Hide in Plain Sight

by Marta Perry

  He felt Andrea’s gaze on him and half expected an explosion. He didn’t get it.

  “Think what you like.” Her tone dismissed him, as if he were no more important in the scheme of things than the barn cat. “But as a matter of fact, I’m not leaving. I’m staying until I can be sure that my grandmother and sister are all right.”

  It silenced him for a moment. “What about your job?”

  Her fingers clenched in her lap. “I don’t know. Talking to my boss is a pleasure I haven’t had yet.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope he understands.”

  “So do I.” Her fingers tightened until her knuckles were white.

  “It means that much to you?”

  “Yes. It does.” She clipped off the words, as if he didn’t have the right to know why.

  She was willing to sacrifice something that was important to her for the sake of someone else. The few people who knew the truth about him might say he’d done the same, but he’d done it as much for himself as for anyone else, because he’d known he couldn’t live with himself if he hadn’t.

  It had brought him unexpected benefits in the long run—helped him to know what he wanted from life, brought him to faith. Still, he couldn’t assume that would be the result for Andrea’s sacrifice.

  “I hope it works out for you, Andrea. Really.”

  He glanced across the confines of the front seat at her. There was something startled, a little wary, in her eyes. As if she wasn’t sure whether she believed him. Or maybe as if it mattered what he thought.

  SIX

  Andrea sat in the room she still thought of as her grandfather’s library that afternoon, frowning over the rather sketchy records Rachel seemed to be keeping on the inn’s start-up. Sketchy didn’t cover it. Surely Rachel had better records than this. If not, they were in more trouble than she’d imagined.

  She flipped through the file folder, her frustration growing. Hadn’t Rachel been saving receipts, at least? Grams might know if she had records elsewhere. Maybe, like Grandfather, she preferred to do it all by hand, although he had been far more organized than this.

  Grandfather’s tall green ledgers had been a fixture of their childhood. Presumably the insurance and real estate business he’d shared with Uncle Nick had long since been computerized, but she’d always associate her grandfather with those meticulously handwritten ledgers. She glanced at the shelf where they’d once stood in a neat row, but it was now occupied by a welter of tourist brochures and bed-and-breakfast books. Rachel must have moved them.

  The front door closed, and Barney gave the excited yelp that meant the center of his existence had returned. The scrabble of his nails on the plank floor was followed by the crooning voice Grams reserved for him. Andrea had to smile. She couldn’t imagine her dignified grandmother talking baby talk to any other creature but Barney.

  “Andrea?” Her grandmother came in, followed by the excited dog. “Good, you’re here. I’d like to speak with you.”

  The determined set to Grams’s jaw told her that any questions about Rachel’s record-keeping would have to wait. Grams clearly had an agenda of her own.

  Andrea swung the leather swivel chair around so that she faced the wingback tapestry chair that was Grams’s favorite. The desk chair had been Grandfather’s. It was too big for Andrea, and she felt slightly uncomfortable in it, as if she sat in the boss’s chair without permission.

  “How’s Rachel? Did you tell her I’ll come to see her this evening?”

  Grams sat down, her expression lightening a little. “I thought she seemed a bit stronger today. She didn’t look quite so pale. Nick had been in with a lovely arrangement of roses, and Pastor Hartman came just as I was leaving.”

  “That’s good.” Good that Rachel seemed better, and good that she was having other company. Perhaps that would keep Grams from feeling guilty if she couldn’t be there every minute.

  “Yes.” Grams fondled the dog’s ears for a moment, frowning a little. “I understand from Rachel that you know about my financial situation. That James Bendick told you.”

  That must really rankle, or Grams would be using the nickname that she’d adopted along with the children. “Please don’t blame Uncle Nick, Grams. I’d already guessed some of it, and I made him tell me what was going on.”

  That didn’t seem to have the desired effect. Grams still looked severe. “Nevertheless, he doesn’t have the right to discuss my affairs without my permission. I’ll have to speak to him about it.”

  The threat to be spoken to by Grams had been such a part of her childhood that it almost made her smile. Andrea Katherine, do I have to speak to you? The words echoed from the past.

  Grams was taking this too seriously for smiling, however, and they had to discuss the situation, whether Grams wanted to confide in her or not.

  “Uncle Nick probably thought I’d heard it already, from you. Which I should have. Why on earth didn’t you tell me about the financial problems? You must know I’d help any way I can.”

  Grams turned her face away, and for a moment Andrea thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she realized that her grandmother was looking at the portrait of Grandfather that hung over the mantelpiece on the other side of the room.

  “I didn’t want you to think ill of your grandfather. Or any more than you already do.”

  The words were spoken so softly that it took a moment for them to register. And when they did, Andrea felt a flush rise on her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Grams looked at her then, her blue eyes chiding. “Yes, you do, Andrea. You’ve never forgiven him for the quarrel with your mother.”

  It was like being slapped. She’d never dreamed that Grams guessed her feelings. Obviously she hadn’t been as good at hiding them as she’d thought. She took a breath, trying to compose herself. She couldn’t let whatever lingering resentment she had affect what she did now.

  “It was a long time ago, Grams. What’s important is what’s going on now.”

  Her grandmother shook her head slowly, delicate silver earrings echoing the movement. “The past is always important, Andrea. Your grandfather was a good man. He gave me a comfortable life, and I won’t hear a word against him just because he made a few wrong business decisions.”

  It must have been more than a few, some practical part of her mind commented, but she shooed away the thought. She had to help Grams, but she’d hoped to steer clear of Grandfather’s mistakes, knowing that would hurt her.

  “He loved you very much, Grams.”

  For the first time since her return, Andrea stared directly at the portrait. Her grandfather’s image stared back—blue eyes as piercing as she remembered, the planes of his face still strong even when the painting was done, to commemorate Grandfather’s retirement from the state legislature at sixty-five. He looked like a man you could count on.

  But he also looked stubborn. In the case of his daughter, the stiff-necked stubbornness had won out over any other consideration, including his grandchildren.

  “He loved you, too, dear. I know you find that hard to believe, but he did.”

  “He let her take us away.” The voice of her childhood popped out before she could censor it.

  Grams reached out to grasp her hand. “He couldn’t stop her. She was your mother.” She shook her head. “I know you think he could have mended things with her, but you must be old enough now to see how it was. He was proud, and your mother—well, she was willful. They could never stop the quarrel long enough to admit they loved each other.”

  Willful, reckless, lavish with both affection and temper—yes, she knew what her mother had been like. How had two such solid citizens as her grandparents have produced Lily Unger Hampton? That had to be one of the mysteries of genetics.

  “I’m sorry, Grams.” To her horror, she felt tears well in her eyes. “I know it hurt you, too.” But her grandmother would never know just how bad it had been for her precious grandchildren, at least not if Andrea could help it.


  “He grieved when you were taken away.” Grams’s voice was soft. “You have to believe that, my dear.”

  Not as much as we did. You were the grown-ups, you and Grandfather, and our mother and father. Why didn’t you take better care of us? She wouldn’t say that, but she couldn’t help feeling it.

  Shaking her head, Grams got up. She dipped her hand into a Blue Willow Wedgwood bowl that sat on top of the desk, retrieving the small key. She handed it to Andrea.

  “It fits the bottom drawer on the right.” She nodded to the massive mahogany desk that had been Grandfather’s. “I want you to look inside.”

  Something in her wanted to rebel, but she couldn’t ignore the command in her grandmother’s eyes. She bent and unlocked the drawer, pulling it open. Inside were long rectangular boxes, three of them—the sort of archival boxes that preserved documents. The top box had a name, written in black ink in Grandpa’s precise lettering. Andrea.

  She lifted that one, setting it on the desk blotter to remove the lid. Her throat tightened. A picture, drawn by a child’s hand, showed two figures—a white-haired man in a navy suit, a child with yellow braids. Before she could dwell on it, she flipped through the rest of the contents.

  Report cards, more drawings, dating back to the earliest attempts that were no more than ovals on sticks for figures. Always two of them—grandfather and granddaughter. A handmade valentine, with a lopsided heart pasted onto a white doily, signed with a red crayon. To Grandfather from your helper.

  She remembered making that one, sitting at the kitchen table, asking Emma to aid with the spelling. Emma, always more adept in German than English, had called Grams in to advise.

  Tears stung her eyes, and she fought to keep them from falling. Grams meant well. She was trying to prove that Grandfather had loved her. But if he’d loved her enough to save all these things, why hadn’t he loved her enough to do whatever it took to stay a part of her life?

  A hot tear splashed on the valentine, and she blotted it away. Yes, Grams meant well. But looking at these reminders didn’t make the situation better. Seeing them just made it worse.

  Cal rounded the shed on his way to the kitchen. His stride checked abruptly.

  Andrea sat on the low stone wall where he’d sat earlier, but she didn’t seem to be waiting for anyone. Her cell phone was pressed to her ear, and judging by the expression on her face, the conversation wasn’t going well.

  He detoured to the walk that circled around, taking him toward the door at a safe distance from her. She’d probably come out to the garden to ensure her privacy, and he wouldn’t intrude. But he couldn’t prevent a certain amount of curiosity. Was it her boss who put that expression on her face?

  Or was it a boyfriend, unhappy at her prolonged absence from the city? That thought generated a surprisingly quick denial. No one had mentioned a boyfriend in Andrea’s life, but then again, why would they, to him?

  He went on into the kitchen, where he consulted Emma about the exact finish on the piece he was making for her, enjoying prolonging the conversation with a smattering of the low German he’d been attempting to learn. It must still be plenty fractured, judging by her laughter.

  That had been one of the things that had surprised him about the Amish when he’d come here. He’d expected, from outward appearances, a dour people, living an uncomfortable life as if it were a duty.

  Instead he’d found people who laughed readily and who took as much enjoyment in plowing all day in the sun as they did from sitting on the porch on a summer’s evening. Work was not something that was separate from play—all things held their own intrinsic satisfaction, because they were done in obedience to God’s will.

  It was a lesson he’d been trying to learn, but he suspected that even the trying was self-defeating. He couldn’t will himself into finding peace and joy in the everyday things of life. That only happened when he forgot the effort and simply lost himself in what he was doing.

  When he went out the back door again, Andrea still sat on the wall. Afternoon sunlight, filtering through the leaves of the giant oak that shaded the patio, turned her silky blond hair to gold. The cell phone lay next to her.

  “Hi.” He nodded toward the phone. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

  “An interruption might have improved the conversation.” She grimaced. “No, I take that back. It would just have prolonged it.”

  “Your boss?” That instinctive sympathy came again.

  “He did not take the news well. Not even when I assured him I’d keep working on the project from here.”

  “Did you point out that telecommuting is fast becoming the norm in some businesses?”

  “He doesn’t think telecommuting will do the trick at this point.” She shrugged. “I can’t really argue with that. He’s probably right.”

  He propped one foot on the wall and leaned an elbow on his knee. “I assume he finally accepted the inevitable.”

  “Well, he’s not firing me outright, so I suppose that’s a good sign. But I suspect my promotion has just moved off into the distant future.” Her eyes clouded at that. “I’ll do everything I can from here, and my assistant will do what she can, but he’ll still be inconvenienced.”

  “A little inconvenience never hurt anyone. Maybe he’ll learn to appreciate you more.” He’d like to remove the dismay from her face, but that wasn’t within his power.

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  He sat down next to her. No use pretending he didn’t care about her troubles. He couldn’t help doing so. “This promotion—it means a lot to you.”

  A fine line formed between her brows. “It means…security.”

  Whatever he’d expected her to say—recognition, success, the corner office—it hadn’t been that. “Security? That sounds like something I’d expect from a fifty-year-old who’s thinking about retirement.”

  She stiffened. “Security is generally considered a good thing, believe it or not. You don’t have to be fifty to think about it. In fact, if you wait until you’re fifty, you’ve put it off too long.”

  “You’re young, smart and, I suspect, talented at what you do.” He smiled. “And those are good things, too. They’d be appreciated in plenty of places. Your grandmother says—”

  “My grandmother doesn’t know anything about business. But you do, don’t you?” She swung the full impact of those green eyes on him.

  “What makes you say that?” He backtracked, wondering where he’d made a mistake. “I’m just a craftsman.”

  “You do a pretty good imitation of the country hick from time to time, but that’s not who you are, is it?”

  He shrugged, almost enjoying parrying with her. She’d never hit on the truth, so what difference did it make?

  “I told you I grew up in the city. Any little vestiges of urban sophistication should wear away, in time.”

  “I’m not talking about growing up in the city.” She brushed that away with a wave of her hand. “I’m talking about the corporate mind-set. You understand it too well to be a bystander.”

  He rose, the enjoyment leaving. He didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking. “Hey, I was just trying to be sympathetic.”

  She studied him for a long moment, her brow furrowed with uncertainty. And he suspected she didn’t like being uncertain about anything.

  “If that’s true, I appreciate it,” she said finally. “But I still don’t believe you’re just a simple craftsman.”

  His tension eased. She wasn’t going to make an issue of it, and even if she did—well, he hadn’t committed any crime. At least, not any that the law would call him to book for. Whatever guilt he still carried was between him and God.

  “And you’re not just a simple financial expert, are you? You’re also a granddaughter, a sister, and now an innkeeper.”

  “Don’t remind me.” She rubbed at the line between her brows, as if she could rub it away. “I know you won’t appreciate how this pains me, but my sister’s idea
of keeping track of start-up costs consists of throwing receipts in a file.”

  “She uses a file? I thought my cigar box was pretty sophisticated.”

  That got a smile, and the line vanished. “You’re not going to make me believe that, you know.”

  “Maybe not.” He sobered. “But I hope you’ll believe that if anything happens that worries you, you can call me. Any time. I promise I’ll answer my phone.”

  She looked startled. “You mean—but surely with the new lights and the locks, no one would try to break in.”

  “Sounds a little melodramatic with the sun shining, but I’m still not comfortable about the situation.” An ambitious thief might want to see what he could get before the inn opened, filling the place with visitors. And an ambitious rival might think one more incident would be enough to scuttle the inn plans for good. “Just—call me.”

  Her gaze seemed to weigh him, determining whether and how much to trust him. Finally she nodded.

  “All right. If I see or hear anything that concerns me, I’ll call you. I promise.”

  She’d made a promise she didn’t expect she’d have to keep, Andrea thought as she drove home from the hospital that evening. She appreciated Cal’s concern, but surely the measures they’d taken would discourage any prospective thief.

  Now all she had to worry about was hanging on to her future at work, ensuring Rachel’s healing, and getting the inn off and running. Those concerns had actually begun to seem manageable.

  The layer of dark clouds that massed on the horizon didn’t dampen her optimistic mood. Rachel had looked almost normal tonight, joking about the casts and finally rid of the headache that had dogged her since the accident. Andrea hadn’t realized how worried she was about her sister until the weight had lifted with the assurance that Rachel was her buoyant self again.

  They had spent nearly two hours going over all of Rachel’s plans for the inn, and in spite of her sister’s undoubted lack of financial expertise, they probably had a reasonable chance of success. They had a beautiful, historic building in an unmatched setting, and Grams was a natural hostess. With Emma’s housekeeping ability and Rachel’s inspired cooking, they should be in good shape.