Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series) (14 page)

“Sarah…”

“And,
my
inn…” She paused to take a breath. She was on a roll, her adrenaline a runaway train on a distinct track. “The history of The Cornelia Inn goes back to those early days. It was owned by the DeGraff’s. Cornelia DeGraff was a matriarch in this town. It’s an honor to carry on the legacy of her homestead.”

She bit back the urge to scream. “So you see, your concern for your stupid little flip property gets no sympathy from me. Your idiotic complaint has rocked my life and, more importantly, my daughter’s future. If my existence gets in the way of your profit margin, well that’s just tough shit.”

She turned on a heel and left, her heart beating in her throat and her temples. It was more than anger drumming inside her. She couldn’t define it; but whatever it was, the feeling took her breath away. A sob threatened with a sharp ache in her throat.

She heard quick footfalls approaching, felt a hand on her arm, the touch sending a zoom to her senses. She stopped short. Against all alarm buttons signaling her thoughts, she turned to face him.

Benny’s eyes were searching, penetrating her gaze with urgency. He took a last step in her direction and her nerve endings poked, taut like protracted claws. Her whole body stiffened, bracing like a barricade.

Now, of all times, the only thing she could think of was that dance and the kiss that followed. Her eyes found his lips and she remembered how they tasted, how they felt pressed to hers.

She closed her eyes.
Don’t,
she commanded silently. But, behind her lids, her mind’s eye could see the image of their entwined closeness as they’d swayed to the music. She even heard the melody, the soft notes of the tune that had enveloped them and made them part of the song.

“I had no idea…” His voice was pained.

“Why did you ask me to dance?” It blurted from her lips too quickly to suppress.

“What?”

“That night at the Pier House. You led me on.” She felt her breath catch, her heart thunder. Her need for the answer swelled in her chest.

“I didn’t know who you were then, Sarah. You have to know that.”

“Maybe not at first you didn’t. Okay, maybe I’ll buy that. But, later when I told you…” She paused to quell the sudden emotion that rushed to her throat. It angered her that the memory conjured such feelings. Foolish tears stung her eyes.

“I regret my actions.” His mouth formed a thin line on his face, concealing the fullness of his lips, hiding the crookedness of the one eyetooth. “I regret a lot of things.”

If they were not here at this crazy juncture, if these were not their circumstances, Sarah felt somewhere inside that the situation would be different between them. Her body tingled with that instinct. But, this was
here and
now.
The reality of that slapped her with an open hand.

“I think you need to just leave me alone,” It was a ragged whisper, a plea. She allowed herself to look him in the eye, raised her chin as acceptance to her own challenge.

He paused, breathed deeply, and let the air expel from his chest. And, then…that’s what he did. Benny walked away from her, toward his truck.

Chapter Eleven

Back at the house, Benny dialed his brother’s office line. Shirley, Sal’s secretary, greeted him warmly. She’d been with the precinct forever, having assisted the previous two captains before Salvatore. “Benny, how the heck are you?” she bellowed into the phone.

“I’m good, Shirl. Sal around?”

“You got lucky,” she said cheerfully. “He’s in the office today. Driving me nuts, if you want to know the truth.” She laughed into his ear.

Sal was his usual official-sounding self and his words were clipped. “What’s up, Benny? This an update on the bed-and-breakfast?”

“My first question is about a guy in your neck of the woods. The local police tell me there’s nothing on him, but just wondering if you’d ask around.”

“With all my free time, you mean?” Sal snickered into the phone. “I’m not the retired one, little brother. What’s going on? Somebody causing you grief?”

“The name’s Clyde Stone. Lives in Verona. He was involved in an altercation on the beach here in town and…”

“Christ, Benny. Don’t tell me that shit,” Sal snarled. “That stuff is suicide for a vacation town. Word goes around that there’s crime brewing and nobody wants in.”

After a long, silent pause, Sal continued in a calmer but authoritative voice. “We just need to hang on for a little while, till the market changes. Then we can kiss Ronan’s Harbor goodbye and laugh all the way to the bank.”

The image of Sarah’s face popped into Benny’s head. The sad look in her eyes, the worry flecked in them. He closed his eyes, pinched his thumb and index finger in the space between his eyebrows and kneaded the tense muscle there. Yet, the image of Sarah’s face was still there in his mind.

What kind of grown-up woman still has freckles on her nose anyway? Makes her look like a kid, or something. Don’t they have some goo they use to cover them up?

The way she had looked at him, and all that anger in her voice, normally would have just pissed him off. But, it hadn’t. He felt like shit now, thanks to her.

This wasn’t like him, and all he had to blame it on at the moment were those damned freckles. And
that’s
what pissed him off.

“Can you just see if anybody knows this guy?” Benny asked. “His permanent home is in the town next to yours. Shit, Sal, it’s no big deal. Ask one of your guys.”

“What do you mean ‘permanent home’?”

“He’s looking for property down here in Ronan’s Harbor.”

“Christ.”

“I’m almost hesitant to call him the victim after he kicked the crap out of one of the perps. The locals recovered his belongings and found a list. The Cornelia Inn’s on it. The cops aren’t particularly concerned though. They say people are always looking at beach property, for sale or not.”

“So, who gives a crap? What’s it got to do with us? Forget about it, Benny.”

“Sarah’s gotten a couple of anonymous notes telling her to stop her daughter’s wedding. She’s kind of spooked about it. Maybe this Stone guy’s the culprit.”

“Okay, brother, first of all, you’re calling this chick by her first name now. Stay the frig away from her. Don’t go soft on me, Benny. And drop this crap about this what’s-his-name idiot that got robbed. You want to make some dough on this shack or not?”

Benny blew out a whoosh of air.

“Do I need to come down there, Benny? Christ, don’t be a pansy.” He started to laugh. If Benny didn’t know better he’d swear it was his old man on the other end of the line with the sardonic sounding chortle.

A memory of his father crowded his brain and began to tumble free. He’d been just a kid, nine maybe, on that Easter Sunday.

The whole family had been seated around the dining room table—Uncle Tony and his clan, Uncle Angelo there in his blue uniform, scheduled for duty that evening, and Benny’s grandfather, Dominick Senior. The men had gotten boisterous by the end of Maria’s elaborate meal. It happened all the time, a houseful of cops was just too much for everybody.

Benny had delivered the dessert to the table. He’d helped his mother make her famous, flakey, triple-layered coconut cake—her masterpiece. Even at that tender age he’d felt a thrill in creating baked goods. He loved the smell that overtook the house, the delicious aromas that defined their home.

On that long-ago holiday, his father had taken one look at his son carrying that cake and had started his typical shit, ramped up, of course, for the sake of the company at the table.

“Maria, are you kidding me with this?” he boomed to his wife. “You’re making the boy into a pansy. Christ, you fittin’ him for an apron, for God’s sake?”

“Hey boy, where’s your apron?” his Uncle Tony had teased, causing a round of laughter around the table. His family members shook their heads as if Benny had shown up in the room naked.

His old man shook his head in disgust. “We got to make a man out of you, Junior, no son of mine is going to be a pansy.”

Benny had felt the glass pedestal wobble in his grasp. He jerked his hands in an attempt to right the tilting cake, the movement a misjudgment that caused the white frothy dessert to topple onto the table, coconut first. More laughter overtook the room. He hadn’t known what to do—clean up the mess, or run and hide. His brain froze with just one certainty. He was no pansy.

Long after the talk had changed to some other topic, the loud chortles had rung in Benny’s ears. The brash mocking sounds that had pelted him then were mimicked now by the noise coming at him from the phone in his grasp—time’s bitter echo.

“Answer me, Benny.”

His brother’s bark snapped him back to the moment. He closed his eyes against any more thoughts.

“For God’s sake, Sal. Fine, I’ll drop it. All right?”

****

Sarah sat in the folding chair at the Garden Club’s meeting, nibbling a cookie provided by the month’s hospitality volunteer, Betty Conover.

Betty, a sturdy woman with short and tidy, no-nonsense-styled hair sat in the seat beside Sarah. “How do you like the macaroons?” she asked.

Truthfully, the cookies were over-baked and brittle. Sarah offered a little nod and took another bite, crunching much louder than a macaroon ought to.

Betty leaned in close, gave Sarah a little jab with her elbow. “My husband’s told me about your little dilemma.”

Sarah swallowed the dry cookie and took a sip from her paper cup of lemonade. How to handle it? The last thing she wanted to do was to be overheard by the other members of the group and have it become a big discussion that would burn up the Ronan’s Harbor phone lines.

She shrugged. “Kind of sucks. I’m hoping Hannah doesn’t learn of it.”

“I yelled at Tim, just so you know,” Betty said, straightening her posture. “What’s the big deal if you want to host your daughter’s reception? It’s preposterous to cause you worry.”

A surge of gratitude washed over her. “Thank you, Betty.”

“Hey”—she tapped Sarah’s shoulder and winked an eye—”don’t mess with my Garden Club buddies.”

After the club’s usual discussions of budget numbers and plans for their annual garden tour, the ladies mingled in the living room of their current president, Gretchen Reynolds.

Gretchen, the mayor’s wife, was an animated woman with an infectious way of garnering center stage. She was the first to bring up the brawling incident at the beach. This started a chain of commentary with a cacophony of opinion whirling around the room like a dust devil.

Sarah didn’t blame anyone for their concern. The residents of Ronan’s Harbor were a protective group, especially the ladies of the Garden Club. Their roots were firmly planted in this little town.

Sarah couldn’t help but smile again at Betty Conover’s reaction to her “little dilemma,” as she had put it, and be touched by the particularly tight embrace Gretchen had given her after the meeting ended.

The group’s kinship energized Sarah and gave her a renewed determination to stand her ground, to not be bullied or intimidated by anyone. That included Benny Benedetto. It felt good to remember that.

****

The next morning Sarah spent time at Bayside Blossoms finalizing the wedding’s flowers. Gigi, of course, had it all under control. At least that was one thing about which Sarah could relax.

Her friend was still agog about Mickey Dolan and was completely sure that this time he meant it when he said his divorce was going to happen. Sarah wasn’t as convinced.

Gigi shrugged off Sarah’s words of caution. “Sarah, honey, no offense, but your opinion of men is kind of skewed, thanks to Captain Viagra being such a dog.”

It was true that Gary had soured her on trusting men. But Gigi’s interest in Mickey had disappointed her friend one time too many. Sarah was a protective creature, and that was just how she felt these days—from her best friend’s heart, to Hannah’s wedding day, and right down to her beloved inn. Being the keeper of all that mattered was exhausting.

“I’m a big girl,” Gigi said, her voice soft and tender. “You can cross me off your worry list. Let’s talk about something happy. Is our girl bursting with excitement?”

“No,” Sarah said. “It’s weird. She’s been edgy, kind of cranky.”

“Maybe all the details are getting to her.”

“Most of the reception’s details are worked out—as far as she knows anyway. It’s more than that. I think it’s got something to do with her career plans. That temping gig is not really what she wants to do.”

Sarah sighed. “Maybe it is just pre-wedding jitters.”

“I agree,” Gigi said. “Brides get like that. She’ll relax once the day arrives. After their honeymoon she can sink her teeth into the career plans. Right?”

“Absolutely,” Sarah said. She hoped Gigi was right.

****

It was nearly lunchtime as Sarah headed back home. She turned the bend, passing the overgrown hedge in front of the Farleys’ cottage. The carpenter’s white cargo van was parked in front of her inn. Harvey Scriber sat on the top step of The Cornelia rooting the contents of a plastic cooler.

“Hi Harvey,” she began cautiously. She’d spoken to him right after receiving the complaint and asked him to hold off on the work. She hadn’t felt it necessary to elaborate, feigning the inn’s schedule as the reason.