The Spring at Moss Hill

by Carla Neggers

  Should he tell Kylie he knew about her alter ego?

  He shook his head, the answer obvious as soon as he’d posed the question to himself. No, he shouldn’t. If she guessed or worried he’d figured out she was Morwenna Mills, let her bring it up. If she didn’t—he didn’t plan to tell anyone. No point. He’d be back in California soon.

  He got a beer out of the fridge and went out to the balcony. The rain had stopped, but the air was raw, the river rushing over the dam, the fog impenetrable. He couldn’t see the sky, never mind any stars.

  Alone on nights like this, would he come up with an adventurous family of badgers?

  He would not.

  He went back inside and bought an e-version of The Badgers of Middle Branch, the first book in the series. He opened it as he sat again by the unlit fireplace.

  It was true. He was reading a children’s book about badgers on a dark, rainy New England night.

  Eleven

  Daphne decided to continue with her rose-trimming despite Loretta Wrentham’s surprise visit. The sooner Loretta, aka Mrs. Julius Hartley, went back to La Jolla, the better, Daphne thought. She liked Loretta well enough, but she had one of those incisive lawyer minds, and Daphne was too preoccupied to deal with incisive. She wanted indulgent, or just nothing—just to be left alone with her roses.

  “I can understand why that little town makes you nervous,” Loretta said, sitting by the pool, easing off her sandals. “I don’t have a secret attic room in the library and an abusive father I left behind in Knights Bridge. The O’Dunns and their goats are enough to make me nervous. And all that romance going on there.”

  “No wonder you ended up marrying Julius,” Daphne said.

  “Ha. True.”

  But she was obviously so happy with him, and he with her. Daphne wasn’t proud of herself for not wishing them well, at least in the beginning. She’d gotten used to having Julius around. There wasn’t and never had been an ounce of lust between them, but they’d become good friends.

  She clipped a wilted peach rose. “My father hated Knights Bridge.”

  Loretta sank back in the lounge chair. “Is that why you’re trying to like it?”

  “I do like it.”

  “But it’s in your past—a past you’re not sure you want to stir up more than you already have. You didn’t get sucked into going back because of anything particular that Ava and Ruby O’Dunn did or said. You got sucked in because of yourself.”

  “No one sucked me into anything.”

  Daphne heard the defensiveness in her voice. Loretta would hear it, too. She wouldn’t care—nothing seemed to bother her—but she’d duly note Daphne’s reaction. She tackled another rose branch. She wore garden gloves but still had managed to bloody herself on thorns. No doubt Loretta noticed that, too.

  “I got caught up in Ava and Ruby’s youthful exuberance,” Daphne added. “Now, push has come to shove, I suppose.”

  “Then you’re going to Knights Bridge this week,” Loretta said. “You’re not backing out.”

  “I promised Ava and Ruby. I might whine and moan, but I keep my promises.”

  “Julius and I can go with you.”

  Daphne shook her head. “You have things to do. I’ll be fine.”

  “But you’d like an entourage,” Loretta said with a wry smile.

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  Daphne set her clippers on the patio table and offered Loretta iced tea. To her surprise, Loretta accepted. Daphne left her by the pool and went into the kitchen to put a tray together. A pitcher of tea, two glasses, a bucket of ice and a small plate with sliced lemons. She took a guess that Loretta didn’t use sugar in her tea.

  Going whole hog with playing hostess, she grabbed cloth napkins and a couple of fresh ripe peaches on her way out to the patio.

  “You’ve got a great house,” Loretta said. “This is a sweet backyard.”

  “I finally have everything the way I want it. I’ll probably start itching to make changes in a year or two, though.” Daphne smiled, taking a lounge chair under an umbrella next to Loretta. “Never satisfied.”

  “We’re making space in La Jolla for Julius’s golf clubs and antique grandfather clock,” Loretta said.

  “I like how you say we even though it’s your house.”

  “It was my house. Now it’s our house.”

  Daphne wondered how long that sentiment would last but decided she was being negative. If she ever married again—and she wouldn’t—she would insist on them both keeping their own homes. She was too set in her ways these days to make space for a grandfather clock. Golf clubs she could manage, she supposed, but she’d always hated golf.

  She and Loretta chatted about the joys and challenges of combining two longtime households, steering clear of further talk of Daphne’s imminent departure for Knights Bridge. She enjoyed her visit with Loretta but knew it hadn’t been without Julius’s knowledge and approval—just a new friend stopping by on impulse.

  After Loretta left, Daphne stayed out at the pool. She felt mildly guilty that she’d inflicted her ambivalence about Knights Bridge on Julius and Loretta. They were moving, starting a life together. They didn’t need added drama from her.

  She gathered up the tea dishes and took the tray into the kitchen, but she left it for later and went into her studio. She sat on the high chair at her worktable and fingered a pair of scissors she’d owned for thirty-seven years. They were her first good scissors. She remembered feeling rich and successful—feeling them cut into fabric for the first time, their glide and precision. She’d had her first few jobs working in costume design by then. She’d been living in a cheap apartment, staying up late and getting up early, waiting tables to make ends meet, and she’d thought life couldn’t get any better.

  Now she was one of the first designers called when a movie was coming together.

  She got out a bit of fabric and cut it with her scissors. She kept them in good shape. They’d last longer than she would.

  Sewing in her secret room in the attic of the library her great-great-grandfather had built had helped her figure out who she was and what she wanted. She’d been desperate to be somebody. To not be the damaged teenager she’d thought herself to be.

  All these years later, she couldn’t believe she’d agreed to return to Knights Bridge—first for the fashion show in September, and now for this master class. She’d let herself get caught up in Ava and Ruby O’Dunn’s talk of their lives, their hopes, their dreams, their desire to give back to their small town.

  And their fascination with her and her work, Daphne admitted.

  She’d let her ego get involved.

  She put her scissors away and left her studio, shutting the door behind her. She never took her work into the rest of the house. It was one of her few rules.

  She went into her bedroom, slipped into a swimsuit and returned to her lounge chair on the patio. She stretched out and shut her eyes, feeling the sunshine on her face.

  What if I’d never left Knights Bridge?

  She shuddered, not wanting to imagine.

  But that was what she was afraid of, wasn’t it? That she’d go back now and discover she’d never left, and all this—her house, her pool, her life—didn’t exist. That Daphne Stewart was a dream of a sad, unfulfilled Debbie Sanderson.

  It wasn’t about Knights Bridge or what she might have done if she’d stayed, whether she’d continued to work at the library or become a teacher or a landscaper or a housewife. It was about this life, here, now, in Hollywood Hills.

  She sat up straight. “I should call Julius and tell him I’ve gone mad.”

  He’d either straighten her out or make arrangements for a long-term care facility.

  “Colt Russell would, too.” She laughed aloud, almost a giggle. “Colt Russell. One
day you’re going to forget his real name is Russ Colton.”

  She was being dramatic and ridiculous, and she knew it.

  Feeling better, she eased off her chair and into the pool, content with her life, more certain about going back East...back home to Knights Bridge.

  * * *

  By her second martini, made, of course, by Marty Colton, Daphne had lost her resolve about her upcoming trip.

  She was also convinced Marty had gone heavy on the pineapple juice.

  She didn’t say anything, because she’d only ordered a second drink after she’d slopped at least a third of the first one on her top. Marty must have decided she’d had too much alcohol for one evening, or she’d started early, when she’d just been clumsy.

  “Have you talked to Russ since he headed east?” she asked.

  “Texted.”

  “Did he mention if Julius told him I’m getting cold feet?”

  Marty shrugged. “So what if he did? You are getting cold feet.”

  “I never get cold feet. It’s a pejorative description for deliberate reconsideration.”

  “Okay, you’re deliberately reconsidering your commitment to teach this class on Saturday.”

  Daphne lifted her glass. “You used commitment to remind me I have an obligation to these people, didn’t you?

  “Uh-uh. Not biting” Marty reached for a bottle on a shelf above his head. “You’re trying to pick a fight with me to keep yourself from thinking about this trip.”

  “That’s absurd. I can hardly think about anything else.”

  “Rest my case.”

  He poured Scotch for another customer. Daphne recognized it as an expensive brand and wondered if a movie star was in the house, incognito. A fun thought. Marty would never tell her. He disappeared to deliver the drink. She resisted gulping her martini. She was in the mood to be reckless. She was reconsidering Knights Bridge. She couldn’t deny it, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault. Picking a fight with Marty wasn’t fair.

  He returned with a small tray with cheese, grapes, figs and nuts. “You look glum,” he said, setting the tray in front of her.

  “I am glum.” She nibbled on a fig. “It’s stupid, wasting time on being glum when nothing’s wrong. No one’s died. I haven’t been fired. I’m not facing a dreaded diagnosis.”

  “I thought you were excited about exploring new opportunities with these theater twins.”

  “They’re fraternal, not identical, twins. I am excited about new opportunities. I just don’t necessarily want them to require my presence in Knights Bridge.” Daphne paused, barely aware she was speaking out loud. “My great-great-grandfather left a positive legacy there. I went there as this miserable, abused girl who ran away from home. I would see his portrait every time I went up to my attic room. I’d talk to him. He’d been dead for decades, but it felt like he was with me.”

  “He helped give you the courage to go after your dreams,” Marty said, matter-of-fact.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “That’s exactly right.”

  “You don’t have to go back there. As I said, this class isn’t a prison sentence. You can cancel. You’re a pro. You could pull off canceling and not look bad.”

  She sighed and reached for two perfect red grapes. “Tell your brother that.”

  Marty laughed. “I don’t tell Russ anything.”

  “I can believe that. What will I do when Julius moves to La Jolla? He’s like a neighbor. I meet him on his deck for coffee from time to time. He has a great deck. I don’t think Loretta has a place for all his plants.” She ate the grapes as Marty waited on another customer. No expensive Scotch this time, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. When he returned, she completed her train of thought. “I can’t believe Julius wants to give up Hollywood Hills and his life here, even for Loretta. Do you think he has doubts, Marty?”

  “I haven’t noticed any.”

  “I imagine Loretta has a beautiful home.” Daphne snorted. “Julius said I can come down and visit. Take a few days and laze by the pool. Visit the zoo. Sounds dreadful, doesn’t it?”

  Marty mopped up a spill. “You just don’t like change.”

  “Change is a part of life,” she countered, defiant.

  “Knowing that doesn’t mean you like it. You’ve had Julius doing your bidding for ten years. Time for new blood.”

  “Russ thinks I’m eccentric and dramatic.”

  Marty grinned. “You are eccentric and dramatic.”

  Daphne took no offense. “He assumes nobody wants to harass or do harm to a mere costume designer.”

  “Russ doesn’t make assumptions.”

  “Isn’t a threat assessment a glorified assumption?”

  “It’s a professional tool to understand risk—”

  “Right, right.” She waved a hand. “I get all that.”

  Daphne didn’t know what to do to dissipate her nervous energy. Probably two French martinis weren’t helping. Knights Bridge. What had she been thinking? She should have let the fashion show last September be enough. Going back a second time was tempting fate. With the date drawing closer and closer, she could feel her anxiety mounting.

  “I have a dark past back East,” she said half to herself. “It’s a personal can of worms I shut a long time ago.”

  “I get that,” Marty said, no hint of impatience in his tone.

  “Does Russ get it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “You aren’t going to give me platitudes?”

  “I don’t know what a platitude is anymore.”

  “I’ve dealt with too many narcissistic types. I don’t want to become one myself.” She frowned at him. “I haven’t, have I?”

  “It’s easy to stereotype people.”

  “I’ve been thinking about my father a lot these days. George Sanderson was by all accounts a decent man with a good head for business and a good heart for philanthropy. My father was named after him. Another George. But any resemblance ended there.” She chose a fat cashew from the little bowl of nuts. “My father was a bastard, Marty.”

  “No doubt.”

  “But he’s dead, and I found my way here.” She ate the cashew and stared at her hands, the skin tanned, an expensive sapphire-and-diamond ring on her right ring finger. She noticed age spots. Heavens. She was getting up there in age, wasn’t she? When had that happened? Finally she looked at Marty Colton again. “You’re not as old as I am, darling Marty.”

  He grinned. “Dirt’s not as old as you are.”

  She laughed. She wasn’t ready to go home yet, but she’d had enough to drink. Three martinis would put her to sleep or, worse, drive her to tears or dancing on the tables. She ordered sparkling water instead.

  And that, naturally, was the moment Julius Hartley walked into the bar.

  “Sparkling water,” he said, easing onto the stool next to her. “That means you’re either half in the bag or wish you were.”

  She sniffed. “Neither. I’m rehydrating. Are you hunting me down, Mr. Hartley?”

  “Not hard to do.”

  “Marty and I were just discussing age and true love. You’re not young, but Loretta...she’s your true love?”

  “She is, Daphne.”

  He hadn’t hesitated. She knew she should be pleased. “You were certain right from the start?”

  “Early on. I wouldn’t say from the start. Loretta thought I was up to no good at first.”

  “She’s a smart woman. I’ve married a few times. One marriage barely counted. We didn’t last two years. I thought it would last forever when we said I do. That was my first husband. He was a good man, but his idea of fun was watching television from six to nine-thirty every single night.”

  “He was boring,” Julius said
.

  “For me. Not for his second wife. They’ve been married thirty-three years. They have a beautiful home and three grown children. I think there are grandchildren now.”

  “Regrets?”

  “A million but never a dull moment. My second husband liked to do things, but he was lousy with money. I’m lucky I have a penny to my name after twelve years with him.”

  “That’s when you first hired Sawyer & Sawyer.”

  She nodded. “One of my smarter moves.”

  “You’re one of the smartest women I know in Hollywood,” Julius said. “You’re no one’s fool, Daphne.”

  She said nothing. She tried her sparkling water. It was horrible. She remembered why she never ordered it.

  Marty set a glass of beer in front of Julius, who took a sip before he continued. “You’re not Debbie Sanderson anymore.”

  “But I am, Julius.” Her throat ached with emotion when she spoke. “Deep inside I am the teenager who ran away from home to Knights Bridge and then took a bus west, not knowing whether I’d end up dead in a gutter.”

  “You always knew you’d end up a wealthy, successful costume designer.”

  “Wished it.”

  “Made it happen.”

  “It could have gone all wrong,” she said.

  “But it didn’t,” he said quietly.

  “I can’t go back home. It was a mistake to think I could. It was one thing to be introduced at a fashion show. Whisk in and out of there. A master class seemed like a good idea, a chance to share my knowledge and experience...” Daphne trailed off, not sure where she’d been going with her thought. She’d been talking to herself more than to Julius. She turned to him. “Ruby and Ava O’Dunn have gotten ahead of themselves, I think, and it’s affected me.”

  Julius drank more of his beer. “You don’t have to get mixed up in their plans.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint them.”

  “I know you don’t, but you’re afraid they’re relying on you—and you don’t want anyone relying on you.”

  “I remember wandering around out by the old Moss Hill mill as a teenager. The ghosts. I’m telling you, they were for real.” Daphne shuddered. “Forget it, Julius. I’m not going.”