Blood Kin

by Judith E. French

  A life with whom? Daniel had been the first man in a long time to ignite her hormones, but he’d made it clear that his interest in her was purely platonic. Platonic? Bailey laughed. Where had that come from? Freshman Philosophy 101?

  She nibbled at her lower lip. This inheritance gave her options she’d never had before. Maybe she should take some art classes. Or . . . She considered the possibility of taking a tour of Europe next summer. She didn’t even have to remain in Newark. If she wanted, she could sell the condo and buy a house in Sussex County, enjoy the beach life, less traffic, and lower taxes. Surely they needed teachers in southern Delaware, and the schools there would be less stressful.

  Teasing thoughts of a little vacation house on the corner of Elizabeth’s property kept returning. She could almost imagine sitting at her cottage window and watching the seasons change. . . .

  But not alone.

  If she wanted to get married again—if she wanted children—she couldn’t wait forever. Too bad she didn’t spring from a culture that still arranged marriages, like her college roommate, Lila. Just last year her parents had come up with the perfect husband for Lila.

  Making a snap decision, Bailey decided when she finished teaching the summer school classes here on Tawes, she’d fly out to Oregon and visit Lila. She’d missed her friend terribly for the last two years, and all the phone calls in the world didn’t make up for an all-night girls’ session. Both she and her new husband, a plastic surgeon, had begged her to come and stay as long as she liked. Maybe, if she’d been Hindu, Lila’s parents would have come up with a handsome bachelor for her too. If all else failed, maybe she should consider converting to Hinduism.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t see herself marrying a man she’d never laid eyes on. It had been right for Lila, and she was happy for her friend. A little jealous, but happy. How was it that two people from opposite ends of the country shared so much culture and religion that they could find love and contentment in a marriage that had begun as a union of families?

  What was it Lila had said to her the night she’d gotten the call from her father about the betrothal? “Old ways are best, Bailey. And who knows me better than my parents? They have picked a good man from a good family. We share the interests of medicine and books, and we both want children, so why wouldn’t it be a successful match?”

  “You don’t know him,” she’d protested.

  “In my family, it is said that first comes respect between a husband and wife, and then love will grow.”

  “How can you marry a man someone else picked for you?”

  Her friend had laughed. “You chose Elliott. You thought you knew what he was like when you married him. But you picked the wrong man, and the love and respect you felt for him vanished.”

  Lila was right. Elliott had destroyed the respect she felt for him with his irresponsible behavior . . . and with it the love, at least the love she’d felt toward him as a husband. And now maybe even their friendship was stretching thin.

  She decided to write to Lila, ask about the baby, and tell her everything that had happened since she’d arrived on Tawes. Unlike Elliott, Lila had always urged her to investigate her birth family, to try to find her roots.

  “They are your blood,” she had insisted. “And blood always matters.”

  A series of late-afternoon thunderstorms rolled in from the west, crashing and booming overhead, sending torrents of rain down upon the island. It was still pouring when a pounding at the back door of the parsonage startled Grace. “Who’s there?” The terrier leaped out of his basket and ran barking ahead of her.

  Grace pulled aside the curtain and peeked out before opening the door. “What are you doing out in this storm?”

  Emma pushed her way into the kitchen, shirt and overalls soaked through and dripping. “I need to talk to Matthew.” She raised her voice to be heard over the yipping terrier.

  “Shh, shhh, Precious. Get down. Matthew? He’s not here.”

  Emma’s face was pale, her eyes wide and frightened. “Where is he?”

  “At the church.” Grace gathered up the squirming dog. “Hush, Precious. Wait, I’ll just get him a treat.”

  A puddle of water spread from Emma’s high-top leather shoes. “No. Matthew’s not at the church. I just came from there.”

  “Oh, dear.” Grace retrieved a dog biscuit from the cookie jar on the counter and handed Emma a tea towel decorated with lemon slices. “Dry your face,” she said. “I hope he’s not out in this. He’s not well.”

  “Are you certain you don’t know where he is?”

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t know. What’s so important that you would come out in this storm? You could be struck by lightning.” She motioned to a chair. “Sit down. You’re shivering. Let me pour you some hot”—another clap of thunder shook the windows, and Grace put her hands over her ears—“coffee. Is it something I could help you with?”

  “No. It’s Matthew I need.”

  Grace reached for the coffeepot on the counter. “You’re more than welcome to wait, but you know how he is. He could be anywhere.”

  Emma turned back toward the door and rested a hand on the knob. “Never mind. I’ll find him.”

  “You can’t go out in this downpour.” Grace pursed her lips as Emma dashed back out into the rain. “What do you suppose that was about, Precious?” The little dog circled around her, hopping on his back feet. “That isn’t like Emma, is it?” She slid the old-fashioned bolt home. “She worries me.”

  “Who was that?” Matthew called from the dining room. He was clad in pajamas, and his feet were bare. “I thought I heard voices.” He looked at the wet floor. “Who—”

  “Emma.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “So she could repeat the same nonsense she gave you earlier in the sanctuary?”

  Matthew came into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of dark roast. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about that.”

  “And why not, dear? Doesn’t everything that concerns you, concern me? I won’t have Emma upsetting you again. Besides, you were sleeping. Even a minister is allowed time to rest. You give too much of yourself, my dear. You always have.”

  “Not always.”

  “Always. And if it takes telling a few little white lies to protect you, then I’m guilty. I’ll always protect you, Matthew. You know that. As long as I live, you’ll be safe with me.”

  Emma and Daniel still hadn’t returned when full darkness fell, so Bailey went around the house and turned on the lights. She was at odds, too restless to read, and when she switched on the television in the den, she discovered that the thunderstorms interfered with Emma’s satellite reception and she couldn’t get a single station.

  Realizing that she was hungry, Bailey went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Rain still pattered against the windows, and thunder boomed overhead, the sound echoing through the empty rooms, making the house feel big and empty.

  She found the makings for a salad and was mixing olive oil and vinegar for a dressing when she heard the first notes of whistling from the yard. She was so startled that she dropped the vinegar, and the small cut-glass decanter shattered. The acrid scent of vinegar filled the air as liquid spread across Emma’s spotless linoleum floor.

  Gooseflesh prickled on Bailey’s arms. She pushed aside a curtain and stared out, and when the next flash of lightning lit the sky, she thought she saw the outline of a figure standing beneath the oak tree. It was all she could do to stifle a cry. Then adrenaline surged through her, and she ran to fasten the door.

  But the old door had no lock, not even a slide bolt.

  Grabbing a kitchen chair, she wedged it under the knob, then ran to the side door. That one had a small lock built into the doorknob, but the top half of the door was made up of panes of glass. Anyone who wanted to break in could simply smash the glass, reach in, and turn the knob. Still, a small lock had to be better than nothing. If whoever was watching the house trie
d to get in, she’d hear the sound of breaking glass. The front door had a brass panel and a keyhole for an oversize key, but no key in sight. Determined, Bailey dragged a marble-topped table in front of the door, went upstairs, and retrieved the key-chain pepper spray Elliott had given her.

  By the time she reached the kitchen again, the worst of her fear had drained away. She had heard the whistling outside her window before, but no one had ever tried to break in. Feeling foolish, she dropped the spray container on the table.

  Maybe it was a prankster, or someone who wanted to frighten her into leaving the island without selling Elizabeth’s property, she thought. Or . . . She smiled. Perhaps it was the ghost Emma had told her about.

  But she didn’t believe in ghosts.

  More likely it was her imagination running away with her. She lifted the wall phone, intending to call Cathy, but there was no dial tone. When she hung the handset up, she couldn’t help thinking of how alone she was. No one was coming to help her. If there was an intruder outside the door, it was up to her to protect herself or suffer the consequences. She picked up the spray again and tucked it into her jeans pocket.

  Switching off the kitchen light so she wouldn’t be a target, she went to the window over the sink, unlatched it, and pushed it up. “Who’s there?” she demanded. Rain splattered against her face and throat. “Show yourself! If this is a game, it’s not funny.”

  The whistler moved away from the tree, and her heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t her imagination. Someone was out there, standing just a few feet from the back porch. She could just make him out, a tall, cloaked shadow with a wide-brimmed hat, standing in the rain.

  “Go away!” She drew the pepper spray out of her pocket and then flipped open the top.

  Wind whipped the brim of the specter’s hat as it moved away toward the water.

  “And stay away!” Bailey found her way to the light switch and turned it on. She closed and locked the window; then, knees suddenly weak, she sank onto a chair, still scared but triumphant.

  The smell of vinegar lingered in the air. Putting the pepper spray on the table again, she got a broom and swept up the broken decanter, then used a mop to wipe up the vinegar. She was cleaning up the last of the spill from the linoleum when she heard a loud knock at the side door.

  Dropping the mop handle, she snatched up the spray. “Who is it?” she called. “Emma? Is that you?”

  The only answer was a repeated banging.

  “Okay, cowardly lion, he’s calling your bluff,” she murmured. She couldn’t decide if she should run for the front of the house or answer the door. Reason prevailed. Someone trying to break in would hardly knock.

  “Bailey! For God’s sake, unlock the door!”

  “Daniel?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Daniel turned the knob. “Bailey, will you please open the door? I’m soaking wet.”

  Hesitantly she flipped the lock. Without budging, she looked directly into his eyes. “Were you the one outside?”

  “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  She blinked. “What?” He shoved the door open, and she stepped aside to let him in. “I heard it again—I mean, I saw someone. Outside. In the rain, under the big oak. He was whistling. I thought . . .”

  “It was me?” He gave a snort of amusement as he stripped off his wet denim jacket. His black Jimmy Buffett T-shirt was as soaked as his jeans. “Do you mind?” He motioned to his shirt. “Emma will kill me if I leave a trail of water from here to the laundry room.”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Daniel without a shirt, but tonight his hard-muscled chest and the thin scar that ran from one nipple down across his ribs seemed more ominous. “No.” Bailey tried to make a joke of it as she attempted to slide the pepper spray into her pocket without being seen.

  She failed.

  “Were you planning to use that on me?”

  She felt her cheeks flush. “No, I—”

  “You’re certain you saw someone? It wasn’t just—”

  “I’m not blind or stupid.” Her words came out sharper than she’d intended, but tiny hairs still prickled at the nape of her neck. She couldn’t decide if Daniel was innocent or a good actor. “It wasn’t five minutes ago.”

  Something indefinable flickered in his eyes before his expression lost its sharp edge. “I didn’t see anyone, and I didn’t hear anything.”

  She gripped the back rail of a chair. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I never said that.” His lips curved into a smile, and he rolled the wet clothes into a bundle. “Emma would say it was the ghost.”

  “Don’t tell me that you believe in ghosts?”

  “Truthfully? Hell, I’m not sure what I believe in. I’ve never seen one, but I have seen a lot of weird stuff I couldn’t explain. What exactly does this whistling sound like? Are you certain it isn’t a willet or some other shorebird?” He walked into the kitchen and she followed him.

  “Not unless it knows the tune to a nursery rhyme.”

  “Hmm.” Daniel glanced back at her and grimaced. “Well, it sure as hell isn’t me. I couldn’t whistle my way out of a bucket. Matthew can—at least, he could when he was younger. He tried to teach me, but he said I was hopeless. He can sing, too. If he hadn’t picked the church, he could have made a living with his voice.”

  Bailey went to the back door and removed the chair that she’d jammed under the knob. “No lock,” she explained.

  “Not much call for locks on Tawes.”

  “Somebody was out there.”

  “All right, I believe you. But just because someone was out there doesn’t mean you were in any danger.” He crossed the kitchen and pushed open the sliding door to the laundry room.

  “The washer’s empty,” Bailey said from the doorway. “I did a load earlier.” She handed him the detergent, and he set it on the counter beside the washer. She didn’t think Daniel was the whistler, but neither was she going to put herself in a small space with only one way out.

  He dropped the T-shirt into the washer, put his jacket in the dryer, and set the timer. “High heat or low?”

  “From the looks of that jacket, I don’t think that’s an issue.”

  He grinned. “You’re probably right.” He pushed the button and the dryer began to spin. “And you’ve noticed that I go out a lot late at night.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “No, but you’ve noticed.” He set the washer on the low water level and threw in a small amount of detergent.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “What’s for supper? I take it Emma’s not here.” He came back into the kitchen and looked at the empty stovetop. “No chicken tonight.”

  “I was going to fix a salad. Would you like me to make extra?”

  “Give me five minutes to jump in the shower and put on some dry clothes and I’ll see what’s in the refrigerator. I think I want something more substantial. What’s your take on spicy stir-fry?”

  “Good.” If this was an act, she thought, he deserved an Oscar.

  “All right. There’s brown rice in the cupboard over the refrigerator. You start the rice, and I’ll do the rest.”

  When Daniel returned in a clean shirt and khakis ten minutes later, Bailey had the rice cooking and the table set for two. “I found celery, garlic, onions, and green peppers,” she offered.

  “Wait.” He motioned toward the back door, stepped out on the porch, and returned in seconds with two bottles of imported beer. He opened the first one and handed it to her. “Glass?”

  She shook her head. “I’m a purist.” She took a sip. The beer was cold, with a crisp tang. If she’d had the brand before, she didn’t remember. “Good. Where did this come from?” She studied the label of the Dutch imported beer.

  “I get off the island now and then. And Emma can be bribed.”

  Bailey laughed, beginning to feel embarrassed that she’d suspected Daniel of being the prowler. “Can I help cut the vegetables?”<
br />
  “Dice the onion. They always make me cry,” he said. “And see if you can find oyster sauce or duck sauce in the refrigerator. Might be Chinese cabbage in the bottom drawer.”

  “Pretty fancy ingredients for a ‘plain country cook’to have around.” Bailey smiled. “Isn’t that what Emma says she is?”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “You can’t always take what Emma says as gospel. Her mother is a plain country cook. Blind or not, Aunt Birdy still makes the best pies on this island. But Emma . . .” He shrugged. “Emma has her share of secrets. I’d put her up against the chefs at Four Seasons in Boston any day.”

  “You’ve eaten there?”

  He nodded as he chopped celery on a wooden board. “I like good food and I like fine restaurants. It’s my weakness.” He laid down the cleaver and reached for the garlic.

  She peeled an onion and rinsed it off in the sink. “I take it that you must get off the island a lot.”

  “Okay, so this is where I come clean, right? It’s not exactly a state secret on Tawes, so you may as well hear it from me. I worked as an agent for the CIA for nine years.”

  She stared at him. “For real? Or is that a joke?”

  Daniel picked up the cleaver and began to smash garlic cloves with the side of the blade. “Sometimes it felt like one.”

  “You’re serious. You were some kind of James Bond, saving the free world from—”

  “Nope. Nothing so romantic. The agency simply gathers information.”

  “Emma said you traveled a lot.”

  “Yes, Europe and the Far East.”

  “Collecting information?”

  “Exactly. Just the facts, ma’am.” He heaped the crushed garlic on one side of the cutting board.

  “But you don’t work for the CIA anymore?”

  “Nope. Things got complicated, so I resigned.”