Dearly Beloved (3 page)

Just last week, the cover story in
Publishers Weekly
chronicled the retirement of Yates’s longtime editor and the bitter contract battle that resulted in the severed deal between the author and Best & Rawson. According to the article, Yates was about to depart for Europe to research his newest novel and hadn’t yet decided upon a publisher, although several of the most prestigious houses were courting him.

How on earth did he decide to approach me, of all people?
Liza wonders.

True, she’s been getting some PW press herself lately. She recently put together a well-publicized nonfiction deal with an elusive, scandal-ridden senator for a tell-all book. Of course, the powers-that-be at Xavier aren’t aware of just how Liza had managed to persuade the man. And she’ll never tell.

Eagerly, she reaches for the phone and begins to dial the number for the Bramble Rose Inn.

J
ennie Towne hears blasting music—an old Springsteen song—the moment she steps into the first-floor vestibule of the restored Back Bay town house. She rolls her eyes and hurries toward the closed white-painted door ahead, which bears a nailed-on, dark green
1
.

She transfers the stack of mail from her right hand to her left, then fits her key into the lock and turns it. It sticks a little, as always, and she tugs.

Finally the door opens, and she steps into the apartment. She stomps her snowy boots on the rug and deposits the mail on the small piecrust table that once sat beside her grandparents’ front door in the old house in Quincy.

“Laura?” she calls, walking straight to the stereo on the wall unit across the living room. She lowers the volume to practically nothing and promptly hears a disgruntled “Hey!” from the other room.

“It was too loud,” she tells her sister, who appears in the doorway within seconds.

“Oh, please.” Laura tosses her head. Her ultra-short cap of glossy black hair doesn’t even stir.

“Come on, Laura, do you want Mrs. Willensky down here again, threatening to call the landlord?”

Laura shrugs. She says, “Keegan called.”

“What did he want?” Jennie looks up from tugging off her boots.

“What do you think? To talk to you. He said he’d tried you at the shop but you’d already left. He wants you to call him. He’s on the overnight shift and he’s leaving for the precinct at six-thirty.”

Jennie just nods.

“You going to call him back?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, Jen, cut the guy a break. He sounded so pathetic. I mean, he didn’t
say
anything specific, but I could tell the guy’s going crazy without you.”

She tries to ignore the pang that jabs into her at the thought of Keegan hurting. “Laura, I can’t. I have to make a clean break. Otherwise we’ll keep going back and forth forever.”

“I see what you mean,” her sister says dryly, folding her arms and fixing Jennie with a steady look. “You love him; he loves you; you both love kids and dogs and the Red Sox and antiques and the ocean. . . . It’ll never work.”

“Laura—”

“I mean, Jen, I know what your problem is, and you have to get over it. It’s been three years since—”

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Jennie effectively cuts her off, fixing her with a resolute stare.

Laura sighs and transfers her gaze to the stack of mail Jennie dumped on the table by the door. “Anything good come for me?” she asks hopefully. “Like an airmail letter?”

Her new boyfriend, Shawn, is spending a month in Japan on business. She’s been moping ever since he left right after New Year’s.

Jennie shrugs. “I didn’t look.”

She unbuttons her winter coat and hangs it in the closet while Laura flips through the stack of mail.

“Bill, bill, bill, b—hey, what’s this?” she hears her sister say.

She glances up. Laura’s holding an oblong white envelope.

“A letter from Shawn?” Jennie asks, running a hand over her own shiny black hair, exactly the same shade and texture as Laura’s, except that hers hangs well past her shoulders. And right now, it’s full of static, annoying her.

I should just get it chopped off, like Laura did,
she tells herself, even as she hears Keegan’s voice echoing inside her head.
I love your hair long, Jen. Don’t ever cut it.

“No, this isn’t from Shawn. The return address is a post office box on Tide Island,” Laura is saying with a frown. “I don’t know anyone there.”

“Well, open it.”

“I’m afraid to.”

Jennie knows what she’s thinking. Laura’s ex-husband, Brian, pursued her relentlessly after their marriage ended last spring. Her sister had finally been forced to get a restraining order against him. He’d dropped out of sight right after that, presumably returning to Cape Cod, where his parents still live.

Jennie’s aware that her sister is still afraid he’ll resurface and start bothering her again. Brian is a deceptively mild-mannered guy; but when he’s drunk, he’s a monster. Jennie witnessed his violent, alcohol-induced temper on more than one occasion and had suspected he was abusing Laura long before her sister ever admitted it.

“Don’t worry,” she tells Laura now, watching her carefully. “It’s probably just some travel brochure, or a charity asking for money. And if it’s not—if it
is
from Brian—you can take it straight to the police.”

“I know.” Laura, her face taut, opens the envelope carefully and withdraws a sheet of white paper.

Jennie watches her sister’s features, identical to her own except for a small scar by her left eye—courtesy of her ex-husband—gradually relax over the next few seconds.

“What? What is it?” she asks, hurrying across the room and peering over Laura’s shoulder at the letter.

“I can’t believe it. I mean, I never win anything,” Laura says, handing her the letter. “Read this.”

Jennie takes it, noticing that the stationery is heavy and expensive. There is a delicate pen-and-ink drawing of a charming house on the top. The imprint on the stationery reads
Bramble Rose Inn, Box 57, Tide Island MA.
Jennie scans the bold type.

Dear Ms. Towne:

It is our pleasure to inform you that you have won the grand prize in the annual New England Children’s Leukemia Society fund-raising sweepstakes. You are hereby entitled to an all-expenses-paid solo visit to Tide Island on the second weekend in February. The prize includes three-nights, four-days deluxe accommodations at the Bramble Rose Inn, all meals, and round-trip transportation on the Crosswinds Bay ferry. Please confirm with me at (508) 555-1493, upon receipt of this letter.

Sincerely,

Jasper Hammel

Innkeeper

Jennie lowers the letter and looks at Laura. “This sounds pretty good,” she says cautiously.

“It
would
be, if it were any other weekend. Shawn’s coming home that Saturday in time for Valentine’s Day. I already arranged my hours at work so that I could take off and be with him. I can’t go.”

“Maybe you can switch to another weekend,” Jennie suggests. “Then you and Shawn can both go.”

Laura shakes her head. “See that small print on the bottom? It says this offer is only good for that particular weekend. And I remember buying the sweepstakes ticket right before Christmas. The man who sold it to me said the prize was for
one
person, no guests. Sort of a pamper-yourself, get-away-from-it-all thing.”

“I never heard of the New England Children’s Leukemia Society,” Jennie comments, scanning the small print.

“Neither did I. But he told me it’s been around for a while. Actually, I think I’ve seen him before—he looked familiar. He’s probably been collecting for charity before, and I’ll bet I ducked him. If I hadn’t just gotten paid and been feeling rich that day, I probably wouldn’t even have bought the ticket from him. Although, I may have if I knew what it was for,” she adds soberly.

Of course Laura would never refuse to contribute to that particular charity. Jennie wouldn’t either. Their younger sister, Melanie, had died of leukemia fifteen years ago.

Jennie glances again at the letter. “Where’d you buy the sweepstakes ticket, Laura?”

“In the parking lot at Stop and Shop. Don’t worry, Jen. It was legit.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Jenny says.

“But you’re thinking that Brian might have something to do with this, aren’t you? That it’s some sort of set-up to lure me to this island so that he could convince me to give him another chance. Right?”

Jennie meets her sister’s lilac-colored eyes guiltily. “The thought did cross my mind.”

“Trust me. Brian’s not this clever. Can you see him going through all the effort of making up a fake charity, hiring some stranger to persuade me to buy a ticket, and then somehow getting his hands on the stationery for this Bramble Rose place and forging a letter from an innkeeper?”

Jennie grins. “You’re right. He couldn’t do that in a million years.” She glances down at the drawing of the inn again. “Too bad you can’t go. It looks really cozy.”

“Why don’t
you
go instead Jen?” Laura asks suddenly.

“Didn’t you read the rest of the small print? It says the prize can’t be transferred.”

“So? We’re identical twins. When was the last time we switched places?” Laura asks with a grin.

Jennie smiles. “I thought we agreed never to do that again after that time in high school.”

Her sister’s boyfriend hadn’t been very appreciative to discover that Laura had sent Jennie on a date with him while she went out with someone else. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have figured it out if Jennie hadn’t done such an unconvincing job of faking a sudden stomachache so she wouldn’t have to have sex with him.

Laura had neglected to mention to her sister that they’d been sleeping together for over a year and he might expect it.

“Jen,” Laura says, “this isn’t high school. Take my driver’s license as ID and go to the island. You can spend some time drawing and painting, or whatever. The place is really artsy. You know, that’s why they call it Tie-Dye Land.”

“Huh?”

“Tide Island—Tie-Dye Land. That’s what everyone calls the place. Didn’t you ever hear that before?”

“Nope.”

“Figures. Sometimes, Jen, you’re in a total fog,” Laura says, shaking her head. “Anyway, a lot of artists hang out there in the summers. You know—long-haired types who wear grungy tie-dye outfits and sit around painting the scenery all day.”

Hmm. The idea of bringing her art supplies to a picturesque island is tempting to Jennie. She’s been too busy lately to spend any time on her hobby. Still . . .

“You have short hair in the picture on your license. Mine’s long,” she points out to Laura.

“So? I got it renewed over a year ago. I could have grown my hair out. Go ahead, Jen. You need to get away after all this craziness with Keegan.”

Keegan.
She winces.

Oh, God. Will she ever be able to hear his name and not react this way?

Jennie glances again at the drawing of the inn. It shows an old-fashioned, scallop-shingled house complete with plenty of gables and a picket fence with a kitten perched demurely on the gatepost. It appears to be a dreamy, quaint little place where you can curl up with a sketch pad and a mug of tea and forget about the painful end of a relationship.

“Maybe you’re right,” she tells Laura slowly.

“I
am
right.” Her sister bounces the few short steps to the telephone on a nearby table. She picks up the receiver and dangles it from her fingers, looking expectantly at Jennie. “Read off the phone number on the letter. I’ll dial. And don’t forget—you’re Laura.”

Jennie sighs. “Right. I’m Laura.” She looks down at the letter and starts reading the number aloud.

Chapter 1

T
he ferry isn’t yet a far-off speck on the dusky horizon, but he knows it’s there, cutting toward Tide Island through the choppy gray waters off the New England coast. Complete darkness will fall well before it docks at the landing down the road to release its load of weekend passengers.

In summer, the Friday-night ferry is always crowded with commuting husbands and vacationing families, college students who work as weekend waiters or lifeguards, couples in love, sticky-faced children.

But now, in the shortest month of the year, when winter is at its bleakest and the island offers nothing but silent, chilly isolation, there won’t be many people on board. Just the few hardy nature-loving souls willing to brave the elements; perhaps some island-dwellers returning with groceries from the mainland; maybe a handful of summer house owners coming out to inspect the damage December’s nor’easter inflicted upon their property.

That’s about it.

Except for
them.

He knows they’re on board—all three of them. Still strangers to each other, but not to him.

He has been watching them for so long now.

Waiting.

A quiver of anticipation passes over him and he cautions himself to relax. He has to maintain control at all times. He can’t afford to take any risks at this point, just when it’s all coming together at last.

After all these years . . .

Soon enough,
he assures himself.
It won’t be long now.

He casts his gaze back out over the water, giddy with excitement. He’d heard on the radio a little while ago that there’s a growing likelihood this weekend might be stormy.

Wouldn’t that be perfect?

Even at this moment, they’re probably enjoying the brisk twilight ride. He pictures them scattered in different corners of the deck or cabin, lost in their own thoughts, thinking about the weekend ahead, filled with excited expectations.

They aren’t the only ones who are looking forward to it.

His features twist with mirth, and he stifles a giggle.

Very, very soon.

He lets the filmy lace curtain drop back into place and turns away from the window.

He still has a lot to do before they arrive.

A
s the ferry leaves Crosswinds Bay and heads out into the open Atlantic, Jennie turns her face into the cold, salty wind and smiles.