French Fried

by Kylie Logan

  If I were planning on sticking around Hubbard, I would have asked: Who is she? How do you know her? Is she someone you used to date? Someone you’re currently dating?

  But I wasn’t planning on sticking around, was I? I swallowed the questions and turned in Declan’s arms.

  “She could translate the letters for us?”

  “I just called her.” A few more questions sprang to my mind—You know her number? She took a call from you during the school day?—and I kept them to myself. Like the others, they had no business in the vocabulary of a woman who was hoping to work for Senator Katherine Stone. “She says if we drive over to the school now and drop off the letters, she’s got some time tonight and she’ll look them over and see what she finds.”

  It was good news and I should have smiled, but somehow when I looked into Declan’s face, that was completely impossible. I stood motionless, studying the way the light added kaleidoscope colors to his eyes. Little flecks that were nearly black, a slash of blue reflected from the sky above us, a hint of topaz sparked by the afternoon sun.

  I’m not sure which of us moved first.

  I’m not sure it matters.

  I only know that I found myself leaning forward just as he did.

  A second later, he kissed me and I didn’t do a thing to stop it.

  In fact, I relished the warmth of his body and enjoyed the tiny zip of heat that built in mine.

  It was going to be as awkward as hell when the moment was over and I had to say something to explain myself, to tell him it had all been a mistake. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name.

  As surely as I knew I didn’t care.

  Like all good things, this one ended and I found Declan grinning down at me.

  “What?” I asked the same question I’d just asked Sophie when she tried to pin me down about finding a home. “What’s so funny?”

  “Not funny, nice. And long overdue. You didn’t think so?”

  I’m a lousy liar, so rather than pretend, I didn’t say anything at all. I backed out of his arms. “We’ve got to get the cars loaded,” I told him.

  He gave up, but he didn’t stop smiling. “Then I’ll help. That way, we can get over to the high school faster. I’ve got that hatbox with those letters in it in my car. I thought I might have a chance to stop and see Mandi with them eventually.”

  Mandi.

  I bit my lip.

  But I couldn’t argue. He was my introduction to the French teacher and I was anxious to hear what she might have to say about the letters.

  Thirty minutes later, Inez and Sophie were in my car and Misti and George were in Sophie’s and headed back to the Terminal with the supplies we’d brought over. Declan and I were in his car and on our way to Hubbard. A little while after that, we walked into the high school.

  Outside the principal’s office, where Declan popped in to say we had an appointment to see Amanda Blake, the first person I saw was Andrew MacLain.

  It had been a busy and an action-packed day. I hardly remembered that I thought I’d seen MacLain lurking around on the edges of the memorial service.

  But now that I did, I wasn’t going to let the moment pass.

  “Mr. MacLain.” I held out a hand and introduced myself and wondered if he recognized me as the woman who’d chased him across Rocky’s property earlier in the day. “Nice to see you. Again.”

  His smile flared up quickly and dissolved just as fast.

  “I was at the library Sunday night,” I said, as friendly as can be. “And that was me you saw this morning over at Pacifique. You know, at Rocky’s memorial service.”

  Two spots of bright color popped up in MacLain’s cheeks. He was a scholar, after all, not an actor. He blinked at me. “Memorial service? I didn’t attend a memorial service this morning.”

  “You didn’t,” I conceded. “Not with the rest of the guests, anyway. But you were at the farm.” Declan chose that moment to walk out of the office, a hall pass in his hands. Since he was coming to the conversation late and since I hadn’t had a chance to tell him about the man I’d seen during the service, I filled in the gaps.

  “I was just telling Mr. MacLain that I caught sight of him this morning. Over at Pacifique. It was when you and Father Frank were speaking,” I told Declan. “He didn’t officially attend the service. He was outside the tent. Out of sight behind the barn.” I turned back to MacLain. “You have to understand that I’m curious. I mean, why didn’t you want anyone to know you were there?”

  When he lifted his chin, MacLain’s beard bristled. “You obviously have me mixed up with someone else. Good afternoon.”

  Declan and I watched him walk away.

  “Was it him?” Declan asked.

  “I wish I knew for sure.” Annoyed at the thought, I shook my shoulders and reminded myself there were only so many things I could control. “Where’s this Amanda Blake of yours?” I asked.

  “She’s not exactly my Amanda Blake.” Declan laughed and led the way. “She used to date my brother Brian.”

  “But it didn’t work out because she wasn’t Irish.”

  “Oh, she was. She is. Back before she was Mrs. Blake, she was Amanda O’Donnell. Nice girl, but she and Brian, they went their separate ways. They’re still friends, though.”

  “And you’re friends with her, too.”

  He took my question at face value, which was a good thing because I hated myself for letting the words slip past my lips. I’m not the jealous type and really, I had nothing to be jealous about. No reason to be jealous. No cause to be jealous.

  Did I?

  Amanda was just finishing up a class, and we waited for a stream of noisy teenagers to scamper out of the door before Declan gave the teacher—who was very pregnant and looked to be dead on her feet—a big hug.

  They exchanged the kinds of pleasantries old friends do, asking about her kids, his family, the Irish shop. A minute into it, Declan grabbed my hand and literally pulled me into the conversation.

  “Laurel is Sophie’s niece,” he said. Technically wrong, but I was tired of defending myself and the family ties Sophie and I didn’t share. “She’s the reason I’m here.”

  “The letters.” Amanda was in her midthirties and dark haired. She glanced at the hatbox under Declan’s arm. “The boys are at Scouts tonight,” she said, “and Zoe will be at her swimming lessons. That gives me a few hours to myself to devote to the letters.” She glanced my way. “What am I looking for?”

  I threw my hands in the air. “I wish I knew! You know about Raquel Arnaud?”

  “The woman who died last weekend?” Amanda nodded and put a hand to the small of her back. She shuffled around to the other side of her desk and sat down. “This has something to do with her death?”

  This time, I shrugged. “We don’t know. But Rocky . . . Raquel . . . she said something about Marie, the woman who wrote those letters. She said something about her and that book, Yesterday’s Passion, and—”

  “And I was there!” Amanda’s mouth fell open. “I was at the Book Nook that evening when Rocky caused the scene. I was getting my autographed copy of Yesterday’s Passion. You mean, you think there might be something to what she said? About how Aurore Brisson stole the book from her friend Marie?” Amanda rubbed her hands together. “Oh, this is delicious! Like a mystery novel!” Declan had put the hatbox down on her desk and she popped the lid open and peeked inside. “Where do you want me to start, with new letters? Or the old ones?”

  Where?

  I walked closer so I could ruffle a hand through the letters. “Well, Marie died three years ago so there really aren’t any new letters. And if there was any truth in what Rocky said about Aurore stealing the book from Marie . . .” I thought through the problem. “It has to take a while for a book to get published, right? I mean, it must take at least a year.” The frustration built a
long with a wave of exhaustion that made me feel as if all the air had been sucked from my lungs. “What do you think, Declan?” I asked him.

  “I think . . .” Again, he took my hand, and this time, he didn’t let go. When the classroom door popped open and a group of kids walked in, he tugged me toward the door. “I think you’ve had a long day and Amanda has one more class to teach this afternoon. Start with the newest of the letters,” he told her on our way out the door. “But don’t worry too much about it. Glance over them. Anything you can tell us, anything might help.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She plopped the lid back on the hatbox and slid it to the side of her desk. “Now that you’ve whetted my appetite, I’m going to dig right in. I can’t wait to see what I might find.”

  We thanked her and left the room just as the bell rang for the start of the next class. It wasn’t until we were already out at the car that I realized Declan was still holding my hand.

  I untangled my fingers from his so I could get in the car. “Are you always so nice?” I asked once he was behind the steering wheel.

  This amused him. “Am I? Nice? I was afraid you were never going to notice.”

  I snapped my seat belt in place. “Everybody likes you, even your brother’s old girlfriend.”

  “I’m a likable guy.”

  “There have to be some skeletons in your closet.”

  “You mean my old girlfriends.”

  I was glad I wasn’t the one who brought it up. “So why aren’t you dating anyone?” I asked him.

  “I am.” Good thing he was driving and he didn’t look my way right at that moment or he might have seen me catch my breath. “You.”

  “We’re not dating.”

  “You let me kiss you.”

  I had, and I would again. In a heartbeat.

  If I wasn’t leaving.

  I couldn’t tell Declan. Not before I knew for sure that I’d be joining the senator’s staff. And even then, I owed the information to Sophie first.

  “Look . . .” I turned just a bit in my seat, the better to keep an eye on Declan. “It’s not that I don’t like you . . .”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  I didn’t know if I should laugh. Or scream. “It’s not settled. You know I have no intention of staying in Hubbard.”

  There. I’d said it. Without giving too much away.

  He considered this for a moment before he announced, “You can’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people here are depending on you.”

  “People here got along fine without me before I showed up.”

  “They did.”

  I let go a breath of relief. Finally, he was being logical!

  “But now that they’ve met you,” he added, “things can never be the same. Not for Sophie.” Without taking his eyes off the road, he slid a hand across the seat and captured mine. “Not for me.”

  “You hardly know me.”

  “I’d like to. If you’d let me.”

  “And if I let you . . .”

  We’d just pulled into a parking place in front of the Terminal, and I waited until he cut the engine. I chewed on my lower lip. “Once you get to know me,” I told him, “you’ll change your mind. That’s what always happens.”

  “Happened. Past tense.”

  “Grammar doesn’t change anything.”

  “Don’t you get it?” He tightened his hold on my hand. “You changed everything. By coming here. Things aren’t the same as they used to be. They never can be. Not ever again.”

  Chapter 13

  The first person I saw when I got to the Terminal the next morning was Amanda Blake. She was waiting out front in her car, and I unlocked the door of the restaurant and waved her inside.

  “What’s up?” I asked as soon as I turned on the lights. “And do you want some coffee?”

  She had that hatbox of Rocky’s in one hand and she touched her other hand to her tummy. “The doc says I should limit my caffeine, but if you’ve got orange juice . . .”

  We had orange juice, and I knew it was the least I could do for her since she must have had news. Why else would she be here just as the sun was coming up?

  I left Amanda at a table near the door and got her a glass of juice. Just as I delivered it, George tromped in, and since he was there to cook, I offered Amanda breakfast.

  “Can’t.” She drank her juice. “I’ve got to be at school in just a little while. This is my last week before maternity leave and I’ve got plenty to do.”

  “But you stopped here first.” I tried to keep the buzz of anticipation out of my voice, but honestly, it wasn’t easy. No way would she be there, not if she hadn’t found something interesting in Marie’s letters.

  I leaned forward in the seat across from hers. “So . . .”

  Amanda finished her juice, set down the glass, and laughed. “I guess it’s pretty obvious that I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “And it’s driving me crazy!” I admitted. “What did you find?”

  She set the hatbox on the table and she opened the lid and took out three stacks of letters, each tied with pink ribbon. “I hope you don’t mind that I shuffled the letters around a little. It was easier sorting out what was in them this way.”

  “Of course not,” I said, eager for her to get to the meat of her visit.

  “These letters . . .” Amanda touched a hand to the pile of letters on her right. “From what I could see, these letters are pretty much what you’d expect from one old friend to another. Marie talks about the latest news in town. You know, gossip and chitchat, who’s getting married and who died and all the latest small-town scandals. She talks about the weather, about clothes she’s bought, movies she’s seen, books she’s read.”

  “And those?” I asked, pointing at the bigger, middle pile.

  “Ah, these.” Amanda hefted the stack of letters in one hand. “Now, I want you to know, I didn’t have time to go over every one of these letters, word for word with a fine-tooth comb. I can do that. I’ll have more time beginning next week, at least until the baby comes. Last night I pretty much just scanned them.”

  “Why do I feel as if this is some sort of disclaimer?”

  “Well, it is. Sort of. I mean, I can tell you what Marie wrote. But I’m just saying, maybe we don’t have the full story. Maybe that won’t come until I’ve had a chance to take a closer look.”

  I nodded by way of letting her know that I understood. “Still . . .” I clutched the edge of the table.

  “Still . . .” The smile she shot me across the table practically vibrated with excitement. “It started about ten years back,” she said. “That was the first time Marie told Rocky that her dream was to write a book.”

  For a couple of seconds, I didn’t dare breathe. “A book about—”

  “Medieval France. With a heroine named Cecile.” Too charged up to sit still, Amanda wiggled in her chair and tapped her hands against the table. “Laurel, you know I was at the book signing the other night. I bought a copy of Yesterday’s Passion and I started reading it over the weekend. Everything Marie talks about in her letters all those years ago . . . everything she told Rocky about her plot and her characters and the setting . . . it’s all in there. It’s Yesterday’s Passion, all right. Just like Rocky said it was.”

  I sucked in a breath of astonishment, but warned myself not to get carried away. “Okay, okay.” I did my best to calm the sudden clatter inside my chest. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe Aurore Brisson was working on the book years ago. Maybe somehow she and Marie knew each other and maybe Marie read what Aurore wrote and maybe Marie was trying to impress Rocky or something so she said she was the one who wrote the story?”

  “It’s what I thought, too. At least at first.” Amanda put a hand on the final stack of letter
s. “Until I read these. They’re the newest of the letters, and by the time Marie wrote them, she was very sick. Lung cancer.”

  From the tone of Amanda’s voice, I knew there was something disturbing in the letters aside from the news of Marie’s illness. I eyed the letters carefully. “What does her being sick have to do with Yesterday’s Passion?” I asked her.

  “I think, everything.” Amanda patted the stack of letters. “See, Marie never married and she lived alone. Once she got sick and couldn’t take care of herself or her house, she had to hire a caregiver, and once the caregiver was there, Marie started telling Rocky that she was worried, that things had gone missing. Oh, nothing big. A pair of earrings, then a string of pearls that had once belonged to Marie’s grandmother, then pieces of silver, a knife here, a fork there. At first, Marie said she thought the chemo was messing with her mind, that she was simply forgetting where she’d put things, but after a while, she got suspicious of that caregiver. In the next letter Rocky received, Marie was in a total panic. She couldn’t find the pages of her manuscript. The entire book had vanished, and as Marie said, there was no way she would have misplaced that, chemo or no chemo. She’d worked too hard on the book. She loved her story and her characters too much.”

  If I’d been surprised before, I was floored now. I sat back. “You mean—”

  Before I could try to pin her down, Amanda opened one of the envelopes and pulled out a photograph. It showed Marie in a wheelchair and a woman standing next to her.

  I pointed at the women with one shaky finger. “That’s her caregiver?”

  “That’s what it says on the photo,” Amanda said, and she turned the picture over to read the inscription on the back. “‘Giselle Montot, the girl who lives here and takes care of me.’”

  “Giselle . . .” I nearly choked on the name.

  And who can blame me?

  After all, the lips weren’t as plump.

  The hair wasn’t as blond.

  But I’d know that face anywhere.