by Eva Charles
JD pounds his hand on the desk. His eyes are black with a fury that I haven’t seen since Grace was born. “Goddamn you, Smith.” His eyes flit from his wife to me. “Fine. You want her to stay here. You put your plan for the new business on hold indefinitely, because she’s your responsibility while you’re putting my family in harm’s way. And you,” he spits at Gabby, “you forget about going to Georgie’s Place while she’s here. You’re under lockdown along with the baby.” He glares at me. “Put the whole damn place under lockdown.”
“JD,” Gabby says. “You—”
“Do not say another word,” he warns her. “If you want that woman to stay here, that’s the way it has to be.”
“JD,” she pleads, squeezing his arm.
“No, Gabrielle. I almost lost you twice. I won’t tempt fate a third time.” He stalks out without another word to either of us.
“Is he right, Smith?” she asks. “Are we inviting trouble here, or is it just his usual paranoia?”
“I don’t know. I can’t say for certain.” My conscience is biting. Not just because of the fight. Not just because I put our friendship at risk, but because I have no way of knowing for certain what kind of trouble will follow Kate to Sweetgrass. And I have no way of knowing whether the security here will hold up. It’s never been really tested.
We have a saying in the army, no battle plan, no matter how well-designed, ever survives first contact with the enemy. It was my father’s response every time someone asked if the plan was foolproof.
“Look, this was a mistake. I should have never put either of you in this position. I’m perfectly capable of protecting Kate, anywhere. We’ll do something else.”
“No,” she says firmly. “Bring her here. There’s no safer place for someone who needs protection than Sweetgrass. We all know it.”
34
Kate
Josh pulls up to the guard house at Sweetgrass, and we’re waved through. Getting onto the property is nothing like the night of Smith’s party. He takes the familiar tree-lined drive, but we don’t turn left toward the main house. Instead, we cross a small pond and continue past a stable, and a couple of barns on the right. I can’t see it from the road, but the ocean is somewhere to the left. The property is enormous.
We pull into a cul-de-sac with three houses. All are more modest than the main house, but still lovely, with lush plantings and colorful flowers cascading from painted window boxes. Ty gets out and opens the door for me.
“We’ll get your bags,” he says. “Smith’s inside waiting for you.”
I don’t bother to ask any questions, because I’m sure I’ll get the same answer they’ve each given me at least a dozen times today. You’ll need to talk to Smith.
When we get to the porch, Josh knocks on the door.
“It’s open,” Smith calls from inside. He meets us in the entryway, and gives me a quick, reassuring smile. “Just leave the bags,” he instructs Ty and Josh. “I’ll take them upstairs. Thanks, guys.”
“We’ll be in the office,” Ty says, before they turn to leave.
“Appreciate it,” Smith says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wait a second.” He turns to me. “Josh and Ty are your security team. There will be others, too, but they’re the core of the team. The security office is located in the house next-door. That’s where your team will be while you’re on the property. It’s also where my office is located.”
He pauses, crossing his arms across his chest, his biceps straining the T-shirt fabric. “They’re in charge. You need to listen to them. To everything they say. They will protect you, with their lives, if necessary.”
A small panic begins to rise. “I-I don’t want that.” I cup my elbows, squeezing tight. “I don’t want anyone to risk their life for me.”
“It’s what we do. But it won’t likely come to that—and the risk is lower if you do as we say. It’s the best way to keep everyone safe. I need your promise.”
I glance at the two beefy guys. Both are well over six feet tall with muscle to spare. Josh has such a baby face the thought of anything happening to him because of me …“I promise. Do you have children?” I ask them.
“Not yet,” Josh says, not blinking an eye.
“A boy and a girl,” Ty responds.
I peer into both of their serious faces. “Not one more person dies. Not one more animal dies because of me. Don’t do anything stupid on my account. Please. I couldn’t live with it.”
Smith squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll talk to you guys later.”
“I appreciate all this,” I tell Smith after they leave. “I know you’re trying to help, but it isn’t going to work for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“No one—not one more person puts themselves at risk for me. I mean it.”
“Alright. Let’s get you settled and then I’ll show you around.”
I glare at him. I know a blow off when I hear one. “Don’t think this discussion is over.”
He grabs my bags, muttering under his breath.
The house isn’t huge, but no expense was spared. The kitchen has professional-style stainless steel appliances and granite counters. It’s nicer than anything I’ve ever worked in. It’s also vastly different than the apartment. It’s hard to believe they belong to the same man.
Unlike his place at Wildflower, it’s warm here, with dog-eared books on a small table near a recliner, and photos of smiley little girls on the mantle. But it’s the stick-figure drawings attached with magnets to the refrigerator that make my heart swell, and for a few minutes, I forget my life might be in danger.
I follow Smith up the stairs to a bedroom that is decidedly masculine. There is a wall of windows with an impressive ocean view. “Is this your room?”
“Our room.” He puts down the bags. “I brought in a dresser from one of the other rooms and made space for you in the closet. There are two more bedrooms in the house, but it seems ridiculous to pretend you’ll be sleeping elsewhere. I’d drag you into my bed every night anyway.”
I smile at him. “The Neanderthals really had nothing on you.” I’m rewarded with a dimpled smirk, arrogant as the day is long.
“The bathroom’s through here.” He points to French doors, which I suspect lead to a luxurious bath. “There are towels in the closet and extra toiletries. Take whatever you need. If we run out of something, or if there’s something you want that I don’t have, add it to the list on the corkboard in the kitchen. Same with food.”
“It looks like you thought of everything, and I brought stuff with me. But if I need anything, or if you need anything, I can pick it up on my way home from work tomorrow.”
He rubs his hand over his jaw, studying me. The hand scrubbing the jaw, or squeezing the back of the neck is never good news with him. “We need to talk.”
This is going to be particularly bad. I already sense it. “Let’s go downstairs,” he says, leaving the room. I follow him to the kitchen. “Do you want a beer?”
“No.”
“Some water?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Fine. You keep saying that, but I don’t believe it.”
“I’ll actually be fine after you tell me whatever it is you’re avoiding telling me. Not that I don’t enjoy watching you play hostess.”
He sniffs, and his mouth twists into a snarl. It must be worse than I imagined. “Sweetgrass is on lockdown.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that there are limitations on who comes onto the property and who leaves.” He has the impatient tone he gets when the conversation is unpleasant.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“You can’t go to work while you’re here.”
What? “I have to go to work. I have appointments, a class, people who are depending on me.” He drums his fingers on the counter while I speak.
“It’s not happening. I’m sorry.”
“Take me home,” I demand, with all the d
ignity of a five-year-old.
He sits on a stool and pulls me between his legs. His hands clutch both of mine. “You are not safe at home. You need to stay here until I can make it safe. I’m working as quickly as I can to make it happen.”
“I’m a prisoner until then?”
“Not just you,” he responds soberly. “Gabby can’t leave here to go to Georgie’s Place or to go anywhere. There will be restrictions on Lally, and on many of the other people who work and live here. And no one else is complaining.” The last part stings, but I deserved it.
“No. I don’t want that. I don’t want everyone to be inconvenienced because of me.”
“They’re happy to do it, Kate. We don’t know what’s going on, but you’re safer here than anywhere. Everyone is aware of it.” This is a lot to swallow. Maybe too much.
“Please work fast on getting my place secure. I know you’re busy, and it’s a lot to ask, but I can’t have everyone inconvenienced. It’s not fair to them. I barely know these people.”
“They’re my friends. You’re important to me, and they know it. I would do the same for them—without hesitation.”
I nod. “There is one thing I do need to do—somewhere I need to go—it’s safe. Totally safe.”
“No place is totally safe. But where do you need to go?”
“St. Maggie’s.” His expression tightens, but I don’t let it dissuade me. “I need to talk to Father Jesse. I want to tell him in person about Fenway. He trusted me to take care of her. I promised I would. It’s weighing heavily on me. I’ll go straight there and come right back, and I won’t ask to leave again. Please let me do that one thing.”
He considers the request carefully, before grasping my hips, and pulling me closer. “You can’t go by yourself. Regardless of how safe you think it is on the island, you have to get there and back. I’ll be out of town for most of the day tomorrow at a meeting. My guys will be working on the extra security. I can’t afford to be paying a visit to the clergy.”
“You don’t need to go. They can search me at the guard house when I come back. Please, just this one thing.”
The tip of his tongue is resting on the bow of his lip. The skin beneath his eyes is smeared with black from not sleeping. Because he’s been worried about me. Regret twists like a knife in my conscience. I can make this easier for him. I cradle his cheek in my hand. “I don’t need to go. It’s okay.”
He presses his warm cheek into my palm. “Ty and Josh will take you. No stops between here and the island, or on the way back. You will listen to everything they say. You will not argue with them, and if they give you instructions, you will obey immediately.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“You cannot let the priest know you’re coming, and you cannot tell anyone that you’re going. That includes Lucinda and Fiona. We don’t know if anyone’s listening. If they are, it could put everyone in danger.”
“Do you believe I’m at that much risk?”
“I’m not sure, Kate.” He reaches for an errant curl, twirling it around his finger. “But I’m not taking any chances with you, or with anyone else I care about. Why don’t you shower, and I’ll make sandwiches for us? We should go to bed early.” I expect him to make some suggestive or lewd remark about going to bed early, but he doesn’t. “I want to take you to the range first thing in the morning and see what you can do with that gun of yours.”
35
Kate
I have a new laptop, a new phone, because apparently my old phone isn’t secure enough for Smith’s tastes, and I’m being chauffeured around like royalty, or perhaps like a prisoner. It depends on one’s perspective.
The hardest part, aside from the fact that Fenny is dead and everyone at Sweetgrass is under lockdown, is I can’t talk to Fiona about any of it. She leaves for their Cape house tomorrow with Brett and the boys, and she doesn’t need to know about my predicament before she goes, otherwise, she’ll spend the entire month worrying. It’s the one time during the year where they are free from family obligations and the Nanas’ prying. I don’t want to spoil it for her.
Josh and Ty are quiet in the front seat. When they picked me up, they brought me a thermos of coffee and two muffins, courtesy of Lally. But I can see they’re not crazy about this trip. The worst part is that Father Jesse might not be here. He’s normally available on Mondays, but he could have been called away because someone has taken ill.
Josh pulls into the parking lot closest to the rectory, and a tall man with salt and pepper hair is raking the beds.
“Who’s that?” Ty asks.
“The gardener who works here. His name is Silas, but I’ve never met him. He has a house on the property down that lane.” I point to the dirt road, contemplating whether I should tell them about Silas’s prison record, but decide that it was a long time ago, and it was told to me in confidence.
Thankfully, they agree to wait outside. “What should I tell Father Jesse, or the church secretary, if they ask about you?”
“Tell them we’re providing security. That Smith Sinclair feels your connection to the Wilders requires you to have a security detail.”
“I can’t lie to a priest.”
“It’s not a lie. You’re protecting them. Everyone who knows the details is at some risk.”
I’m not sure if that’s exactly true, but I don’t want to risk anyone’s safety. Josh and Ty know this, and I expect this is a bit of manipulation on their part, but I can’t take the chance. “I won’t say a word.”
I walk toward the rectory, admiring the giant stone turret against the bright blue sky. As I climb the steps, I catch Silas watching me. As soon as he’s caught, he averts his eyes and goes back to the garden. A chill runs through me. There’s something about the way he looked at me. It’s your imagination, Kate. You’re holding his history against him. It’s not fair. He paid his dues. “Hello,” I call to him, but he keeps weeding as though he didn’t hear me.
When I get inside, Virginia is on the phone. She waves and motions for me to sit. A few moments later, Father Jesse sticks his head out of the office.
“Kate,” he says softly with a smile. “Come into my office where we can talk freely.” I go meekly, my heart heavy with the news I’m about to deliver.
“Did you get a new car?” he asks after he shuts the office door.
“No. I—Smith Sinclair has some concerns—because of the Wilders—and he’s insisting that I have a security detail assigned to me.” I hate myself for the lie.
I’m so nervous, sitting still is a problem. “I brought the mock-ups for the newsletter, but first there’s something I need to tell you,” I blurt.
He stands and comes over to where I’m sitting, and places a hand on my shoulder.
“You look a little pale. Let’s go into the reconciliation room. It’s the perfect place for telling me things, and we won’t be interrupted. You’ll be happier talking there.”
The last place I want to go is to the reconciliation room, but I follow him, leaving the mock-ups on the desk. When we get to the room, he flips the sign that says welcome, to the side that reads God is in Session, Do Not Disturb. The corny sign suits him.
It’s a lovely space, overlooking the garden where Silas had been working. But I don’t see him now.
We sit in two upholstered chairs near the window. There’s a box of tissues on a low pedestal table between us, and he brings me a cup of water.
“What has you looking so forlorn?” he asks gently.
“Fenway is dead. All her kittens are dead.”
He reaches for my hand. “Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry. You must be crushed. Tell me what happened.”
“Someone broke into the house and killed her during a robbery. It was awful.” I realize as soon as I say it, that I divulged too much. He’s a priest. This is a reconciliation room. He won’t say anything.
“That is awful. Were you at work when it happened?”
“No. I was out with a friend.”
He
lets go of my hands and sits back in his chair. “I see.” The words seem laden with accusation, but I suspect it’s my conscience biting me.
“We were gone for a few hours. I don’t normally leave her alone unless I’m at work or running an errand.”
“You were with Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yes.” I clasp my hands in my lap.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time with him, yes?”
I nod.
“He’s the reason we haven’t seen you at Mass?”
I shrug. “Yes.”
“Kate,” he takes both my hands, again, holding them in his. “You look miserable, like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Although, I think it’s your conscience that’s heavy. Would you like me to hear your confession?”
No. I don’t know. “I’m not sure.”
“God wants to absolve you of your sins. Let Him carry your burden.”
I suppose it makes me spineless, but I don’t say no. I don’t know how to. “Okay.”
He gets up and brings over a kneeler. “We can sit, or you can kneel there, whatever you prefer.”
I’m accustomed to kneeling during confession, and maybe this would seem less awkward if I got to my knees. “I’ll kneel.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he says, pulling a chair closer to the kneeler.
I lower my head and close my eyes, while making the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been eighteen months since my last confession, and these are my sins.”
I confess to lying, swearing, and using God’s name in vain. I confess to vanity and willfulness, and the list goes on and on, because I am a sinner. And while I don’t fully embrace the sacrament of reconciliation, here in a church, on my knees before a priest and God, I choose to believe that my sins will be forgiven.
“Do you want to tell me about your relationship with Mr. Sinclair?” he asks when I quiet.