Unearthed Page 4

  Without looking at the menu, she set it on the corner of the table. “Sounds delicious.”

  A waitress approached and lit the two blue candles intertwined in the old-fashioned lantern centerpiece. “Have you made your choice?”

  The young woman scribbled their similar orders in a notepad before retreating as quietly as she’d appeared.

  “Why do I have the feeling you’re a regular client?” The flames dancing on the candles cast fire in her hair, surrounding her face with a mystical aura.

  “Not a regular, but I know the owner. He comes to the clinic and always brags about the food.” Which is responsible for Benoit’s high cholesterol level.

  “I see.” That faint foreign accent he hadn’t been able to place played in her voice. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Born and raised on the island.” Elbows on the table, he leaned forward, hoping her sudden interest stemmed from more than mere curiosity. “My parents are retired schoolteachers. A few years back, they moved to Ontario to be closer to my sister and her three girls after her husband abandoned them.”

  A wistful expression added years to her age. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. My sister calls him Good Riddance.” His former brother-in-law had been a mistake. Nobody missed him.

  The waitress excused herself and placed two plates in front of them. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  Rowan picked a shrimp by the tail and sank her teeth into the delicacy. A small gasp of delight escaped her mouth. “This is delicious.”

  “Glad you like it.” At this rate, he might be able to secure a second date. He unscrewed the bottle of wine. “White wine?” Red wine gave him a headache, and he avoided it like the plague.

  Once she nodded, he filled her glass halfway. “Do you have any siblings, Rowan?”

  “An older brother, Hunter. He and his wife are expecting their first child any day now.” Her eyes shone a darker shade of green. “Mom and Pa are thrilled at the prospect of getting a grandbaby.”

  “Mattie shares your last name. Was she your Pa’s sister?”

  Rowan’s melodious laughter enveloped their table. “No. Not even close.”

  “I’m confused.” Proud of his superior intelligence and quick wits, he rarely admitted to confusion.

  “To make a long story short, Mattie was my father’s older sister. He died before I was born. Pa is my stepfather.”

  “I see.” Mattie’s mysterious little brother had indeed existed and died like the rumors said, but not before he had perpetuated the family line. What a shame. “And Mattie left you her bed-and-breakfast?”

  “The lawyer told me the house had passed from mother to daughter for four generations, and I was Mattie’s closest female relative. I’m guessing she wanted to continue the tradition.”

  “Interesting.” Had it occurred to him that tradition played a role in Mattie’s reluctance to sell, he would have used a different approach. “How well did you know Mattie?”

  “I didn’t. My mother never met my father’s family. After he died, she tried to contact them, but they never responded. She respected their silence, and we grew up knowing nothing about them. To learn I had an aunt was a shock.”

  To learn Mattie had had a niece had been a shock too. “Would you like me to tell you about your family?”

  “Of course I do. I want to know everything about my aunt and my grandparents and—”

  “Hold on and take a breath,” he teased. Unlike his most recent dates, her youthful enthusiasm was refreshing. “We have the entire evening.”

  “Patience isn’t a virtue I possess, Doctor.” She popped another shrimp in her mouth and waited with a glint in her eyes.

  Chapter Five

  Chris’s dinner tale fed Rowan’s appetite for her past. There was so much she never knew about her father or the O’Reilly clan. Buccaneer had been her father’s ancestral home, but it seemed his existence was shrouded in mystery.

  “The O’Reillys were private folks who kept to themselves. Rumor had it your father ran away when he was a teenager and met a brutal end.”

  Not a brutal end but a horribly sad one. “He was a firefighter, and he died in the line of duty before I was born. My grandparents or aunt never mentioned him?”

  “Not that I recall.” Chris dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin, catching a small dribble of sour cream. “Your grandparents drowned when I was thirteen, I remember. A sudden storm rose and caught two dozen fishing boats off-guard. Most of them sank. The ocean released some of the dead, and your grandmother’s body washed ashore a few days later. On August fifth, the mayor will erect a stone in the park to commemorate the twentieth anniversary of the tragedy.”

  Twenty years. She would have been a baby when her grandparents died. Within a year, Mattie had lost her only brother and her parents. Not fair, but like Rowan had learned the painful way, life wasn’t fair. “What happened to Mattie after they died?”

  “She went on a long trip. Again, rumors abounded. Some said she flew to Europe with a married man; others said she joined a cult. Personally, I think she went on vacations to forget her loss.”

  Small-town gossips never ceased to amaze her. “How long was she gone?”

  “Almost a year.” He leaned back in his chair. The light blue polo shirt with midnight blue stripes he wore accentuated his toned physique and highlighted the color of his eyes. “During Mattie’s absence, I checked on the house every day. I mowed the lawn, weeded the garden, cleared the snow—the whole caboodle. She paid well, so I didn’t mind, but I can tell you the house was in dire shape. When the wind blew, the curtains ruffled, even with the windows closed.”

  “The heating bill must have been atrocious.”

  Deep laughter resonated from Chris’s throat. “I see you inherited Mattie’s sense of humor along with her house.”

  She wished she’d known her aunt. “What was Mattie like?”

  Reaching across his empty plate, he captured her hand. “She was a spirited woman. Not much daunted her, and when she had an idea in mind, there was no deterring her.”

  The touch unnerved her, and she fought the temptation to pull away her hand. “She sounds more like my mother than my father.”

  The arrival of the waitress allowed Rowan to retrieve her hand without risking offense to him.

  “Would you like dessert, miss? Sir?”

  With a tilt of his head, Chris appeared to leave the decision to her.

  “Not tonight. Thank you.”

  “Very well. I’ll bring the bill.”

  As the waitress turned on her heels, Chris raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You did ogle the chocolate cake on the dessert menu.”

  His sense of observation was noteworthy. “Maybe another night. I’ve already eaten too much. What I need is a walk on the beach.” Or a run along the cliff. Alone.

  “That sounds like a wonderful idea.” He gazed at her with a tender smile. “Shall we?”

  ***

  To deal with his repressed emotions, the psychologist had suggested writing. Alone in the attic room, Avery followed the therapy and escaped into an imaginary world of his creation.

  Words flew from his fingers onto the keyboard of his laptop. He derived immense satisfaction from orchestrating someone’s murder all the way down to the last gory detail, the last agonizing breath.

  He paused to gather his thoughts. The protagonist behaved in a convincing manner, and his motives were clear, but this particular scene lacked intensity. He wanted the readers to share the victim’s fear, to feel the hair rising at the nape of her neck, and the goose bumps prickling her skin.

  The wind seeped under Buccaneer’s roof and whistled through the attic walls.

  A case of beer was stashed at his feet, and a large can of tomato juice sat on the corner of the desk. He fetched a beer and grabbed a clean glass from a tray on the window ledge. Long ago, Grandpa Stone had taught him how to mix a decent Red Eye. Two-thirds beer, one-third tomato juice, stirred counte
rclockwise twice with the index finger. By the time he reached drinking age, Avery had developed an abiding taste for the brew he had often licked from his index finger.

  Invisible shadows squeaked and whished around him, scrambling his mind and fraying his nerves.

  He took a mouthful. The bittersweet liquid didn’t shush the background noise. Exasperated, he banged his glass on the desktop, then wandered across the room. The closet, or whatever hid in the closet, appeared to be the source of the ruckus, but to his recollection, he hadn’t stored in there anything that moved on its own or produced any sound.

  His hand instinctively reached for his missing gun. Without it, he felt naked, exposed, more so than wearing only plaid boxers. He lifted the latch and opened the door.

  Something—a bunch of somethings—flew out of the closet and grazed his bare chest. Arms and cane flinging in every direction, he retreated.

  “Bats.” He grunted after another close encounter with the creatures flying erratically around the room.

  He hated the bloodsuckers and counted five—no, six of them. If he had his gun, he’d use them as shooting targets and have a blast.

  Forget the bloody gun. It belonged to his past. As fast as his wounded leg allowed him, he hobbled to the window where two of them screeched against the bug screen, their elongated fingers clinging to the mesh.

  “Want to get out? I’ll show you out.” With his cane, he punched a large hole in the screen and shooed them outside. When the last one crossed the threshold, he shoved the windowpane shut and yanked down the blinds.

  Silence at last.

  ***

  One hand tucked in the crook of Chris’s elbow and the other carrying her sandals, Rowan walked barefoot in the soft sand. “I didn’t mean to coax you into taking a walk with me. It was just an observation.”

  A lamppost near the lifeguard station illuminated his face. “I’m glad you suggested it, Rowan. This little stroll on the beach is very romantic.”

  The stars shining in the cloudless midnight blue sky were reflected over the ocean, like silver sparkles sprinkled over the water. The only romantic elements missing were the northern lights—and Bjorn. She hadn’t heard from Bjorn. Every day that he didn’t call, a speck of hope died, and a tiny new rip appeared over her heart. At this rate, the scars would never heal.

  Chris sneaked his arm behind her back and pulled her close to his side. “Is something wrong?”

  She forced a smile. “No. Nothing.” Above the sand dunes, a tall chain-link fence guarded rows of oddly shaped trees. In the semidarkness, the leaves of the trees rustled. “Is that an orchard?”

  “The apple trees are part of Cormoran Vineyard. They surround the grapevines and protect them from the wind, or so I was told.” He slowed down, and his chin brushed her hair. “Jimmy, the owner, is an old friend.” The waves carried his whisper into the night. “If you agree to see me again, I’d love to take you for a private tour and tasting.”

  The doctor was a nice man, and he’d given her an interest-free loan. She couldn’t in good conscience refuse his invitation. And the vineyard piqued her interest. Besides, it might be fun. It wasn’t like she hadn’t enjoyed her evening with him. Through no fault of Chris’, Bjorn had crept between them on the beach and ruined the mood—her mood anyway. “I’d love that.”

  He turned toward her, and their eyes locked, the intensity of his gaze holding her captive. Gently, he cupped her face. “I’m having a wonderful evening, Rowan.”

  His thumb caressed her cheek, and small shivers cascaded across her skin. He tipped his head, leaning closer. At the touch of his lips, the sandals slipped from her fingers, hitting her foot. She ended the kiss in a gasp of pain and recoiled from his arms. A wave rolled over her ankles. Flustered by her reaction, she looked down at her sore toes.

  In the moonlight, her sandals drifted to sea with the receding water.

  ***

  A rumbling stomach and an empty can of tomato juice enticed Avery down the stairs.

  In the heat of the night, he didn’t bother slipping shorts over his boxers. With O’Reilly undoubtedly gone till morning, Gail in her private quarters, and the Jensens, a middle-aged couple wearing different styles of wedding bands but carrying a matching set of luggage, retired to their room, the house stood eerily still and quiet.

  The kitchen floor creaked under his weight. He turned on the fluorescent light over the sink and hooked his cane on the handle of the stove near the tea towel. On the fridge door, a note was pinned under a teddy bear magnet.

  Mr. S.,

  I saved three slices of pizza for your midnight snack.

  Wrapped in foil, middle shelf, on the left.

  Gail

  The note cheered his spirits. The good woman had remembered the innocuous remark he’d made about a midnight snack during supper. “Thank you, luv.” He opened the fridge. Each homemade slice had been individually wrapped.

  A door squeaked. He let go of the fridge handle and seized a kitchen knife from the wooden block near the breadbox. Steps grew louder, closer. Armed and ready, he waited for the intruder.

  O’Reilly appeared in the doorway and gaped. Water dripped onto the floor, forming a puddle around her bare feet. “What—” Her eyes narrowed, suspicion overshadowing her initial shock. “What are you doing?”

  In a smooth, nonthreatening manner, he lowered the knife. “You’re supposed to take your clothes off when you go for a midnight swim.”

  “Very funny.” A wet blouse hugged alluring curves. “My misfortune doesn’t concern you. What are you doing with a knife?”

  “Getting something to eat.” He grabbed a bagel from the breadbox and sliced it sideways. “Want something?”

  “No, I…” As her gaze washed over him, a lovely shade of red flushed her cheeks.

  “Curb your interest, O’Reilly.” He cursed himself for not putting on pants. “I’m out of your league.”

  “I’m not—I didn’t—” Like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck, she stared at him with those wide, gorgeous green eyes.

  To spare her further embarrassment and salvage his dignity, he tossed the dishtowel at her. “Wipe the floor and go to bed. In the morning, you have a window to fix.”

  Forsaking the bagel and the pizza, he snatched the cane he despised needing and limped away before she regained her wits.

  Chapter Six

  “Not a ghost. Wrong comparison.” Stone might be elusive, but Rowan doubted a ghost ever sported a chiseled chest, broad shoulders, and muscular legs like her attic’s resident.

  She ascended the steep staircase to the Starfish Room with a tray of clean glasses in her hands.

  In no uncertain terms he’d told her to curb her interest, but that didn’t include her curiosity. Stone had been the one standing half-naked in the kitchen last night, a fresh scar marring his right thigh, while she’d dripped seawater on the floor like a leaky faucet.

  “What a way to end a disastrous evening.”

  Darkness and smothering heat welcomed her into the Starfish.

  Buccaneer didn’t have air conditioning, and to keep the rooms at a comfortable temperature, she encouraged her guests to leave their windows open. She placed the tray on the desk, rolled up the blinds, and slid open the windowpane.

  A gap in the screen allowed bugs to fly in.

  “What did you do, Stone? Throw a bottle of beer in an itsy bitsy fit? That’s reserved to spiders.” To temporarily stop the flow of winged visitors while allowing the breeze to cool down the room, she taped a sheet of paper over the hole.

  After changing the towels, she approached the bed. A handwritten note was stuck to the pillow.

  BEWARE: GUANO IN THE CLOSET

  “Guano?” Images of bats and caves crossed her mind, taking her back to Iceland. “It’s been over two months.” Had Bjorn truly loved her, he would have contacted her by now. The sooner she accepted her fate, the sooner she’d be able to move on. She crumpled the note and threw it in the garbage can. �
��One problem at a time.”

  First, the bed. She smoothed the top sheet and tucked it under the mattress. The blue and purple hand-sewn quilt had been tossed onto the floor. She picked it up, shook it, and laid it back on the bed. The starfish stitched in the fabric played hide-and-seek among rows of uniquely designed shells. Of all the quilts in the house, this was her favorite. “You better be nice to it, Stone.”

  After collecting the dirty glasses and replacing them with clean ones, she opened the door of the closet. Dark brown droppings specked Stone’s belongings. “Smelly geysers, what happened here?” When she’d inspected the property, Bill had assured her they didn’t have any pest problems.

  Not impressed by her handyman, she closed the closet door. “Window first.” She didn’t need any more unwanted visitors sneaking in. Then she’d deal with the mess and whatever had caused it.

  ***

  Holding the notice he’d found taped on the door below the peephole, Bjorn paced the kitchen of Rowan’s apartment, waiting for the landlady after summoning her to meet him there.

  It’d been six weeks since he’d kissed Rowan goodbye, thinking he’d see her twelve days later. He’d gone through the entire apartment for clues that would explain her decision. Her personal items were gone. All that remained of hers were a few books, the bedding and towels, and some kitchen stuff. Even the shower curtain with the sea turtles on it was gone.

  Someone knocked and entered before he had time to exit the kitchen. “Mr. Arnarsson.” The landlady, a tall and leggy blonde in her mid-thirties, joined him.

  “What’s going on?” He was in no mood for pleasantries, so he jumped to the matter at heart and waved the notice in the air. “Why does Rowan need to vacate the place by the end of June?”

  “Miss O’Reilly never paid for the month of July.” Her eyebrows knitted over her nose, she gave him a stern look. “I tried calling her, but when she didn’t return my calls, I rented the apartment to someone else.”