In the Mood for Love (21 page)

Her response was automatic. She went back to her page and deleted the post without commenting. Without a second read or thought. It was Andrew’s father. Reminding her he was waiting over the border. Waiting to torment her, to punish her for his son’s death. He hadn’t given up. He wasn’t going to fade away.

Harper put her phone into sleep mode and shoved it in the nightstand drawer. Another first.

She stared into the moonlit room, braced for a panic attack. She was ready to beat it back, but instead all that welled was the urge to fight. She bolted out of bed and snagged her robe. Taking control was paramount. Control the situation. Control her life. She’d start with telling Sam about Andrew. She owed him that much. As for Edward … she’d handle him in her own way. She should have done it a long time ago. She wasn’t ready before. Now, she was.

*   *   *

Sam couldn’t get a grip on his insomnia. Making love to Harper had been exhilarating and exhausting. Emotionally exhausting because, in the back of his mind, he’d been managing past feelings for Paula and new feelings for Harper. Acknowledging and accepting that he could attain the same wonder, the same tender passion a second time without betraying the magic of the first. Sam was pretty sure he’d come to terms. His conscience was clear and his heart big enough to love two very different women in equal measure. A monumental realization. One that should have brought relief and a certain amount of contentment. Enough that he should have easily drifted to sleep holding his soon-to-be-wife in his arms.

Even though Harper hadn’t said the words, he knew he’d touched her guarded heart. They’d connected on the intimate level he’d craved and he knew they could be good together. But something was off. Something he couldn’t pinpoint. And that was what kept his brain churning.

Something about this house
.

So he’d eased out of bed, careful not to wake Harper. He’d stolen downstairs, rooted sweats and a tee from his duffel and pulled them on. He’d checked all the doors and windows. Everything was locked. He’d peered outdoors from different vantage points. Nothing looked out of sorts. Yes, it was the middle of the night, but the moon bathed the yard and surrounding woods with a soft glow. A month back, he’d wired the front and back porches with motion-sensitive detectors. If anyone or any woodland creature approached they’d be greeted with floodlighting. Nothing had triggered the detectors. All was quiet. Yet Sam felt unsettled. As if they were being watched.

Mary?

It was a passing thought, one rooted in old ghost stories. But Sam had been in this house numerous times over the years and several times for extended periods over the last few months. He’d never seen an apparition or experienced a ghostly encounter such as cold spots, eerie sounds, or misplaced or reassigned objects. Hell, if he seriously thought this place was haunted he would’ve balked at making it Ben’s and Mina’s new home. Instead, he was contemplating his course of action regarding the move. Which spurred concerns overall pertaining to the next few days. If he put some of those tasks to bed, maybe he’d be able to sleep.

He sent a late-night text to Nash about the charter, then he powered on Harper’s laptop, making sure he had everything in order regarding the marriage license. No blood tests required. No waiting period. As long as they provided proper identification, they were good to go. He looked into hotels and chapels. He’d narrowed the chapels down to two. Should he surprise her? Consult her? So far she hadn’t voiced interest in details regarding the ceremony.

Sam pushed off the sofa and stretched, worked a kink from his neck while moving into the kitchen. It was his favorite room in the house. A room they’d renovated together. He’d designed and built cupboards reminiscent of those popular in the 1940s. She’d decorated the walls and counters with vintage cookware and art. The color theme was red and white. The stove, amazingly, was the same stove used by Mary Rothwell. Every owner had considered it unique and worth keeping. There’d been restorations and upgrades, but Mary had boiled tea kettles on those gas burners and baked cupcakes in the twin ovens. Sam didn’t believe this place was haunted but, by damn, he
did
get the chills every time he looked at that stove.

Just now his gaze jerked left. He spied a cupcake holder, lifted the lid. No mistaking that pleasing scent. Gingerbread. The same scent he’d detected earlier today on Harper.

Sam smiled down at the freshly baked cupcakes. God, they smelled good. He knew Harper baked and baked well, according to the Cupcake Lovers and his kids. Everyone had sampled an array of her baked goods. Everyone but Sam. He’d always refrained. Which puzzled Harper. She’d said as much. Although she’d never intimated hurt feelings, she had to feel slighted.
He
would.

He hadn’t dissected his unwillingness to taste her cupcakes until now. He knew if he sampled them and liked them he’d want to talk about them. Prior to her deportation threat, Harper hadn’t been open to slow and easy, amiable conversation. Recipes were personal. She would have changed the subject or glossed over details. It would have pissed him off. So he’d begged off.

Things were different now, and he was curious.

Sam peeled away the foil-lined baking cup, licked the icing—cream cheese based with a hint of orange and sprinkled with crystalized ginger. The citrus zing pleased. He bit into the moist confection and smiled. “Damn,” he said with his mouth full.

“That bad?”

“Jesus.” Sam knocked crumbs from his chin as he turned. “You scared the hell out of me, Harper.”

“It’s not like I snuck up on you.”

“Since I didn’t hear you, yeah, it sort of is.”

“You’re eating one of my cupcakes.”

“Busted.”

“Why?”

“It looked good and smelled even better.”

“But you object to the taste. Too much cinnamon? Not enough molasses? Too dense? Too light?”

She sounded pissed but Sam smiled. “You want to talk cupcakes?”

“I’m just saying, if there’s something I could do to make these better … If you have a suggestion I’d … Why are you smiling?”

“Because you want to talk cupcakes.” He traded one delight for another, setting aside the cupcake to pull Harper into his arms. “What are you doing up?”

“Things on my mind.”

“Same here.”

“Like?”

“Details. The charter plane, plans for the ceremony.” He felt her tense, eased back and noted her frown. “Second thoughts?”

She held his gaze though, damn, hers was troubled. “I need to talk to you, Sam.”

“Do I need a drink for this?”

“Probably not, but I might.” She moved out of his arms, toward one of the custom-made cabinets he’d designed and installed. She nabbed a bottle of brandy and two snifters then set up shop at the kitchen table.

Sam finished off the cupcake, tossed the liner. He savored the wholesome sweetness while she poured two fingers of possible trouble. Settling into the chair across from her, Sam held silent, allowed her to pursue the conversation at her own pace. Whatever it was, she needed false courage before heading down that road.

After two sips of brandy, she rolled back her shoulders and began. “Something happened in Canada. Something bad. That’s why I don’t want to go back.”

Now Sam sipped, bracing for her story, battling for calm. If someone had hurt her …
Dial it down, McCloud
.

Her gaze flicked to his. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“Wherever’s easiest.” He kept his tone and manner light, even though his senses were on high alert. He wished she’d spit it out. The sooner he knew what they were dealing with, the better. But he wouldn’t push. Not at the risk of her shutting down.

She pulled her robe tighter then leaned in and held on to the snifter like a lifeline. “I signed on with Spin Twin Cities, the branch in Toronto, as soon as I graduated from college. I was green, but motivated. I worked hard, mostly as an assistant to a senior publicist. A lot of hours, a lot of pressure, a lot of bullshit, but an invaluable learning ground.”

“Media for Canadian celebrities?”

“That was part of it. But also corporate publicity. One company in particular championed a charity for military men and their families. My association with that company, that charity, was brief, but I met someone. A soldier.” She paused and sipped. “Captain Andrew Wilson.” Her voice sounded tight in spite of the brandy. “He was Regular Forces. Handsome and motivated—just twenty-eight.”

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-six.”

Five years ago.

“It happened so fast. We fell in love overnight and were engaged three weeks later. Andrew was charming and funny and, I admit, the whole man-in-uniform thing was sexy and exciting.” She broke off and glanced around the kitchen. “Even back then, I knew about this house, had heard the tale of Mary. Sad, but romantic. I kept thinking,
This is how Mary must have felt about Joseph
. Smitten and proud. Enchanted by a man who protected his people, his country. And then of course, I was influenced by cinematic love stories, military romances, the ones with happy endings.”

“Like
An Officer and a Gentleman
?” It had been one of Paula’s favorites, too.

Harper blushed and nodded. “Sappy, I know. Anyway, it was a whirlwind romance—Andrew and me—and, at the time, I was all about fairy-tale weddings and happily-ever-afters. I got caught up in the planning—the dress, the shoes, the flowers—and Andrew fed my enthusiasm.”

Sam held his tongue, sipped more brandy, and registered Harper’s mounting anxiety.

“We’d been seeing each other for ten months when he got deployed overseas. I was shocked. Silly, right? I mean, he was on active duty. But he was in telecommunications, a computer specialist. I thought his work was here, in programming. He never talked about specifics. Said it was classified. Which was, oh, God, that was exciting, too.”

Sam reached across the table and touched her hand. “I get it, hon. The allure of a soldier. Plus Andrew was an officer. If he was in telecommunications, he had to be damned smart. That’s attractive, too.”

“Yes, it is, and he was. Smart. Brainiac smart. So even after they shipped him overseas I thought he’d be holed up in a lab. On a base. Safe.”

She fell silent and Sam continued to hold her hand. He’d dealt with information technicians. Split-second, high-intensity work in the battlefield. Keeping lines of communications open between the frontline and the back. Computers, operating radios, fiber optics, satellite communications. He’d seen technicians crawling through hostile territory to get to a regiment whose radio had gone out. Nothing safe about that.

“Andrew wasn’t very good about corresponding with me. Odd considering he was in telecommunications, right?”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes and Sam noticed she’d used the word
was
.
Was
in telecommunications. Past tense.

“I missed him and I was worried—about him, us—but I kept telling myself he was focused on important work. Classified, he’d said. He couldn’t talk about it. Still, I envisioned him toiling away in a tech lab on base.” She broke off and looked away. “I was so naïve and he kept me that way. Even after he returned, he wouldn’t talk about what he’d done or where he’d been.”

“That’s not uncommon,” Sam said. He rarely talked about his own time in the field. What he’d done, what he’d seen. He’d especially shielded Paula. He didn’t want her to worry and he damn well didn’t want to expose her to the horrors of war. Sam got Captain Andrew Wilson loud and clear.

“Andrew was overseas for more than a year and when he came back,” Harper said, “he was different. I’d thought the easy and exciting intimacy we’d once shared would return as soon as we reunited. But I was wrong. He was quiet, distant. Something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t talk about it. The few times we slept together, he woke with nightmares. When I asked what they were about, he shut me down, and if I persisted, he got angry. He’d never been angry with me before. Not like that.”

Sam could see where this was going so he didn’t say a word when she finished off her brandy and poured a little more. He knew she wasn’t going for drunk as much as numb. And he was here. He had her back. The hardest thing was not rounding the table and pulling her into his arms.

“Long story short, Andrew ended our engagement. He said he wasn’t ready for marriage, that he loved me, but he needed space. I was hurt and confused. Not just by the broken engagement but by his erratic behavior. I didn’t know what to say, how to be around him for fear I would set him off. I was young and fanciful then, sensitive,” she said on a snort, “if you can believe it. I was intimidated by whatever Andrew was going through, and rather than tough it out, I gave him that space. I threw myself into my job and naïvely believed he’d work it out. He was so freaking smart. Of course he’d figure it out.

“Two weeks later,” she went on in a barely there voice, “I got a phone call saying Andrew was in a standoff with military police. I thought it was a joke. A mistake. But I was assured by the newsman it was true.

“Andrew pulled a gun in a recruitment center. Railed against the military. Issued threats. I don’t think he would have carried them out. He wouldn’t harm innocent people. It wasn’t in his makeup. I think he wanted to make a point and maybe, yeah, in hindsight, I think he wanted to die. He fired a shot, but not at a person, so I was told by that reporter. Unfortunately the bullet ricocheted and hit a civilian. The police opened fire as soon as Andrew pulled the trigger. Sometimes I think, if only I’d been there, maybe I could have talked him down.”

“Is that why you tried to rush into the chaos of the spa shooting? To talk the shooter down?”

“Someone should have tried,” was all she said.

“What happened to the civilian?” Sam asked. “The one Andrew unintentionally wounded?”

“Died on the way to the hospital. Andrew never even made it that far.” Instead of throwing back her freshly poured brandy, Harper stood and carried the glass to the sink. Her hand trembled as she poured the liquor down the drain.