Red Clover Inn--A Romance Novel

by Carla Neggers

  “Lots of time to sort out your lives,” her father said, counting out manila-colored hundreds.

  Megan shook her head. “Nope. I know.”

  She stared at the open Monopoly board and the stacks of money, the little houses and hotels, the game pieces. Charlotte recognized the thirteen-year-old’s dazed state, the slumped shoulders, the sudden tears in her eyes. The adrenaline dump had run its course, and now she was drained, exhausted. Andrew, two years older, was better at hiding it but she could tell he felt the same.

  “Takes a while to play Monopoly,” Charlotte said. “I want to take a stint in the hammock before it storms and read my book. Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy are about to meet again.”

  Greg set his tidied stack of hundreds in the box. “Why don’t we wait until after dinner to play Monopoly? We’re supposed to get thunderstorms later. Take advantage of the good weather now.”

  Megan nodded, setting her fives next to the hundreds. “Andrew and I can go pick veggies in Mrs. Sloan’s garden. See how she’s doing.”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate the distraction,” Greg said.

  Andrew got to his feet, eyeing his father. “We’re going home tomorrow. Will you tell us about your new job before we go?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Tonight,” Andrew said.

  “And not just one-word answers to our questions,” Megan added, jutting her chin at her father. “We’re not little kids anymore. You can talk to us.”

  He shrugged. “Fair enough. Then you can tell me about your summer plans. Deal?”

  “Deal,” his kids said simultaneously.

  “Great. Have fun picking vegetables. Just no kale, okay?”

  Andrew grinned. “No problem, Dad. I hate kale, too.”

  As he and Megan left the library, she was lecturing him on kale’s healthy attributes and proper ways to cook it and to serve it raw. Greg shuddered. “Kale,” he said as if that summed up his opinion.

  “I imagine Evelyn has plenty of lettuce, spinach and peas for Megan and Andrew,” Charlotte said. “It’s nice that Andrew wants to follow in your footsteps.”

  “Adrenaline from the search. We’ll see what happens once he’s back in Minnesota.”

  “Aren’t you flattered?”

  “I don’t want to be flattered. I want him to find what works for him and he’s passionate about. I don’t want him trying to make up for my absences.”

  “Is that what you think is going on?”

  “I don’t know. It’s natural for them to be interested in my work.” He placed the Monopoly cover back on the box. “Both my kids would make good agents. I didn’t sound as if I doubted that, did I?”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “Not at all.”

  “It was easier to accept having them follow in my footsteps before I got shot. What if one of your young cousins wanted to be a deep-sea diver?”

  “Two do. Two don’t want to go near it.”

  “Let me guess—one of the younger sisters and the second son.”

  “Eloisa and Keith. Exactly right. Isaac and Ann aren’t interested.”

  “Was it easier to be enthusiastic about Eloisa and Keith diving before your accident?”

  Charlotte tucked her feet up under her in her chair. “Who says I was enthusiastic then?” She decided to change the subject. “Did you guys find anything interesting on your search?”

  Greg shook his head. “Looks to me as if the family went through the place pretty well before they put it on the market. It was probably more trouble than it was worth to go through the old photographs and magazines. A couple of rooms are missing dressers—I assume they were worth selling. Easier to bundle everything else into the sale price.” He stood, peering out the window at the backyard. “I assume Andrew and Megan will get moving if they hear thunder.”

  “They’ve got some time before it starts to storm.” Suddenly restless, Charlotte launched herself to her feet. “I was going to hit the hammock with my book, but I still have a lot of unfocused energy. Great-Uncle Harry was written up in numerous magazines after he explored the Antarctic a half century ago. I wonder if any of them are in the cellar closet where we found Evelyn. I’d like to take a look.”

  Greg glanced back at her from the window. “I can go with you and protect you from spiders.”

  She laughed. “It’s not the spiders I’m worried about.”

  “I’m going to leave it there and not ask.”

  They went through the kitchen and down the steep stairs to the old cellar, turning on lights as they worked their way back to the closet. “There are hundreds of magazines here,” Charlotte said. “There are easier ways to find the spreads on Harry’s exploits. I could look online, for one thing.”

  “That wouldn’t be as authentic as digging in here.” Greg flicked old cobwebs off a box. “Easier to get in touch with the passage of time since old Harry’s expedition.”

  Only a few of the boxes were dated, but Charlotte had pried open all of them in her search for Evelyn’s time capsule. “I think the date range we’re looking for is on this shelf,” she said, pointing to a line of a half-dozen boxes.

  “Life magazine a possibility?” Greg asked, showing her the top row of one box.

  “Definitely.”

  They found boxes of National Geographic and Time magazines. Greg grabbed them and set them outside the door.

  “That should do it,” Charlotte said. “It’ll be fun to go through them, anyway, regardless of whether we find anything about Harry.”

  Greg brushed her cheek. “More cobwebs, dust and who knows what.” He smiled. “You’re something, you know that?”

  He leaned in closer, and for a moment she thought he was tackling more dust. Then his eyes held hers, and he whispered her name. She threw her arms around him and smiled. “Here I thought I’d have a quiet few days in the New England countryside.”

  “I didn’t. I knew you were coming.”

  “Ha.”

  He threaded his fingers into her hair and drew her closer. “No dust and cobwebs on your lips.”

  “Yours, either.”

  Their kiss was lingering, a hint of what could happen between them—a promise, not just a hope. Nothing about being in his arms felt like a mistake, an impulsive act she’d regret later when she came to her senses, returned to her life in Edinburgh, at least what was left of it. Not that thinking straight with his mouth on hers was easy, or even necessary.

  He deepened their kiss, ending all her intrusive thoughts.

  She heard a door slam shut upstairs—not in anger, she was positive. More like a hurry. Then she heard the rumble of thunder. Andrew and Megan must have come in from Evelyn Sloan’s garden.

  “A thunderstorm,” Charlotte said, standing back from Greg. “Appropriate somehow.”

  “Yeah.” He touched a finger to her lips. “That was okay, wasn’t it?”

  “More than okay.”

  “We can bring the magazines upstairs—unless you want to stay down here to do some more digging.”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  They each carried a box upstairs to the kitchen and set them on the floor by the hall to the library. Andrew and Megan were sorting fresh-picked spinach, lettuce and peas they’d heaped on the counter from their haul next door.

  “We saw lightning and came in,” Andrew said, tossing several spinach leaves into a sink of water. “We made sure Mrs. Sloan got inside before we left.”

  “She’s so sweet,” Megan said. “Chris was still there, and he laughed when I said that. But she is sweet, really.”

  “It was generous of her to let you pick vegetables in her garden,” Charlotte said. “I think she’s sweet, too, in her own way, but I can understand Chris’s point of view. Evelyn strikes me as a solid, interesting woman. He m
ust see that side of her more than the sweet side.”

  Megan didn’t look convinced.

  Charlotte took a closer look at the vegetables. No kale. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Megan shook her head. “Andrew and I will make dinner. A mess of veggies and grilled chicken. Sound good?”

  Charlotte smiled. “Sounds great.”

  “Then shoo,” Andrew said, grinning. “Give us room to work.”

  “No argument from me.” Greg peered over his son’s shoulder into the sink. “Make sure you two get all the bugs out. A little dirt I can deal with. Something slithering across my plate, no.”

  His kids threw towels at him. Andrew searched for bugs in the water but couldn’t find any. Laughing, Greg grabbed his box of old magazines and headed down the hall. Charlotte followed him to the library with her box. They set them on the floor in front of the fireplace. Thunder rumbled nearby, the late-day light turning gray.

  “You can trust me, Charlotte,” Greg said softly.

  She hadn’t expected such a comment. Her breath caught in her throat. “I do. I want to. Yes... I trust you, Greg.” But her voice was low, barely a whisper, and she didn’t know what she’d said aloud, what he’d heard.

  “We could do better for a kiss than an old cellar, that’s for damn sure. And we will.” He opened up his box. “Shall we see what we’ve got?”

  Seventeen

  Isle of Skye, Scotland

  Samantha nursed her smoky Scotch at a boisterous bar where she and Justin had curled up in a booth in a dark, relatively quiet corner. They’d arrived on the picturesque Isle of Skye late yesterday and had spent today checking out the dramatic mountain landscape, one of her favorite spots in Scotland. She’d visited the island with her parents and uncle and his gang, and with Charlotte—and now with Justin, she thought happily. The weather had turned stormy since they’d finished their road trip, but their room was just up the stairs.

  Events at home in Knights Bridge had also turned stormy. Samantha had read the texts about Evelyn that Justin received from the two Sloan brothers who were in town this week. “Do you want to call Eric or Christopher?” she asked.

  “No. Gran’s okay.”

  It would have been awful if the search for his grandmother had continued into the night, or if it had ended with her hospitalization—or worse. But Samantha didn’t need to say that out loud to Justin. He knew. His brothers had interrupted their honeymoon only because they wanted to know if their grandmother had mentioned the time capsule to them or if they’d found it. They weren’t concerned about her mental state. They were concerned she’d try again to find it.

  “I love the idea of a hidden time capsule, I have to admit,” Samantha said.

  Justin smiled. “You would.”

  “Homesick?”

  “Not even a little. Gran’s good. That’s what counts.”

  Samantha noticed a rugged-looking man in his thirties enter the pub. She recognized him at once and swore under her breath.

  Justin frowned at her. “What?”

  “I should have picked a place I didn’t know. Damn. That’s one of Tommy’s friends.”

  “The Tommy at the wedding?”

  “Uh-huh. We can sneak upstairs before he sees us.”

  “Sneaking isn’t your style, Sam.”

  She sighed. “No, it isn’t.”

  And the diver—Brian Jones—had already spotted them and wove through the crowd to their table. “Sam Bennett—hey, that is you. Great to see you.”

  “You, too, Brian. This is my husband, Justin Sloan. Justin, this is Brian Jones, an avid recreational diver.”

  Justin gave Brian a curt nod. “Good to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Brian said. “You’re married now, Sam?”

  “For less than a week,” Samantha said. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

  “Oh. Bad timing on my part. Sorry. Have you seen Tommy lately?”

  “He stopped by the wedding.”

  “Seriously? Was Charlotte there?”

  Samantha nodded. “She was my maid of honor.”

  “That took balls on his part. He’s in New England now. He’s working his way to a new job in Florida. He left...” Brian thought a moment. “Must have been Monday.”

  “What’s he doing in New England?” Justin asked casually.

  Brian shrugged. “Work. I don’t know any details.”

  Samantha felt the single malt burning through her. Her stomach ached, but it wasn’t the Scotch, she knew. It was Brian, Tommy, her concerns about her cousin. She decided to be frank. “If you’re in touch with Tommy, tell him to stay away from Charlotte.”

  “One thing we all know, Sam, is that Charlotte can take care of herself. I’ve got no problem with her.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “She saved my life.”

  “That was you?”

  “Yeah. I was an idiot. Arrogant. I got ahead of myself. I’m not proud. Charlotte nearly died getting my ass out of that wreck. I...uh...” He breathed out heavily. “I think about it a lot.”

  “But you’re okay?” Samantha asked him.

  “Thanks to Charlotte, yes. Pisses Tommy off that she was the one who saved me. He says there are no hard feelings between them, but I don’t know. Well, I have only gratitude toward her. She’s something.”

  Samantha felt mildly guilty for having assumed Brian was there in solidarity with Tommy. His presence appeared to be a simple coincidence.

  “Do you know how badly Charlotte was injured in this accident?” Justin asked quietly.

  “Not officially. Not the details. I had mild decompression illness myself. All better now. I haven’t seen her since she saved me. She didn’t have symptoms at first—must have come as a shock that she was in as rough a shape as she was. I hate to think it was her last deep-sea dive.” Brian sniffled, his cheeks bright pink. “Look, you two should be enjoying your evening. I’ll leave you to it.”

  He retreated, not staying for a drink after all. Relieved, Samantha waited until the pub door had shut behind him before she turned to Justin. “Sorry about that. Maybe we should have picked someplace else for our honeymoon.”

  “Family’s with us wherever we go.” He moved in closer to her. “I’m enjoying Scotland. And you. No complaints.”

  She leaned against him, listening to the rain and wind lash the pub windows. She decided to change the subject. Nothing to be gained from discussing Brian Jones, Tommy Ferguson and a diving accident her cousin hadn’t wanted to talk about. “What do you think is in your grandmother’s time capsule?”

  “Something Gran doesn’t want us to see.”

  “Intriguing.”

  “Her family had more money than my grandfather’s family did. I don’t think she ever expected to marry a carpenter from Knights Bridge and stay there for the rest of her life.”

  “Something she and I have in common.” Samantha sipped her Scotch, feeling warm next to Justin, and loved, and safe. “I imagine she misses your grandfather.”

  “He was a great guy.”

  “Think he’d have liked Scotland?”

  “He and Gran visited Scotland when they retired. They loved it. Gramps said he liked the rugged scenery and Gran said she liked the tea and scones.”

  “Haggis?”

  “They both hated it.”

  Samantha laughed. “Something we all have in common.” She felt Justin’s arm come around her and settled against him. “I could fall asleep right here.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Need me to carry you up to bed?”

  “Almost.”

  But she made it on her own, sinking into the warm double bed with him as the wind and rain continued. “Not much room,” she whispered.

  “We don’t need much roo
m.”

  Eighteen

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Thunderstorms rolled through Knights Bridge overnight, lighting up Charlotte’s room as if they were determined to warn her she was playing with fire kissing Greg Rawlings and she needed to get her head straightened out. She and Greg had found a Life magazine spread on Harry’s Antarctic expedition, which had nearly gone down in history as a disaster instead of a triumph. One picture showed him with his two brothers as boys on their hardscrabble New Hampshire farm. Charlotte had stared at the young faces for a long time before heading up to her room.

  By morning, the skies had cleared, and Andrew and Megan talked her into driving them and their dad to Boston in Harry Bennett’s old Mercedes-Benz. Charlotte noticed Greg said little as they packed up the car and left, but she thought his silence had more to do with Andrew and Megan’s imminent departure rather than having her along for the drive to the airport.

  Traffic was relatively light into the city. They had time to stop at Harry’s bowfront Back Bay house. Charlotte found a parking space on the street instead of slipping in back to the private space off an alley.

  “Wow,” Megan said, walking up the steps to the gleaming black-painted front door. “I didn’t expect a mansion.”

  Even Andrew, usually more reserved than his sister, was impressed.

  Greg gave a low whistle. “I gather Harry bought the Mercedes-Benz new, not used.”

  Charlotte pushed open the door. “It’s in good shape. Harry divided his time between London and Boston and hated to drive.”

  She stood back while the Rawlings family entered the house. She hadn’t been inside it herself in years, but Samantha had told her it hadn’t changed. Charlotte gave her guests a tour of the house’s four floors. Three years after Harry’s death, the classic nineteenth-century Back Bay house felt as if he’d stepped out for an adventure.

  As they started back down to the entry, Charlotte broke off and ducked into Harry’s office on the second floor. “It’s tidier than I remembered,” she said, aware Greg had followed her in. “Harry was a notorious pack rat.”