The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (13 page)

She wanted so much to ask him about Dennis, find out if she had totally misjudged Oliver's relationship with his father. She just knew in her gut that Dennis loved his son. Could his father really be the kind of monster who would hurt his own son? No. She didn't believe that, and she wasn't going to turn Oliver against his father with any crazy accusations. He'd had enough of people prodding him for information today. She had to do this her own way. Give him time to relax, to trust. If he said anything that could lead to his father, she'd turn it over to Ryan. But she wasn't going to pump him for information—it would just make him shut down even more.

So instead she just asked Oliver about his day at school, and, maybe because he was sleepy, he chattered some instead of clamming up. He told about his new teacher, about one kid who had a sneezing fit in class that set everyone off into giggles, about all the mundane details of his day. He was going to be fine. He was an incredibly resilient kid. He was already finding his way in this new school, this new town. He was going to be fine.

And then she was going to uproot him again, make him do it all over again. Was she as bad as his father, taking him away from this place? No. Her motives were good. She needed to find a place she could start over anonymously, without being judged. She needed to be able to get a job, an apartment, a new life, without everyone knowing she was the woman accused in large point type on the front page of the San Jose paper. She couldn't make a home for them in Pajaro Bay.

Even if Dennis was around—and she doubted it—it wouldn't change anything with Oliver. If Dennis came back he would go to prison and she'd still have Oliver. This little boy was not a responsibility she would have chosen. But she couldn't regret it. She watched his dark eyes close and waited until his chatter slowed down to a murmur. She loved this kid.

She smiled down at him. "We make a good team, don't we, honey?"

"Yeah. But I miss daddy."

She felt guilty for wishing the guy was in jail. "I know," she said, choosing her words carefully. "It's natural to miss him. But you need to remember that his being gone isn't about you. It's about his own problems in his life, and his love for you is always there, even when he can't be." She wasn't sure how much that was true, but she wanted so badly for Oliver to believe in the fairy tale. It killed her to see the guilt and shame that flickered in his eyes when he wasn't pretending everything was okay.

"He never left me like this before."

She wanted to ask him about the past, but this wasn't the time. "It'll be okay, I promise." She brushed away the lock of dark hair. "He left you with me because he trusted me to take care of you. And I'm doing okay, aren't I?"

"Yeah." It was practically a whisper. His eyes were starting to droop.

She rubbed his head gently, and spoke extra-softly. "We can have lots of fun before your dad gets back. We'll walk on the beach and look for shells. We'll ride the rides at the amusement park."

"With Captain Ryan," he mumbled, eyes closed.

"Sure we will." Another lie. Maybe that was the secret of effective parenting: good lying.

"You're safe here in the cottage, and the ocean is whispering good night to you."

His breathing grew slower, more steady, and soon he was deeply asleep.

She wished it would be as easy for her.

She got to her feet. Her legs had cramped up from kneeling on the oak floor. She would have to get them real beds soon. This sleeping on the floor was a pain.

She watched Oliver sleep, the worried pucker in his little forehead finally gone. She could just strangle that Dennis Hutchins. But it wouldn't do any good. She had to find a way to help Oliver now, and forget about what an idiot his father was.

How could a man cause such pain to such a sweet, innocent child? That just didn't make sense. She wouldn't—couldn't—accept Ryan's accusation that Dennis would harm his son. If that were true, it would mean her own instincts were completely out of whack. She couldn't believe that the love she'd seen in Dennis whenever he looked at his son was an act.

So much of his behavior had been false, she could see that now. But not his love of Oliver. Not that. He was a lying, manipulative creep, but he loved his son.

Was that possible? Could a person separate out parts of himself like that? Could he be cruel to one person, lie, cheat and steal, but then truly, sincerely love his own child? She had to believe that was true, because the alternative was that Ryan was right, and Dennis actually would kill his own child.

"Sleep easy," she whispered to Oliver. "Everything's going to be all right." She went to the bathroom to change into her pajamas.

~*~

A light flickered on in the cottage. The kitchen. Ryan could see the old enamel stove. Camilla came into view, and his heart thumped in his chest. Why? Why should he react so strongly to the simple sight of this woman?

She had changed clothes. She was wearing something soft and pink. It looked like a pair of men's silk pajamas, tailored and sleek and masculine except for the shell pink color and the hint of curves he could see every time she moved.

She put an enameled kettle on the stove, turned on the flame. He could see the blue of the gas flame from here. The homey scene bothered him for some reason. The innocent woman in pink silk, her red curls loose around her face, the kettle on the stove in the cozy kitchen.

He felt uncomfortable. Like a peeping tom.

He should leave.

Camilla was pouring herself a cup of tea or something. Sat down at the kitchen table. Started to write something. He wondered what it was—shopping list, love letter?

She looked incredibly sad. He hoped he wasn't the one who made her so sad. He wondered what he could say to make her not look so sad. Nothing. There was nothing he could say. He wasn't responsible for her.

Right. That's why he was parked outside her house in the middle of the night like some voyeur. He might not be responsible for making her happy, but he was not going to let anything happen to her on his watch.

Ryan raised his wrist up until he caught the blue glow of his watch face. 11:23 p.m.

He settled back in the seat. It wasn't like he had anyone waiting for him at home. He'd hang around until morning.

Better safe than sorry.

~*~

Camilla picked up the pen again, then hurried to finish the letter so she could mail it in the morning.

Dear Daddy,

This is my new address, so you can write to me here until I tell you differently: Camilla Stewart, at the Honeymoon Cottage, Pajaro Bay, California. Yes, really, Dad. That's the address.

I wish you could see the cottage. I told you in my last letter that I would be at this new address until I could get the place fixed up and sold. Well, I've now seen the place, and it's really strange. I doubt even in all your years working on houses you ever saw something like this. It was built by some eccentric old guy who didn't own a level. Now I've got to figure out how to fix it up so somebody will take it off my hands.

I'd love to have your help on this project, but since I can't, I'll just try to remember all the things you taught me about carpentry.

She paused, pen still poised over the paper. There wasn't any point in asking about Ryan's stepdaughter's killer. There was no reason her father would know about the case, about that kind of man.

She started writing again, in that same artificially cheery way she always did with Dad:

About visiting you—I checked, and I can't visit until the charges against me are dropped officially. It's against the rules, apparently. But I sure do miss you, and maybe I'll see you again before the summer is over.

In the meantime, I'm sending you another book of stamps so you can write to me. I appreciate the letters, even if I don't always write back as much as I should.

When I get a chance, I'll tell you all about the legal mess I'm in, but for now, just know that I'm working hard and I miss you.

Stay safe and out of trouble.

Love,

Your little apprentice.

She folded the letter and put it in the envelope, then addressed it:

From: Camilla Stewart, The Honeymoon Cottage, Pajaro Bay, CA 95000

To: Clifton Stewart, UA9911100, San Quentin State Prison, San Quentin, CA 94974.

~*~

Camilla lay back in her sleeping bag in the dark living room. Outside, she could hear the constant whisper of the waves far below them, and the old shrubs in the yard tapped against the windows. Next to her, Oliver was already asleep in his sleeping bag, the top of his head barely showing above the zipper. She listened to his steady breathing and felt more sure than ever of what she had to do.

In the morning she would get back to work on the cottage. No more goofing around, going to dinners with Ryan or trying to make friends with people in town. The awful scene with Mrs. Rutherford showed her that it had been wrong to get complacent. She needed the anonymity of a big city for herself and Oliver. And Ryan? He wasn't the man for her. He was a nice-enough guy (okay, he was a really nice guy), but they didn't have anything in common. The attraction she felt for him was hormonal. She needed to use her head and be reasonable about it. She was leaving town, and so was he. Their lives were headed in different directions. She was the daughter of a criminal, and he would be disgusted if he ever found out the way she'd lived as a kid. She would never, ever be able to let down her guard around him.

She needed to go back to her original plan: get the cottage sold, pay off her ex-boss, and start over somewhere else. There was a lot of work to do around the place, but she wasn't afraid of hard work. She'd get it all done, and fast.

She drifted off to sleep to images of little elves teetering on crooked little ladders busily polishing the fireplace tiles, fixing broken windows, and painting the eaves of the cottage.

The paint they were using smelled really bad. "Stinky elves," she muttered.

She was almost completely asleep when something crashed down right next to her. She sat up suddenly and felt around in the dark, trying to figure out what had happened. She felt something smooth and square on top of her sleeping bag. One of the fireplace tiles had fallen, right onto her. Wow. She picked it up, her hands making out the shape of an oak tree embossed on the face. That would have hurt if it had hit her in the head—or even worse, Oliver.

She could still hear his soft breathing. He hadn't woken up.

The stinky paint smell from the elves was still there, she thought groggily. Wait a minute. It wasn't paint. It was rotten eggs. She knew that smell.

"Oliver! Honey, wake up."

He didn't respond. The smell of natural gas shouldn't be this bad if the pilot light on the kitchen stove had gone out. Hadn't she just made a cup of tea a little while ago? She sat there with the tile in her hand, trying to remember when she'd had her tea.

Wait a minute. She wasn't making sense. She was too sleepy, too groggy to think straight.

"Oliver!" She shouted it, but it came out in a croak. She coughed to clear her throat, realizing that Oliver still wasn't moving. He was sound asleep.

She fumbled for the zipper on her sleeping bag. It seemed to take her a long time to unzip it, but finally it came open. She tried to stand up, but wobbled in the dark and couldn't stay upright.

On her hands and knees she crawled to Oliver's sleeping bag. He was still sound asleep. She shook him, shouted at him.

Finally, he mumbled, "Mama?"

She tried to get his sleeping bag unzipped, but didn't have any better luck with it than she'd had with her own.

"Oliver! Don't go back to sleep!"

He pulled the sleeping bag up over his face. "Not mornin'."

"No. It's not morning. But we have to get up. We have a problem." She tried really hard to speak clearly, all the while fumbling with the zipper.

Finally it came free and she dragged Oliver's sleepy little body out of its warm nest. He mumbled a protest and then curled up again.

"Help me, Oliver. We've got to go outside."

"Sleepin'." He rolled over and ignored her.

"No, Oliver. Now. We've got to go now." She shook him, hard. Then she slapped him on the shoulder.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. You've got to wake up. Come on."

He rolled away from her and started fumbling around in the dark.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting dressed."

"No. We don't have time. There's a gas leak."

"Smells bad," he said. She could see him standing in front of the fireplace, his eyes glowing in the dim light coming through the window. He swayed on his feet.

"No, son!"

She crawled over to him and grabbed him around the waist.

"Gotta headache," he mumbled.

"I know. Me, too. We have to go outside."

"Can't see. Turn on the switch."

"No! A spark could set off the gas."

"You yelling like Dora."

She didn't have time to grill him about who the heck Dora was. "Come on." She tried again to stand, but couldn't seem to get her feet to work right.

She let go of Oliver and then pushed him forward in front of her. "Go ahead, Oliver. Go out the kitchen door. I'm right behind you."

"You, too?"

"Yes. I'm coming. Don't wait for me. Go outside and leave the door open."

She tried to watch him, but had to put her head down because of the headache.

When she looked up she couldn't see straight. Which way was the kitchen? She felt around on the floor and felt something smooth. A square with an oak tree. The fireplace tile.

She reached out and felt a wall of smooth squares. The fireplace tiles. She pulled herself up, digging her fingernails into the old grout, using everything she had to get to her feet.

She felt the little acorns and squirrels, trees and leaves, trying to picture each tile, desperate to keep herself fixed here, in the real world. The shadows in her head receded, and she pulled again. She made it to her feet.

She turned her back to the fireplace. The kitchen was straight ahead of her. She pushed away from the fireplace, launching herself toward the open doorway in front of her. She took a few steps forward and saw a dark lump on the kitchen's checkerboard floor.