The Chesapeake Diaries Series 7-Book Bundle: Coming HOme, Home Again, Almost Home, Hometown Girl, Home for the Summer, The Long Way Home, At the River's Edge (158 page)

“No hurry. Tomorrow is soon enough.” Lucy stifled a yawn. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll be here.”

Lucy stopped in her office long enough to pick up the printout of phone messages that Angela had left for her, took one long look at it, then put it back on her desk. There was no way she was going to return calls tonight. She grabbed her handbag and turned off the light. She would check the emails she’d received while she was on the plane once she got home, assuming she could stay awake long enough to read them. If not, well, there was always tomorrow.

Lucy’s condo was dark when she arrived home, the air still and slightly stale from the place having been closed up for over a week. She turned on the unit’s air conditioner and a few lights as she passed through the living room, where one end served as a dining area; the kitchen, where she checked the wall phone for the blinking light that announced she had messages, and left the bag containing her takeout dinner on the counter; the small spare bedroom that served as a home office, where she left her briefcase; and her bedroom, where she kicked off her shoes and changed from her skirt and shirt to shorts and an oversize tee.

Back in the kitchen, she opened the bag from Giatta’s and took a whiff of the lasagna, which caused her mouth to water. Using the plastic fork that the server had tossed into the bag, Lucy ate from the container, leaning against the counter. It had been hours since she’d eaten, and until she’d walked into Giatta’s, she hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She ate half the lasagna before opening the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of water, which she carried,
along with the rest of her dinner, out onto the balcony that looked out over the valley.

Watching the sun set over the hills was the best part of her apartment, as far as Lucy was concerned, though being back in St. Dennis for more than a long weekend had reminded her of just how much she loved the views of the water and the change of seasons. When she first met with the brides, Dallas and Steffie, it had been autumn, and the Maryland countryside had been in full glorious color. The trees lining the drive that led to the inn were decked out in golds and reds and oranges, the colors reflected in the Bay. There was nothing in Southern California, she’d had to admit, that could compare with that show of color and light. This past weekend, those same trees, now stripped of their leaves, stood silhouetted against the late afternoon sky like perfectly sketched charcoal drawings. Even in winter, with the Bay a gunmetal gray, there was a beauty to the landscape of the Eastern Shore that had never been equaled anywhere in Lucy’s eyes.

Not that she didn’t love her adopted state, and in all fairness, she reminded herself, California could boast considerable geographic diversity. She just didn’t have time for the traveling it would take to experience it all.

She finished her dinner and set the empty container on the small table to her left, then rested her bare feet atop the balcony railing, closed her eyes, and breathed in the gentle evening air. For a few moments, she permitted herself to relax, but it wasn’t long before lists of things to do began to march through her brain. There were a dozen phone calls to answer, emails to
read and respond to, and last-minute details to go over before her Saturday-afternoon affair, a small wedding at the home of the bride’s mother. Meetings to set up. And, oh yes, she needed to figure out how quickly she could have a pond installed, and how to keep it frozen for a four- or five-hour party in Glendale, where the temperatures in February ranged from the high sixties to the low fifties—definitely not skating weather where Lucy came from. Perhaps, Lucy thought, they would settle for an outside skating rink instead of a pond. Maybe there was some way to have it made with cooling pipes under the surface that could keep the ice frozen. Surely there was someone who knew how to make that happen.

For the second time that day, her mind drifted back to the Madisons’ pond and the many afternoons and evenings she’d spent there. In winter, most of the cattails had turned brown and lost their fuzzy tips, and Canada geese had taken up residency along the shore. She smiled in spite of her fatigue, wondering how the Tollivers would react if thirty noisy, aggressive geese accompanied her when she arrived to set up for the skating party. Surely they wanted authenticity …

She jerked awake in her chair. After allowing herself a moment to wake up, she gathered her dinner container and her water bottle and went back into her apartment. Feeling only slightly refreshed following her impromptu nap, she opened her laptop on the table in the dining area and turned it on. While she waited for it to boot up, she made herself a cup of tea. Her email was waiting for her when she returned, and she sat and scanned the list.

Clients with last-minute questions. Vendors with
order confirmations. A floral designer in West Hollywood who wanted to know how to get onto her “preferred” list. A Realtor who was selling an old Hollywood mansion with an eye toward having it turned into a party venue asking for her suggestions. A heartfelt thank-you from Dallas and Grant for the bang-up job she’d done on their wedding. And an incoming email from CMadfarms. She hesitated before opening it.

Clay hadn’t signed his name but the salutation gave him away. Not that he’d been trying to be anonymous. He would have known she’d know it was from him. She read the email again, then saved it as new without replying, and shut down the computer. If she couldn’t think of a snappy response, she was obviously more tired than she’d thought. She turned off the lights in the quiet apartment and went to bed. Tomorrow she’d deal with everything she missed while she was in Maryland, and maybe even deal with Clay’s email, if she could come up with something that was suitably witty.

The next morning found her no more capable than she’d been the night before. She’d dreamed she was at the inn and of snow that fell so fast and thick that she couldn’t see the Bay. Someone was on the lawn building a snowman, rolling each section to gigantic heights until the head reached the inn’s roof. She stood on the porch in her bare feet and gazed up at the snowman, wondering how its creator had managed
to get the head section atop the torso, and where a black hat that size could have been found. The snow continued to fall until it had piled up around her like a fortress, but still she stood and stared at the snowman. From somewhere inside the inn, she heard Christmas carols being sung and she turned to join the carolers, but the snow was too deep around her and she was trapped. In her dream, she called first for her mother, then both of her brothers, then for Clay, but no one came to help. Finally, the snowman leaned over and scowled at her.

“Stop yelling! I can’t hear the music.” He drew closer, his face morphing into the one that had haunted her for decades.

She awoke with a start, sweating and disoriented and annoyed to find she’d forgotten to set her alarm. She stumbled into the bathroom for a quick shower, dressed, and set out for the office with the sure knowledge that she’d just had what was likely to be the most sleep she’d have for at least a month. She consoled herself with the fact that the less she slept, the fewer nightmares she’d have.

“Where are you off to?” Clay stood in the doorway watching his sister buzz around the kitchen looking for her keys.

“Jesse and I are helping his grandfather decorate his house for the Christmas Tour, which as you know, is tomorrow.” Brooke paused to pat the pockets of her jacket, then smiled. “Success.”

“I’m still trying to absorb the fact that Curtis Enright has agreed to have his mansion on the tour this year.” Clay raised an eyebrow. “What do you suppose has gotten into him? You could probably count the number of living people who have been inside that place on the fingers of both hands.”

“I don’t think he was ever asked to be on the tour before.” Brooke shrugged. “He certainly doesn’t have a clue about what he’s supposed to be doing, and Jesse, being relatively new to St. Dennis, doesn’t either.”

“Which effectively puts you in charge.”

“Right.” Brooke grinned. “How often in the lifetime of the average person does one get to dress up a real mansion in Christmas finery? Not an opportunity
I’m going to pass up, that’s for sure. I’ve only been in a few of the downstairs rooms, and I can tell you, what I’ve seen is gorgeous. And perfectly preserved, with everything just as it was when his wife died, or so I hear.” She paused. “Which may be very romantic or very creepy, depending on how you look at things.”

“Maybe the guy just doesn’t like change. Maybe he just likes things the way they are.” Clay glanced around the kitchen, which looked pretty much the way it did when he and Brooke were growing up. “Let’s face it, some people are comfortable with the status quo.”

“True. But Jesse seems to think it’s a little more than that.”

“What does he think it is?”

“He thinks his grandmother is still in the house.”

“Now might be a good time to remind Jesse that Rose has been dead for, oh, I dunno, I’m guessing maybe twenty years.”

“Jesse knows that. But he’s said a couple of times when he was over there, he heard his grandfather talking to her when Jesse wasn’t in the room.”

“Hey, old habits die hard. A lot of people who live alone talk to someone who’s not there.”

“Do you suppose you’ll do that? When Mom leaves and I move into my little house?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out.” Clay took an apple from the bowl on the table and polished it on his shirtsleeve before taking a bite. “My point was that Curtis and Rose were married for a long time and he probably misses talking to her. So maybe he still does. Doesn’t mean that she’s really still there.”

“He still keeps all her orchids and ferns and plants growing in her greenhouse. Mr. Enright calls it the ‘conservatory.’ Jesse said it’s like a jungle.” She opened the refrigerator door and took out a box of cupcakes.

“Everyone needs a hobby.” Clay shrugged.

“Jesse said sometimes you can smell gardenia in the room and sometimes not.”

“Air freshener?”

“Mr. Enright told Jesse that gardenia was Rose’s favorite fragrance.” Brooke grabbed her handbag, started for the door, changing the subject in midstride. “Is it okay if I cut some branches off the blue spruce and the holly bushes? We might need some greens to decorate with, and I don’t know what trees Mr. Enright has on his property.”

“Take whatever you need,” Clay replied. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Thanks.” Brooke opened a drawer under the counter and removed a pair of garden snips.

“There is, of course, a tariff on the snips.”

“And that would be?”

“A cupcake or two should do it.”

“If you want cupcakes, you’re going to have to work for them. You can follow me over to the Enright place and help out.” She opened the back door. “Better yet, head over to the inn and give Grace a hand with the downstairs. Mom volunteered to help this morning, but she has her card group’s holiday luncheon today and that’s been planned for months.”

“Will there be cupcakes at the inn?” he asked.

“If any are left. Mom took some with her this morning. I don’t know if anyone else showed up to
help.” Brooke went through the door and out onto the back porch, her “see you” trailing behind.

“See you,” Clay called back.

With Brooke gone, her son, Logan, at his friend Cody’s house, and his mother off for the day, the farmhouse was eerily silent. Clay remained in the doorway for a few moments before following his sister out back. The Inn at Sinclair’s Point was an awfully big place for Grace to tackle, and while he was sure some friends other than his mother showed up to help, it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Maybe he’d just take a drive over there and see if there was anything he could do.

“Need a hand with those greens?” Clay paused in the drive and called to his sister, who already had a modest pile of blue spruce branches on the ground near her feet.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” she replied.

Clay got into the Jeep and turned on the windshield wipers. The day had started off with a cold misty drizzle that left pin-drops of rain on the windows. He paused at the foot of the drive and glanced across the road at the trees that formed the woods. The last of the leaves dropped two days ago when a rough rain fell, and now the river beyond was exposed, and would remain so until spring came back around. Having farmed all his life, Clay was more attuned than many to the rhythm of the seasons, and while he much preferred summer to the other three, he trusted in that rhythm, and knew it was only a matter of time before the trees would be in bud once again.

The road was slightly slick and the air still cool, but the center of town bustled with shoppers. Every storefront on Charles Street was decorated with garlands
and wreaths and colored lights. The sidewalk planters that overflowed with bright annuals in summer now were filled with greens and boughs of red berries, and huge red-and-white fake candy canes were placed at jaunty angles on each utility pole. Even the dampness didn’t seem to depress the spirits of the visitors who traipsed from shop to shop, their arms overloaded with their purchases. Many were tourists, not a few of whom were there for the weekend and the house tour the following day. Judging from the number of people standing at the light at Charles and Kelly’s Point Road, St. Dennis’s merchants were having a very good day.

Things looked pretty lively at the inn, too. Clay parked in his usual “No Parking” spot and went into the lobby, where Santa’s elves had already decorated. The tree in the far corner was easily twelve feet tall and completely decked out in garlands and lights and what must have been hundreds of decorations. The mantel was festooned with greens and a swag, and even the sconces wore bunches of holly and red plaid bows.

“Smart move to lie low for the morning shift,” Dan Sinclair told him, a gaily decorated wreath in one hand and a silver bowl of pinecones in the other. “That’s when all the craziness took place. Musta been about fifty women in here, each one trying to outdo the others when it came to decorating.” Dan faked a shiver. “I’ll be having nightmares for weeks.”