Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series) (21 page)

After he stepped away, Gigi leaned forward in her chair and crooked her finger. Reluctantly Sarah hunched forward.

“I didn’t want to ask in front of him, how is it exactly that you two decided to be pals?”

“We’re not pals,” Sarah whispered. She checked to make sure he was still at the front counter. “He was there when you called. I was a nervous wreck and he volunteered to drive. End of story.”

Gigi poked her spoon at Sarah like a conductor’s baton. “Not buying it. There’s a story all right. And this ain’t the end.”

“Ready, ladies?” Benny asked when he returned tableside.

Sarah shot Gigi a look as she slid from her chair.

The drive back to the Osprey Inn was thankfully a quick one. Sarah felt claustrophobic. The walls of the Jeep seemed to close in, squashing her in her seat, forcing her to notice the man next to her. The sight of his thigh pressed against the leather was unavoidable. The movement of his chest as he breathed was a metronome to which her own heart beat.

Gigi thanked Benny again and tried to convince Sarah she was fine to drive back to Ronan’s Harbor alone.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Fine, mother.” Gigi sounded much like her old self. “Thanks, Benny.”

If it weren’t for the weariness on her face an outsider would never guess the woman had just had her heart ripped from her chest. Gigi went to her car.

Sarah touched her hand to the door handle while hesitantly allowing herself to look at Benny. She hated the effect he had on her now. Since seeing the friendly face he’d donned earlier, that was all she could see now. It was as though she wore trick eyeglasses, ones that turned an enemy into a friend. This was bad.

“Thanks again,” she said, doing her best to sound aloof.

“No problem,” he replied, equally unemotional.

She bolted from the vehicle, swinging the door closed behind her without looking back.

****

On the ride home to Ronan’s Harbor, an old song on the car radio set Gigi off again. Sarah watched her friend reach up to swat at a tear.

Sarah hit a button on the radio to change the station. “Want me to drive for a while?” She tried to keep the question casual.

“Sarah, I’m
not
a basket case.”

“I know, but…”

“I’m fine.” Gigi offered a feeble grin. “See?”

“Want to spend the night at my place?”

“Thanks honey,” Gigi said. “I really do appreciate it. Don’t get me wrong, but I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“If…”

“If I find myself
not
all right, I’ll call you or come right over.” Gigi turned to her. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Okay, let’s change the subject. Let’s talk about your new pal.”

Sarah groaned. “I explained this to you already. Nothing’s changed. Benny and I are not ‘pals.’”

“That’s not what I see.”

“You’re seeing
and
talking nonsense.”

“I’m through with nonsense, Sarah. I’m reformed. Remember? Since two-eleven.”

Sarah smiled. “Yes, I remember.”

“I think it’s your turn to check your own time clock, my dear.” Gigi gave her a quick challenging glance before turning back to face the highway.

Sarah didn’t respond. Her betraying, trick eyeballs found the side mirror with the reflection of the black Jeep following behind them. She could see Benny’s face behind the wheel.

When they reached Ronan’s Harbor, Benny’s truck was gone from view. Sarah bid good-bye to Gigi, making her promise again that if she needed, she’d call.

Sarah entered The Cornelia and headed up the staircase. She wasn’t up three steps when she heard a knock. She turned toward the door thinking it sure hadn’t taken Gigi long to figure out she needed company after all.

Sarah opened the door to find a tall man in a dark suit staring at her.

“Can I help you?” She closed the door a few inches as though a sudden wind had caused her do so.

“Sarah Grayson?”

“Yes.”

“Hello,” the man said and extended a hand. “If you have a minute I’d like to speak with you. My name is Clyde Stone.”

Clyde Stone!
Her mind reeled with indecision. In all likelihood this was the creep who’d written those notes. What was his agenda? Should she let him in? Go out onto the porch with him? Slam the door?

She remembered that one of the cops told Benny that Clyde Stone was a black belt in karate, adept enough to send one of his muggers to the hospital. She swallowed hard. What if he was really a psycho?

She’d taken a women’s self-defense class at the recreation center with some of her garden club members. She tried to remember what she was supposed to do if someone grabbed her. All she could think of was “the collapse move” that would turn her into a ragdoll—enough of a dead weight to hopefully topple the attacker and put the victim in a position to kick the attacker in the groin.

She eyed Clyde Stone. Tall and lanky, narrow shouldered, black-rimmed glasses. Not too scary-looking, but still.

“I won’t take too much of your time,” he said. “I’d like to discuss purchasing your inn.”

Anger shot through her, dispelling the thoughts of self defense. Her Cornelia Inn needed defending and she was all it had.

She jutted the front door open with a forceful arm and stood tall in the doorway. “You’re wasting your time. It’s not for sale.”

Clyde Stone stepped forward suddenly and grabbed her by the shoulders with both hands. Adrenaline coursed through her system, charging to her brain. Instantly she envisioned the demonstrator at the women’s defense class and saw herself practicing the moves with her partner. She let herself fall limp, collapsing backwards onto the hand-hooked rug in the foyer. Clyde Stone toppled into the room with her.

“Oh my God,” he said, pulling himself up onto his knees.

Eyes closed and lying prone, just one thing chanted in her head.
Kick him, kick him…

“Shit, lady,” he said leaning forward enough so that she could feel his breath on her face. “Did you pass out or something? Crap, you have epilepsy or narcolepsy or one of those things?” He poked her arm with one spastic finger. “Wake up, lady.”

He didn’t sound menacing, that was for sure. He sounded scared. Was it a trick? Did he like his victims alert? It was now or never, she shot her eyes open and kicked at him aiming for his balls. Instead, her loafer flew from her foot and hit him in the head.

“Ow, what the hell?” he shouted, putting a hand to his head. “What are you, nuts?”

“Leave now,” she boomed. “How dare you touch me? I could charge you with assault.”

“Assault?” He barked the word. “I tripped over that stupid mat out there. I could sue you for damages.”

She sat up straighter. He didn’t move, but continued to stare at her, with one hand still at his forehead. “I’ll count to three, then I’m yelling like a banshee.”

“Hold on. Let me help you up,” he said, reaching for her hand.

“One…”

“Listen, Mrs. Grayson, I think you might want to hear what I know about your inn.”

“Two…”

“It’s going to be condemned.”

Chapter Sixteen

Sarah stood in her foyer staring at Clyde Stone, who also had risen from the floor. He pressed one hand to his head and in the other he held her shoe.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“I believe this belongs to you.” He jutted the brown leather loafer in her direction.

He removed the hand from his head where a reddening welt had begun to show. Sarah swallowed the instinctive guilt that pinched at her but she couldn’t help feeling the need to justify her rash move.

“You can’t show up at my door and suddenly come at me like that.”

“Come at you? I fell. And then you assaulted me.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”

“You have a gun?”

His voice was so filled with terror that she couldn’t help but snort in his face. “I might,” she bluffed. “But, you better start explaining about using the word
condemned
.”

“Have you seen the condition of your foundation?”

“What about it?”

“It’s decayed, crumbling out from under your inn. I’m surprised the town hasn’t shut you down before now.”

Harvey and Richie hadn’t mentioned anything about the foundation when they’d first come to give her an estimate. But that wasn’t the only thing they didn’t know to mention.

She swallowed hard realizing that though Harvey and Richie had performed plenty of small jobs for some of her friends, that didn’t qualify them to tackle her inn. At the time it seemed like the right choice.

Harvey’s mother had been a member of the garden club and she’d taught Sarah everything she knew about tulips. Her son had lost his service station, and needed work.

Clyde Stone interrupted her thoughts. “Look, I happen to know that most homeowners’ insurance coverage excludes some ‘perils,’ as they call them. Crumbling old foundations are one such peril. I also can tell you that fixing that foundation is going to involve extensive work. And lots of money and time. Lots.”

“You’ve done your homework on my inn, haven’t you?”

“Watch,” he said and withdrew a marble from his pocket. He bent low and rolled it across the wooden floor. The little glass globe scooted to the end of the foyer, slowed, then reversed direction and rolled lazily back toward them.

“The floor’s pitched. If you don’t fix the foundation the whole place could fall. I’m sure you don’t want to take the lives of your guests into your hands.”

He paused as though waiting for his information to sink into her every pore. “I’m prepared to make you a fair cash offer for the place. More than fair, all things considered.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Her mind reeled with the wedding plans, and the upcoming season that provided her livelihood. What the hell was she supposed to do if this guy was right?

“Mr. Stone, I think this conversation is over.”

He extended a business card toward here. “I’m in town for a few more days. If you come to realize that I’m right, which I hope you do, please contact me.”

And he was gone.

Sarah stood alone in the foyer. She cast her gaze around at the furnishings, the wall art, the draperies. She went to the banister, ran her hand up over the smooth mahogany.

She looked down at the rug she’d purchased from an Amish woman in Pennsylvania, the tufts a riot of color. Her eyes filled with tears, blurring the scene. She blinked them away and her gaze riveted to the marble, still on the floor.

She pulled on a jacket and went outside. She needed to see the foundation for herself. A strong wind had brewed, whipping her hair harshly. She trod along the perimeter of the structure, running her fingers over the obvious cracks, the missing mortar in places between rocks that left gap-toothed-looking holes in the façade.

A chalky substance covered her fingers, remnants she was sure of the disintegration that had occurred without her even being aware. She closed her eyes, wiping the powder off her fingers by swiping them across the back pockets of her jeans.

She pulled the jacket tight across her body as the wind pressed at her back. She strode through the yard to the front door.

Inside, she paused. She wondered what to do now? Where to turn? Her eyes found the portrait of Cornelia DeGraff in her splendid butter-yellow gown.
Our house is crumbling out from under us, Cornelia.”

Sarah went to the phone. She knew not to bother Gigi with this news, not after the day the girl had had. Sarah wouldn’t dare call Hannah and send her kid into a tailspin.

Her mouth was dry and her throat scratched when she swallowed. She dialed Benny’s cell phone number, surprising herself that she knew it by heart.

The call went to voicemail. When she heard the beep, her tongue had tied and her mind had no idea how to relay what she needed to tell him. She hit the end button and put the phone back in its cradle.

****

Arms loaded with food and a six-pack of beer, at the convenience store, Benny heard the cell phone ringing in his pocket. He waited until he was able to lay everything down on the counter at the register before he reached for the no-longer-ringing phone.

There was no message, but he saw that the call had come from Sarah. A funny pain jabbed at his insides, a kind of poke at his heart.

His mind went right back to the thoughts he’d been trying to squash all day. Sarah Grayson. Exasperating, pigheaded, and irrational Sarah Grayson.

And yet there was no denying the feelings that had brewed in him. He wanted her. He wanted to kiss that pink mouth, run his fingertips over her face, count the freckles, and kiss each one. His thoughts were pitiful, and he groaned audibly.

“Sir?”

He startled alert to find the young clerk at the register peering at him as if he were about to keel over.

“I’m sorry,” he laughed and gave his head a shake. He reached for his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“Thirty-two fifty.”

He withdrew a pair of twenties and handed them to the young man who slipped them into his tray and fished out the proper change.