in the generous mouth, some hint of…what?
Fear? Why would the likes of Caroline Hampton be afraid of a hick township cop?
For a moment she held the ticket in her left hand, motionless. Then she turned to stuff it in her handbag. The movement to grasp the bag shoved up her right sleeve.
Bruises, dark and angry, even though they’d begun to turn color, marred the fair skin.
“Can I go now?”
He nodded. “Drive safely.”
There was no reason to hold her, no excuse to inquire into the fear she was hiding or the marks of someone’s hand on her wrist. He stepped back and watched her pull out onto the road with exaggerated caution.
No reason to interfere, but somehow he had the feeling Caroline Hampton wasn’t there on an ordinary visit.
“Thank you, Grams.” Caroline took the delicate china cup filled with a straw-colored brew.
Chamomile tea was Grams’s solution to every ill. Declaring Caroline looked tired, she’d decided that was just what she needed.
The entrance of Emma Zook, Grams’s Amish housekeeper, with a laden tray looked a little more promising. One of Emma’s hearty sandwiches and a slab of her shoofly pie would do more to revive her than tea.
Rachel hurried to clear the low table in front of the sofa, giving Emma a place to deposit the tray. Since Rachel, her two-years-older sister, and Grams had turned the Unger mansion into a bed-and-breakfast inn, the room that had once been Grandfather’s library was now converted into a sort of all-purpose office and family room.
The walls were still lined with books, and Grandfather’s portrait presided over the mantel, but the desk held a new computer system. Magazines devoted to country living overflowed a handmade basket near the hearth, and Grams’s knitting filled one beside her chair.
Caroline took a huge bite of chicken salad on what had to be fresh-baked whole wheat bread. “Thank you, Emma,” she murmured around the mouthful. “This is wonderful.”
Emma nodded in satisfaction. “You eat. You’re too skinny.”
That surprised a laugh out of her. “Most women I know would consider that a compliment.”
Emma sniffed, leaving no doubt of her opinion of that, and headed back toward the kitchen and the new loaf of bread she no doubt had rising on the back of the stove.
Grams’s blue eyes, still sharp despite her seventy-some years, rested on her in a considering way. “Emma’s right. You don’t look as well as you should. Is something wrong?”
Since there was no way she could tell just part of the story, she couldn’t tell any of it. “I’m fine. Just tired from the trip, that’s all. It’s good to be here.”
“If you’d let us know, I’d have had a room ready.” Rachel was ever the innkeeper. “Never mind. It’s just good to have you home.”
Now was not the moment to point out that this hadn’t been home to her since she was six. After beginning her prodigal-daughter return with an encounter with the police, she was just relieved things were going so well with her grandmother and sister.
Her mind cringed away from that moment when she’d heard the wail of the siren. It was not the local cop’s fault, obviously, that the sound still had a power to evoke frightening memories. Still, he hadn’t needed to give her a ticket. He could have just warned her.
Pay the two dollars, as the old joke went. Just pay the fine, which was likely to be considerably more than that, and forget the whole thing.
Barney, Grams’s sheltie, pressed at her knee, and she broke off a tiny piece of sandwich for him and then stroked the silky head. Tiredness was settling, bone deep. She hadn’t stopped for more than a few hours all the way back, pushed onward by a panic she’d only just managed to control. That was probably why she’d been speeding when she hit the Churchville village limits—that unreasoning need to be here.
She glanced across the table at Rachel, who was curled up in an armchair, nibbling on a snickerdoodle. Neither she nor Grams had asked the question that must be burning in their minds: Why had she come?
She ought to have created some reasonable explanation during that long trip, but she hadn’t. How could she begin? They didn’t even know she’d gotten married.
It had seemed like such a sweet idea when Tony proposed it—to wait until they had time to make the trip east and then tell both her family and his in person about their marriage. He’d said his people lived in Philadelphia. Was that true, or was it a mirage, like so much of what he’d told her?
As it had turned out, it was just as well that her family didn’t know. If they did, it would be one more reason for them to look at her with the faintly pitying, faintly censoring expression they so often wore.
Poor Caro, the one who’s always in trouble. Poor Caro, the one who can’t seem to get her life together.
“You look beat,” Rachel said, getting up abruptly. “We can catch up on things later. I’ll make up a room so you can get settled and take a nap if you want.”
Grams stopped her with a slight gesture. “It occurred to me that Caroline might want to have Cal’s apartment. Now that he and Andrea are living over in New Holland, it’s just standing empty.”
Rachel stared at her. “But…won’t she want to be in the house? Why would she want to be out in the barn apartment by herself?”
When she’d been here at Christmas, Caro had seen the apartment her older sister’s husband had built in one end of the barn where he’d started his carpentry business. It was simple and uncluttered, with a skylight that would give her plenty of natural light for painting. As she so often did, Grams had known exactly what she needed.
“It would be perfect.” She interrupted Rachel’s argument about her quarters ruthlessly. “Grams, you’re a genius. I’d love to have the apartment. If you’re sure—I mean, you could rent it to someone else.”
“Nonsense.” Grams’s smile warmed her heart. “It’s yours. I thought it would suit you.”
Rachel still looked troubled at the idea, but she nodded. “Well, fine, then. It’s clean and ready. I’ll help you move your things in.”
“Great.” It seemed to be a done deal. She’d gone from mindless running to having a home. The thought was oddly disorienting.
Had she really been thinking rationally when she’d packed up what she could fit in the car, arranged to ship the rest, written a note to her boss at the gallery and fled Santa Fe without a backward glance? What would Rachel think if she knew? Or worse, Andrea, the oldest of the three of them, with her sensible, businesslike approach to every problem?
She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. She’d just known she couldn’t stay there any longer. The urge to run was too strong. The frightening encounter in the plaza had tipped her over the edge, but the need to leave had been building since before Tony’s death—probably from the moment she’d realized she’d married a man she didn’t really know.
She
