Connie had thought that the guesthouse setup was ideal. She’d be close enough to keep an eye on her daughter, even while she worked. It appeared she’d been wrong.
Pippa swallowed and went in for a second bite.
“Pippa.”
She put the sandwich down. “Yes, Mom?”
“Were you at that man’s house?” Connie was certain about one thing—her daughter wouldn’t lie. Pippa’s good conscience and the tendency to blush beet-red had always given her away. She’d learned not to even try.
“Not in it,” Pippa said. “But I was nearby.”
“Did you follow him?”
Her daughter’s face was inching toward her plate as her shoulders caved inward. Gradually, over the past several years, Pippa had become more secretive and self-contained. Emotional conflict bothered her. She’d picked up the habit of cowering whenever she couldn’t physically retreat.
“I guess so,” Pippa whispered.
Connie winced, remembering the accusations she’d flung at the stranger. “Why?”
“I was observing him.”
The notebook again. Connie sighed. “Pippa, I’ve warned you about that habit….”
The girl’s head shot up. “I was bored! I read all my books. There’s nothing to do here.”
“I said you could go for a short walk. That didn’t mean spying on strangers.” Connie would have normally considered Pippa’s spurt of temper and the venture outdoors to be promising. These days, it was tough to raise a child to be both bold and cautious.
Connie chose her words carefully. “This island may be small, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe for a young girl to be wandering around alone. Still, I want you to have fun here. Kid-type fun. You are not to get up to any of your Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the—the whatever mischief.”
“Oh, Mom. Please? There’s lots to see on the island. I won’t bother anybody.”
“Especially not that man.”
Pippa sighed. She was good at doing that, in a way that made Connie feel like a tyrant.
“All right, Pip. I’ll do my best to make some extra time for us to try a few island activities.” Connie bit the pickle in half with a satisfying crunch. “But I want you sticking with me up at the garden for the rest of the day.”
Pippa kicked the table leg. “Will I have to dig? Ugh.”
“No, you won’t have to dig. You can play in the maze if you like. As long as I know where you are.”
“Okay.” Pippa was fascinated by the maze; she’d studied the plans from their first inception, until Connie had drawn up an extra copy for her daughter to trace out the solution with her markers.
Pippa gave her a toothy smile and returned to her sandwich. She was like her mother that way—running hot and cold at the turn of a tap.
An only child, Connie had been smothered and pampered by her parents. As a result, she’d developed a strong need for freedom and independence, but also a hair-trigger temper. In her adult years, she’d been forced to learn to control her emotions and act as the rock of the family, particularly during the final years of her marriage. Even so, Philip had often teased her that she was only a dormant volcano, ready to burst forth at the first rumbling provocation.
She’d certainly gone off on Pippa’s stranger. He must be feeling rather scorched.
Connie pressed two fingers between her closed eyes. She couldn’t seem to remember exactly what the man looked like, beyond an impression of a lean body with wide shoulders and a fringe of dark hair sticking out from beneath his bandanna. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. She’d taken that as shady, but maybe she’d been wrong.
She didn’t want to encourage Pippa’s surreptitious sleuthing, especially after the “Case of the Locked Garden Shed” had led to a policeman showing up on her doorstep back home. Unfortunately, her own curiosity about the stranger was suddenly on a par with Pippa’s.
Connie shoved aside her paper plate. “All right. Tell me. What did you find out about him?”
Pippa dropped the cheesy crust she’d been nibbling. “He came on the nine-fifteen ferry. I first saw him yesterday, when we were having breakfast at the harbor. Want me to get my notebook? I made lots of observations.”
Connie had noticed her scribbling away at the time, but had overlooked it. “That’s not necessary, Pippa.” She picked up her can of diet soda. “Did you get his name? I should probably make a point of apologizing since it seems that he’s not quite the degenerate I believed him to be.”
“I didn’t find out his name on my own, but he told me.” Pippa looked sorry about that. She took pride in her growing ability to ferret out information. Too much pride. “It’s Sean Rafferty.”
Sean Rafferty, Pine Cone Cottage. Connie filed the info away before popping the top of the soda. She licked the fizz from her thumb. “And was he alone?”
“Yep. He says he’s on vacation.”
Connie’s eyes narrowed. “How long did you two talk?”
“Only a minute. He knew I was following him and he told me to go home.” Pippa frowned. “He didn’t act like a vacationer.”
“How does a vacationer act?”
“Happy. I think Mr. Rafferty is sad. Or maybe sick.”
“What makes you say that?” Connie asked, although as soon as the comment had come out of Pippa’s mouth, she’d realized that she’d had the same impression. Despite the wide shoulders, he’d been gaunt. He hadn’t smiled once, even to reassure her when she was frantic and overprotective.
“Well, he limps. And he’s restless. He ate his lunch standing up.”
“Oh, Pippa. Were you looking in his windows?”
Pippa’s head drooped. She gave a little nod.
“Good grief. That’s so wrong I don’t even know what to say to you.” Connie set the soda can down with a clunk. She waved Pippa away. “Go on, wash up and get ready to come to the maze with me. You’re staying within my sights for the rest of the day, young lady.”
Connie took a few quick bites of her sandwich, regretting that she’d asked the questions and reignited her daughter’s imagination. As well as her own.
She was on Osprey Island to achieve a garden design that would put her on the map. She had no time to become involved in one of Pippa’s imaginary mysteries, especially a puzzle that might as well be titled The Secret of the Handsome Stranger.
THE NEXT MORNING, Sean made his second attempt at the walk to Whitlock’s Arrow. The brisk salt air was invigorating, and by midmorning he was negotiating a tricky path down the cliffside to the shingle beach. Up top, he’d come across an island old-timer who’d offered directions, warning that while the close-up view was worth the trip, it was potentially dangerous once the tide came in.
Despite a few hairy moments when he slipped on the slick rocks, Sean landed safely on the beach. He sat on one of the outcroppings to rest his injured leg while watching the blue-green waves beat at the craggy stones of the point.
After a while, the constantly changing patterns of spume and the fecund smell of the tide lulled him into forgetting about himself. The shore was a world in itself, private except for the sightseers who appeared at the edge of the cliff to pose for photos. Some of them shouted into the roar of the surf, setting off the gulls and cormorants that speckled the rocks.
When the tide turned, Sean got up to go back. Along the way, he took a few extra minutes to explore the tidal pools formed by the water’s recession. The microcosms of ocean life were more fascinating than he expected.
He’d been born and raised and gone to college in cities, then moved several times around Massachusetts during his career as a state trooper. He’d never much considered the rugged appeals of the country. After a marriage prompted by his girlfriend’s pregnancy, vacations to Cape Cod with baby Josh in a soppy diaper and Jen complaining about her sunburn had been about as rural as he’d gotten.
He’d made the trip to Maine strictly out of desperation. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it. He hadn’t expected that the resp
ite would truly help him recover.
Minutes flew by while he watched crabs scurry over the rocks and the delicate but sturdy anemones bob in the water of the tidal pool. Seaweed spread green tentacles through the shallows. Snails left glistening trails on the stones. He touched the elaborate white designs drawn on the black rocks, then licked at the crystalized sea salt left on his finger.
Only when he put a foot down wrong and his running shoe plunged into icy water did he realize how much time had passed. The tide was rising rapidly, already turning several of the formerly accessible rocks into mini islands of their own. He moved from stone to stone, traversing rivers that foamed white with each crashing wave.
A plaintive cry stopped his scramble up the cliffside path. He looked back the way he’d come, but saw only a white gull diving into the sea.
“Over here!”
He shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the ocean. Huddled, shivering and wet, stranded on a steeply slanted rock that had become surrounded by the rising tide was the girl, Pippa. Sean’s blood turned cold. There was no way for him to swim out to rescue her without being beaten bloody on the rocks by the incoming surf.
CHAPTER THREE
“DON’T MOVE!” HE SHOUTED, although clearly Pippa had no intention of moving. Flattened against the stone, she flinched each time the thunderous waves crashed and sent spray high into the blue sky. She was somewhat sheltered from the surf by adjacent jutting rocks, but her position grew more precarious every minute. The water crept higher, swirling with dangerous currents.
Sean shielded his eyes and searched down shore for help. He’d spotted a beached dinghy maybe a half mile away, but gave that up as useless. There was no time. Not even to climb the cliff in hope of finding tourists nearby.
A length of frayed rope lay twined among the stones on the beach. He grabbed it and backtracked, working out a route to cross the slippery stones. Several times he waded through the frigid water. Soon he was plunging in, swimming the gaps from rock to rock. Each time, the icy shock of it stole his breath and sapped another portion of his strength as he fought against the treacherous pull of the current. By the time he pulled himself onto the rock that brought him as close to Pippa as he could get, he was numb through.
The waves surged past Pippa’s sheltered position and battered him full on. “Can you catch the rope?” he called, knotting a loop.
Her face was stark white, her lips almost blue. “I th-think so.”
He threw the lasso, which barely had enough length to reach her. She lifted a hand but missed as a large wave broke behind her. The roped dropped into the rush of rising tide.
“You’re fine.” He reeled in the line. The waves lapped at her shins. “Try again.”
Pippa got it on the third attempt and slipped the loop over her head and shoulders before clamping herself to the rock again. She closed her eyes and said, “Okay,” through chattering teeth.
Not okay. He gripped the end of the worn rope, praying it was strong enough. “You have to climb down. Or jump.”
She stared at the tumultuous gap between them. “In the water?”
At Whitlock’s Arrow, the surf boomed as loud as thunderclaps. He’d read Pippa’s lips more than heard her. “Keep hold of the rope,” he yelled, hoping she’d understand. “I’ll reel you in.”
She looked down, then clutched at the craggy rock. “I can’t!”
“You have to. I can’t come to you.” As it was, he could only hope he’d be able to catch her before the waves slammed her into the rock—or pulled her under.
She hunched her shoulders up around her ears and shook her head, her eyelids squeezed shut again.
“You can’t wait!” he roared. He didn’t give her time to think, just leaned farther over the edge of the rock and whipped the line taut between them, giving her middle a jerk. “Jump this way when I say go.”
He’d been watching the waves. They came in escalating series of seven. When the largest one broke, showering both of them with foam, he barked, “Go!” and gave the rope another pull.
Pippa plunged into the water and was immediately swept sideways into the current, heading directly toward a half-submerged rock. The rope caught her up short. The sharp snap sent a jolt juddering up Sean’s arm into his shoulder. She surfaced, white-faced and sputtering.
He pulled her in hand over hand, sliding dangerously low over the rock ledge, his thighs straining. The adrenaline that burned through him gave his numbed arms an extra shot of strength.
A wave descended as he reached in to haul her out. She was deadweight, and he had only enough time to press them both against the rock face, clinging like limpets as the icy water pelted them. When the waves receded he pushed her up and followed with a great heave, covering her as the next rush arrived.
Immediately he got Pippa moving, herding her along mercilessly until they were beyond the waves. They slumped onto the pebbly beach, and he pulled her roughly into his arms, chafing at her limbs to bring the blood up.
The sodden lump of her spiral-bound notebook fell out of the front of her windbreaker, along with her glasses. She reached for them.
He closed a hand over hers. “Dammit, Pippa. What did you think you were you doing, following me down here? Do you realize the danger you were in?”
The girl gasped for air. “D-don’t tell my mo-mom.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “You know I have to.”
Pippa’s shoulders shook violently against his chest. He felt as though he’d been cracked open against the rocks and emptied out, but still he cradled her, willing his warmth into the girl’s small body even when he believed he had none left to give.
He wouldn’t have this one’s fate on his conscience.
CLEAR MIND, pure heart, gentle soul.
Despite Connie’s best intentions, her lips tightened, her fingers curled toward her palms. Maybe it worked for some, but to her the mantra was a load of claptrap. She had way too much going on to forget for even a minute.
Breathe, woman. Relax and give it another go. You’re on a picturesque island sixteen miles off the Maine coast. You can’t get any more idyllic. The oms should be rolling off your tongue.
Connie had plunked herself on the ground outside the guesthouse. Her friend Lena swore by meditation, but then Lena was the sort of woman who kept a yoga mat in her desk drawer, which happened to be in her corner window office in the busiest business tower at the intersection of Boston’s noisiest streets. Lena was the calm at the eye of the tornado.
Whereas tornado was Connie’s middle name. When she made time for the gym, it was to take a kickboxing class. No oms, just right jab, left jab, kick, kick, kick.
Kay Sheffield, who’d yoo-hoo’d Connie from a leisurely breakfast on her seaside patio to say there was a touch of yellow in the maze hedge and that if Connie couldn’t replace the section—yeah, sure, overnight—she might want to consider green spray paint? Pow.
The supplier who’d screwed up a gravel shipment, leaving Connie and her day workers empty-handed at the dock in the morning fog? Punch.
Graves, who’d absconded with several of her tools, even though they were clearly marked Bradford Garden Designs, and had then said—to her face—that she must have lost them? Bam, bam, bam. Three lightning kicks, right under the chin.
Connie untangled herself out of the pretzel pose and leaned back on her hands to look up at the cloudless sky. Meditation wasn’t working. No surprise. When Philip had been sick as a dog from chemo and she’d been half out of her mind, trying to take care of him and Pippa while beginning work toward her master gardener qualification, the only calm she’d known had been in their tiny backyard. Little by little she’d weeded, planted and pruned until the space had become a lush green paradise.
She’d always remember the quiet evenings in the garden with Phil, how he’d made her promise that she wouldn’t give up on her dream, no matter what.
Connie squeezed her lids shut. If he could see her now, he’d bust with pr
ide.
He’d also be terribly concerned about Pippa. He’d always known the right way to comfort their daughter without coddling her, while Connie couldn’t seem to get it right no matter what she tried. She was either too harsh, to toughen Pippa up, or too open and easy, to encourage Pippa’s independence.
Then again, everything was ten times more difficult without Phil. Whenever Connie thought she had herself under control and her life in order, she was reminded how alone she was without him.
Were her struggles the result of missing her husband, or simply the lot of every single working parent?
Probably both, she conceded. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life without a partner. In recent weeks, her loneliness had even led to a few thoughts about agreeing to one of Lena’s setups.
But she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Lena’s men were business executives with sky-box connections to the Sox. Connie was a hot-dogs-in-the-bleachers woman. Only a rare man would pique her interest. None had landed on her doorstep.
“Mrs. Bradford?”
The sudden shout of her name was a shock. She sprang up as Sean Rafferty came around the corner of the house at a brisk clip. “Sorry to disturb you.” He was out of breath. “I caught a glimpse and—”
“No, that’s fine.” She slapped the pine needles off her butt. “I was taking a break, is all.” Why should that fluster her? “I, uh, didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but since you’re here, I ought to…” She stopped to inhale, which should have slowed her galloping pulse. “Apologize.”
The man pulled up short, apparently speechless.
“I was wrong. I admit it. I jumped to conclusions about you, Mr. Rafferty, and I’m sorry. You’re not a—a—” She gestured with both hands, trying to think of polite words rather than the blunt ones she was more accustomed to using. Watching her salty tongue around her new class of clientele was a job in itself.
Carrie Alexander - Count on a Cop Page 3