Dearly Beloved (6 page)

But Sandy thinks of how the floorboard had creaked on the second floor when she and Jennie were checking in awhile ago and how she had almost felt as though someone might be lurking there, eavesdropping.

Why anyone would want to do such a thing is beyond her, but the notion that they might definitely gave her the creeps then and does again now.

You’re just not used to big old houses,
she tells herself, shaking her head.
Besides, you’re afraid of your own shadow.

If she weren’t such a baby, she would have moved out of her parents’ house years ago. But she can’t stand the thought of living alone.

Not that she’d admit that to anyone, not even Theresa. She tells her friends that she doesn’t move out because she can’t afford to. Luckily, her parents don’t think a woman should leave home until she gets married, so they don’t charge her rent.

Going back over to her suitcase, she removes the rest of her clothes—a few oversized sweaters, turtlenecks, and pairs of leggings—and stacks them neatly in the drawers of an antique bureau. She catches sight of herself in the mirror above it and leans closer to examine her reflection.

You have such a pretty face
. . . . How many times has she heard that?

She knows it’s true—her eyes are big and brown and fringed with thick lashes, and her lips are full and red, and she has dimples in her cheeks when she smiles.

Will Ethan Thoreau think she has a pretty face, too?

She takes her quilted pink makeup bag out of her suitcase and unzips it. She opens a compact and begins meticulously applying blusher, tracing the contours of her cheekbones the way the girl at the Clinique counter showed her.

She wonders what time Ethan will arrive on his private plane and whether she should change into her new skirt and sweater just in case he decides to pop in at the inn without calling her first.

She decides against it. Why waste her best clothes on a chance? She looks fine in the chocolate-colored stretch pants and matching oversized tunic she has on. Not only does the outfit camouflage her bulges pretty well, but it exactly matches the shade of her eyes. At least, that’s what Danny told her when she wore it on Christmas.

Sandy smiles when she thinks of him. She can always count on her favorite brother to compliment her.

She can’t seem to help feeling a little wistful ever since he married Cheryl, his college sweetheart, and moved out of the house last summer. Of course, they only live a few blocks away and Danny still goes out of his way to be nice to Sandy, but things aren’t the same between them.

Not that Sandy resents Cheryl.

It’s just that she wishes she had someone, too.

Maybe things will work out with Ethan.

Maybe he and Sandy can buy the cute little split level down the street from her parents. She’s always loved that house, and just the other day, she noticed a For Sale sign on the snowy lawn. It would be a perfect starter home, and it already has a swing set and sand box in the backyard.

Sandy reaches for her eyeliner and smiles as she imagines the children that she will have with Ethan Thoreau.

And when the floorboard creaks above again, she doesn’t even notice.

Chapter 2

L
iza is starving.

If it weren’t for that—and the irresistible savory aroma wafting up to the second floor—she wouldn’t be on her way down to the dining room for dinner. She certainly isn’t in the mood to mingle with the other guests—small talk isn’t her forte, and there’s no point in wasting an effort on people she’ll never see again, anyway.

But she can’t ignore her rumbling stomach.

And anyway, it’s not as though she has anything else to do tonight.

D.M. Yates isn’t going to contact her until tomorrow. The innkeeper, Jasper Hammel, had handed her a pink telephone message slip when she checked in. All it said was that Yates had called and would be in touch again in the morning.

When Liza questioned Jasper Hammel about the message, he’d shrugged and told her he wasn’t the one who had taken it—must have been the hired girl, but she had already left for the weekend.

And when Liza asked Jasper Hammel what he knew about the famous author, he’d shrugged again. Yes, Yates had a house on the island. No, Hammel had never met him. Didn’t Liza know he was a recluse?

“Of course I know that,” Liza had snapped, biting her tongue to leave off the
you idiot
that would have followed naturally.

Jasper Hammel hadn’t seemed fazed by her tone. He’d regarded her calmly from behind his wire-framed glasses, then said, “You will be joining us for dinner in the dining room, won’t you? Eight-thirty sharp.”

“No, thanks,” Liza had muttered.

And now here she is, hurrying down the stairs to the main floor, lured by the rich, mouth-watering scent that fills the air.

She hesitates in the entryway for only a moment before following her nose through the archway to her left, passing through a cozy parlor and into the dining room.

Though she hasn’t seen or heard any of the other guests until now, for some reason, she’s expecting to find a crowd gathered for dinner.

Instead, only two other people are seated at the enormous, polished wooden table, tucked away at the far end, across from each other. Classical music plays softly in the background, and it’s especially fitting in a room like this, with its old-fashioned furnishings and decor.

Candles glow on the ornately carved sideboard and in the center of the table. Heavy burgundy-colored drapes are drawn over the two windows, and the elaborate crystal chandelier gives off only a dim glow.

It takes a moment for Liza’s eyes to adjust to the lighting. When they do, she’s startled to recognize the woman from the ferry—the one with the kind, lilac-colored eyes and the straight dark hair. The other person seated at the table is a pudgy, round-faced woman who’s wearing too much makeup and yammering away to the brunette, who’s obviously trying to seem interested.

At first, neither of them sees Liza.

Then the chatterbox turns around and spots her.

“Hi!” she says brightly, waving.

Liza clears her throat and wishes she’d stayed upstairs. But it’s not too late to go back. She mumbles a reluctant “hello,” but before she can take a step backward, Jasper Hammel sweeps into the room carrying a huge platter. On it is an elaborate presentation of lobsters and shellfish and what looks like heaps of wild rice and vegetables.

“Oh, good, Liza, you’ve decided to join us,” he says, spotting her in the doorway. “I was counting on you.”

He motions to the head of the table, where a third place setting waits.

Liza moves toward it and slips into the chair, aware that both of the other women are regarding her curiously. She focuses on the table, taking in the hunter-green brocade place mat, the delicate china with its ivory background and gold trim, and the silver that’s obviously been lovingly polished. An etched crystal goblet sits in front of her place, and it’s already filled with amber liquid.

“The wine is great,” Sandy says, and Liza looks up to see that she’s watching her with wide, friendly brown eyes. “Not too dry. I hate dry wine.”

“Really? I like dry wine.” Liza reaches for the glass, taking a sip. Not as fine as the bottle of chardonnay she’d shared last night on her first date with Albert, a stockbroker, at Le Cirque on the Upper East Side. But not bad, either.

“Liza Danning, this is Sandy Cavelli,” Jasper says, sweeping a hand to indicate the chubby woman, then motioning toward the brunette, “and Laura Towne. I’ll be right back.” He disappears into the kitchen again.

“Nice to meet you,” Sandy says cheerfully, turning back to Liza.

“You, too.” Liza glances at Laura, including her.

The woman seems subdued, merely nodding over her own wineglass.

Liza recalls the way she snubbed her on the ferry. Well, how was she to know she’d be sitting at a dinner table with her later?

Nothing like an awkward beginning, though.

“So you’re staying here alone, too, huh?” Sandy asks Liza, breaking the strained silence.

“Yes.” Liza frowns slightly, realizing that no other places are set at the table. The other guests must have gone out to eat—even though it’s raining steadily outside now. And where could they have gone? She hadn’t noticed a single open restaurant, or even a sign of life, on the boardwalk.

Come to think of it, she hasn’t seen any signs of other guests, either. . . .

“What a coincidence,” Sandy comments.

Liza catches her hungrily eyeing the platter full of food on the table.

“What’s a coincidence?” Laura speaks for the first time, putting down her glass.

“You know, that three girls would all come to a place like this, alone.”

Liza arches a brow at Sandy’s reference to them as
girls.
She’s about to open her mouth, but Laura says, “I don’t usually travel alone. My—I won this trip, and it was only for one person.”

“You won it? How? I never win anything,” Sandy tells her wistfully.

“It was one of those charity sweepstakes things.”

“What charity?”

“I can’t remember,” Laura says simply and reaches for her wineglass again. She doesn’t sip it, just spins the stem in her fingers, and Liza decides she’s looking for something to do with her hands. For some reason, she looks uneasy.

“How about you, Liza? What are you doing here alone?”

Doesn’t she ever mind her own business?
Liza wonders, studying Sandy’s eager, curious expression.

“I’m here on business,” she informs her tersely, and waits for the inevitable.

Sure enough . . .

“What kind of business?”

“Publishing.”

“Wow. Are you an editor?”

Liza nods.

“Where?”

“New York.”

“What publisher?”

“Xavier House.”

“Wow.”

Liza can’t tell if Sandy’s ever heard of them or if she simply says
wow
to everything.

Sandy clears her throat and says, “I don’t usually travel alone, either.”

Liza nods. She can tell Sandy wants her to ask what she’s doing on the island this weekend. But she doesn’t really care. And she isn’t in the mood to be polite.

After a pause, Sandy looks at the platter of shellfish and rice and licks her lips.

Liza glances at Laura again and sees that she’s staring off into space, still fiddling with her glass.

After a few more moments of silence, during which the strains of classical music and the pattering of raindrops against the windows seem to grow steadily louder, the door leading to the kitchen suddenly swings open.

Jasper Hammel breezes back into the room, carrying a cloth-covered basket that gives off the unmistakable yeasty aroma of hot bread.

“Here we are,” he says, setting it on the table and reaching for a silver serving spoon near the platter of hot food. “I’ll serve. Sandy, why don’t you lift your plate for me?”

“Sure. Um, what is it?”

“Steamed fresh shellfish on a bed of wild rice with grilled spring vegetables. I prepared it myself, and I’m sure you’ll find it tasty.”

“Steamed and grilled . . . that’s great. Low fat.” Sandy lowers her heaping plate and smiles at Liza and Laura. “I’m on a diet.”

They nod.

As Jasper fills Laura’s plate next, Sandy goes on, “I’m meeting a guy here this weekend. A surgeon. He’s totally great-looking. And he’s flying in on his private plane.”

Liza arches a brow. Either Sandy’s lying or the great-looking surgeon is pretty hard up. Why else would he date such a dumpy, unsophisticated chatterbox?

She finds herself asking, despite her vow not to make conversation, “Where did you meet him?”

“Oh, we haven’t met yet. It’s a blind date.” She hesitates. “He . . . uh, he answered an ad I placed in the personals.”

That explains it.

Liza lifts her plate for Jasper, who dumps a heaping serving of rice on it, then scoops up some oysters and mussels.

The food is delicious, which isn’t surprising. Liza would expect to find excellent shellfish on Tide Island, and Jasper Hammel strikes her as the kind of man who would enjoy cooking.

As they eat, he hovers, pouring wine and urging them to have more rice, another piece of bread. He makes conversation about the island as he bustles about, telling them that it’s a lovely place, particularly in the winter, when there aren’t many tourists around “to spoil it.”

“We’re tourists,” Liza can’t resist pointing out.

The man actually blushes, and his mouth quivers nervously beneath his trimmed brown mustache. “Oh, but I didn’t mean
you
,” he says quickly. “I meant all the people who have no regard for the wild, natural beauty of the place. They litter and they stomp all over the dunes and they make a dreadful racket with their blasting radios and screaming children.” He shudders. “It’s not pleasant.”

“How long have you been running the inn?” Sandy asks.

“Not long. Oh, I almost forgot—the dessert! It’s in the oven, and I can’t let it burn. If you’ll excuse me . . .” He darts into the kitchen again.

Sandy looks at Liza and Laura, then whispers, “He’s kind of strange, isn’t he? Do you think he’s gay?”

Laura’s lilac eyes widen.

Amused, Liza asks, “What makes you say that?”

“My father said there are a lot of homosexuals on this island. That’s part of the reason he doesn’t like it. He’s not very—you know, liberal.”

And you are?
Liza wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She just spears a chunk of eggplant with her fork and pops it into her mouth.

“So what do you think?” Sandy asks again.

“I have no idea,” Laura says. “Does it matter?”

“Of course not. I was just wondering.”

Sandy turns her attention back to wrestling with the lobster claw on her plate.

By the time Jasper Hammel reappears five minutes later, they’ve all finished eating and Sandy has initiated a new conversation, mostly one-sided, about whether a person should count calories or just fat grams when trying to lose weight.

“Why don’t we have coffee and dessert in the parlor?” he suggests, starting to clear the table.