the name from when I researched the deed. It’s true that the history of a house in this area does add to its salability,” she added slowly.
“You’ve also got the family tragedy,” Robyn said as she tossed fabric in a briefcase.
“Tragedy?” April glanced up.
“Yes. Anthony’s son, Brett, Brett’s wife and Quinn’s wife all died in a small plane accident four years ago. Brett was the pilot. It was headline news, and it’s surfaced again with Quinn’s campaign. If you ever got your head out of the sawdust bin, you’d know these things, April. I’ve heard that his grandmother babysits Quinn’s daughter. They live on adjoining estates.” Robyn rattled off the name of the most exclusive development in their county. “Now, he’s a man to drool over, my friend. But you probably don’t realize that Quinn’s considered Turner County’s most eligible bachelor. A host of women we know would love to become the second Mrs. Quinn Santini.”
April shrugged. “Let them. I’m not interested in his type, Robyn.”
“Well, I am. Quinn Santini’s so ho…ot,” she drawled, fanning herself with one hand. “He creates tons of talk around the watering holes. Mostly because he’s not photographed with models and bimbos. Ask your dad or brothers about Quinn. He’s a lawyer-turned-politician. If I recall, last year he beat your dad’s firm on some big case. River pollution or something.”
“Eric said Dad’s firm is backing Santini’s opponent, and that would explain why. Dad hates to lose. Anyway, I doubt that these letters are political. They look like love letters to me. If Mrs. Santini loved some guy before she married Anthony, that shouldn’t be exploited.” April’s brow furrowed. “It’s—the letters aren’t in English. I wish I had time to translate a few of them properly. Then I could decide if I should go see the woman and ask if she wants them back, or would she rather I tossed them in the trash?”
Robyn checked her watch. “Yikes, gotta run, sweetie. You’re welcome to stay and pore over them here. I’ll leave my safe open so you can lock them up until you decide. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Santini’s name is Norma. And if her husband built the house, well…it does suggest they could belong to Quinn’s grandmother.”
April rose on tiptoes to hug her taller friend. “Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I’m going to do with the letters. I can’t waste a lot of time on them, though. I want to finish the farmhouse and get it on the market before Thanksgiving. I’ve had good luck selling houses over various holidays, thanks to your terrific decorating ideas.”
“Yeah, well, all this hoopla over the senate race will blow over.”
“Hmm. I may just cast my vote for Santini just to spite my family and Eric. But, honestly, isn’t one politician as corrupt as the next?”
“Quinn gets my vote because he’s yummy. Matter of fact, if you get cozy with his grandmother, I wouldn’t turn down a face-to-face introduction to him.” April laughed as Robyn grinned, hefting her case of samples, and sprinted for the door.
But her laughter died when she opened a letter and tried to read it. Her German was rusty. The words she was able to translate left gaping holes and sentences that made no sense.
Her frustration mounted once she determined all the letters were in German. She finally resorted to studying the photos stuck in the back of the passport. There was no doubt that the young woman cuddled up to the handsome man in the first snapshot was the Norma who owned the passport. Oooh—but the uniform her friend wore wasn’t that of an American soldier. German. An officer, no less.
Biting her lip, April flipped to the second picture. Norma Marsh appeared distressed. Possibly crying. A set of blunt-tipped fingers seemed to hold her back from the man—the German officer—in the previous picture. This time he was in civilian garb. All but the second man’s hand had been cropped. The handsome man who faced Norma looked…stunned, perhaps?
Her curiosity more than aroused, April flipped the snapshots over. The photo of the couple in happier circumstances said Heinz, my love. Colmar, France, 1944. The other said nothing.
Restoring the letters to the order in which she’d found them, April tucked them, plus the passport and flower, in a plastic bag and placed it in Robyn’s safe. She twirled the lock, feeling inexplicably unsettled and sad.
On the spur of the moment, she decided to dig into this now. Using her friend’s computer, April went through the archives of the social register and came up with a current address for Mrs. Anthony Santini. If the letters were hers, April reasoned she’d get this over and done with, and could stop worrying about what ifs.
In spite of rain and the late-afternoon snarl of traffic, April never tired of driving though the green hillsides in this part of Virginia. The Santinis lived in a community of older estates called Rolling Hills, all twenty or more acres apiece. Horse properties. Most were fenced and hooked up to surveillance systems.
She’d never had occasion to visit anyone here but she wasn’t surprised by the ornate wrought iron fencing that seemed to go on for miles. What did surprise her was finding the Santinis’ gate wide open. To give herself a chance to organize what she’d say, or maybe to insure that she could leave on her own terms, April parked outside the gate and walked up the winding drive. The house was spectacular, with columns, mullioned windows, dormers, all architectural features that attracted her. Stables off to the right were predictable. So was the four-car garage on the left, with a garret above, probably for staff. One bay of the garage was open and empty. Someone was gone, or else it housed the silver Lexus parked in the circular drive.
April glimpsed a second, slightly smaller residence set back behind the main house. She recalled Robyn’s saying Quinn and his grandmother shared the premises. She hesitated, wondering if she ought to veer off to the smaller abode. Wouldn’t a man of Quinn’s stature—a single father, at that—need the larger of the two quarters? Still, someone was home in the main dwelling; she might as well find out who.
Bringing up very private love letters with the woman to whom they might belong would be difficult enough, but April couldn’t picture herself explaining them to a man. A grandson, and a lawyer no less. She knew how lawyers’ minds worked. After all, she had two in her family. In the Trent household everything got hashed over, rehashed and talked to death.
She heard voices, so she mounted the steps. And since the Lexus sat in front, probably awaiting someone about to leave, she pressed the doorbell before she could change her mind.
April expected a butler or housekeeper. She was unprepared when a man in his midthirties—tall, blond, handsome and wearing, of all things, a designer tuxedo—yanked open the door.
For a moment they did nothing but stare at each other. In her old jeans, work boots and jean jacket, clean though they were, April knew she fell way short in the eyes of this man. Those blue eyes were so clear, so sharp, she imagined he not only found her wanting, but as she stammered out her name and asked for Norma Marsh, April sensed that he disapproved of everything about her.
“Trent?” The clipped question came with a scowl. “How did you get inside the gate? What’s your reason for barging in on us? This is private property.”
A woman materialized behind the man in the doorway. Her carriage was upright and her figure slender in spite of the fact that her hair was pure white and her face lined. Just as quickly, a sweet-faced child, a girl of five or six, slipped between the two adults. She gaped at April, as if seeing strangers at her door was an unusual occurrence. Which, considering April’s dubious welcome, it probably was.
