The Sweetheart Secret (4 page)

“What on God's green earth is
that
?”

Esther glanced up from the pile of brown yarn in her lap and gave Greta a quizzical look. Esther's purple polka-dotted granny glasses perched at a precarious angle on the bridge of her nose, as if they wanted to swan dive into the bodice of her neon paisley housedress.

“What is what?” Esther asked.

“That.” Greta waved at the tangled, stringy mess. Esther and Greta were sitting in the morning room while Greta sipped a mug of bourbon-spiked coffee and Esther worked her one-woman craft fair. “It looks like a dog died in your lap.”

“Well, it is a dog. But he's not dead. He's just not finished.” Esther grinned and held up a flat four-legged knitted Frankenpupster. “It's a knit-your-own-dog kit. Once I finish knitting Rooney here, I'll stuff him, and voila, a pet.”

Oh Lord, Esther really was beginning to lose it. So sad to see her friends slip into early dementia. “Esther dear, it's a stuffed animal. The kind of thing three-year-olds play with.”

Esther pouted. “Rooney is more than that. He's a low-maintenance pet. You'll see. As soon as I'm done with Rooney, you're going to want one of your very own. I can make a golden retriever or a Lhasa apso or—”

“My sweet Greta doesn't need a pet of her own. Not when she has me to keep her company.” Harold Twohig's overly minty, hot-as-lava breath trickled down the side of Greta's head. Lord Almighty, that man sprang out of nowhere, like a spider slithering under the floorboards. She spun around and shot him a glare.

“There's a law against stalking, you know. And sneaking up on old ladies who were busy. Very busy.”

He just grinned, the damned fool.

“Go back to your cave, Harold.” Greta waved in the general direction of the exit. Any exit. Preferably one that led to Mars.

Harold leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave Greta a long, assessing look, followed by a toothy smile. “Is that all you've got today? I have to say, I'm a little disappointed.”

“You want me to be meaner?”

“The harder you try to insult me, Greta dear,” Harold said, reaching down to lay a sweaty palm against her cheek for a brief second, “the more I know you care.”

She started to huff out a response, but Harold just turned on his past-Labor-Day white golf shoes and headed out of the morning room. Greta resisted the urge to throw Esther's half-stuffed dead dog after him and let it smack Harold in the back of his oversized egg head.

“Harold sure does like you, Greta,” Esther said, her gaze on the knitting needles and giant skein of brown yarn working together in furious movements. “I don't see why you keep resisting his attentions.”

Greta signaled to the waitstaff for a fresh cup of coffee. Lord knew she was going to need one. Not to mention a second jigger full of the supplemental beverage tucked in the pocket of her sweater. “Esther, I do not cavort with evil, especially in human form.”

Pauline hurried up to the table in her usual cyclone of stuff. She dumped her purse, coat, and hat into a chair, followed by a set of keys, a bundle of newspapers, and a thick manila envelope. It all poured out of her arms and into a teetering mountain that dwarfed the high-backed chair. Every time Pauline entered a room, she was like a passel of clowns exploding from a VW bug.

“Who's evil in a human form?” Pauline said.

“Harold Twohig.” The words burned past Greta's lips. Why did the man insist on plaguing her so? She didn't have the stomach for him. Not today. Heck, not any day.

“You say his name with such vehemence,” Pauline said. “And here I thought you two were getting along.”

Pauline slipped into a cushioned seat across from Esther and her growing bundle of furry yarn. Esther kept on knitting away, a woman on a mission to fill her tiny Golden Years apartment with a faux menagerie.

“Harold and I never got along,” Greta said. “I merely formed a temporary alliance with that spawn of Satan so I could work some magic between Diana and Mike. As painful as it was to be in Harold's presence, it warms my heart to see those two engaged.”

Two happy endings already this year. Her grandson Luke and darling Olivia, set to get married next month. Now Luke's friend Mike and Olivia's sister Diana, engaged and setting up house together in Rescue Bay with Mike's adorable little girls. At the end of the day, that was the kind of thing that gave Greta comfort and told her that when her time to go came, she'd be leaving a legacy of happily ever afters.

Except for Edward. Her only child had yet to do so much as glance in the direction of any of the women Greta had tried to set him up with. He'd been widowed so long, it was as if he'd forgotten how to date. She worried about her son, and about him living the rest of his days as a workaholic hermit.

Pauline cleared her throat. “Speaking of Harold—”

Greta grimaced.

“Did he say if Earl was joining the guys for their card game today?”

“I didn't ask, Pauline. I try never to talk to Harold. Especially immediately after eating.” Greta leaned in and eyed Pauline. “Why do you care what Earl Harper is doing today?”

“No reason. I was just hoping to get a chance to pick his brain. My Cadillac is acting up a bit and I thought he might know why.”

“The man's retired, Pauline. Let him live in peace.”

“I'll run by the garage this afternoon instead.” Pauline retrieved the envelope from the chair, and undid the metal clasp. “Okay, girls. Time for us to get to work. I've got the latest letters for our Common Sense Carla column. Let me read a few and we can decide which one we're going to tackle this week. We have several doozies in this batch. I'm thinking a secret lover would be good to spice things up.”

“I like the idea of a secret lover. Or spouse.” Greta grinned.

Pauline shuffled through the stack of letters in the envelope and pulled out a pale blue sheet. In the year the three women had been writing the local advice column, they'd covered the gamut of topics. Several local papers were carrying the Common Sense Carla column now—part of Esther's attempt at world domination. Either way, Greta enjoyed helping with the column, if only because it provided a ready excuse for some meddling—well-meaning, of course. That gave her another reason to get out of bed in the morning, and at Greta's age, sometimes that required the addition of a good shove and an industrial crane.

“I don't see a secret spouse letter,” Pauline said. “I have a woman secretly in love with her irritating neighbor. What about that?”

Greta yanked the paper out of Pauline's scrawny hand. “That would only give other people ideas.”

“Like the idea that
you
wrote it?” Pauline grinned.

“Lord, no.” Greta put up her hands to ward off the idea. “Why would I write such a thing?”

“Who would Greta be secretly in love with?” Esther asked.

Pauline rolled her eyes. “Esther, you really need to pay more attention.”

“I can't. I'm knitting. There's a lot of counting involved. Or Rooney will end up with one leg longer than the other.”

Pauline looked at Greta. “Rooney?”

“Don't ask. Trust me, you don't want to know.” Greta shook her head. One of the waitstaff came over with a trio of coffee mugs, deposited them in front of the ladies, then left. As soon as the nurses weren't looking, Greta tugged the bottle of Maker's Mark out of her pocket, unscrewed the top, and added a little sweetness to her coffee. Esther tsk-tsked. Pauline bit back a laugh.

Greta ignored them both. Her daddy had started every day with a little shot of the hard stuff, and he'd lived to ninety-seven, which made all the case Greta needed for her morning Maker's Mark. Clearly, there were some things about longevity that Doc Harper didn't know. “Before we get to our next letter, I think we need to discuss our next mission.”

“Mission? That sounds dangerous,” Esther said. “I'm too old for dangerous.”

“You are also too old for a stuffed dog, but that sure as sunshine isn't stopping you today.”

Esther stuck out her tongue at Greta, then went back to work on Frankenpup. Pauline mouthed
stuffed dog
? Greta just shook her head. Esther was a hopeless case when it came to crafts. The only plus to Esther's knitting frenzy was that she'd forgotten all about her quilting fetish. Which kept Greta from having to pretend she liked quilting just so she could sit at quilting club and drink bourbon.

“We have a new resident in Rescue Bay,” Greta began. “And I'm thinking she should be our next project.”

“Wait. I thought we were looking for a mission.” Esther blinked. “Now we have a project, too? I have my hands full of projects, if you need one, Greta. Why there's a cross-stitch I started back in 1982 that—”

“Mission. Project. Same thing. And the day I do cross-stitch is the day you shoot me in the head, Esther.”

“I thought you said that about the day you kiss Harold Twohig.” Pauline gave Greta a grin.

Greta's cheeks flamed. She pressed a palm to her stomach. Just the thought of that man made her inner workings churn like a lethal case of indigestion. Okay, yes, maybe they had shared a single, solitary,
almost
kiss. Thankfully thwarted at the last second by Greta's quick thinking. Didn't change a thing about how she despised Harold Twohig and his overzealous stalking. Even if he did seem to be growing on her, like invasive ivy on a brick facade. “You have a way of making even my morning coffee taste horrible, Pauline.”

Pauline's gaze narrowed. “I'll bet dollars to donuts that you have an ulterior motive in this little project.”

“My only ulterior motive is to keep our little local economy rolling along. I'm just doing my part.”

Pauline snorted, a sound that was just south of a curse. “Okay, so what's your mission? And how exactly does it help the ‘local economy'?” She put air quotes around the last two words.

Greta took a long sip of coffee while she weighed her next words. She was in possession of some very interesting information—information that Doc Harper definitely didn't want shared—and she wanted to be smart about when or if she used it. Perhaps the next time the man prescribed vegetables, she'd remind him of what a good friend she'd been, not telling about his secret wife. But that didn't mean she couldn't hint at the truth. “I think our new resident knows Doc Harper, from way back. And that means that maybe our next happy ending could be his. Which means we get a new taxpayer in town, and maybe some future taxpayers in another nine months or so.”

“I thought you hated Doc Harper,” Pauline said. “I've always liked him, personally. He's a smart cookie. And after all he and his family have been through, too. I don't blame his parents for moving away. Where'd they go again?”

“Arizona, I think,” Esther said. “To live with the cactuses. Or is it cacti?”

Greta waved off Esther's plural debate. “What are you talking about, Pauline?”

“Don't you remember? When Doc Harper was just a kid himself, his little brother died. Some kind of tragic accident, though I don't recall what. Six months later, the Harpers up and moved to—”

“Tucson,” Esther cut in. “With the cacti.”

“And Doc was here by himself,” Pauline said. “I guess that's when he went to college, got his degree, all that business.”

Greta had forgotten about that. Used to be, she knew every single thing that happened in this town. Now, her brain had become a sieve, sprouting more holes every day. “That must have been a long time ago.”

Pauline nodded. “At least twelve years, maybe more.”

“Poor Doc Harper,” Esther chimed in. “That's probably why he has such a lovely bedside manner. Plus he has the sweetest eyes, don't you think?”

“I think if he's happy, then he's not going to be such a fussbudget when it comes time for my checkups,” Greta said. Maybe all this past history explained why Doc Harper was such a stickler for healthy living. Either way, it would be a good idea to keep him smiling. “And in the end, a happy ending for Doc Harper is really . . .”

“A happy ending for you,” Pauline finished. She sat back in her chair and laughed. “Why would I expect anything else from you, Greta dear?”

“I'm just trying to be neighborly, Pauline. If I happen to benefit out of all this . . .” She sipped her coffee and thought of her daddy for a moment and how he had always been the first to offer a helping hand, a listening ear, or just an ice-cold beer when a neighbor was in trouble. She hoped he'd be proud of her, continuing a legacy of helping others, in her own little way. “Well, that's just a bow tie on the package of life, isn't it?”

A squat blue coffee cup whipped by Colt's head, so fast and so close, it made his hair flicker. The words
Fishermen Hook 'Em Faster
spiraled by in a blur, before the nearly empty mug crashed into the wall and shattered on the tile floor. The cup fractured into an alphabet soup, and the remaining dregs of coffee bloomed a brown daisy onto the beige wall. “Grandpa, what the hell—”

“I told you I'm not going for any more tests. Quit making those damned appointments.” Grandpa Earl stood in the kitchen and hoisted the cordless phone by one end, like a snake he'd yanked out of the garden. Even at eighty-two, Earl Harper had the same wiry frame and close-cropped hair of his military days, but age and illness had stooped his posture and hollowed the contours of his face. His dark hair had gone gray, nearly white, and his blue eyes had softened to a pale sky.

Grandpa Earl, once a man who Colt had thought could beat anything, conquer any obstacle, was sick. Early onset Parkinson's, coupled with the gradual wear down of congestive heart failure, had eroded the hearty Earl Harper, a little more every day. Something Grandpa had refused to accept. Hell, even Colt was having trouble with the concept, and he was the one who had made the initial diagnosis.

Colt sighed. “Grandpa, you need to at least see a specialist. I'm a general practitioner. Not an expert in Parkinson's or heart disease.”

“I don't need an expert. I know what's wrong with me.” Earl scowled. “So leave me be, will you?”

“At least get out of the house once in a while.” Colt loosened his tie, tucked his glasses in his pocket. “Go back to the card games at Golden Years. Nick said his grandpa was asking about you.”

“That rat bastard. The day I play cards with him is the day I roll over and die. And don't start asking me why. I don't need to talk about it or get my feelings on the table or any such Dr. Phil foolishness. What I need is to be left the hell alone.” Grandpa Earl tossed the phone onto the counter, then crossed to the living room and returned to his seat in the ugly La-Z-Boy recliner that sat in direct line with the television screen. With a grunted exclamation point, Grandpa pulled the lever and flipped out the footrest. The brown leather chair had seen better days—hell, better decades—and sported duct tape bandages on all major appendages. Grandpa's La-Z-Boy had been in Earl's house on Bayberry Lane for as long as Colt could remember. When Colt insisted his grandfather give up the old, rundown house and move into Colt's bungalow, the chair had been the one non-negotiable on Grandpa's list.

As much as he hated that hideous chair, Colt had agreed. Grandpa Earl needed to be in a safer environment, one where Colt could be sure that his elderly grandfather was getting the care he needed. Care that involved making sure he took his medications every day, and ate three squares. Colt had thought it would be easy.

He'd been wrong. Grandpa Earl had never been one for convention, and apparently not one for following doctor's orders—especially when that doctor was his grandson. Hence the coffee shrapnel. Right beside the dent in the wall from yesterday's soup bowl. And the triangular hole made by Colt's iPad the day before.

When Colt had been a kid, Grandpa Earl had been the closest thing to a parental role model in Colt's life. Grandpa had taken Colt and his brother fishing, taught the boys how to tie a gossamer thin line into a lure, how to reel in a silvery-green bass before it slipped the hook, and how to have patience as the sun marched lazily across the sky and the fish hovered beneath the lake's placid surface. His grandfather had served two decades in the military, then worked forty-five years under a hood, fixing anything with an engine, until he was forced to retire when he lost his grip on his tools and his patience.

Then Grandma Nancy had died a little over a year ago, and the busy, brimming life that Grandpa Earl had once had ground to a halt, except for the weekly card games with Walt Patterson, which came to an abrupt end earlier in the year. From that day forward, Grandpa Earl had fully withdrawn into a hermit-like life, ignoring medical advice and doctor recommendations. As his illness progressed and loneliness took over the four-bedroom house where he and Nancy had raised their sons, the once vital, energetic grandfather Colt had known slipped away.

There were days when Colt would do anything to get those moments back. To have one last fishing trip, one last memory on the banks of the Whistler's Lake. One last day of wisdom and laughter, the kind of days Colt had never treasured—until they were gone.

Because of Colt's mistakes. Mistakes Grandpa had never forgiven. For fourteen years, Colt had been doing his level best to atone, but the wall remained between Colt and Grandpa Earl. Two stubborn men, hurting in their own ways, and refusing to be the first to yield.

Colt laid his briefcase by the door, dropped his keys into the wooden bowl on the credenza. He bit back a comment about the dirty dishes littering the kitchen counter and table, the empty ice cream container sitting beside, instead of in, the trash. In the weeks since Grandpa Earl had moved in with Colt, the daily silent battle between them about maintaining order had grown in proportion. It wasn't an argument Colt wanted to have today. Or any day. “Grandpa, I'm not trying to hurt you—”

“No, worse. You're trying to kill me. I don't need any of those fancy medicines you keep trying to shove down my throat. And I don't need to be living here, like a prisoner on death row. Let me go back to my own house and my own ways of treating these damned shakes.”

The house his Grandpa had no longer been able to maintain on his own was now on the market, but Colt chose not to remind Grandpa of that fact. “Those shakes are called Parkinson's, Grandpa. There are medications that can help and treatments that can ease the symptoms. You can't just—”

“I can and I will. It's a free goddamn country. Something you'd know if you'd gone to war, like I did, instead of going to that fancy college.” Grandpa thumbed the remote and turned up the volume until Alex Trebek's voice boomed in the tiny space.

That fancy college had given Colt a medical degree, something his grandfather conveniently ignored every time the subject of his failing health came up. What was that saying about
physician, heal thyself
? Right now, Colt was having a hell of a time just
healing thy family.

The doorbell rang, cutting off Colt's next argument. Didn't matter. Some days, it felt like he was just rehashing the words from the day before. Maybe he was crazy for trying to restore the past—for trying to get close again to the man who blamed Colt for the death of his youngest grandchild. Hell, Colt still blamed himself.

If he couldn't find a way to forgive himself, how could he expect to find a way for Grandpa to do the same?

The doorbell rang again, and Colt shook off the thoughts. Grandpa gestured toward the door with a remote. “I bet that's the pizza I ordered for dinner. Thank God.”

Pizza? Again? After the Chinese food yesterday and subs the day before? Seemed like Grandpa had every delivery place in a ten-mile radius on speed dial. Colt threw up his hands. “What are you ordering pizza for? I had a perfectly healthy dinner planned.”

“Let me guess. More rubber chicken and tasteless broccoli?” Grandpa scoffed. “I'd rather chew off my own hand.”

“That can be arranged,” Colt muttered. He crossed to the door, debating whether to send the pizza guy away or just buy a few moments of peace with a large pepperoni. But when he pulled open the front door, he found something far more tempting and dangerous standing on his front stoop. Colt sucked in a breath, told himself he wasn't at all rocked by the sight of Daisy on his front step, looking radiant in a bright yellow dress that flared at the waist and showed off shapely legs that could erase a man's willpower in the blink of an eye. “Daisy. What are you doing here?”

Gee, way to start with a stellar conversational opener. He'd basically just repeated what he'd said earlier.

“I handled our first meeting poorly and I wanted to try talking to you again,” she said. “Calmly this time.”

Colt heard the TV volume descend, followed by the click of the La-Z-Boy's footrest going down, then the shuffle of his grandfather's feet on the tile floor. “Is that my pizza?”

“No, Grandpa, it's not. It's . . .” Colt hesitated. How to describe Daisy?
Friend
didn't fit, neither did
wife
.
Trouble
might be more apt, but that would open a door to questions that Colt didn't want to answer. “Someone here to see me.”

She glanced at the coffee cup shards. “Uh, is this a bad time?”

“No, no . . . it's fine.” Colt started to step through the door and usher Daisy out onto the porch, when he saw a familiar hand grip the door frame above his head.

“You didn't tell me this someone was a woman. Invite her in, boy, before someone scoops her up and you're left holding nothing but your regrets in one hand and your Johnson in the other.”

Daisy arched a brow and covered up a laugh. Colt rolled his eyes. “Grandpa!”

Grandpa sidled around Colt's side and stuck out a hand. “I'm Earl Harper. Colt's grandfather. The friendlier Harper man.”

Colt snorted.

Daisy smiled, a smile that Colt knew could sock a man in the gut and leave him weak in the knees. “Nice to meet you. I'm Daisy. Colt's—”

“Friend,” Colt supplied. At least until he came up with a better alternative to describe their complicated, on/off relationship. Something with less than ten syllables.

“Friend,” Daisy affirmed.

Somehow, hearing the word coming from Daisy made his gut ache. Just friends was what he wanted, wasn't it? Exes who remained on friendly terms, friendly enough to sleep together three months ago? Friendly enough that she lingered in his mind like a favorite song stuck on repeat? Or friendly enough that they'd send a Christmas card each year, maybe check in once in a while on social media?

Yes,
complicated
was the word for it.

“Well, come in, come in,” Grandpa said. “It's been so damned long since we had any company here, I thought we were living on the moon. We're having pizza, if you're hungry.”

“Oh, I'm not staying long. I just needed to talk to Colt for a minute.”

Grandpa waved that off. “It's near supper time. Come in, have a few bites. I promise to be sociable, though I can't say the same for my grumpy grandson.”

“
I'm
the grumpy one?” Colt said. And what was up with Grandpa Earl? Since when did he want company? Or make jokes? Maybe it was a diversionary tactic. To keep Colt from focusing on the canceled doctor's appointment and the roughage revolution. “Grandpa, I think—”

“Why, would you lookie there. My pizza. Right on time.” Grandpa waved at a beat-up two-door Chevy jerking its way up the drive. A faded
RAY'S PIZZA
sign sat askew on the roof. “Give him a good tip, Colt, will you?”

Colt reached for his wallet. It was either that or send the pizza guy away and right now, that was a battle Colt didn't want to have. Grandpa had stopped throwing coffee cups and that was reason enough to relent on the pizza. “Seems my grandfather is sticking me with the bill for his dietary indiscretions.”

Daisy grinned. “As far as indiscretions go, I'd have to say pizza is a pretty inexpensive one. Don't you agree?”

Something went hot in Colt's gut. Hotter than any pizza the pimply kid coming up the walk was holding. A few words, and he was rocketed back to the night in the hotel with Daisy, when he'd forgotten his life, his responsibilities, and most of all, his reasons for walking away all those years ago.

He cleared his throat and reminded himself there'd been more than one reason why he and Daisy didn't work outside the bedroom. “Depends on who's footing the bill.”

“For God's sake, quit your chatting and start your paying,” Grandpa shouted. “My stomach isn't getting any fuller standing here waiting.”

Colt fished some money out of his wallet, then exchanged the bills for a large warm cardboard box. The kid thanked him with a grunt, then trotted back down the steps. Loud rock music thumped out of the speakers when he hopped in the car and pulled away.

Daisy laid a hand on Colt's. Just a momentary touch, but it sent a sizzling flicker down his veins. “I should let you have dinner. I'll come back another time.”

“Have you eaten?” Colt asked, before he could think about the wisdom of inviting her in. That touch had frazzled his brain. Not to mention what the dress, and that smile of hers, had done to the rest of him.

He was as bad as his patients. He knew what was right for him, what was best for his health and sanity, yet he craved the very woman who made him run from all those smart choices. Insane.

What was it about Daisy Barton that drove him crazy? From the first time he'd seen her, sitting on the steps outside of the Hideaway Inn, she'd invaded his thoughts and his better judgment like honeysuckle.