Bolted (16 page)

Ryan glanced at Owen again, clearly unhappy with the idea of discussing his marriage in front of a stranger. Sophie found she really didn’t care whether Ryan was happy or not. “About the divorce?”

“It was…” Ryan licked his lips. “It was sort of a misunderstanding. My fault, really. Just incompatibility. Sort of.”

Sophie decided that was the lamest excuse she’d ever heard. But she also decided she really wasn’t interested in hearing much more from Ryan McBain, particularly since she doubted he’d tell her the truth. “Well, I haven’t heard anything more from Greta, as I said. I can have her call you when she comes back.”
Assuming she does come back.
Sophie pushed that thought from her mind.

“I’m not leaving town just yet. I thought maybe I’d talk to people around Promise Harbor a little before I left. See if I could find out any more information.” He was looking uncomfortable again.

“Any more information about what?” Sophie felt a slight sting of exasperation. The man made no sense at all. And she didn’t much care for the thought of him stirring up more gossip in the harbor. “We’ve already asked the people who were at the wedding and they haven’t seen her.”

“Look, this is my responsibility.” Ryan pulled himself up so that he was sitting very straight, the model of a responsible male. “If Greta’s done anything…”

“Done anything?” Sophie stared at him. “What do you mean ‘done anything’? She just drove away. She didn’t knock over a liquor store.”

“Suicide,” Owen said flatly, staring at Ryan. “You think she’s killed herself.”

Ryan’s face turned pink, his lips narrowing to a thin line. “I don’t know what to think.”

Sophie’s exasperation instantly morphed into full-blown rage, with perhaps a slight tinge of fear. Had he heard about her depression after Dave had died? Was he assuming like mother, like daughter? Maybe Josh had thought she was suicidal, but he’d been wrong. She’d never come close to suicide, even when she was at her lowest. And Greta hadn’t even seemed depressed. Suicide? The very idea made her want to slap him across that smug, WASPy face.

“You think my daughter would hurt herself? Over you? You conceited ass! My daughter would never kill herself over you. Or over any other man. She’s got too much good sense to do something like that.” She pushed herself to her feet, her hands shaking. “Get out of my house. Right now.”

“Sophie…” Ryan looked scandalized.

“I’m serious, Ryan. You get out. If you think Greta would hurt herself over you, you obviously don’t know her at all. Which is maybe why you’re not married to her anymore.” Sophie closed her hands into fists at her sides. She didn’t really think she’d sock him, but she wasn’t entirely sure.

Ryan rose stiffly to his feet, his expression grim. “I hope you’re right, Sophie. Believe me, I’d prefer that. But I’m still going to look for her.”

Owen put his hand on her arm. “Better leave now,” he said to Ryan. “Sophie wants you to go.”

Ryan opened his mouth again, then closed it abruptly. He started toward the front door, then turned. “Honestly, Sophie, I’d rather be wrong.”

“Then you’re going to get your wish,” she said through gritted teeth as she watched him walk away.

Owen rubbed his hand across her shoulders after the front door had shut behind him. “Okay?”

She closed her eyes. “Yes, now that he’s gone. The nerve of that man. The iron-plated nerve.”

“Any news?” Owen raised an eyebrow.

“Just what Hayley said—no accidents, nobody unaccounted for at the hospitals.”

“Checked your phone today?”

Sophie frowned. “She’d call on the landline, and there aren’t any messages there. She knows I don’t like the cell.”

He shrugged. “Better check anyway.”

She frowned again, but dug the cell phone out of her purse, flipping it on as she did. And saw the flashing icon.

“There’s a call.” Her throat felt tight all of a sudden.

“Voice mail. Click on it.”

Sophie clicked, then put the phone to her ear. The voice was the one Greta used when she was trying to pretend she didn’t feel guilty. Sophie recognized that voice from a long series of teenage catastrophes. “Hi, Mom. Just wanted to let you know I’m staying at a hotel up the road for a couple of days. They needed a cook. Don’t worry, please. I’ll be home by the end of the week.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Then she put the phone on speaker and played the message again.

Owen shrugged. “Sounds okay.”

“Yes, she does.” She tried to keep her voice from rising. “And when I see her again, I will tell her just what I think of her little adventure. In detail.”

“So she’s cooking.” He shrugged again. “That makes her happy.”

Sophie took a breath, ready to tell him just how angry she was. But a picture of Ryan McBain’s clueless face floated through her mind.
Happy.
Had Greta been happy lately? She’d always really enjoyed cooking. Maybe she was enjoying herself now. “Yes,” she murmured. “It’s probably making her very happy.”

“Going to tell her ex?” He raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head. “No. Let him wander around and make a fool of himself. I think that would be good for him. Or anyway, it would be good for Greta.”

Owen nodded. “Sounds fair. What about Greenbush Island?”

She turned to look at him. With his blond hair and green eyes, he looked a little like Allie. But he looked more like Owen.
Dear Owen.
Such a good man.

“I think it would be a wonderful idea,” she said slowly.

Greta made three dozen muffins for breakfast, leaving two dozen of them for Alice to sell in the general store. Greta was a little curious about how much Alice would charge today, but not curious enough to brave whatever sarcastic comments Alice might have about her activities the night before.

Activities. Nice way to put it, Greta.

Nadia came in while she was rolling out dough on the kitchen table.

“Pie?”

Greta nodded. “I got some blueberries at Merton.”

“We have some growing in the backyard. Hyacinth could pick some—she’s quite good at it.”

Greta wondered briefly if Hyacinth was speaking to her again. She was betting on not. “Maybe for the next one.”

“Of course.”

One of Nadia’s penciled brows arched as she smiled, and Greta braced herself. Maybe she could head her off at the pass. “How was the movie?”

“Oh, all right I suppose. Some sort of cartoon. Hyacinth liked it.”

“Good.” Greta kept her gaze on her piecrust, willing Nadia to go away.

“And how was your evening?”

“Fine,” Greta said flatly.

“Did you have your picnic?”

“Yes.”

“And where did you go?”

Greta considered not answering, but she doubted that would be enough to shut Nadia off. “Tompkins Lake.”

“A pleasant spot.” Nadia readjusted the pink pashmina around her shoulders. “Did it work?”

Greta bit her lip.
So
not what she wanted to have a conversation about right now. “We had a good time. Thank you for suggesting it.”

“You’re welcome. I’m also going to suggest something else. Why don’t you take Hank some lunch at his dig or his hole or whatever it is? I don’t know what he eats normally, but I’m willing to bet it isn’t particularly healthy.” She picked up one of the leftover muffins, peeling off the paper sleeve. “I’m sure we could spare you for lunch. Also dinner, assuming you make something that can be warmed.”

Greta leaned back against the sink, drying her hands. “Okay, Nadia, what exactly is going on here? Are you a total romantic or what?”

Nadia shrugged. “I’m sure Alice would say that I am, but she’d be wrong. I don’t believe in pairing everybody off. Life’s not like Noah’s Ark, after all.” She adjusted the pashmina again. “On the other hand, when I see two people who seem compatible and who could both benefit from the relationship, what’s the harm in doing a little matchmaking?”

Greta gave her a dry smile. “For the record, I sort of started this particular match myself.”

“So you did. Although rescuing Hank from a hole could hardly be regarded as a strategy.” Nadia’s eyebrows arched again. “Unless, of course, you contrived to put him there in the first place.”

“Nope.” Greta picked up her dish towel again. “I’m not that forward thinking, I guess. I’m still not ready to be matched up by somebody else, though. I’d rather think it was my own idea, all in all.”

“Could I ask why you’re resisting? Do you object to Hank or do you object to the idea itself?”

Greta bent over the sink, washing the last of the coffee cups and very deliberately not looking at Nadia. “I just wonder…”

“Wonder?” Nadia prompted.

“If this is some kind of rebound thing,” Greta finished in a rush. “I mean, I’ve only been completely divorced for a couple of weeks. And we were only separated for two or three months before that. It hasn’t been that long since I was married.”

“Do you miss your husband?”

Greta frowned, considering the possibility. “Not really. I sort of miss being married—I mean, I liked having somebody to talk to every day or so. But I could have gotten that with a roommate instead of a husband.”
And the sex might have been better.
She pushed that thought to the back of her mind rather quickly.

“Companionship is an important quality,” Nadia agreed. “Still, there are more important considerations, at least in my experience.”

“You were married?” Greta tried not to sound surprised.

Nadia nodded. “Twice, in fact. I outlived both of them, which wasn’t entirely unexpected but still not what I’d hoped for. I came to live here with Alice after my second husband died.”

“And Alice was married too, or at least I assume she was since Hyacinth is her granddaughter.”

Nadia nodded. “Married for over thirty years. Divorced for a decade or so now. Her daughter Annette is Hyacinth’s mother. She’s currently on tour with the Boston Symphony. Plays viola.”

“Oh.” Greta wasn’t sure what to add to that, so she settled for nothing.

“But none of this has anything to do with this rebound nonsense,” Nadia continued. “If you don’t miss your ex-husband for anything other than a sounding board in the evening, I’d say you’re not really suffering from a broken heart.”

Greta sighed. That much was definitely true. “No. My heart is bruised but intact.”

“Then a nice affair with Hank should be perfectly okay with everyone, I’d say.”

Greta opened her mouth to object to the “nice affair” thing but stopped. It
was
a nice affair. Very nice, in fact. And she couldn’t really think of a single good reason not to go ahead with it. “Thanks, Nadia.”

“Don’t mention it. I like to think the two of you would have stumbled into a relationship even without my prodding. I merely speeded up the process.” She smiled again. “But I’d still suggest taking him a sandwich around noon.” She flipped the pashmina over her shoulder and swept out of the kitchen.

Greta stared down at the dish drainer. Surely she could make another ham sandwich or two. And surely Hank could spare her a few minutes at the dig.

Chapter Twelve

At twelve fifteen, Greta packed up the same battered picnic basket they’d used the night before with basically the same meal—sandwiches, chips, cherry tomatoes, a couple of peaches, and two sodas. Instead of rose geranium cake (the rest of which had completely disappeared by the time they got back to Casa Dubrovnik), she included a couple of peanut butter cookies she’d baked that morning.

Alice raised an eyebrow, Nadia gave her a smile, and Hyacinth avoided her gaze just as she had ever since the Carolina incident. Greta really hoped she could get the child to talk about the whole turtle problem, but she wasn’t ready to try it now. She made sure the Dubrovniks had enough soup and sandwiches for their own lunch and headed for her car.

She hadn’t really spoken to Hank since they’d parted the night before. He’d asked her to come to his room for a beer, and part of her had really wanted to do just that. But the more sane part reminded her that she had to get up early to make the muffins and coffee for the general store. Plus, of course, she felt a little weird about going into his room cold-bloodedly as it were. It was one thing to be overcome with passion on the shore of a lake in the moonlight. It was quite another thing to decide to go to Hank’s room because the sex had been really good and she wanted to try for a rematch.

Although, of course, that had been absolutely true.

Now she drove carefully down the bumpy gravel road to the field where Hank’s truck was parked under a maple. There was another car there too for once, an ancient Toyota with a rusted fender and bald tires. Greta wondered if it had actually been parked there deliberately or if the driver had simply abandoned it where it had finally reached the end of its lifetime.

She hoisted the picnic basket out of the backseat and headed up the path with the
Danger
signs. At least now she knew they didn’t apply to her.

She stepped into the clearing and stopped abruptly. A strange man was climbing up the ladder out of the excavation, carrying a sack of rocks over his shoulder.

For one insane moment, she thought he might be some kind of criminal. A serial killer. A rock thief. A tomb robber, although that made no sense at all since Hank’s hole wasn’t a tomb, or at least she didn’t think it was.

He looked to be about medium height, although it was hard to tell since he was still partly in the hole. He wore a tank top and jeans, with a blue bandanna wrapped around his head. After a moment he turned and saw her, his forehead furrowing. “Hello?”

“Where’s Professor Mitchell?” she blurted.

The man stepped out of the hole and lowered the rocks to the ground. Once she got a good look at him, she revised her estimate downward—more like a boy than a man. Long, stringy blond hair hung below the edge of the bandanna, and he had a sprinkling of acne across the bridge of his nose. “Dr. Mitchell?” he called. “Somebody here to see you.”

Hank’s head popped up at the end of the excavation. Fortunately for her ego, he broke into a grin as soon as he saw her. “Hey, Greta. What’s up?”