Kiss the Moon (5 page)

Wyatt nodded. His father had never mentioned Lyman Chestnut.

“I was fifteen when Colt disappeared,” the older man went on. “Tough break. It happens. We had a plane go down about an hour west of here a couple years ago, and it still hasn’t been found.”

He stared at the horizon, and Wyatt got the message. Whatever he might believe about what his daughter had found on Sunday, Lyman Chestnut was on her side.

The office door opened, and a heavyset woman thrust her hands on her ample hips and said, “Jesus Christ, Lyman, I can’t believe that girl! She says she’s running on fumes. She’s going to land. You want me to get the ambulance and fire department up here?”

“Get the police, because when this is over, one of us is going to be arrested. Her or me. I’ve had it, Mary. She’s crossed the line.”

Mary snorted. “Now, how many times have I heard that?”

A small Beechcraft materialized above the treetops, and Lyman Chestnut held his breath. Wyatt thought everything looked just fine. It seemed to have good speed. A normal descent. It landed smoothly on the single paved runway without a hitch.

Lyman breathed out with a whoosh, but his relief only lasted a moment before he clenched his teeth. “Goddamn it, this time she’s grounded.” He turned to the gray-haired woman, who still had her hands on her hips and was shaking her head in disgust, whether because Penelope had landed safely or didn’t have the close call she apparently deserved Wyatt couldn’t tell. Lyman pointed a thick finger at her. “Mary, you hear that? I’m grounding her. I own the goddamned plane. I’m her goddamned boss. I can goddamned ground her.”

So much for stoic and taciturn. Wyatt judiciously kept quiet.

“For how long?” Mary asked.

“Thirty days.”

“She’ll go crazy. She’ll drive all of
us
crazy.”

“Three weeks, then.”

Wyatt stood between two dripping icicles and watched Lyman march up to the Beechcraft. He moved at a fast, determined clip. He wasn’t a big man, a couple inches under six feet, and his granitelike features didn’t bode well for the woman in the cockpit, given that they were related.

By the time he arrived, Penelope Chestnut had jumped onto the runway, beaming, no indication she’d given herself a scare.

“Well, well,” Wyatt said under his breath.

He assessed her from a distance. Gray flight suit that would have done NASA proud, dark blond hair in a fat braid that had long since gone wild, athletic body, height just an inch or two under her father’s—and attractive. Not cute or elegantly beautiful, but striking. Unless the package all fell apart a few yards closer, Penelope Chestnut was not what Wyatt had expected. On his way north, he’d developed two different images of what he’d find. Both were older than he was. Neither had her flying planes. In one, she was the stereotypical pinch-faced New Englander with no makeup, faded turtleneck and tweeds, sensible shoes. In the second, she was the dairy farmer and earth mother. Cows, kids, land, gardens, dogs, cats, maybe a few chickens.

Obviously he’d been way off the mark.

Lyman Chestnut started in on her, pointing a callused finger, and Penelope about-faced and walked off as if they’d done this all before. Her father hollered so half the state of New Hampshire could hear. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you were in control of the situation, you’re still grounded!”

She stuck her tongue out at him. Without turning around. That bit of prudence was the only point Wyatt had seen so far in Lyman’s parenting favor.

“I saw that, Penelope Chestnut,” Mary said from the office door. “You’re lucky you have a father who cares about you. You’ve scared the bejesus out of him more times than any daughter has a right to and still live.”

Penelope took a breath. Up close, Wyatt saw that the last few minutes had taken their toll on her, after all. She was a bit paler and shakier, he expected, than she wanted anyone to see. He also saw that she had green eyes, greener even than her father’s. She said, “I’ve scared the bejesus out of myself a time or two.”

“Ha. The day you’re scared, I want to be in the front row. Do I need to call the FAA?”

“No, Aunt Mary. Good heavens. I didn’t crash. I just didn’t get an accurate fuel reading before I left Plattsburgh. I never should have told you.”

Mary sighed loudly. “Your father’s right. What you need is a break, and a break’s what you’re going to get. I still have the paperwork from the last mishap, before Lyman softened. He won’t this time. I won’t let him.”

“Damn it, Aunt Mary, this is collusion. I have rights—”

“Not here you don’t, missy.”

Mary withdrew into the office, and the door banged shut behind her. Wyatt thought he saw a glimmer of humor—and affection—in Penelope Chestnut’s eyes. Then they focused on Wyatt, and he could see the wariness come into them—but no hint of embarrassment over the scene he’d just witnessed.

Before Wyatt could introduce himself, Lyman caught up with his daughter and, containing his obviously still-boiling anger, jumped in ahead of him. “Penelope, this gentleman wants to see you about the junk you found in the woods. Talk to him. Then come talk to me. Wyatt, this is my daughter, Penelope Chestnut. Penelope, Wyatt Sinclair. Brandon’s son.”

He stood back as if expecting fireworks. Penelope tilted her head, slightly, studying Wyatt with a frankness that somehow didn’t surprise him. Boots, jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket, no hat, no gloves. She seemed to take in all of him with that one appraising look, no problem shifting from her troubled landing and her quarrel with her father to a Sinclair on the premises.

“I drove up from New York this morning,” Wyatt said.

“I see. Well, I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, but I don’t have anything to tell you except that I screwed up. Low blood sugar, bad light, an overactive imagination.” She shrugged, matter of fact. “I didn’t find your uncle’s plane. I found an old dump. That’s all there is to it. Look, I have to see about my plane—”

“
I’ll
be seeing about your plane,” her father broke in. “You might as well have a cup of coffee with Wyatt here. You’re going to have three weeks to kill. And that’s just for starters. If I don’t like what I see in three weeks, you’ll have another three weeks to cool your heels.”

“I don’t need a break. I need to fly
more.
”

“You don’t fly to get your head together. You fly
when
your head’s together.”

She turned to Wyatt. “Never fly for your own father.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Wyatt saw that immediately, even if Penelope didn’t. Her father swallowed his anger and allowed his natural stoicism to reassert itself. He said calmly, making it impossible to be misunderstood, “I am not acting as your father right now. I am acting as a responsible owner of six charter planes and a flight instructor for the last thirty years who has the right and the duty to ground an unfit pilot. And you, Penelope Chestnut, are unfit to fly.”

“Fine,” she said without missing a beat, “then I’ll boil sap.”

Wyatt would have throttled her right then and there.

“Have coffee with Sinclair here,” Lyman said, teeth gritted, patience spent, and headed to the runway and his daughter’s plane.

His departure left Penelope alone with a Sinclair, which made Wyatt wonder if his family’s reputation was as bad in Cold Spring as he’d been led to believe. Then again, Lyman Chestnut could simply believe a Sinclair would insist on talking with his daughter and best get it over with.

With one hand, Penelope stuffed stray hair behind her ears, missing even more than she captured. She had a face that was all angles and straight lines—except her mouth, which was soft and full. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and she wore tiny silver hoops on her ears. Her green eyes narrowed on him. “I’m sorry you had to witness that little spat. Pop worries too much— I don’t know, maybe I should go easy on him. It’s been a crazy couple of days. Do you really want to go for coffee? I don’t have a thing to tell you.”

No question in his mind she had a lot she could tell him—if she would. “I’d love some coffee.”

She shrugged. “As you wish.”

He made a move to go into the office, but she shook her head. “Not here. Aunt Mary’s into flavored coffees. I think today’s is raspberry. Blechh. My mother and cousin own an inn on the lake—they serve coffee and tea in the afternoon. And they make the best scones in New Hampshire, maybe all of New England. I think today’s are currant.”

“Sounds fine.”

“You’re not the investigator your father sent up here, are you? I had the impression it was someone he’d hired.”

“That would be Jack Dunning. He’s supposed to arrive soon—he’s flying up from New York, scoping out the landscape. He has his own way of doing things.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

Wyatt shook his head.

“Your father?”

“No.”

“Well, I guess you’re a big boy and can do what you want to do. Let’s go. We can take my truck.”

So the truck was hers. Here was a woman who flew planes, drove a truck and was off to have tea and scones at a lakeside inn. Definitely not what he’d envisioned—never mind the wild, wavy blond hair, the green, green eyes, the tight, sexy body, the flight suit, the keen wit.

She stopped abruptly in the middle of the parking lot, tilted her head at the sky and took a deep breath. She held it a moment, then exhaled. “It’s a fine spring day. I’m glad I didn’t crash.”

Yep, a pilot. She liked life a little on the edge. Maybe a lot on the edge.

And suddenly Wyatt could see how she might have made the leap from old dump to Frannie Beaudine and Colt Sinclair’s plane. A missing plane was more exciting to find in the woods when you were lost and tired—and this woman would hate to be either—than an old dump.

Which meant his trek to New Hampshire could be for nothing.

“I’m glad you didn’t crash, too,” he said dryly, “but this isn’t spring.”

She grinned at him. “Technically, no. But the ice is melting and the sap is running—it feels like spring to me.”

Three

A
black-haired, black-eyed, suspicious-minded Sinclair in a leather jacket. Just what she needed. Still jumpy from her mishap in the air, Penelope waited for Wyatt Sinclair to climb into her truck. “Whoops—hang on a sec.” She whisked a little blue calico bag off his seat onto the floor. “Rose petal potpourri. I let Pop drive my truck and it came back smelling like an ashtray. He’s taken up smoking cigars. Disgusting.”

“You have strong opinions.”

“About cigars. Anyway,” she said, starting her truck, “opinions are by definition strong. Otherwise they’re not opinions.”

She backed out over the rutted, washboard lot, which seemed even worse this year than usual. On the main road, she drove faster than was necessary, swerving around potholes, braking hard for frost heaves. She knew just where the worst ones had formed in the freezing, thawing, refreezing cycle of late winter and early spring that wreaked havoc on the roads yet made the sap run sweet.

Beside her, Wyatt Sinclair didn’t say a word. He was
exactly
what she’d expected of a Sinclair. Suspicious, probing, good-looking. He had a natural arrogance that she didn’t find as off-putting as she’d anticipated. It was just so…
easy
for him. Her research into Frannie and Colt had led to facts about the entire Sinclair family, including this first of his generation. He was well-educated, he spoke four languages, he was an expert mountain climber and outdoorsman, and he came close to killing himself every year or two.

Two years ago, his luck ran out and tragedy struck during a climbing expedition in Tasmania, when bad weather and bad judgment combined to leave him bug-infested, dehydrated, infected, with three broken ribs, a broken leg and his hiking companion and best friend dead at his side. Penelope had read about the incident in the papers. Even the
Cold Spring Reporter
had picked up the story.

She didn’t notice any obvious lingering effects of such a terrible ordeal. Maybe he’d gnashed his teeth and pushed, pulled, argued, rebelled and thrown himself into enough danger over the years to have established a certain peace with himself. Except he didn’t look peaceful, either.

It was way too early, she reminded herself, to draw any conclusions about what Wyatt Sinclair did and didn’t feel. Indeed, she’d probably do herself a favor not to go down that path at all. She heard he’d moved back to New York to become some sort of money type on Wall Street, possibly because of his experience in Tasmania. Then again, sooner or later, all Sinclairs made it back to Manhattan to prove they could make money and didn’t need the family fortune.

Of course, she also heard his father had disinherited him. Rumors were forever circulating around town about Sinclairs, and Penelope had learned not to believe everything she heard.

She glanced at him. The black eyes were squinting as he stared at the landscape, the square jaw set hard. For sure, getting lost in the New Hampshire woods for a few hours and running out of gas in a small plane would be nothing to Wyatt Sinclair. A pop fly to Plattsburgh and back to deliver a package would bore him silly—he’d probably dump fuel just to liven things up.

But Penelope loved her work, and she couldn’t believe she’d screwed up again. Damned near running out of fuel. How
stupid.
She wanted to blame the reporters, the hoopla over her discovery in the Sinclair woods, the anticipation of having to explain herself to Brandon Sinclair’s investigator—but that wasn’t it. This sort of thing had been happening before she’d wandered into the woods and found a forty-five-year-old plane wreck. She and her father had been at loggerheads for weeks over her inability to concentrate.

Maybe it was just spring fever, she decided.

Whatever it was, she was grounded and off to town with a Sinclair—and at the Sunrise Inn, no less. And it was
her
suggestion. Lord, what a day. But the only cure for it was tea and scones, despite the risk of running into Harriet, who’d wanted to meet a Sinclair her whole life. Considering her impulsiveness of late, Penelope supposed she should never mind Harriet and worry about herself instead. With that black Sinclair gaze probing her from across the table, she could blurt out everything. Clearly, he’d come to Cold Spring to find out if she was lying. If he concluded she was, he’d have the truth from her. It was that quiet, natural arrogance, she thought. She could sense it, even as they roared down Main Street in her truck. He’d simply get her to tell the truth, and he knew he would.

The Sunrise Inn was tucked onto a point that jutted into the lake just off Main Street. Harriet and Penelope’s mother had bought it twelve years ago and painstakingly turned the relatively simple Queen Anne into a charming, popular lakeside inn. It was painted deep brown and had a curving porch that overlooked the lake and a smaller screened porch that looked out on one of the inn’s many stunning, award-winning gardens. Of course, at this time of year all the gardens were covered with mulch and melting snow, and the porch furniture was in storage.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention you’re a Sinclair,” Penelope said as she lurched around a pothole. “It’ll just complicate things—and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention that episode at the airport to my mother, if she’s here. She hates planes. If I come home alive, that’s all she needs to know. She’s still having fits about having to call a search party on me this weekend.”

He turned to her. “Do you like living life on the edge?”

“I don’t
like
it. It just sometimes turns out that way.”

She led him up a brick walk. Since the house faced the lake, the inn’s main entrance was at the back, up a set of stone steps. A spring grapevine wreath graced the door, its pretty dried tea roses, larkspur and pepper berries a colorful contrast to the snow, mud and patches of sopping, grayish grass. Inside, stairs curved up to the right, and the wide entry opened into a sitting room with a fireplace and the front desk. Immediately to the left, off the entry, was an elegant parlor, almost completely Harriet’s doing with its dark wood and damask fabrics. She’d added an 1893 rosewood upright piano, a dozen needlepoint pillows, even an easel for drawing.

Penelope immediately felt the heat of the sitting room fire and smelled apples and cinnamon and something faintly tangy—oranges, perhaps. Harriet always liked to keep something fragrant simmering, and if there was snow on the ground, there was a fire in the fireplace. She was convinced her guests wanted fires.

In borderline temperatures like today’s, that meant it got toasty fast. Penelope unzipped her flight suit about six inches. She’d worn a black T-shirt underneath, a mistake on a day filled with lies, reporters, a flying screwup and Wyatt Sinclair. She groaned. “It’s hot in here. I can’t believe Harriet has a fire going. It’s almost fifty degrees outside.”

Sinclair cut her a quick smile. “Downright balmy, isn’t it?”

“Compared to the eighteen degrees it was two weeks ago,
yes.
I’m suffocating.”

She grabbed what was left of her braid with both hands, let it drop and undid her zipper another inch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Wyatt twitching. With a white-hot jolt, she realized he wasn’t her father or one of the guys from town. He was a
Sinclair,
and he would be attuned to everything physical in his surroundings. Including her. Especially her, because she was the reason he was here. He wanted to know about his uncle’s plane.

That he was obviously aware of her meant nothing. She didn’t have to be his type or even particularly attractive—she had only to be breathing for him to scope her out. It was simply the nature of the beast.

Scones, she reminded herself.

Fortunately, neither Harriet nor her mother—in fact, no one—was at the front desk. Penelope led Sinclair down a short hall to the left, past the wood-paneled bar and up another short hall to a cheerful octagonal room that served as the inn’s dining room. It jutted from the main house, with views of both the gardens and the lake. With nothing in bloom, the tables and windowsills were decorated with pots of narcissus, paperwhites, daffodils and hyacinths. They were a cheerful touch that complemented the white linens and blue willow china.

Penelope greeted Terry, the manager of the Octagon Room and sole server of afternoon tea, and quietly asked, “Is Harriet or my mother around?”

“Harriet’s upstairs, and I think Robby’s at the sugar house.”

Penelope couldn’t hide her relief. She was pretty sure Sinclair noticed. He was in observational mode, keying in on every nuance. Best to remain on guard, no matter how good the scones, how tired she was after her long day.

“Do you want me to tell Harriet you’re here?”

“No—that’s okay. We’re just having tea and scones.”

“Of course. Any table’s fine. We were crowded yesterday and this morning, but I think all the reporters have checked out by now.”

Terry was clearly curious about the man at Penelope’s side, but Penelope had no intention of introducing him. She wanted to convince Wyatt of her sincerity and honesty and hurry him back to New York. She chose a table in front of a window with the best view of the lake and a blue pottery dish brimming with daffodils.

“My mother does sugaring in the spring—the sap’s running like crazy,” she explained to Wyatt, just to say
something.
She wanted to distract him from coming to judgments she couldn’t control, like the certainty that her turn-of-the-century dump was made-up. “She and Harriet use the syrup at the inn and sell the surplus to guests.”

He settled into a chair opposite her. Even in black leather, he didn’t look out of place. He had an obvious ability to make wherever he was his space. The New York financial district, the Tasmanian wilderness, a charming New England inn. “Is Harriet your cousin on your mother’s side?” he asked.

Already they were on dangerous ground. Penelope shook her head. “No, Harriet and my father are first cousins. She’s between my mother and me in age—they’ve just always gotten along.” And that was all he needed to know about Harriet Chestnut.

“Are you related to everyone in town?”

“Not quite.”

Terry brought two individual pots of tea, two small plates of warm currant scones and two little crockeries, one of soft butter, one of raspberry preserves. Penelope smiled and thanked her, then said to Wyatt, “After nearly dying today, I’m putting jam and butter on my scones.”

“I didn’t realize it was that close a call.”

“It wasn’t, but anything to justify butter and jam.” She split open a scone, spread a generous amount of butter and checked her tea. “Another minute.” She settled in her chair, trying to ignore a flutter in the pit of her stomach. Lying to the national media was one thing, to a Sinclair another. “I’m sorry I got your family all stirred up about your uncle’s plane.”

Wyatt broke off a piece of his scone, smeared on a bit of butter. “I’d like to hear your story from start to finish, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

He smiled. “Is that the truth?”

She smiled back, her stomach twisting—damned if she’d let him ruin her afternoon tea. “Okay, so it’s awkward and I’d rather not. But I’ll oblige you. How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Are you going to pick apart every sentence?”

He shrugged. “Only if I sense you’re…dissembling.”

“Dissembling’s just another word for lying. It’s that Dartmouth education showing, huh? Well, sense away, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Wyatt,” he said smoothly.

She poured her tea, relieved her hand didn’t shake. “Wyatt Sinclair,” she said. “The only son of Brandon Sinclair, who was just eleven years old when his older brother and Frannie Beaudine slipped out during the reception honoring the donation of the Sinclair Collection to the Met.” She sipped her tea. “Rumor has it Colt stopped to say goodbye to his little brother before heading to the reception.”

“You’ve done your research.”

She waved a hand. She wanted to establish a measure of control over their conversation but saw no need to get into what she knew about Frannie and Colt—and him. “That much everyone around here knows. It’s printed on diner place mats. Frannie Beaudine’s sort of a local heroine.”

“And the people of Cold Spring blame Colt for sweeping her off her feet and to her doom?”

“Pretty much.”

Wyatt poured his tea, adding a bit of lemon, no sugar or cream. “It’s been forty-five years—”

“Around here, forty-five years is the blink of an eye. I mean, it’s not like we’re in England or Greece, but still. My father remembers both your uncle and Frannie—and your grandfather, too.”

“He told me.”

“He was fifteen when they disappeared. He helped search for their plane. It’s not so long ago.”

“I suppose.” Sinclair leaned back, watching Penelope as she ate her scone, which was feathery light and just perfect, but she resisted the temptation to wolf it down. “So, tell me how you mistook a dump for plane wreckage.”

She’d been explaining that point since morning. On her trip to Plattsburgh, New York, and back, she’d worked out the kinks in her story. “Well, I did and I didn’t. I just
thought
it was plane wreckage—I realized I wouldn’t know for sure until I went back. Because of the conditions, I only saw it from a distance. It was on a steep, icy, rocky hillside, and I didn’t want to risk climbing over to get a closer look. It was late, and I was out in the woods alone.”

The dark, almost black eyes settled on her. “And you were lost.”

She gave him a self-deprecating smile. “I wasn’t lost-lost. Lost-lost is when the search party has to find you. I made my way back while they were still arguing over who got to ride the snowmobiles.”

The eyes didn’t move from her. Wyatt Sinclair wasn’t going to be easy to roll. He had more at stake. It was his uncle—his flesh and blood—in that plane. Feeling a twinge of guilt, Penelope poured her tea. “Anyway,” she went on, welcoming the steam and the smoky smell of Earl Grey, “I said I thought I
might
have found Colt and Frannie’s plane, and next thing it’s all over the news that I
did
find it. So before things got too far out of hand, I slipped off on my own late yesterday to check out what I’d found for myself.”