looks better on you, though.”
She was teasing him a little bit; he understood that. But she wasn’t being suggestive or flirty like some of the Lilac Hill guests. It was done more in a kind of natural friendliness some people seemed to have.
She went back to staring at the fire.
“My grandfather used to make things out of cedar,” she said after a moment. “It’s a little hard to watch these cedar logs going up in smoke.”
Something in her voice made him look up.
“I know this old man—he’s Cherokee, I think. Anyway, he says cedar smoke will take your prayers straight up to heaven. It’s not so bad if you think of it that way, I guess.” He put another log into the wood box. “So what did your grandfather make then?” he asked. “Out of cedar.”
“Oh…trinket boxes. Pencil holders and wall plaques.”
“You mean the kind they sell to the tourists, the ones with the poems on them?”
“Hillbilly humor,” she said, and he smiled.
“Some people might call it that. Was he from up around here?”
The woman abruptly looked over her shoulder toward the front windows without answering. Apparently, she was expecting someone.
Mrs. Jenkins, the owner of the B and B, came to the doorway. “The second room is for two nights, too?”
“Yes,” the woman said.
“You might find you like our little valley enough to stay longer—isn’t that right, Meyer?” Mrs. Jenkins called to him. He hated being dragged into this kind of token social banter with the guests, but it went with the job. All in all, he preferred to start and end his own conversations.
“Just might at that,” he said anyway. “A lot of people decide to stay longer than they expected to. It’s helped me out more than once.”
“Meyer is the competition,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “When he’s not teaching at the community college.” The condescension in her voice was heavy enough to pick up and drop-kick. He’d been brought up to behave and not embarrass his kin, however, so he let it go. He also needed the employment Mrs. Jenkins so kindly provided.
“My little place can’t compete with a house like this,” he said, still stacking wood. “I get the deer hunters and the fly fishermen.”
“Your cabin is…charming. Meyer built it himself,” Mrs. Jenkins said, neatly putting him back in his place as wood-carrying employee, whether he sometimes taught at a community college or not. She turned her attention to her new guest. “Did you say your daughter would be here this afternoon?”
“She should be here any time now,” the woman said.
“Would you like some coffee while you’re waiting? Or tea?”
“I would love some tea,” the woman said. “Earl Grey, if you have it.”
“Just make yourself comfortable,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “I’ll bring it to you in here. You can enjoy Meyer’s nice fire. Meyer, are you about done there?” Mrs. Jenkins asked, more to show her diligence as an innkeeper than because she wanted to know.
“Almost,” he said.
“Well, leave some extra logs on the back porch.”
The woman sat down in a Queen Anne chair near the window. “I hope she gets here before dark,” she said, more to herself than to him.
Mrs. Jenkins brought the tea almost immediately, setting the tray on a low table, and then taking her leave. The new guest sat for a moment looking at it, then leaned forward and poured herself a cup. She looked so…sad, suddenly.
Meyer checked for any wood debris he might have dropped on the carpet, then stood to go.
“I hear a car turning in,” he said, and the woman immediately went to the window to look out. “Nice vehicle,” he said of the big luxury SUV that was coming tentatively up the drive.
“That’s her,” she said, smiling and crossing the room quickly to get to the door that opened onto the back porch and the parking lot.
“You made really good time,” he heard her say after a moment, and he stood back as she returned with an attractive younger woman he supposed was the daughter she’d been waiting for. The daughter glanced at him as she passed and he gave her a nod of acknowledgment. She looked flushed and unsettled.
“Welcome to Lilac Hill,” Mrs. Jenkins said from the doorway. “Are you hungry? Would you like some coffee or tea? Your mother was just having hers in here by the fire.”
“No, I’m fine,” the younger woman said, getting her cell phone out of her purse. “I need to make a phone call,” she said to her mother. “And then we’ll…catch up.”
“The reception is better if you’re outside,” Mrs. Jenkins said. She pointed out the nearest window. “There along the path that leads up to the gazebo is the best place.”
“I’ll be right back, Mother,” the younger woman said.
She went outside, and her mother walked back to the Queen Anne chair and sat down again. Meyer could hear a sudden burst of laughter from somewhere upstairs—the other guests or the help. The woman did, too. He could tell by the way she stopped midway in the reach for her teacup to listen, as if she found it upsetting somehow. She let the tea go and leaned back in the chair, passing her hand briefly over her eyes.
He toyed with the idea of saying something to her—just to see if she was all right—but he didn’t. If anything was the matter, it was none of his business. His business at the moment was the Lilac Hill fireplace. He went to get another armful of cedar logs.
The reception wasn’t any better outside. Loran walked farther up the steep hill, finally standing at the bottom of the gazebo steps before she tried again. This time, when she punched in the number, it went through.
She stood waiting in the cold wind for Kent to answer.
“Hello?” someone said finally. The voice wasn’t Kent’s. The voice wasn’t male.
“Don’t answer the phone!” Kent yelled in the background. “Damn it—!”
“It was ringing, silly,” the first voice said. “It might be impor—”
There was a sudden click and the line went dead. Loran stood staring at the phone in her hand. Her first impulse was to redial the number, but she stopped halfway through.
Her heart was pounding and her fingers trembled.
So.
She abruptly sat down on the steps of the gazebo, understanding now. She had been attributing Kent’s recent distraction to his trying to close a lucrative deal with the man whose first wife looked like her. Now, however, she could give it a more precise name.
Celia.
Celia
