Kiss the Moon (12 page)

“Is he crazy?”

“I don’t think so. Eccentric, perhaps. But not mentally ill. People around here generally leave him alone.”

Jack grinned, winked. “I’m not from around here.”

Harriet paled. “You’re not going to throw him off Sinclair land, are you? That wouldn’t go over well here at all. He’s an old man. He won’t live forever. He—”

“Easy, Harriet. I don’t care about an old hermit. If my boss cares, that’s another story. Me, I kind of like the idea of living out in the middle of nowhere in a shack. Nobody bothers me, I don’t bother anybody. Sounds awfully damned peaceful.”

“I don’t know, I suppose I’m more of a people person.”

His gray eyes, ordinarily so difficult to read, took on a warmth she hadn’t noticed before. “The world needs more of you. I guess I’ve just been wallowing in the flotsam and jetsam for too damned long. I like the idea of sitting on a hillside watching the squirrels.”

“Your work must be trying at times,” Harriet said, feeling inadequate.

“That it is.” He got to his feet, and she saw that he was as rangy and fit as her first impression of him had led her to believe. He had on jeans, a denim shirt, his boots. He must have left his hat and shearling-lined coat in his room. “Well. I’ve taken enough of your time. Thanks for the information.”

She wanted to ask him if he intended to go to Bubba’s, but she didn’t. Penelope would have. She’d have told him to leave Bubba alone. She wouldn’t understand Harriet’s reticence in dealing with a private investigator hired by Brandon Sinclair. That she was attracted to him, too, just made it more impossible. She didn’t want Jack Dunning thinking ill of her before he’d even really noticed her.

So she told him he was welcome, and she sat on the couch, staring at the fire, listening to his footsteps on the stairs. In a few minutes, he came down, hat on, coat in hand. He waved goodbye and promised he’d be back in time for dinner, that voice of his curling right down her spine.

When he’d gone, she ducked into the half bath and tried the plum lipstick again. This time, she didn’t think it looked garish at all.

Eight

T
he smell of maple syrup sweetened the air, and the sunset—swirls of vibrant orange, deep lavender, the palest of pinks—filled the sky, despite the ominous clouds gathering to the west. The McNally girls had finally left. Wyatt suppressed a sigh of relief. They were talkative, hard workers and nice enough teenagers, but they’d come along at an inopportune time. As he and Penelope had arrived from their hike, a tall, white-haired, white-bearded man was retreating into the woods. Wyatt had volunteered to go after him, but Penelope had touched his hand and said, “No, don’t. That’s Bubba Johns.” Then Rebecca and Jane McNally showed up, and Wyatt was sucked into sugar making and not asking questions.

The girls obviously adored Penelope. She was something of a mentor for them, a capable and independent woman even if she did have a search party called out on her from time to time. Wyatt suspected he’d inhibited their conversation. He’d sensed the sisters’ mad curiosity about him and twice he’d caught Rebecca, the older of the two, silently mouthing questions to Penelope.

The sap was bubbling, still clear and watery, in a big tub, set on a roaring fire they’d built on the edge of the gravel driveway. When it boiled down sufficiently, Penelope had said she’d transfer it to a canning pot and finish the process inside, hoping, ultimately, to get a gallon of syrup from the forty or so gallons of sap she’d collected. She’d explained backyard maple-sugaring techniques in excruciating detail, presumably since she and her helpers couldn’t talk about him.

Before they’d started, she’d had to change into an old plaid flannel shirt, some sap-boiling ritual. She tossed another log on the fire, her face flushed from heat and exertion. “I know you’re chomping at the bit to ask me about Bubba,” she said.

Wyatt stood close to the flames, feeling the heat on his face. “How far is his place from here?”

“About a forty-minute hike, depending on conditions.”

“Does he visit often?”

“No. Never.”

Wisps of blond curls framed her face, softening her features, stirring in him things better left undisturbed. As much as she’d claim she wanted to be flying, she wasn’t unhappy with her bubbling cauldron. Wyatt struggled to keep his mind on the business that had brought him north. “Tell me about him.”

“What’s to tell? He’s a hermit. Most people think he’s from northern New Hampshire, maybe Canada. Some say he’s a Vietnam vet, but I think he’s too old. Korea, maybe. He just keeps to himself. He doesn’t talk to anyone and he doesn’t hurt anyone.” She poked the fire with a long iron rod. “He’s your basic, old-fashioned hermit.”

“Why do you think he was here at your place?”

“I have no idea.”

“But he’s never stopped by before.”

“That’s right.” She laid her iron rod on the ground and held her palms over the fire. “It doesn’t mean it’s all that weird he would. Usually he takes another route to the main road, then walks in to town. He made himself a wooden wheelbarrow, and he pushes it with whatever stuff he plans to barter. He empties it, fills it up with new stuff and pushes it home. He manages to live on next to nothing.”

“How well do you know him?”

“I don’t know him at all, really. We first met when I was ten and he led me out of the woods.”

Wyatt grinned, picturing her as a preadolescent. “I’ll bet you were a blond-haired hellion at ten. You were lost?”

She nodded, unabashed. “That was the first time I had a search party called out on me. I chattered away at him, but he never said a word. In those days, people were kind of nervous about him. But now we all let him live his life the way he wants to.”

The fire popped, and a gust of wind blew ashes and hot coals onto the driveway. Penelope jumped back, the clear sap boiling wildly. “I guess we should shut this down for the night,” she said. “I’ll just let the fire die and the sap cool off, then I’ll bring it in. I think it’d fit into my canner, don’t you?”

Wyatt didn’t think he’d ever seen a canner. “We can dump whatever doesn’t fit into the lake.”

She grinned at him. “You’re offending my Yankee sensibilities.”

The sunset was fading rapidly, the naked trees outlined in sharp relief against the darkening sky. Wyatt could feel the night settling in, the quiet seeping into everything around him. The nights would be black up here. There were no city lights to ease the isolation, none, either, to blur the moon and stars. He considered Bubba Johns. At times over the past two years, the life of a hermit was one Wyatt could imagine for himself. Simple, with no one else to hurt.

He recognized the danger signs and shook off the melancholy before it could take root. “Do you think Bubba Johns can find your turn-of-the-century dump?”

“I don’t know. I could ask.”

He smiled, probably a little nastily. “I think I’d better do the asking.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d expected. She gave an impatient hiss, snatched up her iron rod and leaned it against her woodpile. Wyatt wondered if she chopped her own wood. He would like to see her swing an ax. She was an intriguing mix of independence, kindness, vulnerability and capableness. From tea and scones to hauling sap. He had to struggle not to be too intrigued and concentrate instead on the pack of lies she’d told him.

“Bubba doesn’t talk much to locals,” she said. “I can’t see him talking to a stranger—and it wouldn’t go over well around here if you upset him. People tend to be protective of him.”

“No burning bamboo shoots. Promise.”

“Good.” She dusted off her hands, obviously eager to change the subject. “It’s getting windy. I can smell the storm coming, can’t you? I think I’ll take a hot shower and call it a day.”

She started across the driveway. Something in her walk made him think maybe she was fighting off the same thoughts and urges he was. He scooped up a stray piece of kindling, tossed it on the fire. What was he supposed to do now? Say good-night? The evening stretched in front of him, dark and quiet. He supposed he could sort through what he’d learned today. And what he hadn’t.

“Do you lock your doors?” he asked.

That got her. She stopped in the muddy driveway, spun around to him. “What?”

“Maybe Bubba Johns decided to help himself to your larder. Have you checked to see if anything’s missing?”

“No, and I have no intention of doing so. If I have something Bubba needs, he can have it.” She sauntered over to him, hands on her hips, eyes an even deeper, darker, sexier green at twilight. “You know, Sinclair, you’re starting to piss me off.”

He grinned at her and before he could talk himself out of it, he tucked a finger under her chin, gave her that half second to tell him he was
really
pissing her off, and kissed her. Hard, quick and with no plans for regret.

“Well, I—you’ve your nerve,” she said, pretending to be stunned.

He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve got all the men around here too afraid to kiss you.”

“I’m not telling you anything.”

She sniffed, straightening her ragged flannel shirt, which, he noted, he hadn’t had a chance to unstraighten. He wanted that chance. Now. He’d have taken her right there next to the fire, in the mud, with the wind blowing and the storm coming, if she gave him the slightest indication she wouldn’t pull the hot sap down on him should he try.

All the coolness had gone out of her eyes, and he could see that a part of her—however unacknowledged—was thinking about making love in the mud, too.

“You’re awfully kissable for a crank pot, hardheaded New Englander,” he said. “Come on, jump in the shower and put on a dress. I’ll take you to dinner at the inn.”

She didn’t move. “I should resist.”

Like she was Scarlett O’Hara. “Why?”

“Because you’re dangerous and you’re irritating.”

“Jesus, you sound like my father. Look, you have to drive me back, anyway. We came in your truck, if you recall.”

She licked her lips. He wondered if she could taste him. “All right. I’d probably just open a can of soup if I stayed here. You can douse the fire and cover the sap—if you don’t mind. I’ll bring it in after it’s cooled.”

He did as she asked. It only took a few seconds, and even from her driveway, he could hear her shower running. He couldn’t resist. There was no point in wasting time
trying
to resist. He slipped inside, surveyed the kitchen and living area with a more clinical, neutral eye than he had last night. It was a curious mix of an old-fashioned, rustic lake camp and a young woman’s home. Most disconcerting was the musty moose head on the barn board wall. A leftover, Wyatt suspected.

He moved quickly, silently, with very little premeditation to her study. Fluorescent lights glowed over a trestle table of sprouting plants, all neatly marked with Popsicle sticks. Foxglove, delphinium, petunias, marigolds, Canterbury bells, coleus, pansies. She had a small yard, but he could imagine her filling her deck with pots of flowers and greenery—and giving away the excess.

But he hadn’t ventured in here to check out her plants. He turned his attention to another, larger trestle table desk with its jumble of computer, printer, fax, telephone, jars of pens and pencils, file folders, notebooks. A prosaic metal shelving unit overflowed with books, scrapbooks, photo albums. One shelf was devoted to flying, planes, helicopters, flying in wartime, flying in peacetime, everything from technical to coffee-table picture books. Another offered books on New England, history books, guides to its trails, flora and fauna, birds, inns, mountains, coastlines, waterways, cities and attractions.

On the bottom shelf were two loose-leaf notebooks marked Colt and Frannie and a box of cassette tapes, each neatly hand-labeled. Penelope’s research. Obviously this was a more consuming hobby than she was willing to admit to him. But Wyatt didn’t risk a closer look, although he could still hear the shower running. He tried not to imagine Penelope under its steaming spray.

On the wall were two framed prints, one of a golden, romantic Piper Cub J-3 against a clear blue sky, the other a page of the local paper announcing the disappearance of Frannie Beaudine. There was a big picture of her, smiling, young and so beautiful. There was no picture of Colt. Even Wyatt had seen few pictures of his uncle, remembering him vaguely as a dark and handsome man—and young. He and Frannie had both been so damned young.

He pulled himself away from the study and took a quick peek into Penelope’s bedroom, in case she’d squirreled away an obvious clue to why she was lying. He surveyed the small, cozy room from the doorway. Double bed with a billowing down comforter, lots of colorful pillows, white curtains, a small television, an antique oak bureau. Her sap-boiling clothes hung over a wooden chair painted a bright yellow.

“Just who’s dangerous here,” he whispered, his mouth dry, his throat tight, and headed stiffly outside.

A few minutes later, Penelope emerged in an ankle-length black knit dress and black boots. She’d put on makeup, pinned up her hair, her blond curls damp from her shower. “I put on lip gloss,” she said, smacking her raspberry-colored lips together. “I’ve never met a man who likes to kiss a woman with goop on her lips.”

Wyatt said nothing. If only she knew.

She grinned at him, her green eyes sparkling. “That ought to keep even a fearless Sinclair at bay.”

While she waited for Wyatt to dress for dinner, Penelope had a glass of chardonnay in the kitchen with Harriet, who was arranging dinner salads at the other end of the butcher-block table. Her mother, thank God, was at the sugar house. It was a slow night at the inn. Penelope tried not to gulp her wine. “I think the bastard searched my place while I was in the shower.”

Harriet almost dropped a handful of sliced radishes. “That’s appalling! How could you even think such a thing?”

“That’s how guys like Sinclair operate.”

“Did he have good reason?”

“Harriet.”

Her cousin slipped the radishes onto the perfect shreds of lettuce and started on pitted black olives. “Well, you haven’t been yourself lately—”

“That’s because I’m grounded. I always get antsy when I can’t fly.”

Harriet pursed her lips, her critical, knowing gaze falling on her cousin. “You were already antsy, Penelope. That’s why you were grounded.”

“Then it’s because it’s March.” She sipped her wine, noticing something different about Harriet. Makeup? Her freckles were gone. “I need leaves on the trees.”

“Winter’s never bothered you before.” A half-dozen salads set, Harriet moved to the dessert tray. Maple cheesecake, apple crisp, Indian pudding. Penelope’s mouth watered. After hours and hours with Wyatt Sinclair at her elbow, waiting for her to crack, she was starving. Harriet worked quickly, not looking tempted by her array of sweets. She said, “Robby and I have always thought flying keeps you from getting cabin fever. You’re restless enough as it is.”

Penelope stared at her cousin. After years of practice, she could fill in the blanks between what was being said and what was deliberately not being said. “You don’t believe me, either!”

“About what?”

“Mistaking a dump for Frannie and Colt’s plane.”

Harriet dusted off her fingers. She had broad hands with blunt, clean nails, but her movements were gentle, deliberate, always patient. “I’ve seen old dumps, Penelope. I’ve seen planes. How anyone, especially someone with your expertise, could mistake the two—”

“Well, I
did.
”

Harriet didn’t respond. That was her modus operandi when she disagreed with someone. To avoid confrontation, she clammed up. It was a handy trait as an innkeeper—she didn’t yell at her guests—but it could be frustrating for her family and friends, who sometimes never knew when Harriet was carrying a grudge.

Robby Chestnut breezed into the kitchen, humming happily. “Keep your fingers crossed—I think we’re in for one of our better sugaring seasons. Not too cold, not too hot.” She smiled. “Like Goldilocks’s porridge. And how are you, Penelope?”

“Just fine. I survived day one of my grounding.”

“So far,” her mother amended.

True. She had dinner with Wyatt yet to go. But like everyone else in town, Penelope had learned to spare her mother the worst of her excesses. She had no intention of mentioning Jack Dunning, tramping through the woods with Sinclair, boiling sap with him, kissing him—and suspecting him of searching her place while she was in the shower.