quiet life, Nora had found peace and stability and hope.
She’d had the wide clapboards repainted last summer in the same cream color Aunt Ellie had chosen back in 1926. The trim was pure white. It was almost Halloween, but the porch swing was still out, the flower boxes planted with bright yellow mums.
With the house having been shut up all day, Nora left the front door open to catch the afternoon breeze while she went back to the kitchen. It was still thirty minutes before her first student arrived. Time enough for a cup of tea.
She’d made a few changes to the interior of the house, softening some of Aunt Ellie’s relentless formality. She’d covered the furniture in pale neutrals and had added cotton throw rugs, Depression glass, quilted pastel wall hangings. There were two small bedrooms upstairs, one downstairs, a small library, a living room and a dining room that she’d converted into a music room, shoving the gateleg table up against the wall to make room for a new baby grand.
Nora, however, hadn’t changed a thing in the kitchen. Its white cabinets, pale gray-blue walls and yellow accents didn’t need changing so far as she could see. Her friends said she should get a microwave, but she hadn’t yet succumbed. Before she died, Aunt Ellie had purchased a toaster oven. It still worked fine.
After putting on the kettle for tea, Nora sat at the kitchen table and looked out at her darkening yard. The bright leaves of the sugar maple had already fallen to the ground. Lately, birds had taken to fattening themselves at her bird feeders. Soon it would be completely dark. Winter wasn’t far off.
She sighed. She loved autumn; she even loved winter. So why was she hovering on the edge of depression?
She fixed a proper tea: Earl Grey tea leaves, her English porcelain pot, her matching cup and saucer, milk in a tiny milk glass pitcher. A sterling silver spoon. Homemade butter cookies from her favorite bakery. She put everything on a teak tray, which she carried out to the music room.
And nearly dropped it all on the floor.
Moving with the speed and silence of a panther, Cliff Forrester took the tray from her and set it one-handed on the gateleg table. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
In his five years in Tyler, those were the first words Nora remembered his ever saying to her. She’d bumped into him on occasion at the hardware store, but Liza Baron’s fiancé had made clear he didn’t want to be disturbed at Timberlake Lodge. He wanted to be left alone. To heal his wounds and chase his demons or do whatever it was he did. Nora had heard all the rumors and possibilities. He was a tall, dark man. He didn’t look like…how had Liza put it? Like his family were East Coast mucky-mucks.
“It’s quite all right,” she said, sounding stuffy even to herself. “I was expecting a piano student.”
“You play?”
“Mmm, yes.”
His brow furrowed. “I didn’t know.”
How could he have known? They’d never even officially met until now. “Would you care for a cup of tea? I made more than enough. I always end up having to throw out half the pot.”
He shook his head. “No thanks.”
And then he smiled. Nora found it an unsettling experience, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. She felt no attraction to Liza’s lover. It wasn’t that at all. Then what? Men in general, she thought, disgusted with herself. Tall, dark men from Rhode Island in particular.
Too darned much thinking, she added to herself.
“Are you all right?” Cliff Forrester asked.
She nodded. “Perfectly.”
“I gather you know who I am.”
“Cliff Forrester. Yes, I think everyone in town knows.”
The corners of his mouth twitched in an ironic smile. “I guess so. Look, I won’t keep you, Miss Gates.”
“Nora,” she corrected.
“Nora, then.” His dark eyes probed her a moment. “I came by because of Liza. She was grateful for the way you treated her the other day.”
“I’d do the same for any of my customers, Mr.—”
“Cliff. And I think you would. Liza and I are…” He paused, seeming awkward, even pained. “We want this to work.”
Nora thought she understood what he was trying to say. The Body at the Lake, the wedding, Alyssa Baron, Judson Ingalls, Liza’s return to Tyler, the incessant gossip, long-lost Margaret Ingalls—it was a lot. And then there was Cliff Forrester himself. A recluse. A man uncomfortable around even small crowds. A man, it was said, afraid that something, someone, would trigger a bad memory and he’d crack. Hurt himself. Worse yet, hurt someone he cared about.
“Is there anything I can do?” Nora asked, instinctively wanting to help.
He seemed to relax, at least slightly. “If there’s anything you can think of to help Liza through this thing, I’d appreciate it. She doesn’t want to alienate anyone. She’s trying.”
Wasn’t that what Liza herself had said about him? Nora found their concern for each other touching. This, she thought, was what love and romance were about. Two people coming together as individuals, not asking the other to change, not demanding perfection, not expecting fantasies to come true. Just loving and accepting each other and perhaps growing together.
“I wouldn’t be interfering?”
“No.”
He was, she thought, a man who knew his own mind. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”
His smile was back, or what passed for one. “Thank you.”
“No need. It won’t be long before Liza feels at home again in Tyler. She has family and friends, Cliff. They’ll be here for her.”
“I’m glad you already are,” he said, and before she could respond, he was out the door.
Nora debated a whole two seconds, then went after him, catching him on the front porch. “Cliff?”
He turned, and there was something about him as he stood against the dark night—something both dangerous and sensitive—that hinted at his pain and complexity. Liza Baron hadn’t solved all his problems. Nora suddenly wished she’d just sat down and drunk her tea instead of following him out. But what to do about it now?
She licked her lips. “Um—Liza mentioned that you’re from Rhode Island originally. I was…well, I knew someone from Rhode Island once.” She sounded ridiculous! “It was a while ago, but I—”
“Who?”
She swallowed. She’d never said his name aloud, not in public. “A guy by the name of Sanders. Byron Sanders.”
Cliff Forrester remained stock-still on her porch step, staring at her through dark eyes that had become slits. Nora chose not to dwell on all the more lurid rumors about him.
“He’s a photographer,” she added quickly. “He did a series
