“You don’t care if Daphne wears sequins. I won’t tell her.”
“You can tell her. I don’t care.”
“Where are you right now?”
“Balcony outside my apartment.”
“That explains why your teeth are chattering.”
“My teeth aren’t chattering, Julius. I’m dying here, though. Baseball season has started. There’s no cable.”
“There’s Wi-Fi.”
“Helps. Did you and Loretta meet my neighbor when you were out here? Kylie Shaw. She illustrates children’s books. She would have been renting a house out past the covered bridge then.”
“There’s a covered bridge? No, I don’t recall meeting this woman. I’ll ask Loretta.”
“Don’t go to any trouble. I was just curious.”
“That bored, or is this Kylie Shaw attractive?”
“Goodbye, Julius.”
By the time Russ finished his beer, it was six o’clock. Three hours earlier in California. He yawned, but he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. A nap would only make adjusting to the time change worse. Not sleeping much on his flight meant it’d be easier to sleep through the night, but only if he stuck it out now and stayed awake.
He scrambled some eggs and made toast for dinner. Read some of his book, a history of the Quabbin Reservoir and the four towns lost to its creation. When he started dropping off to sleep, he went back onto the balcony. The temperature had dropped precipitously since his beer and his call to Julius.
He could hear something splashing down in the river.
It’d been a long day given his flight and the three-hour time difference, but Russ knew that wasn’t the reason for his restlessness.
He was bored.
He’d never been good at being bored.
The rumors about fire extinguishers and such weren’t enough to engage him. A local fight. Nothing to do with Daphne.
His phone buzzed with a text. It was from Marty. How’s it going? Any snow?
No snow but it’s cold enough. Daphne been in?
Just made her a French martini.
Russ pictured his brother, Daphne, the bar. A different life.
He went inside.
He read more of his book and was in bed by ten o’clock.
* * *
Russ awoke early but not early enough to catch the sunrise. He got dressed and walked down the road to the covered bridge, took a picture on his phone, and figured when he had a decent signal he’d text it to Marty in Hollywood Hills.
He walked back toward Moss Hill but his thoughts took him to a call with Marty ten years ago. Marty had been an MBA student in Phoenix. Russ had been in the navy, stationed in San Diego. He’d considered a variety of options, including becoming a SEAL, but had settled on security and investigative work. He’d always had clarity about his goals. Marty...
Russ smiled. His brother didn’t have goals. He had dreams and ideas.
Lots of dreams and ideas.
He could hear his brother’s voice that day. The confidence, the swagger, the frustration. All were there as twenty-five-year-old Martin Colton tried to figure out what to do to get his parents’ approval.
Hey, Russ. I’ve been busting my ass in school but I’m taking a break to go up in a helo with Dad.
You’ll have your MBA before you know it.
Yeah. I guess. I want to get my pilot’s license. I could do volunteer search-and-rescue missions.
You always have a lot of ideas, Marty. Wish I were going up in the helicopter with you.
Mom’s going with us.
She hates helicopters.
She wants to see Sedona from the air. It’s good, Russ. All good.
Marty’s standard phrase to this day. It’s good. All good.
Russ walked back to the mill. It would be cooler today, with rain moving in by evening. He didn’t mind rain. He saw he had an email from Julius. Loretta had arranged for him to have lunch with Olivia and Dylan McCaffrey tomorrow at their place in Knights Bridge. They had a house in San Diego, too.
He texted his photo of the bridge to Marty.
Four in the morning in California, and his brother texted him back. Nice. It’s like something out of a Bing Crosby movie.
You working on your screenplay?
No. Doing tai chi.
It could be true. Have fun.
Russ unlocked the door to his apartment and went inside. He had today to kill. He could do some digging into the rumors Ruby O’Dunn had reported yesterday, but he had no reason to go deep and risk causing more harm than good. He’d keep an eye and ear out for trouble. In the meantime, he could watch it rain, read his book on Quabbin or The Three Musketeers or do some actual work—such as check out the Knights Bridge Free Public Library where forty years ago, Daphne Stewart, then Debbie Sanderson, had worked.
Also he’d noticed on the library website that Kylie Shaw was leading story hour for three-and four-year-olds later that morning.
Eight
Built in 1872, the Knights Bridge Free Public Library occupied a shaded corner on South Main Street, across the common from the Swift River Country Store. Kylie locked her bike on the rack out front. She’d almost canceled story hour, her one regular commitment in town. She’d awakened feeling out of sorts and vulnerable.
Watched, she thought, walking up the stairs to the library’s front door.
She had only a few minutes to spare before the little ones started to arrive. Having children of her own wasn’t a prerequisite to being a children’s book illustrator. She knew illustrators who didn’t particularly like children, never mind have any, but she enjoyed kids. She’d always envisioned herself having some of her own.
But she wasn’t going there now. She had enough on her mind.
She’d spotted Russ Colton walking down the road toward the covered bridge before she’d set off on her bicycle in the opposite direction. She didn’t know if he’d seen her.
The man was a distraction.
She welcomed the thud of the heavy front door behind her. She loved the late-nineteenth-century character and atmosphere of the library, with its dark woods, marble fireplace and countless nooks and crannies. The land and building had been donated by George Sanderson, Daphne Stewart’s great-great-grandfather. His portrait hung above the mantel in the main reading room. He was middle-aged, his demeanor stern but not severe. Now that it was the twenty-first century, his portrait added to the library’s atmosphere. It had probably seemed contemporary in the 1870s.
Kylie spotted Samantha Bennett, another Knights Bridge newcomer, at a small table in the back of the main floor, a stack of musty-looking books in front of her. An expert in pirates, Samantha was a member of a family of serious adventurers. Her grandfather, Harry Bennett, now deceased, had explored Antarctica. Her parents were exploring sunken World War II submarines off the coast of Great Britain. Samantha herself had come to Knights Bridge in search of eighteenth-century pirate treasure. Now she was engaged to Justin Sloan, the second-eldest Sloan sibling, a volunteer firefighter and carpenter for Sloan & Sons, and as close to a real friend Kylie had allowed herself so far in Knights Bridge.
“Lost in the world of pirates?” Kylie asked with a smile.
Samantha laughed. “In the world of a particularly nasty pirate, in fact. No Johnny Depp as Captain Sparrow in sight today. How are you, Kylie? My spies tell me you have a neighbor at Moss Hill, at least for now.”
“It was bound to happen.”
“Bet you never pictured a California private investigator moving in.” Samantha sat up straight, raking her fingers through her short, dark curls. “Your presence is my cue to pack up, because it means we’re about to be inundated with small children. I love kids, but it’s hard to study bloodthirsty pirates with four-year-olds o
n the premises.”
“We read a pirate book last time,” Kylie said. “It wasn’t about your kind of pirates, though.”
“I hope not. Can you imagine? You’d be banned from leading children’s story hour. How’s it going? This is—what, your third story hour?”
Kylie nodded. “So far, so good.”
“Illustrating children’s books must help.” Samantha yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Sorry. I got here first thing, and I’ve been at it ever since. I should set an alarm for breaks. I need coffee and a good walk before it rains. Chase out the cobwebs. How’ve you been, Kylie?”
“Great, thanks. Working. You?”
“The usual. On the trail of Captain Benjamin Farraday, my mysterious real-life pirate. Justin and I are setting a date for our wedding. It’s going to be in England if we can work out the logistics—we know that much. You lived there for a while, didn’t you?”
“I did, yes. Great spot for a wedding.”
“Most of my family is in England and Scotland at the moment, and Justin’s sister is there with her new husband. Talk about shockers. They’ll be back in Knights Bridge, though, no doubt in my mind.” Samantha waved a hand. “Lots of reasons to have an English wedding.”
“I’m glad things have worked out for you and Justin.”
“Love is in the air in our little town,” Samantha said lightly, getting to her feet. “We’d love to have you over to dinner now that you’re not as crazy busy with deadlines. We’re still out at the Sloan cabin on the pond. I’m surprised my grandfather hasn’t haunted me. He trekked through Antarctica, but he lived in London and Boston. I don’t think he could have stood it here, but I love it.”
Helped to have rugged Justin Sloan in her life, Kylie thought. She wondered if Justin had been informed of the rumors about Moss Hill, given his prominent role at Sloan & Sons, but Kylie decided she didn’t want to give fuel to the gossip by repeating it. Samantha scooped up her books and her tote bag. Kylie left her to it and said goodbye. Dinner with Samantha and Justin felt natural, not forced—not like yesterday’s lunch.
Kylie headed to the children’s alcove at the front of the library, where two little girls had already arrived for story hour. Clare Morgan, the library director, herself the mother of a six-year-old, greeted Kylie. “I think we have everything,” Clare said. “If there is anything else you need, let me know.”
“Should be all set, thanks.”
Fair-haired and a gentle soul, Clare and her son seemed to have been welcomed to their new town. On her last story hour two weeks ago, Kylie had overheard an elderly man ask Vera Galeski, one of the library’s few employees, if Clare, a widow, and Logan Farrell, a Boston ER doctor with roots in town, were engaged yet. Vera’s “Oh, I wouldn’t know” was belied by her flush, suggesting she at least guessed an engagement was in the works.
Romance was indeed in the air around here, Kylie thought, but it had taken a backseat in her own life since she’d created Morwenna, and the Badgers had taken off.
More than a backseat.
Romance wasn’t even in the car with her anymore, but Morwenna wasn’t the only reason.
More children and their parents and minders arrived. If they were aware Kylie was an illustrator for children’s books, no one at the library, including Clare Morgan, knew she was Morwenna Mills. Kylie hadn’t lied—she simply hadn’t mentioned it. Her every-other-week story hour guaranteed she got herself out among her fellow townspeople. As much as she liked children and had always vaguely imagined she would have some of her own one day, it would help if she had a man in her life.
Clare got the children settled with her quiet, firm, direct manner. Kylie had selected two short books, one of them a Curious George favorite and another illustrated by a very talented friend who lived in Chicago with her husband and three young sons...and also didn’t know Kylie was Morwenna.
Once she started, her misgivings about leaving her apartment that morning evaporated, and she got into the stories, enjoying the children with all their energy, variable attention spans and enthusiasm. She’d be back on her bike soon, at her worktable before the rain started. She didn’t know what her PI neighbor was up to today. Would the rain throw a monkey wrench into his plans?
No matter. Russ Colton looked as if he could handle a rainy evening in Knights Bridge.
* * *
He was sitting on a chair by the fireplace, looking relaxed, when she finished story hour.
Kylie had spotted him toward the end of her session. She came to an abrupt halt in front him. “Are you spying on me?”
“Waiting for you. There’s a difference.”
Not much of one, she thought.
Russ pointed to George Sanderson’s portrait above him. “Imagine all old George has seen since he got up on that wall. He doesn’t look like Daphne. Julius teases her that she looks just like him, except for the sideburns, but I don’t see a resemblance.”
“Russ—” Kylie pushed back her frustration “—why are you waiting for me?”
He got to his feet. He wasn’t wearing a Hawaiian shirt today. He had on a black shirt under his open jacket, adding to the air of confidence and competence about him. This wasn’t an easygoing man, Kylie thought. But that made sense, given his profession, and she tried to take it in stride.
He nodded past her toward the children’s alcove. “You were a hit.”
“Curious George was. Do you know who he is?”
“Sure. Mischief-making monkey. Surprised?”
“Even you were a little boy once.”
“Tough to picture me at four?”
She smiled. “Very.”
“I was a cute little devil. I’m not as cute now.” He tilted his head back slightly, giving her a frank once-over. “You look beat, Kylie. The kids wear you out?”
“In a good way. Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“I want to see the room in the library attic where Daphne worked before she moved to California. I thought you might like to join me.”
“I’d love to,” Kylie said without thinking. She’d never been up to the library attic, never mind to the storage room Debbie Sanderson had transformed into a sewing room and taken the first tentative steps to realizing her dream to become a Hollywood costume designer.
“Great.” Russ opened his palm, revealing an old-fashioned key. “Let’s go.”
“No one is going with us?”
“It’s an attic. We don’t need a guided tour.”
They took the main stairs, past the spot where a fierce late-summer storm had knocked a tree through the wall, now fixed. Kylie remembered watching the sky turn green-gray as she’d worked in her bay window in her rented house on the river, deep into her solitary retreat. She’d finally ducked into an interior room, wondering who would come look for her if she were trapped there—but she and the house had come through unscathed. She’d only had to pick up leaves, twigs and a few small branches in the yard. Other places in town—like the library—hadn’t fared as well, but, despite a few close calls, there’d been no serious injuries.
She glanced at Russ, imagining him dealing with severe thunderstorms and their aftermath. Coming to rescue her. Not that she wanted or needed rescuing, but she could see him wielding a chain saw, cutting through brush and trees, lifting beams and shoving aside debris. But, in fact, he worked for a Beverly Hills law firm. She smiled at the incongruity as they came to the attic stairs, narrow and steeper than the wide, formal stairs to the main reading room.
“How long have you worked for the law firm in Beverly Hills?” she asked.
Russ pulled open the door to the stairs. “A few months. I only moved to LA in March.”
“Where were you before that?”
“I was on my own in San Diego. It’s where I ended up after I left the
navy.”
“What did you do in the navy?”
“Security and investigations.”
“That makes sense.”
“It’s worked out okay,” he said, stepping back and motioning for her to go up the stairs. “After you.”
They’d gone up the main stairs side by side, Kylie aware of Russ next to her, solid, taking in their surroundings. She tried not to guess what he was thinking—or looking at as she mounted the attic stairs. She’d dressed in slim pants and a shirt that worked both on her bike and for story hour. Whether they worked for the man behind her wasn’t her concern. And why was she thinking this way?
Because he’s action-oriented, stuck in a small town without a lot to do.
And he was suspicious of her, she thought.
He was potential trouble, in other words.
She came to the top of the stairs. With few windows and the gray of the approaching rain, the attic was dimly lit, filled with shadows and a strong sense of the past. Kylie felt on the wall for a light switch and flipped on the overhead, not that it did much good.
Russ stepped next to her, surveying the attic’s mix of boxes, filing cabinets, paintings and a variety of furniture. “About what I expected. Did you meet Daphne when she was out here last September?”
Kylie shook her head. “I only heard about her appearance.”
“Do you know her story?”
“She got her start in costume design up here, sewing in the attic of her small-town library.”
There was more to Daphne Stewart’s story than that. She had kept her attic sewing room a secret. She’d copied Hollywood dresses and costumes and created her own, practicing her craft, dreaming of a different life. When she’d fled New England and her troubled past, she’d left her secret attic room largely intact, taking little with her as she boarded her first bus west. Her storage-room-turned-sewing-room wasn’t discovered until last summer, when Phoebe O’Dunn, then the library director, had ventured up to the attic in search of vintage clothes for an upcoming fund-raiser.
“I’m sure Miss Stewart must have a lot of memories here.” Kylie hesitated before she continued. “How did she come up with the name Daphne Stewart?”
The Spring at Moss Hill Page 8