Sunkissed (3 page)

As the first-born son, Noah should have inherited the orchard, taking it on as a lifelong responsibility, but he hadn’t wanted that. Neither had their father. The Walkers thought it best all around that Grant inherit, the only person who would appreciate the legacy.

Noah took a long swig of his drink. “Any updates on the trees?”

“Nothing yet. Detective Ryan is still working on it.”

“Have there been any others?”

“No. I’m hoping that’s the last of it. The poisoned trees had to be ripped out and the land is being treated. It will still take some time before we can replant, though.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Noah asked, “Who could be doing this? It’s not like you have enemies. Or do you?”

“Not nearly as many as you do. How many irate ex-husbands have you fleeced in court?” Noah snorted. “But seriously, I don’t know who I’ve pissed off enough to stoop to this level. I can’t imagine any of my competitors doing this. What would be the point?”

“What about your sellers? Were they unhappy with the deals?”

Grant shook his head slowly, turning over each deal in his mind. “As far as I could tell they were all satisfied with the sales.”

“Maybe it was some punk with an I-hate-the-world complex that had to get out some aggression.
A little sabotage to make them feel better. Perhaps that was the last of it.”

Grant agreed before slipping into silence. Bringing up the poisoned trees made him think of the woman from earlier.

Natalie.

The name fit. Snooty enough to match the clothes, but it also had the down-to-earth vibe that he’d sensed from her.  The differences in her personality interested him. Which was the real woman?

She was attractive. Any man would have to be blind not to notice that. Her long, black hair and cobalt eyes stood out against her pert nose and full lips. She was thin, almost too thin, but the muscles in her arms attested to her devotion to health and fitness instead of an eating disorder.

If she didn’t intend on digging into her grandfather’s past, he would welcome the time he’d be spending with her. Instead, he looked forward to it as grimly as a man assigned community service.

Adele Cunningham
, he rolled the name around in his mind as he pulled out and examined old memories of his grandfather. If he had ever mentioned the woman, Grant didn’t remember it.

“A woman came by today,” Grant finally said.

“Oh? She must have been looking for me. Because I know they don’t come here looking for you.” Grant shot him a glare. “What? We both know that you don’t bother with a woman long enough for her to visit the orchard.”

It was true. But that went back to his thoughts of never finding one that held his interest long enough.

His brother laughed again. “Fine. What did she want?”

“She asked about Grandpa. Do you remember him ever mentioning an Adele Cunningham?”

“Not that I remember. Did this Adele woman say what she wanted?”

“No. Adele Cunningham was this woman’s grandmother. Apparently she just passed away and had a picture of Grandpa in her things.”

Noah shrugged before taking another sip. “Odd. But I don’t see why that’s so spectacular. I’m sure there are pictures of him floating all over the place.”

“This was a picture of him when he was young. 1938. I’ve never seen a photo this old of him.”

Noah’s eyes narrowed. “It’s possible that he knew her before he married Grandma. I’m sure he knew plenty of women back then.”

“I thought as much. But why would this woman have held onto it all these years?”

“Ever heard of hoarders? Or perhaps she was a crazy woman obsessed with him.” Noah said mockingly as he saluted the air. “It wouldn’t be the only time that happened to a Walker man.”

The bitterness that tinged his brother’s comment was unmistakable, but Grant couldn’t delve into the subject of Noah’s stalker at the moment. The woman who professed that Noah was the father of her unborn child had haunted Noah on and off for almost a year. The fact that he’d
never had any type of physical relationship with her hadn’t deterred her one bit. In her mind, she and Noah had had a long, drawn-out relationship. The legal battle he now faced was only the latest drama in a long line of issues.

“What should I do about it? I don’t want her digging around into his private business.”

“Does it matter? It’s not like the man ever hid anything.”

“That’s not the point. He deserves his privacy even though he’s gone.”

Noah leaned forward, studying the condensation on his bottle. “What did she say when you told her so?”

Grant paused. “I didn’t exactly tell her
no.”

“Oh, really?”
Noah turned to him, clearly intrigued.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Noah leaned back, enjoying himself.

Grant glared. “She said she wouldn’t stop looking into it. I thought
that if I cooperated with her it would make the process go faster. Plus, I’ll be able to keep tabs on everything.”

“Makes sense.”
He paused for a drink. “So when are you seeing her next?”

“Sunday.
She’s coming over Sunday.”

“To the house?”

“Yeah.” Grant glanced at his brother when Noah didn’t answer. “Does that surprise you?”

“Actually, yes.
You don’t usually invite women over. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I saw you bring one home.”

Grant shrugged. “She isn’t that kind of woman.”

“Aren’t they all that kind?” Noah’s sneered.

“You know what I mean. I’m not interested in her that way.”

“So she’s unattractive? Old?”

Grant shifted in his seat, cursing when Noah picked up on the movement. “No to either. But she’s not my type. She’s…” he trailed off, searching for the right word. “Cosmopolitan. She was wearing heels when she came here.”

“Heels?” His eyes flared in mock horror. “I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

“Would you cut it out?”

Noah shook his head and laughed. “I can’t help it. They’re just shoes. You need to relax.”

Grant took a deep breath, holding it in his chest for a moment before releasing it in a smooth stream.

This wasn’t him. He was normally calm, laid back. Uneasy, he took another draw from his drink. “Crap. You’re right. This really isn’t a big deal. Besides, we’ll probably be able to uncover something quickly and then she’ll be done with her research.”

“Where will you start?”

“I thought I’d look through his stuff in the attic. I think he has his old journals up there.”

“You should talk to Dad too. Maybe he knows something that could save you a bunch of time.”

“Good idea.” Grant looked at his watch. It was eleven p.m. on the East coast, too late to call their father.

“Perhaps I can resolve this sooner than I thought,” he said hopefully. But in the back of his mind, he knew that he wouldn’t get rid of Natalie Cohen that easily.

“You’re prompt. Can’t say that’s something I expected.” Grant opened the front door wider in invitation.

She smiled ruefully. “Most people assume so. It’s the clothes. People think that if someone dresses with style they must be too busy staring at themselves to bother with schedules.” She walked in, her brown ankle boots making a soft noise against the polished wood floors. “It doesn’t help that I’m also a designer. Flighty,” she added with a wink.

Eyeing him, she couldn’t help but appreciate his build. Both as a designer and as a woman. His form was superb.

“A designer, huh?
Of clothes, I take it.”

“Yep.”
She held out her arms for his inspection before twirling.

A reluctant chuckle escaped his lips as he led her into the kitchen. “Is this okay?” He gestured to the table. “I thought it might be easier to work here instead of sitting on the couch.”

“Fine with me.” The table looked old, but when she sat in one of the chairs, the comforting worn wood surprised her. The rest of the kitchen was bright and warm. Lace curtains, buttery yellow walls, and gleaming white appliances. It had a homey feel she hadn’t expected to find in a bachelor’s house. It was a place that welcomed someone to put up their feet and enjoy a glass of lemonade on a hot summer’s day.

“Can I get you something?
Coffee? Juice?” he offered.

“Coffee, please.
Thanks.”

“Cream?
Sugar?”

“Just cream.”
She leaned back in her chair and watched him. He poured with an economy of movement, and she wondered if that was how he handled most things in life. “So how did you get started designing?”

“My grandmother.”

“Same grandmother that had the picture?”

“Yeah.
Thanks,” she said when he handed her the steaming cup. He settled across from her, his posture relaxing against the ladderback chair. “My grandmother loved fashion and I often played dress up in her clothes when I was young.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with her?”

“Yes. She raised me after my mother died. My father was never in the picture.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been tough for you.”

She jerked a shoulder, brushing it off, but was thrown by the depth of emotion their conversation pulled from her. “It was. But she got me through. What about you? Did you always want to work in the orchard?”

A quick laugh escaped him. “Yes. But even if I hadn’t, there really wasn’t another option for me.” Seeing her confusion, he continued, “My father never had any intention of running the orchard after my grandfather, and it was obvious that my brother didn’t want it either. I was all that was left.”

“Well, from what I can tell, you’ve done a wonderful job.”

“Thank you.”

She warmed her hands on the mug. “It must take up a lot of time.”

“It’s a commitment. The trees always need care.” His brows furrowed.

The expression caused a tightening low in her stomach. He looked so intent, focused on whatever he was thinking. She wanted him to look at her like that.

As if sensing her thoughts, his eyes jerked to hers, blazing into them with intensity.

She hastily took a sip of her drink as her mouth went dry.

She cleared her throat as she carefully placed the cup on the table. “So, about the picture,” she said, steering her thoughts into safer territory
, “how do you want to go about this?”

Leaning back into his chair, he lost the look of intensity. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had time to locate the journals. Instead, I thought we could start by putting together some sort of timeline of each of their lives from the information we already know. Places they went, activities they were involved in, that sort of thing. Hopefully that will be enough to figure out where the connection is.”

“All right.” Reaching into her purse, she brought out her tablet. Seeing the question on his face, she said, “It’s my design tablet, but I pretty much use it for everything else. I figured it might be easier to see where the link is.”

“Good idea.”

“So, I’m assuming your grandfather grew up on the orchard. Did he go to school around here too?”

“He went to the local schools. Never went to college.” His voice trailed off as she pulled out a pair of black rimmed glasses from her bag, slipping them on with ease.

Her brows lowered fractionally as she scribbled the dates on the glowing screen. “Not surprising. There wasn’t much need for a higher education since he would’ve received all the training he needed from his father.”

Realizing he had gone quiet, she glanced up over the top of her glasses, her head still bent toward the screen.
“Problem?”

“No.” His voice sounded hoarse. “Just got a little distracted by your glasses. They’re…unexpected.”

Her lips pursed in amusement. “Yes, well, the screen strains my eyes if I look at it too long. I didn’t know how long this would take, but I’d rather be safe than get a headache halfway through.”

Grant shifted in his chair, clearing his throat. “What about your grandma? Did she grow up around here?”

“Sorta. She was born in Washington and then moved here with her family when she was a kid. She spent most of her time in Los Angeles before becoming a nurse.” She filled in the new information.

“A nurse?
Where did she work? A hospital in LA?”

“Yeah, eventually.
I think it started with the war, though. She wanted to help and decided that would be the best way.”

“We’re talking about World War
II, right?”

“Yes. I think she worked on a base in the area taking care of the soldiers.”

His body stiffened. “My grandpa was a Seabee here during that time. Port Hueneme. Was she stationed there?”

“I’m not sure.” A frown marred her forehead. “It’s possible though. I don’t know much about which bases
were operational in World War II.”

“It should be easy enough to find out.”

They went through the rest of their grandparents’ histories, but nothing else intersected.

“That has to be the connection.” He nodded, accentuating his point.

“I think you’re right. Nothing else lines up.” She studied the timelines. “That’s the only overlap. I just wish we knew more. Perhaps there’s more information in her journals somewhere.”

“It would be a good place to look.”

“There are just so many of them,” she said, daunted. “I had no idea she was so prolific. There are boxes of them tucked away. It’s going to take a lot of time to go through them.”

He nodded as he stood, taking the emptied mugs with him. “My grandpa has some World War II stuff in the attic. None of it has been touched since he died. There might be something in there.”

“Great.” She stored the tablet in her bag. “Is it possible to go through some of it now? I don’t mean to be pushy. I just want answers.”

“I understand. And yes, I think we could reach it. There’s a lot of stuff up there, but I don’t believe it’s too buried.” He gestured for her to follow. “Let’s take a look.”

As she walked farther into the house, she was charmed by the old style décor that dominated the rooms. Hand-hooked rugs, lace curtains, brass beds with gently faded quilts for warmth. All antiques that she felt had to have been new when they were brought into the house. Everything was well cared for, polished. “The furniture is great. Your design?”

A sharp laugh escaped his lips.
“Absolutely not. I can’t take credit for any of it. Most of it was decorated by my grandmother. My grandfather didn’t change a thing when she passed away, and it’s remained mostly untouched since he died last year.”

“Well, it’s lovely.”

“Thank you.”

They ascended to the second floor, rounding a corner to another staircase that led to the attic.

“How long has your family lived here?” she asked, following his lead up the narrow steps.

“Over one hundred years. My great-grandfather built it when he founded the orchard.”

“That’s crazy. There couldn’t have been anything else around for miles.”

He shot a quick smile over his shoulder, his white teeth flashing. The gesture went straight to her belly, wreaking havoc to her system. He should be required to carry a permit for such a weapon.

The door at the top of the stairs squeaked, bringing to mind one too many horror films. She shuddered. “Just don’t let me be the one to say ‘hello?’ as I pop my head in to see if there’s anything there.”

A laugh barked from his chest. “I’ll try to remember that.” He held the door open, allowing her to follow him in.

“Seriously, why would anyone do that? It kills me every time. And you know it’s always the blonde bimbo. Crash. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Yeah, like the psycho killer is going to reply, ‘Oh, dang! You caught me.’”

“If there wasn’t a person like that in every horror flick, it wouldn’t be the same.”

She nodded grudgingly as she scoped out the dimly lit room. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting it to be this large.”

“Older homes.
This space runs the length of the house.”

Odds and ends had been placed haphazardly throughout the room, gathering dust and cob webs until they were finally forgotten. The sun filtered through a small window on the left, illuminating dust motes that had been disturbed by their entry. The placed need a giant garbage can and gallons of 409.

“We don’t come up here a lot.” He shrugged sheepishly.

“I can see that.”

“It’s on the list.”

“The list?”

“The to-do list. But not many items have been checked off in the last year. It’s been busy in the orchard.”

“I’ll bet. I heard you acquired neighboring land recently.
Must be a lot of extra work in the beginning.”

“It is.” He eyed her briefly before turning his attention to the massive amounts of junk. “You know anything about orange trees?”

“Other than the fact that they grow oranges?”

He snorted. “I think the stuff is over there.” He pointed to the left side of the room, about ten feet away from where they stood. “Let me clear a path and make sure it’s there. It might be one other place. If not, we’re out of luck.”

* * *

He moved items out of
the way—a wicker chair with a broken seat, a brass lamp that was tarnished but might still have some life in it, a few boxes that rattled with what sounded like dishes.

“You should open an eBay account. With all the stuff in here, you might find some treasures,” Natalie said.

Grant rolled his eyes. “No doubt someone would want this crap. It blows my mind what people will buy online.” She chuckled as he moved a final box, squinting at the dark corner. “We’re in luck. It looks to be mostly here.” He cleared a larger space for them to stand together.

Opening the first box, Grant pulled out a folded uniform. It was musty from the stale air, but even in the dark, the vibrant blue with red and white stripes stood out. Setting it carefully aside, he pulled out newspapers f
rom the 1940’s, a picture of his grandpa’s Seabee unit, a pair of socks with holes in them, and a small carving of a dog.

“That’s cute. Did your grandfather make that?”

“Yeah. I’d see him whittle on occasion. It was amazing the things he could create.” He replaced the items in the box. “No clues in that one. Maybe we’ll get lucky in the next.”

They searched through four more boxes until they were left with only one. There hadn’t been anything significant in the other boxes. Most of the items should’ve been tossed long ago.

Not expecting to find anything, Grant opened it, sifting through items until his fingers brushed over rough wood. He pulled it out of the box and into better light, puzzled to find a small chest. It was crude, with only a small clasp holding the lid closed, but it felt so much more important than that. Unhooking the closure, the hair on the back of his neck rose in anticipation. The air was charged, electric with possibilities.

Reaching inside, he pulled out a photo and a lock of blonde hair, the only two items in the chest.
Blonde? But that couldn’t be right. His grandma’s hair had been brown.