Night Scents (11 page)

"Not a spell," Piper blurted. She set the bolt on her worktable with a loud thump. Clate didn't move. She caught her breath, raked a hand through her hair even as she knew she'd already said too much. "It was more like...I don't know, a prayer. A wish. A dream of what life could be like for me but never was for her. She threw salt in the fire every night over the winter and asked the universe to send me—well, a man, I guess."

"How does she know I'm that man?"

"She doesn't, and you're not. It's all just some bizarre notion of hers." Piper groaned, exasperated. How could she explain Hannah, their relationship, to a man as concrete in his thinking, as obviously jaded, as Clate Jackson? "Just because Hannah says she summoned you up here doesn't mean she did summon you up here. It's all in her head."

"She didn't even meet me until today. For all she knew, I could have been old, married, decrepit."

"I was hoping you would be."

Amusement flared in his eyes, and Piper immediately realized the impolitic nature of her words. She'd as much as admitted that she was attracted to him, a complication none of them needed right now.

"I only meant," she added quickly, "that Hannah doesn't need any encouragement. Just because you're not a geezer or unavailable or—or whatever doesn't mean I have any designs on you. I mean, I don't think you're the love of my life."

Clate slid off the stool and came around the worktable toward her. She was shaking, she realized. Not with trepidation or nervousness, just sheer mortification and anticipation. She
was
attracted to him. She did think he was good-looking, sexy, earthy, appealing on a basic, elemental, biological level. His eyes, his scars, his stubble of beard, his flat stomach, the way his frayed khakis hung low on his hips.

But she wasn't the type to let her attraction to a man ease out into the open. She was accustomed to playing her feelings close to her chest. It wasn't just her brothers, her shaky romantic past, it was her personality, the emotional reserve that was natural to her. Long ago, she had accepted that her life could well end up being more like Hannah's than like either of her brothers' or, certainly, her parents'—her mother who'd died too young, her father who'd learned to go on without the love of his life.

Of course, the physical sensations coursing through her as Clate came closer didn't necessarily have anything to do with romance.

For the first time in her life, one of Hannah's schemes had succeeded in throwing Piper for a loop.

"Don't be embarrassed," Clate said, and that soft, rasping drawl only made her knees go liquid under her.

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Of course you are. Anyone would be. Who would want their eighty-seven-year-old aunt conjuring up romantic prospects for them?"

"Hannah never meant for me to feel...inadequate. If you and I could have met some other way, then—" Piper stopped herself, grimacing. "Not that there's anything between us or ever will be. I'm not saying that."

"It's complicated," he said, deadpan.

"Yes! She really believes she had to sell her house to you in order for me to fulfill my destiny. Or something like that. Look, Clate, I love my aunt. I want her to be happy. She doesn't mean any harm to either of us. She's convinced she's right about us. I know it's crazy, and it puts you in an awkward position."

He shook his head. "Not me. If people want to think your aunt put some spell on me, it makes no difference to me." He leaned against the worktable, studying her with half-closed eyes. "But it does to you."

Piper found his certainty both irritating and intriguing. She grabbed a pair of scissors from a cracked, misshapen urn, one of her early works of crockery. "If it does, it's because I care about the people who're doing the talking. They're my friends, people I've known all my life."

"My point exactly. Provided it doesn't interfere with my privacy, your aunt and the rest of Frye's Cove can think I'm the devil incarnate or the man for you." He grinned, the gray light catching the scar under his left eye. "Or both."

"In other words, so long as she and everyone else in town leaves you alone, you don't care what they think."

"That's a bit harsh."

"But it's true."

He sighed. "Basically, yes, it's true. I came here to get away from the complications in my life, not add more."

"What complications?"

Some of the earlier edginess and fatigue crept back, but he covered with a half smile. "Nothing like witches, ghosts, devils, and romance. I just climbed the ladder fast and hard. I decided I needed to catch my breath."

"I understand," Piper said quietly, stifling her sudden curiosity about his life in Tennessee. Maybe it didn't include witches, ghosts, and devils, but she'd bet he'd had his share of romances. But that was none of her concern, and she'd put her foot in her mouth enough for one day. "Well, I have no intention of complicating your life, I can assure you."

He laughed unexpectedly. "Oh?"

"If you hadn't come home when you did, you'd never know I'd trespassed. And Hannah—" Piper set down her scissors. She could hear her aunt pressing for immediate action on her buried treasure. She hated to be so duplicitous, but how on earth could she explain without having Hannah sound like a lunatic? She sighed deeply. "My aunt complicates everybody's life."

"You know, I'm not so sure she's not a witch." His laughter had faded, and the shadows suddenly seemed to draw out the small scars on his face, to make his eyes seem more remote. "Someone close to me did die. A woman I've known all my life. She was eighty-nine." He breathed. "Anyway, that's why I had to head back to Tennessee."

"I'm sorry."

"How your aunt knew—"

"I don't know. She never said anything to me."

"She calculates her moves, doesn't she?"

"Always." Which was part of the reason no one in Frye's Cove believed she hadn't deliberately thrown off Stan Carlucci's digestion.

Clate nodded. "I should leave you to your work. Have a good class, and I hope the hummingbirds find their feeders."

"Thanks," she said, her voice thick as he retreated through the screen door. She couldn't figure him out. Her nerves and emotions were a jumble. She sensed kindness and deep feeling one moment, remoteness the next, and all the while she'd noticed muscles in his arms, the shape of his fingers, the occasional strand of gray in his dark hair. Could she trust him? Should she just tell him about Hannah's buried treasure?

Suddenly she plunged through the door out into the wet, cold, foggy early evening. The drizzle had turned into a light, steady rain. He was just a few yards off, her windsock flapping above him.

"My aunt means a lot to me. I hope you understand that." She pushed back her hair with both hands, her heart pounding at her own impulsiveness. She was open by nature. Secrecy and deceptiveness weren't her style. But her urge to protect Hannah was stronger than anything she'd ever known, her desire to come clean with Clate Jackson notwithstanding. She took a breath, calming herself. "I just want her to live out her life on her own terms."

Clate glanced around at her, his eyes taking on the gray of the fog. He said nothing.

Piper exhaled at the sky, felt the drizzle on her face as she fought for the right words, for some semblance of control over her emotions. Finally, she leveled her gaze on him. "Not everyone around here thinks Hannah's as harmless and innocent as I do."

His mouth was an unreadable slit. "Go on."

Piper chose her words carefully, reining in the impulse that had pushed her outside. "Some people are afraid she's going to end up hurting someone, or even herself."

"That doesn't seem an entirely unreasonable fear." There was no trace of humor in his tone or expression. "Do you share it?"

"No, of course not." But the words tumbled out fast, as if she'd been saying them to herself too many times, almost like a prayer she wasn't quite sure she believed. "I'm just worried about her. I'd hate to see her forced into a situation where she has to be... watched more carefully."

"You mean put in a home."

Piper hated even the thought. "She's so happy with her microwave and her remote control. She just figured out how to do faxes off her computer and plans to pepper the local papers with her opinions. I don't want to see her lose what she's worked so hard to get." Rain pelted onto her hair, further distracting her. Clate seemed oblivious. "I hated to see her sell the Frye house for selfish reasons. But I can understand. You must realize its problems. Selling it and all its furnishings has given her an infusion of cash she's never had. She's enjoying herself."

"But there's all this talk of poison, witches, ghosts, devils, romantic spells."

Her shoulders slumped. "Yes."

"Piper." His voice was liquid, melting into the fog. He moved toward her. "No one will hear any talk from me."

"Really?"

He smiled. "Really."

"Thanks. I guess that's what I wanted to hear."

She expected him to continue on his way. The rain had picked up, glistening on his dark hair, soaking into his shirt. A wayward image flashed, and Piper could see herself rubbing her palms across his rain-soaked chest.

Nuts, she thought. Her attraction to him wasn't going to help her decide what to do about Hannah and the eighty-year-old mystery of the deaths of Caleb and Phoebe Macintosh.

"Piper, what's wrong?"

His question startled her. "What?"

"The other day when I stopped alongside the road, then before I left for Tennessee, you seemed rattled about something. I had the feeling something was wrong. I just had it again."

Something
was
wrong, she
was
rattled. But she couldn't admit it without admitting everything, and she'd promised Hannah. That was all there was to it. "It's nothing, really. I just worry about Hannah. Moving was a big change for her."

He didn't back off. "Piper, you're hiding something."

She shut her eyes, took a breath. It would be so easy to tell him. All she had lo do was start.

She could hear his soft sigh. "But you'll tell me when you're ready." He curled a lock of her damp hair around his finger, tugged on it gently to draw her forward. She had her eyes open now, pinned on him. "And I will be ready," he said, very close to her mouth. "Anytime."

She couldn't speak, could almost not breathe.

He kissed her lightly on the side of her mouth, gave her a wink, and retreated into the fog.

Chapter 6

"Bitch. I warned you."

Piper bolted upright in bed. She'd fumbled for the phone on her nightstand and was still half asleep when the venomous voice assaulted her. Muffled, yet each word distinct. "What? Who are you? Never mind. I'm calling the police."

"You're making a mistake if you do."

She slammed down the phone. She didn't want to hear more. She jumped out of bed and forced herself not to throw up.
Think. You have to think.

Yesterday's rain had pushed out to sea, and the sky vibrated with streaks of pink, lavender, orange. She checked her clock. Not much after five. She was wide awake now, heart pounding, knees shaking, stomach lurching. She knotted her hands together and stifled a sob. Her father. Andrew, Benjamin. They'd come if she called.