Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (28 page)

With
a sigh made hoarse from exhaustion, Nicole gave up.  Just then, a light went on
above her.  She glanced up.  It came from a small circular window on the side
of the Bloomingdales' house, up on the top floor.  The attic, she assumed. 
That reminded her, she would need to sort through Nina’s attic before her
inventory of the house was complete. 

A
sharp, ferocious wind blew right through her then, whipping her ponytail into
her eyes and violently shaking the trees.  Suddenly frigid, Nicole dropped the
shovel.  Squinting against the force of the wind, she scurried around to the
front of the house.  Even after she slammed the door shut, she could still hear
the cold—the shuffle of leaves, the creaking of branches, the rabid tingling of
the wind chimes that hung from the elbow of the porch light.      

Exhaling
a shuddering breath, Nicole dropped her coat and scarf by the stairs.  Flopping
down on the living room sofa, she grabbed the chenille throw and wrapped it
around her shoulders.  At once the warmth of the house and the throw seemed to
seep into her bones.  She heard Puddle’s little footsteps before the shaggy dog
appeared beside her. 

“Hi,
baby,” Nicole said, smiling.  Puddle jumped up on the couch, landing half on
Nicole's lap.  Lovingly, she stroked the dog's fur; both of them sighed,
inevitably for different reasons. 

Suddenly
a beep sounded from her cell phone, left on the table beside her. 

After
dialing in, she listened to her voicemails.  Message one: “Nicole, this is your
mother.  Did you forget you have a mother?  I haven't heard from you.  (Pause;
implicitly for some kind of apology.)  I know I said I was coming maybe next
weekend, but now I'm not sure when I'll be able to come down.  My work schedule
just got shifted.  But I'll let you know.  Okay, call me back, please.”

Message
two was from Cameron: “Nic, it's me.  Where are you?  I miss you.  Haven't
heard from you.  Call me.”  She opted to save both messages and set the phone
back on the table.  She knew she had to catch up with her family and friends
soon, but it was not a priority right now.  Settling back in the cushions, she
considered what to do next—and it wasn't long before curiosity became
frustration.

Flowers
. 

The
word kept playing in her mind.  What did it mean?  If not a reference to Nina's
now-defunct flower garden, then what?  Tired, Nicole swung her legs up and lay
back, resting her head on the arm of the couch.  Restlessly, her eyes moved
across the room as she contemplated—and that was when she saw it.

Abruptly
she sat up.  (Puddle was visibly put off by the disturbance, and moved onto the
next cushion.)  Across the room, on top of the weathered sideboard, was the
potted hydrangea plant she had found by the front steps when she had first moved
in. 

Between
then and now, the petals of the three frilly white flowers had curled
slightly. 
Flowers...
    

She
walked over to the sideboard.  The plant had not come with a card, although at
the time she had just assumed it was a “welcome to the neighborhood” gift.  Now
she wondered.  She picked up the pot, looked underneath it and all around it. 
No identifying note of any kind except for the plastic flag in the dirt that
gave the scientific name of the flower.  It had never occurred to Nicole to pull
this flag out, but now she did.  When she brushed the dirt off, she saw print
along the bottom, some kind of logo. 
Jade's Flower Shop on
Main
. 

Hastily,
she grabbed her phone.  Forget booting up her laptop for an Internet search. 
The quickest way would be to call Information. 

Thirty
seconds later, she was tapping her fingers on the sideboard, tensing up with
each unanswered trill.  Finally, the line clicked and a recorded message began
to play. 
Hello.  Jade's Flower Shop hours are 9:30 A.M. to 5 o'clock P.M...
 
Glancing at the clock on the wall, she cried, “Damn it!”

“Hello?” 

“Oh—hello. 
Um, are you still open?”

“Just
about to close,” the woman said.  Her rusty voice was almost masculine; it made
her sound both elderly and unapologetic.  “Do you need to place an order?”

“No,
but this is about an order.  A hydrangea plant that was sent to me several days
ago.  About two weeks ago actually.  Could you tell me who sent it?  The card
must have gotten lost in the delivery process.”  Nicole supplied the address
and the name “Nina Corday” and waited.

 When
the woman came back on the line, she said, “No, in fact the card was
not
lost in the delivery process.  That order was a pre-order by phone.”

“Pre-order,
what does that mean?”

“It
means the order was placed in advance.”  Impatiently, Nicole rolled her eyes. 
Of course she understood that much; what she needed to know was the
significance of it. 

“I
understand, but how can you be certain there was no card?”

“The
box on the order form is checked for 'No card',” she explained.  “Often times
people pre-order because they want to guarantee that a specific flower will be
in stock.”

“Okay,
well, can you tell me who ordered the flowers?”  Crossing her fingers, Nicole
thought,
Please don't tell me there is florist-client confidentiality.

“Let's
see here...like I said, it was a phone order...pre-paid by check...”

“Uh-huh,
okay,” Nicole coaxed.  Her fingers had tightened on the phone.  “Who paid for
it?” 

“Let
me see...oh, here it is.  A 'Nina Corday,'” the woman replied.

Confused,
Nicole shook her head.  “No, Nina Corday was the name of the woman who was
living in this house.  I meant—”

“That
was the name on the check,” the woman said, sounding helpless at this point. 

“But—”

“Anyway,
like I said, we're closed.”

Actually,
she hadn't said that.  But when the line clicked and the dial tone sounded, it
was rather a moot point.

When
Nicole set her phone down, she realized that her hand was trembling.  Nina had
sent the flowers to herself?  Or rather—to Nicole?  No, that didn't make
sense. 

Then
Nicole recalled what the florist had said about pre-ordering a specific
flower.  The flower itself had to be a clue.  Nicole re-read the little plastic
tag. 
Hydrangea arborescens.

Now
it was time for an Internet search. 

She
booted up her laptop, tapping her foot on the floor waiting for her icons to
appear, and then clicked on-line. 
Hydrangea arborescens
, she typed.  A
scroll of search results appeared.  Scanning down, she noticed one word that
seemed dappled across the whole screen:
Annabelle.  The Annabelle plant. 
Annabelle hydrangea.  Annabelle flower
.  

A
memory in the back of her mind suddenly jumped to the front. 

Puddle
was on her heels as she darted down the hall, recalling her first night in
Nina's house, in the library and the book—the book that had been turned the
wrong way.  Of course it had not been haphazardly put away like that.  It had
actually been a clue. 

Now
Nicole climbed up the rolling ladder and skidded to an abrupt halt in front of
the familiar green book with white lettering. 
The Selected Works of Edgar
Allan Poe
.  She pulled the book off the shelf and opened it—this time
gingerly so no “loose” page would fall out.  And there it was.  The poem
entitled
Annabel Lee
. 

Eagerly, Nicole re-read it, her eyes seeing the words in a
new, inscrutable way.  Images danced around her, still just out of reach,
urging her to remember.

I was a child and
she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

For the moon
never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

“If
you gotta go, you gotta go,” Nicole needlessly assured her shivering dog, whose
fur whipped furiously in the wind, but who was nevertheless determined to
pee.  

As
she led Puddle back up the porch steps, Nicole suddenly heard a familiar
voice.  “Hey you.”

Her
face broke into a smile at the sight of Michael approaching.  “You're back!”
she said, unable to hide her enthusiasm. 

“There
was no answer at the front door, so I took a chance on the back.  Hi
sweetheart,” he added to Puddle, bending down to rub the dog's head.  She was
up on two legs, her front paws reaching up toward Michael's thigh.  Then he
focused his gaze on Nicole and said again, “Hi sweetheart.”  His tone was
softer then, more of an intimate endearment.

With
Puddle’s business complete, the little dog turned around and trotted right back
up the porch.  After they were all warmly inside, Puddle went straight to her
food and water bowls. 

Smiling
at Michael, Nicole asked, “So how did it go?” and started to shrug off her
jacket when he suddenly pulled her to him.  Momentarily startled, she yelped a
little laugh and then his mouth was on her.

The
kiss was ardent, almost unrestrained.  Nicole held onto him, kissing him back. 
There was no denying the blatant sexuality of what was happening.  In moments
they were stumbling through the living room, heatedly making out. 

“Let’s
go upstairs to my room,” Nicole said on a breath.

Michael’s
mouth raked down her throat.  Then his lips were back on hers, his tongue
suddenly aggressive.  “I missed you today,” he whispered thickly, and held onto
her as if trying to possess her.  There seemed to be an intensity about him
today, an emotion, something insistent. 

It
didn’t take long for them to reach the bedroom, and even less time for Michael
to strip off her sweater and bra.  Now she was barely standing up, but rather
he was holding her up.  She felt like she was sweating everywhere.  She peeled
up his shirt and reached for the fly of his jeans. 

Suddenly,
he put his hand on hers to slow her down.  And then he kissed her lips again,
passionately but more slowly.  But she became feverish again, kissing him
harder, reaching for his fly, grinding up against him, digging her fingers into
his arms. 

Within
moments, he had her jeans and panties down and she was naked before him.  In a
blur, he was naked, too, and they were falling back onto the bed.   

Indefinite
time passed as he worked his mouth and hands over what felt like every inch of
her, suffusing her lower body with scalding heat, stoking an almost painful
desire.  Wrapping her arms around his neck, Nicole tried to keep up with him
and with her own desire, but she couldn't find a steady rhythm, an order to
this chaos, and before long her legs were strained around his hips and he was
pushing himself inside her. 

Slightly,
she winced, and then their mouths seemed to break apart at the same moment. As
Nicole turned her face to try to catch her breath, Michael seemed to realize. 
With a brief, gruff laugh he pressed his forehead to her shoulder.  “Oh,
man...” he breathed, “this is getting hot...”

She
couldn't find the strength to laugh at the understatement or simply to agree
with him.  She stroked his back and kissed his bicep.  “I love how you smell,”
she said softly. 

When
she ran her palm over his cheek and gazed up at him, Michael paused.  Looked
down at her.  She couldn't read his face, but his expression seemed serious. 
When he spoke his voice was thick and low.  “We should slow it down.”

“Why?”

“Because...you're
special to me.”

At
that, she smiled.  Nothing would ever ruin this, she decided. 
Michael’s the
one
, she thought and reached up to kiss him.  Their kiss was gentle and
lingering until passion broke like a dam again.  Michael was breathing hard,
licking the shell of her ear, running his hand down between her legs, and soon
she was writhing beneath him.  “Here...” he said gruffly.  “Touch me.”  He
covered her hand on his cock and squeezed, closing his eyes, as his full thick
shaft nearly pulsed in her hand.  Nicole shifted her position and replaced her
hand with her mouth, closing her lips around him, and felt him grip her hair
with his fingers.  It had been a long time since she had done anything like
this, but it felt natural right now.  Suddenly he was coaxing her head up. 

Before
she knew it, she was on her back again, and Michael was dipping his head down
between her legs.  Nicole began rocking on the bed.  This would never work, now
she was too turned on, too impatient. 

“No...I don't
want this,” she implored, trying to pull him up.

Michael stopped
what he was doing, looked up at her.  Huskily, he asked, “What do you want,
sweetheart?”