that her imagination?
Grandmother was at her desk in the salon, spine straight, fountain pen in hand. Reece hadn’t seen a computer in the house, and no doubt Grandmother would disapprove of any correspondence that didn’t include Mont Blanc and her favorite ecru shade of engraved Crane & Co. stationery. She’d been raised in a different era, and with the kind of money both her family and the Howards had, she could get away with remaining firmly rooted in the customs of that era.
When they entered the room, she finished her note, put the pen down and lifted her cheek for Mark’s kiss. The affection between them—as far as any affection with Grandmother went—was easy, almost natural.
Mark claimed he’d been jealous of Reece. For a moment, she was jealous of him. She would have liked having a normal relationship with a normal grandmother who didn’t constantly find her lacking.
“So you two have got your greetings over with,” Grandmother stated as she moved from the desk to the settee with Mark’s gentlemanly assistance. “And did you meet Mr. Jones while you were out there?”
“Mr. Jones?” Looking puzzled, Mark settled in beside her while Reece chose a spindly-legged chair opposite. “Is he traveling with you, Clarice?”
“I guess she didn’t tell you she answers to Reece now.” Grandmother’s quiet little huff was all she needed to say on that subject. “No, Mr. Jones is a landscape architect whose specialty is restoring old gardens.”
Mark stopped short of rolling his eyes. “That again, Grandmother? I’ve never seen anyone so fascinated by gardens she never laid eyes on. They’re gone. Dug up. Grown over. You can’t bring them back.”
“I can’t, obviously, but Mr. Jones can. He has quite an admirable reputation in this field.”
Mark’s eyes started another roll but stopped again. “Grandfather had those gardens removed for a reason, Grandmother. It was important to him. Have you forgotten that? Are you actually considering disregarding his very clear feelings on the matter?”
Grandmother gazed out the window for a moment as if lost in time, then replied with every bit of the stubbornness Mark had mentioned earlier. “Yes, I believe I am. Not just considering it, in fact, but doing it. Mr. Jones started work today.”
Reece watched Mark closely: the faint fading of color from his cheeks, the thinning of his lips, the distress that settled over his face. “You’ve signed a contract with him? You’ve committed to this—this insanity? Grandmother—”
Her arch look silenced him. “Of course I haven’t signed a contract with him.” But just as relief sagged Mark’s shoulders, Grandmother went on. “Robbie hasn’t had time to draw it up yet. First Mr. Jones has to present me with plans and costs, and that will take some time. It’s an enormous job, putting back everything Arthur undid. It will take a great deal of time and, yes—” her sharp, accusing gaze moved from Mark to Reece, then back again “—a great deal of money. But it’s my money, at least until I die, and I’ll spend it as I please.”
Reece resisted the urge to raise both hands to ward off the warning. She didn’t want the old woman’s money. Sure, a windfall would be nice. Having the cash to get a place of her own where the dogs could run free—and where she could take in more homeless dogs—would be fantastic. But she earned enough to live on and to support a few luxuries—Bubba, Louie and Eddie—and she’d never expected anything more.
Mark, clearly, expected more.
“Grandmother, you can’t be serious. Do you h
ave any idea how big those gardens were? How much they cost?”
“Yes, I do. As someone who’s been fascinated by them since I came to live here, I know quite a lot about them, and so does Mr. Jones. Restoring Fair Winds will be a major coup for him. He’ll have more business than he can handle after this.”
Reece suspected he already had plenty of business. A man didn’t get…how had Grandmother put it? Quite an admirable reputation without some major clients. No matter whose gardens he’d worked on, Grandmother would, of course, consider hers the most important.
“But, Grandmother—”
She interrupted him, something she considered rude and common—a sign of how determined she was to see this plan through. “Have you forgotten, Mark, that I’m in charge of my own affairs? When I want advice, I’ll ask for it, and I’ll ask an expert, not you. At this moment, I’m not asking. I’m simply informing you of my plans. Don’t worry. There will be money left over for you and Macy and the children. You’ll have your inheritance, but I will have my gardens.”
Moving far more spryly than most women her age, Grandmother rose from the settee and left the room.
The silence was heavy, and just a bit darker as clouds blocked the sun and the windows fell into shadow. Uneasiness creeping up her spine, Reece wanted to make her exit, too—right out the door and onto the patio—but something kept her in her seat.
“Oh, my God.” Mark dragged his fingers through his hair, the gesture drawing attention to how much it had thinned in fifteen years. Another five, and he’d likely be completely bald on top, as his father had been. As her father might have been if he’d lived long enough.
Forever couldn’t have been long enough to suit her.
“Did you know about this?” Mark asked suddenly. “Is that why you just showed up after fifteen years without so much as a call?”
There, faint in his voice, in his eyes, was the hostility she remembered. Along with the shadows, it lowered the temperature in the room a few degrees.
“No. Jones was here when I arrived. They had pretty much completed their discussion by then.”
“Sorry.” Actually sounding it, he ran his hand through his hair again. “I can’t believe… I thought I had talked her out of… We can’t let her do this. I’ll talk to Robbie Calloway—he’s her lawyer—and see what we can do to stop her. Do you have any idea how much this will cost?”
“It won’t be cheap.” Martine shared the tiny courtyard of her building with Reece and the dogs, barely big enough for a fountain, two chairs and all the plants they could cram in, with a few patches of grass for the four-legged residents. Lush and lovely as it was, she doubted it would cost more than $100 to replant the entire thing.
“Wow, you have a way with understatement.” Mark gave her a rueful smile. “We’re talking tens of thousands, hell, probably hundreds of thousands of dollars. For some stupid flowers and bushes. What in hell is she thinking?”
Reece made her voice mild. “I imagine she’s thinking that it’s her money and she should spend it on what makes her happy.”
The flash of friendliness disappeared under the weight of a scowl. “Maybe you’re happy living in an apartment in the French Quarter, but that’s a few hundred grand that I’d rather have in my kids’ college fund than in the dirt out here.”
Then his gaze turned distant. “Though she does comment on how beautiful the flowers are every time she comes to the house. Macy has a real green thumb. She planted the whole area around the guest house just for Grandmother.”
How many young men would include separate living quarters at their houses for the day an elderly relative could no longer live on her own? How many young wives would embrace the idea? If someone told her she had to take in Grandmother or even Valerie to live, she’d pack up the dogs and disappear lightning-quick.
“You think she should go ahead with this foolishness.”
Reece nodded. “I do.”
“But she might not even live to—to see it done.”
“She knows that.” Though Willadene Howard had never answered to anyone on earth besides her husband; she might not answer to death, either, when it came calling.
“So I can’t count on you to help change her mind.”
“It’s not my place. I haven’t been here in fifteen years. I can’t just show up and start telling her how to spend her money.”
“I guess not.” He stood, leaned across and tugged her hair. “I’ve got to get back to town. See you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here.” Unless Grandmother or the ghosts or the fear she’d lived with so long ran her off.
Out in the hall, he paused long enough to shout, “I’m going, Grandmother. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
A moment later, Reece saw him through the window, striding to the car as if he’d had nothing but the most pleasant of visits. She was turning back when a flash of movement at the door caught her attention. “Grandmother?”
The only answer was the soft whisper of footsteps on the wood.
“Lois?”
A breeze stirred the curtains, blowing one strip of filmy lace hard enough that it caught on her shoulder before drifting down again and, almost lost on that unseen wind, came a long feline whisper of sound. Meow.
Shivers racing through her, Reece stood and hurried to the door. One, two, three, four, five…
On summer jobs, where the temperature could be unbearable by noon, Jones usually tried to get a really early start on the job site by the time it was light enough to see. When excessive heat wasn’t a problem, he took his time, actually sitting down to eat his breakfast, checking his email, catching up on the news.
That was what occupied him Tuesday morning when Mick trotted to the open door and snuffled. His tail was wagging in a broad enough swath to take down any antiques within range—the reason Jones had spent a good part of yesterday afternoon moving all breakables to a safer place.
After he’d stood at the door the entire time Mark Howard was inside the house. When Mark had come out, he’d looked satisfied, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Had the meeting with Reece gone that well, or was he just really good at hiding his emotions?
Even after Mark had left, Jones had stood there, watching, but Reece hadn’t come out again. Neither had Miss Willa.
Now, though, it looked as if he’d have a chance to find out how the reunion had gone, because Mick wasn’t wagging his tail so eagerly for the old woman who didn’t care for dogs.
Shutting his laptop, he went to the door, unlatching the screen. Mick shot out, barking and bounding down the driveway toward the barn. Sure enough, Reece was a few hundred yards down the road, wearing the short pants his secretary called capris and a bright orange top, her stride long but easy, as if she didn’t have a particular destination in mind.
Upon hearing Mick’s approach—something similar to a freight train—she turned, then braced herself for any excited leaping. Jones grinned. No jumping was the first lesson he’d taught the dog. He’d guess her own dogs hadn’t learned it as well.
Mick immediately sat down in front of her, and she bent to scratch him. Her mouth was moving, but Jones couldn’t hear the words until he got closer.
“…such a good boy. You’re so pretty, and look at that face. Who wouldn’t love such a handsome face?” Her tone was softer than usual, gooier than usual. She was a sucker for four-legged guys, even if the two-legged ones made her a little wary.
“You’re gonna spoil my dog rotten,” he said from a few yards away.
Her gaze lifted, and wariness did enter it, just a bit. “He deserves to be spoiled. He’s a good boy.”
“You headed someplace in particular?”
She shook her head.
“Mind if I join you?” At her hesitation, he went on. “I told you yesterday, one of the things I need to do is walk the property. We need to know what conditions we’ll be working with, if there are better ways in or out, where we can stage equipment when we’re not using it, that sort of t
hing. Maybe you can show me around.”
She was quiet for a time. She glanced at the old barn ahead, then past it where the road trailed off. Regretting that he’d ruined her plans for a quiet morning walk? Or was there something more to her walk this morning? Was she planning to revisit old haunts? Maybe to check that things out there hadn’t been disturbed?
Things like Glen’s grave?
She shrugged. “I’m not sure how much showing around I can do, but you’re welcome to come along. I really don’t remember much about the place.”
“I thought you said you spent as much time away from the house as you could.”
“I did, but it was a long time ago. I was a kid. I didn’t pay much attention.” She started walking again, and he fell into step with her. Mick raced on ahead, regularly looping back to encourage them onward.
Curious why she was lying about something as simple as knowing her way around the woods, Jones continued subtly probing. “I understand that a creek runs through here somewhere before it empties into the river, and that there’s a pool deep enough to swim in.”
“Really.” She spared him a glance before shifting her gaze down again. The road had petered out and the ground was getting rougher. “I don’t like to swim. I can’t remember the last time I was in the water.”
Jones’s muscles tightened. Now that was a flat-out lie. He couldn’t even count the number of times she and Glen had met at the pool to swim, and she’d done it like a fish. And how the hell could anyone forget the time they went swimming and their cousin tried to drown them?
“You’re kidding.” He hoped his voice sounded more natural to her than it did to him. “Everyone likes to swim. What’s better on a hot summer day than jumping into the water?”
Her smile was small and unsteady. “Anything, for me. I don’t like the water. I’d rather swelter.”
Her tone was just short of fervent, but her expression: eyes narrowed, teeth clenched, muscle twitching in her jaw… Was she doing a poor job of lying, or telling the truth with large parts left out?
Copper Lake Secrets Page 5