was a dear boy.” Mrs. Anderson wiped away tears with the back of her hand. She hesitated, studying Kate’s face and then glancing away. “Did you come...” She let the question fade away, obviously curious but hampered by good manners from probing a sensitive subject.
Kate had a wry inward smile for that convention. It was one of the first things to go for a reporter. Well, the story she’d told Whiting had better stay consistent.
“I’m taking a little time off before looking for a new job, which will mean relocating. I thought I’d like to spend some time in Laurel Ridge. This place seemed to mean a lot to Jason.” She paused, but she may as well go after what she really wanted. “I hoped your cottage might be available to rent for a few weeks, maybe a month.”
The woman’s expression grew wary. “Are you sure that’s wise? Maybe it’s not...not healthy.”
Was she afraid Kate would kill herself with drugs and alcohol, the way Jason did? The thought stung, and Kate had to force a smile.
“The cottage sounded so charming from the way my brother described it. And I’ll be writing several freelance articles while I’m here, so I’d appreciate having the extra space to work.”
That seemed to mollify the woman, but there was still a trace of doubt in her eyes. “Yes, well, why don’t we take a look at the cottage first? Maybe it won’t be what you want at all, and I have several lovely rooms in the house.”
“Thanks. I’d like to see the cottage.” She waited, the smile pinned to her face, letting the silence grow between them. She’d guess Mrs. Anderson wasn’t very good with silences.
“Yes. Fine.” The woman gestured toward the door she’d come in. “We’ll go out the back.”
A dining room lay behind the parlor, complete with built-in cabinets containing an elaborate china service. An oval cherry table was large enough to seat a dozen, making her wonder how many guests were in residence. The place seemed very quiet.
The kitchen beyond was obviously Mrs. Anderson’s own domain, with a corner devoted to a computer and filing cabinet and another turned into a cozy nook with a television and a recliner. On the opposite side a glassed-in sunroom looked out on flower beds.
Mrs. Anderson gestured toward the long table that occupied the sunroom. “I serve breakfast there from seven to nine on weekdays and eight to ten on Saturday and Sunday. Or if I have a party that wants to meet together, I can set up in the dining room.” What sounded like a routine announcement was interrupted by a sudden smile. “Well, really, you can let me know what time you want breakfast, as long as I’m not too busy.”
Encouraged by the thaw, Kate ventured a question. “Did Jason usually have breakfast here, or did he fix his own in the cottage?”
Mrs. Anderson shrugged, sailing on out the back door and dangling a set of keys. “Sometimes one, sometimes the other. On workdays, he’d often just have cereal in the cottage, even though I told him he ought to have a good hot breakfast.”
The words conjured up an image of Jason, hair rumpled, eyes sleepy, crouched over a bowl of his favorite cereal. There were days when he’d eat nothing else for breakfast, lunch and supper unless she intervened.
It was a matter of twenty feet or so to the cottage, but the small building was almost screened from view by an overgrown hedge of lilac bushes that surrounded it, to say nothing of the ivy that climbed up the walls and over the door.
Mrs. Anderson pushed back a lilac branch as she fumbled with a key.
“Sometimes I think I ought to have the dratted things cut to the ground, but they smell so lovely in the spring that I haven’t the heart.” She darted a look at Kate. “Your brother said it was like the hedge around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. He liked it.”
“I’m sure he did.” From childhood, Jason had escaped life through myth and fantasy, and she wasn’t surprised he’d thought of it in that way. “No thorns, thank goodness,” she added.
The door swung open, and Mrs. Anderson vanished inside. “Just let me get some lights on, so you can see the place properly, although there is light from the windows, of course.”
Kate hesitated on the doorstep, one hand on the frame. A tendril of ivy entangled her fingers as if to restrain her. This is it, a voice seemed to be saying in the back of her mind. Once you’re committed, there’s no going back.
I don’t want to go back, she insisted. I’m already in this to the end.
The only possible thing worse than knowing the truth of why Jason died would be never knowing at all.
* * *
MAC WAS STILL thinking about that odd encounter with Kate Beaumont when he headed into the café for coffee. He should be concentrating on the recent explosion of illegal prescription meds surfacing in town. Trouble was, he had a suspicion Kate Beaumont might be likely to set off a few explosions of her own.
“Uncle Mac!” The high, young voice of his nephew cut through the chatter of the lunchtime crowd. “Look what I have!”
Grinning, Mac wended his way through tables to where his mother sat with his brother’s boy, Jamie. Jamie was holding a sticky bun in an equally sticky hand.
“Do you want some, Uncle Mac? I’ll share.”
Mac stepped back out of range of Jamie’s waving hand. “No, thanks. If I eat that in my uniform, I’ll have the bees following me around town.”
Jamie, at eight easily impressed, found that hilarious. While he was doubled up with giggles, Mac raised an eyebrow at his mother. “No school today?”
Ellen Whiting, slim and attractive, shook her head. “Dentist appointment. I’ll drop him at school after lunch.”
“I didn’t have cavities,” Jamie announced proudly around a sticky mouthful.
“So you’re making up for that by eating lots of sugar, right, buddy?” Mac ruffled Jamie’s fair, silky hair.
“Ach, such a sweet boy can use some sugar.” Anna Schmidt, the Amish owner of the Buttercup Café, set a mug of coffee in front of Mac and gestured him into a chair. “I’ll put your coffee refill in a to-go cup, but for now sit down and visit like a normal person.”
“Denke, Anna.” He slid easily into the Pennsylvania Dutch expression he’d heard all his life. “You scold me as much as my mother does.”
“I don’t scold,” Mom said. “I just suggest.”
“Over and over,” he teased. He glanced toward the door at the sound of the bell and stiffened. Kate Beaumont had just come in.
She spotted him and stopped midstride, making him think that she was fighting the inclination to turn around and walk back out again.
His lips twitched. She probably didn’t know how obvious she was. Perversely, he rose, nodding to her and forcing her to recognize him. “Ms. Beaumont, it’s nice to see you again. Come and meet my mother.”
If anyone had a talent for making people thaw, it was Ellen Whiting. He’d be fascinated
