“Was Phoebe close to her father?”
“They all were. He left Elly and the girls more or less penniless. Elly’s managed to keep things together but I don’t know that her daughters always see it that way, Phoebe especially. She likes to think of herself as the sensible O’Dunn.”
“You’ve known them all a long time,” Noah said.
Brandon nodded thoughtfully, then grinned. “As far back as I can remember, I’ve been arguing with one O’Dunn or another. Maggie and I have been together forever.” He sighed, serious now. “Were together forever, I guess I should say now.”
“What happened between you? Do you mind if I ask?”
He shrugged. “I don’t mind. You’ll hear different stories around town. I was the dreamer she wanted but all my dreams went to hell. That’s the short version.” He held up his beer bottle. “Now I’m having a beer with you instead of going home with my wife and sons.”
“You’re protective of all of them,” Noah said, not certain Brandon Sloan would appreciate the observations of an outsider. “Maggie, Phoebe, their twin sisters. Their mother.”
“I guess I am. Just don’t tell any one of them. I don’t have anything against you or Dylan, Noah. In fact, so far, I like you both. Dylan’s given my family work and therefore me work, and I’m happy to pitch a tent at his place. I hear talk about both of you—you two are getting into venture capital, he’s dabbling in adventure travel, finishing up some of his father’s treasure hunts.”
“Those things are true.”
Brandon shrugged. “Some people thought his interest in Olivia would fizzle once he got used to the idea that his father had come here looking for his birth mother as well as a fortune in missing jewels. I can see that’s not going to happen.”
“He and Olivia love each other,” Noah said simply.
“They do. I saw that for myself Friday night. You and Phoebe...” Brandon grimaced as if he were questioning whether he should have begun his next thought that way. “Phoebe’s the sweetest person in Knights Bridge. She has a true heart of gold. Everyone here is protective of her.”
“Point taken,” Noah said. “I gather there’s no man in her life?”
Brandon looked straight at Noah and said, “No. There’s no man in her life.”
Noah wondered at the certainty in Brandon’s tone. Also the finality. He wasn’t saying anymore. Noah appreciated the history between the people in this little town, and he understood that he wasn’t part of it.
He knew when he was the outsider.
Brandon finished his beer and headed back to his tent.
Noah hooked a leash on Buster and let the big dog lead the way down the road, in the opposite direction of Dylan’s place—Grace Webster’s former home. He tried to picture the road before Quabbin, when it wound into a picturesque valley populated with small New England towns. Now Dana, Greenwich, Enfield and Prescott were gone.
He and Buster came to a yellow-painted gate that marked the border of the Quabbin watershed. The old road continued on the other side of the gate, eventually leading into the water’s edge, as if the lost towns still were there.
“Sorry, Buster,” Noah said. “No dogs allowed. We have to turn around.”
They walked back up the road to Carriage Hill. The dog pulled hard on the leash and Noah noticed a squirrel chattering at them from a pine branch. He could hear birds, but otherwise it was a cool, quiet summer evening, the daylight graying with the approach of dusk.
By the time he and Buster arrived in Olivia’s kitchen, Noah was hungry. First, he’d feed Buster, then he’d heat up soup she’d frozen. He could always add some of Phoebe’s pesto, or go pick a few herbs in the garden. He’d already learned that Knights Bridge had only one restaurant, so he better save that option. By the standards of the people who lived there, the town wasn’t isolated—they were used to driving to stores and restaurants in nearby towns.
By Noah’s standards, it was the middle of nowhere.
He found a rag in the mudroom and wiped the dog’s muddy paws. “Well, Buster, my friend, there may not be a good Mexican restaurant within thirty miles, but we can consider ourselves lucky they take in strays around here.”
While his soup heated, he called Dylan but didn’t reach him and hung up without leaving a voice mail.
Two minutes later, Dylan called back. “You’re bored,” he said.
Noah stirred his simmering soup with a wooden spoon. “How could I be bored? There’s always something to do here. If I’m not walking the dog, I’m giving him food and water, and if I’m not doing that, I’m dodging bees in the catmint.”
“Catmint, Noah?”
“It’s the purple stuff by the terrace.”
“I know what it is. Olivia told me. Who told you?”
“Maybe I already knew.”
“You didn’t already know,” Dylan said, confident.
Noah wished he hadn’t brought up catmint. “How does Olivia like San Diego?”
“Loves it. Who doesn’t? We’re out on my porch now looking at the ocean.” Dylan paused. “Anything new on Julius Hartley?”
“Not on my end. I haven’t talked to Loretta yet today. Why don’t you forget about Hartley and enjoy the ocean breeze with Olivia?”
“She got a good dose of what Loretta’s like last night. We had martinis and talked about your stalker private investigator while we admired the sunset over the Pacific.”
Noah sighed. “I miss the Pacific.”
Dylan ignored him. “Any sign of Hartley in Knights Bridge?”
“No. I’m sorry you found out about him. Two years ago, we wouldn’t have paid any attention. We’d have been too busy. Now you’re busy and I’m...” Noah frowned, noticing that Buster had wandered into the living room and jumped up on the couch. “Does Olivia let Buster on the couch?”
“No. Noah?”
“I have to go. Buster and I need to straighten out who’s boss.”
“Good luck with that,” Dylan muttered.
Noah hung up and shooed Buster back onto his spot in front of the fireplace. The soup was bubbling on the kitchen stove. He found a pottery bowl and dumped in a healthy serving. The soup was orange and had a faint, pungent smell he couldn’t identify. He checked the handwritten label on the freezer container.
Carrot soup.
Not much help. He knew carrots, but that wasn’t what he smelled. He debated calling Dylan back to ask him. Or he could call Phoebe, eldest of the O’Dunn sisters. She’d probably know.
Instead he brought his soup into the living room and sat with Buster in front of the cold fireplace. “I’m a lonely man, Buster,” he said with a laugh. “A lonely, lonely man.”
And completely insane. All he had to do was dial his assistant, and he could have a car at The Farm at Carriage Hill in an hour and be on a flight somewhere—anywhere—before the sidewalks folded up in Knights Bridge.
He wondered if Brandon Sloan was managing to have a decent dinner up in his tent, but Brandon was a Knights Bridge native as well as a grown man. He could figure out what to eat for dinner.
And Phoebe? What was she up to this quiet summer evening?
Was she regretting that he hadn’t kissed her when he’d had the chance during the storm, then again after the storm? Noah pictured her luminous turquoise eyes against the gray rain, and he could see her lick her lips. He squirmed as he felt pressure in his groin. Everyone in Knights Bridge could regard her as untouchable, but he didn’t.
All he wanted to do was to touch her.
To make love to her.
He could see her wet skirt as she’d walked away from her car.
He took a long, slow, deep breath, held it, let it out again and tried his soup.
Ginger.
That was what he’d smelled. It was carrot-ginger soup, and it wasn’t bad on a cool summer night on a dead-end road, with only a big, ugly dog for company.
Twelve
After a quiet, uneventful day at the library, Phoebe walked
across the common to the Swift River Country Store and made her way back to the wine section. She was debating between two different brands of merlot when she heard a man talking up by the register. His voice sounded familiar but she couldn’t quite place it. Abandoning the wine, she edged to the end of the aisle and peered past a display of homemade baked goods.
The man she’d overheard in Boston on Friday—Julius Hartley, the private investigator tailing Noah—was standing at the checkout counter, quizzing Greg Hughes, the teenage son of the owners.
Hartley had on a dark blue shirt, light khakis and light canvas shoes, as if he were about to step out onto a golf course.
He set a large coffee-to-go on the scarred wood counter. “Sleepy Hollow here has one bed-and-breakfast,” he said. “I stopped by and guess what? The owners are in Montreal for the week. Doesn’t New England have short summers? How can you run a bed-and-breakfast if you disappear for one whole week in August?”
“It’s kind of a hobby for them,” Greg said from behind the register. He was an avid reader of science fiction and a recent high school graduate, on his way to Bowdoin College in Maine. “They’re professors at UMASS. They go to Montreal this time every year.”
“Got it. I understand a new place has just opened up on some back road.”
“Carriage Hill,” Greg said, taking Hartley’s money. “It’s not really a bed-and-breakfast. It caters to events. Weddings, showers. You know. Anyway, the owner’s out of town right now, too.”
“I see. Well, luckily I’m not staying. I just need directions to Elly O’Dunn’s place. I understand she’s selling some of her goats.”
Phoebe tensed. How did he know about her mother? What did he want with her?
“You’re interested in buying goats?” Greg asked, skeptical.
“Sure, why not? What’s the O’Dunn farm like?”
“Simple. A few acres, a couple of sheds, a house that has plumbing and electricity but not much else.”
“A stove?”
“Yeah, a stove. I guess.”
“You guess?”
“You haven’t met Mrs. O’Dunn yet, have you?”
“No, I have not,” Hartley said. “There are restaurants in town?”
“One right now. Smith’s. You can walk to it from here. There are more within easy driving distance. We have a good range of take-out food here at the store.”
“Good to know,” Hartley said without enthusiasm.
He left with his coffee, and Phoebe darted out of the store, giving Greg a quick wave. When she reached the sidewalk, Noah’s mystery private investigator/stalker had already crossed the street to the common and was making his way into the shade of a trio of sugar maples. He sat on a bench. He didn’t look to be in a hurry.
Remembering that he didn’t know she’d overheard him or even had been in Boston, Phoebe took a breath and slowed down, crossing the street as she would if she had done what she’d planned to do—buy a bottle of wine to go with a quiet dinner at home. No meetings, no family, no friends, no goings-on.
No Noah.
She’d dreamed about him. She didn’t know what that meant but she’d awakened in a sweat and went out to the garden at dawn, calming herself by dead-heading her flowers. Noah Kendrick was off-limits. They’d gotten caught up in the drama of their night together, the thunderstorm, the moment of recognition that their identities were no longer secret.
His life was in San Diego. Hers was in Knights Bridge.
He was a billionaire with a fancy for Hollywood starlets, and she was a small-town librarian who loved her job and was devoted to her family. No Hollywood rakes for her. No men at all, lately.
And Noah was Dylan McCaffrey’s and now Olivia Frost’s friend. Phoebe was, too, and she wasn’t about to complicate their lives by getting involved with him.
Which was getting way ahead of herself but it’d been an intense dream.
She walked across the lawn, past the Civil War monument, her normal route back to the library, but instead of continuing to the opposite street, she paused in front of Julius Hartley. She couldn’t let him drive out to her mother’s place on the pretense of buying goats from her. That wasn’t going to happen, Phoebe thought. It couldn’t happen, and she wasn’t waiting to get Noah out here to take care of it.
“Phoebe O’Dunn,” Hartley said, looking up at her from the bench. He took a sip of his coffee. “Town librarian and survivor of the Titanic. That was quite a dress the other night.” He sat back and grinned at her. “You can breathe, Phoebe. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She gave him what she hoped was a cool look. “How did you know?”
“I’ve been here in Sleepy Hollow for four hours. I know a lot about you and your little town.” He pointed with his coffee. “I even read the plaque on your Union soldier. It’s my job to find out things. I’m good at it.”
Phoebe plucked a maple leaf off a low-hanging branch. He’d said he’d find out who she was, and he had. “Your name’s Julius Hartley. You’re a private investigator from Los Angeles.”
“So you’ve been busy, too. Who told you? Noah Kendrick? Dylan McCaffrey? Loretta Wrentham?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She dropped the leaf into the grass. “I want you to leave my mother alone.”
“I can’t go look at her goats?”
“No, you can’t.”
Hartley got to his feet, casually, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “You’re tougher than you look, Phoebe O’Dunn.” He drank more of his coffee. “It’s not apparent at first. You come across like a mild-mannered redhead in a pretty little sundress and sandals, but you’re a pit bull when it comes to protecting your mother and your sisters. Who protects you?”
“We all look after each other.”
“What about Kendrick? Are you looking after him now, too?”
“I’m not discussing Noah or anything else with you.”
“Except for your mother’s goats,” Hartley said, clearly amused. “Okay. I left my thumbscrews in California.” He squinted toward the library, where two young children Phoebe recognized were running down the steps ahead of their very pregnant mother. “I wonder what their favorite books are. I was a creepy little kid, I think. I liked Edgar Allan Poe.”
“At four?”
“I was a little older. Eight, maybe.” He winked as he turned back to her. “Consider that a telling clue, Phoebe. Are you going to tell Kendrick I’m in town?”
“That assumes I’m in contact with him.”
“Yes, it does.”
She tilted her head back and eyed him. “What are you doing in Knights Bridge, Mr. Hartley?”
“Right now I’m drinking coffee and enjoying a pleasant summer afternoon.”
“Are you here because of me—because I danced with Noah?”
“You two did steal the show the other night. Noah’s friend Dylan is marrying a local girl. Olivia Frost. You know that, of course.”
Phoebe hadn’t expected that response. Was he here because of Olivia? Because she was engaged to Dylan?
“Whoa. Easy there, Phoebe. No fainting.”
“I’m not close to fainting.” She straightened her spine. “If I even think you’re here to cause trouble, I’ll notify the authorities.”
Hartley laughed. “Trouble? You have a good imagination, don’t you? I guess being surrounded by books would fire up the creative juices.” He paused, studied her again. “You and Kendrick the other night. There was some kind of connection. Some sizzle between you two.”
“We were in the land of make-believe.” Phoebe immediately regretted her comment. She couldn’t let this man get to her, couldn’t engage him—especially about Noah. “I have to finish up at work. You’ll leave my mother alone, right?”
“Sure. No problem. Relax, Phoebe.”
She didn’t respond and ducked under the low maple branch.
“Does Kendrick know it was you the other night?” Hartley called to her, his voice soft but no less cocky. “A billionaire c
ould solve all your problems.”
Phoebe spun around at him. “I don’t have any problems I can’t solve on my own.”
Hartley grinned at her. “Sure you do. We all do. We all have dreams, too. I’ll bet even you have dreams, Phoebe O’Dunn.”
Even you.
He crushed his coffee cup in one hand, kept his eyes on her. “Noah Kendrick could make your dreams come true, don’t you think? Then there’s your sister the caterer, your twin sisters the theater majors and your eccentric mother. They all have big dreams. What about you, Phoebe? Do you have big dreams or little dreams?”
She knew she should just walk away but didn’t. “There’s no such thing as a little dream.”
“Maybe so. A small-town New England librarian and a California billionaire. Dreams don’t get bigger than that, do they?”
He was overstepping, and Phoebe saw that he knew it. She met his gaze, drew on her experience with the public and her natural reserve to keep her emotions to herself. “Why are you here, Mr. Hartley? Are you making sure we locals don’t take advantage of Noah and Dylan? Are you looking for information on them for a client? For some blackmail scheme? Is that what this is about?”
“How would you work your mother’s Nigerian Dwarf goats into blackmail?” Harley laughed, then waved a hand at her. “Easy, Phoebe. I’m harmless. Go back to your musty books.”
She didn’t know if he was trying to be funny or deliberately insulting. She took a breath and watched him walk in the opposite direction across the common, back toward the country store. “You still can’t pretend you’re interested in buying any of my mother’s goats,” she called to him.
He held up a hand without turning around, signaling acknowledgment of her statement more than acquiescence.
She headed back to the library, dialing the cell phone number Noah had given her. When he picked up on the second ring, she hardly waited for him to say hello. “He’s here,” she said. “Your guy. Julius Hartley. He’s in Knights Bridge.”
“Where are you?”
“At the library. We close early on Tuesday.”
That Night on Thistle Lane Page 15