Hidden in the Heart Page 11

  “Eh?” Mac looked back over his shoulder and she repeated the question. He gave a snort and shook his head, laughter wheezing out of him. “I reckon you’re fine there. I’ll make sure Rambo here don’t hit it on his way out.”

  “Okay.” Claire ignored the way ‘Rambo’ still glared at her, and followed Jessie Kelly into the house. A ruined sculpture—replaceable—two new friends who might know something about her birth mother, and one enemy. Not bad for the first day of her adventures.

  Chapter Eleven

  The minute Jessie unlocked the door to the cabin, the smell of fresh paint and wood paneling reached her nose. Claire was pleasantly surprised with her new accommodations. The one-bedroom cottage was not overly large, but definitely looked comfortable.

  Dark green granite countertops sparkled under small glass lights that hung from the ceiling. It would be a shame to actually use the counters for anything. The kitchen was fitted with all new stainless steel appliances and, much to her relief, a microwave. Claire couldn’t cook to save her life, but any idiot could throw a frozen dinner into a microwave. She’d survive quite nicely on Lean Cuisine, when and if she remembered to eat.

  The bathroom was just as nice, tiled in travertine, with new faucets and one of those wonderful rain showerheads that Claire so enjoyed. James had installed one for her in their bathroom at home…but she wouldn’t think about that.

  The bedroom and small living area of the cabin were paneled in pine. The smell was rustic, soothing and invited her to stay awhile. There was even a fireplace. She almost regretted the approach of summer. But, this was Maine after all. It might get cold at night.

  Two days later, Claire opened her eyes to familiar cloying darkness.

  Their anniversary. And they were both spending it alone.

  Failure pounced and dug in its claws. Told her things would never get better. She’d made sure of that already.

  She popped a couple of pills to calm her nerves and wandered the cabin in aimless circles, waiting for the sun to rise. She clutched a small silver frame to her chest, not wanting to see James’ smiling face. She missed him more than she could say, but didn’t have the courage to call and tell him that.

  Claire bit her lip and sank onto the sofa, tears blurring her vision.

  She went back to bed for a while. Got up, made some toast then ventured outside.

  Wrapped in a shroud of grief thicker than she’d imagined, Claire walked the property, not really enjoying the peace and quiet the way she hoped she would. Her thoughts were on James and how he might be spending the day. Maybe she should call. But the possibility of awkward silence or another argument quickly changed her mind. She wasn’t up for that today. The family would surround him. He’d be okay.

  She on the other hand…well…she only knew one way to get rid of the pain.

  That afternoon Claire sprawled on a lawn chair by the crystalline lake, drinking her father’s Château Rothschild Cabernet Sauvignon. She’d lugged a case of the expensive French wine up from the cellar and hauled it into the back of the car before she left. He’d scream blue murder when he found it missing.

  She soaked up the sun, vaguely aware of the goings-on around her. Warm rays trickled through the tree branches and kissed her cheeks. Pine needles gave off scents of Christmas and reminded her of her mother. Memories assaulted her, rendered her powerless to fight against them. She closed her eyes and turned up the volume of her iPod.

  When she woke sometime later, Claire realized she was not alone. Rick Matthews moved in and out of her line of vision, eyeing her suspiciously while he applied a fresh coat of paint to the Adirondack chairs. When he went to work hammering new planks onto the dock, Claire gathered up her things and retreated to her cabin.

  ~

  She forced herself out of bed the next day and vowed to get on with things. Enough was enough. She made a trip to the grocery store and picked up a few necessities. Coffee, bagels, a few frozen dinners and cheese and crackers. On the way through Bethel she’d spotted the Town Clerk’s office. Claire figured that would be a good enough place to start. If her birth mother was from around here, there had to be some record of it. And as soon as she found enough courage, she’d confide in Jessie Kelly.

  With only a dial-up connection, doing any research online would be a chore. Her cell phone didn’t work either, though apparently a new tower in the area was imminent. Jessie told her she could use the house phone whenever she needed it, but so far she’d resisted the urge to call home, too fearful of what her father or James might say to her. And she didn’t really want Dad knowing where she was. Not yet.

  When it started to rain in the afternoon, Claire wandered up to the main house. She poked through the various rooms. Nobody seemed to be around. She’d seen few visitors since her arrival.

  She ran a finger along the old bookshelves in the long living room. Books and magazines were stuffed into every available space. Another shelf was packed with board games. On the far side of the room, a writing desk sat in front of a window. Claire walked over to it and sank into the chair. Her head pounded and her stomach rolled. She hoped it wasn’t the flu. Now would not be a good time to get sick.

  Her eyes went to an old black and white photograph on the top of the desk. Three children captured in motion as they raced along the dock, about to jump in the lake. She picked it up and stared at the girl in the picture. Long hair flowed about her face, her mouth open in a shriek. Claire frowned and stared harder. A strange sensation skittered down her spine.

  “Can I help you?”

  Claire snapped her head up and put the photograph back in place, almost dropping it. Jessie Kelly stood in the doorway, a curious look on her face.

  Claire got to her feet and gripped the back of the chair. “Sorry. I was…um…hoping to get some aspirin or something. I’ve got a monster headache.”

  The older woman smiled, gave a nod and turned on her heel. “Sure. Come on back here.”

  She followed Jessie down the hall into another room she hadn’t seen before. It faced the lake, decorated in a more updated style than the other rooms in the inn. A sign on the open door read Private.

  “Have a seat. Won’t be but a minute.” Jessie pointed to a comfortable couch and Claire sat, grateful for the soft cushions. She scanned the shelves and the mantle over the fireplace for any photographs, but there were none. Just knick-knacks and china vases.

  Jessie returned a moment later with a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. Claire helped herself and drank deeply. “Thanks. Sorry to be a bother.”

  “Not at all.” She seated herself in a chair opposite the couch. “You spend a lot of time in the cabin. Hope you’re not coming down with something on your vacation.”

  “I hope not.” Claire managed a smile, swallowing back another wave of nausea. She couldn’t remember if she’d taken anything that morning. “Probably just a cold.”

  “Ayuh.” Jessie seemed to hesitate, then tipped her head. “You expecting any company, Claire? Your husband, maybe?”

  “No.” Claire fiddled with the chain around her neck and focused on the painting above the mantle. She flinched as her stomach tightened again. “It’ll just be me. I…I just needed some time…alone. You know.”

  The astonished expression on Jessie’s face told Claire she didn’t know. Claire’s cheeks burned and she looked away.

  “No matter,” Jessie said quietly. “Hope you find what you’re looking for here at Tara’s Place.”

  Claire smiled and met the kind brown eyes. “Thank you. I’m not exactly sure what it is I’m looking for. But I’ll know it when I find it.”

  “Yes.” Jessie nodded, as though this time she knew exactly what Claire meant.

  “You don’t seem very full. Is it a slow time for you?” Claire regretted the question and the frown it brought to Jessie’s face. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so blunt. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “Don’t be afraid to speak your mind, Claire. Truth is always
better than fiction, I say.”

  “Sure.” Claire returned the soft smile. If she told Jessie the truth, told her why she was really here, told her what it was she wanted, what would her response be? She clenched her hands in her lap and studied her sneakers.

  “We started renovations last year,” Jessie told her. “Didn’t realize how much it would all cost. We’re only able to have a few rooms open this summer. You’re the first guest to get one of the new cabins. Do you like it?”

  “Yes. It’s great.” Claire looked at Jessie again. “Have you lived here a long time, at Tara’s Place?”

  “Ayuh. A long while. This was Mac’s family home. Tara was his mother’s name. We decided to turn it into an Inn about, oh…forty years ago now, I guess it would be.” She emitted a low chuckle. “Time flies.”

  Claire sipped more water, her throat dry. “I think my parents might have stayed here. Maybe before I was born. Edward and Susannah Wiley.”

  “Wiley…Wiley.” Jessie rubbed her chin, fixing Claire with a bemused expression. “Can’t say the name sounds familiar. The old memory isn’t as good as it once was. Maybe Mac would remember.” She pushed herself up with a laugh. “Best see what them girls are doing in my kitchen. They burnt the potatoes last night. I used to do all the cooking myself, you know. But nowadays, with the arthritis, well…I still do what I can.”

  Claire stood also, unsure what to say next. She watched the older woman carefully, tempted to just come out with it, but there was a certain sorrow in Jessie’s eyes that stopped her.

  Jessie hesitated, settling her gaze on Claire. She fiddled with the cord of her flour-speckled apron for a minute, untying it and tightening it. “There’s a guest book in the foyer. Goes back a while. You’re welcome to have a gander through it if you like. Hope you feel better, Claire.” She stepped forward and patted her arm. Claire stood motionless, watching Jessie take quick steps out of the room.

  ~

  At the end of her second week at Tara’s Place, Claire foraged through her purse and found the last bottle of pills. Half empty already. Or half full. She preferred that description. The latest doctor she’d found before leaving home was very empathetic. He’d probably even call in a refill for her up here if she needed it. She popped a small white pill into her mouth and went to the kitchen for water.

  She let out a sigh and glanced at the clock on the wall. Three o’clock? In the afternoon? Impossible. Claire strode to the bedroom and grabbed her watch from the pine night table beside the bed. It confirmed the time for her. Three o’clock.

  But that couldn’t be.

  Flopping down onto the soft mattress, she covered her eyes with one arm. The stomach cramps she’d been having started again and she groaned. For the past couple of days they’d been intermittent, but getting worse. She crawled back under the covers and waited for the pain to subside.

  Claire woke sometime later, groggy and disorientated, but managed to shower and pull on a pair of Juicy Couture sweatpants and a t-shirt. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, slipped into her brown loafers and trudged up to the main house. Perhaps she could at least get a sandwich from the kitchen. Her supply of microwavable dinners was gone and she hadn’t had the strength to make the drive into town. She’d stopped drinking altogether a few days ago, the way she was feeling starting to scare her. But she didn’t have the nerve to go to a doctor. Admitting her failures to another complete stranger was not something she planned on doing any time soon.

  She stepped up onto the long back porch and admired the dazzling array of potted plants and flowers. Jessie clearly had a green thumb. Anything Claire ever tried to grow, apart from her roses, died the minute she laid hands on it.

  No way were they related.

  Inside the house, somebody was hammering and she heard some kind of machine coming on. Claire winced at the loud mechanical hum.

  She pushed open the screen door and took faltering steps into a darkened dining room. About ten round wooden tables took up most of the space. At the far end of the room sat a long bar. Behind it, Rick Matthews perched on a ladder. Apparently the resident handyman around here, he was paneling the wall in fresh blond strips of knotty pine.

  Each time he hit the nail gun, she flinched.

  Claire grabbed a nearby stool and managed to position herself on it after a couple of attempts. She rested her elbows on the counter and put her head in her hands. Taking deep breaths, she swallowed back nausea and waited for a lull in the activity.

  “Hi! Excuse me?” She had to raise her voice, which didn’t help her aching head one bit. But on the third try he heard her.

  Rick turned so fast she thought he might fall off the ladder. His dark eyes widened as he saw her. He climbed down two steps, jumped off and shut down the machine. The room fell into blessed silence. He strode to where she sat, a scowl set in place. “Miss Ferguson. Coming up for air?”

  She ignored the jibe. “I wanted to ask about dinner. I…the clocks in my room are all messed up. I think it’s dinner time, right?”

  He narrowed his eyes, took a step backward and sighed. “Your clocks are working fine. I set them myself. It’s Sunday morning.”

  Claire blinked. Disbelief crowded her senses. She’d fallen asleep yesterday at three in the afternoon? And just woken up now? He had to be kidding. “That’s not funny.”

  “No, I guess it’s not.” He ripped off a red bandana from his head and wiped his face. “When did you pass out?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Claire ignored him and studied the black granite bar top. She pushed trembling fingers through her damp hair and tried to think, but her thoughts were muddled. Her racing heart began to give her cause for concern. She heard him moving around, water running and ice clinking against glass, but she couldn’t look up.

  When she raised her head again he placed a tall tumbler of ice water in front of her.

  Claire tried to hide her surprise with a cough. “Thanks. I’m just tired I guess.” She managed a smile and sipped. The cold liquid slithered down her parched throat and she grimaced, fighting nausea. She avoided his gaze and looked at the row of cupboards across from her.

  “Mac and Jessie don’t serve alcohol. You’ll have to drive into Bethel if you’ve gone through your stash already. But being a Sunday, you probably won’t find much open. We’re still pretty traditional ’round here.”

  Claire swallowed down a smart reply with another gulp of water. She was in no mood to defend herself. “I thought you were a sculptor or artist or whatever. What are you doing working here?”

  Something close to a grin slid across his mouth and he smoothed a hand down his dust-covered Patriots sweatshirt. “I pitch in when I can.” He leaned against the sink behind him and crossed his arms. He’d tied his dark hair at the nape of his neck, and Claire noticed a few flecks of gray in his beard. She wondered at his age. He wasn’t as old as her father, that was for certain, but he was definitely older than her. Middle aged maybe, without the spread. He reminded her of an English teacher she’d had in high school—tough as nails and always pushed her to the limit.

  “What are you doing here, Miss Ferguson?”

  “Vacation. Not that it’s any of your business. And it’s Mrs.”

  “That so?” He rubbed his long nose with his left hand and Claire noticed the absence of a ring—probably because no woman in her right mind would have him. The urge to vomit gripped her again and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You should eat,” he said matter-of-factly. “Come on into the kitchen.”

  Claire followed him back through the dining room into a large well-equipped kitchen. She slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and finished her water, watching as he moved around with familiarity, pulling fruit from the fridge, peeling and chopping, and throwing things into a professional looking blender.

  In a few moments, he straddled the chair opposite hers and watched while she sipped the most delicious yogurt shake she’d had in her life. “Slow down or you’ll
throw it up.”

  Claire rolled her eyes but lowered the glass. Her head throbbed and she couldn’t stop shaking. She really hoped it wasn’t the flu or worse. Making a visit to a hospital in the sticks wasn’t on her to-do list. She took another breath and tried to focus. “Where is everyone?”

  “Church.”

  Of course. It was Sunday. How had she slept so long, not woken once? Maybe Dr. Kay had been right about combining the pills with alcohol. She drank some more of the pink concoction and allowed it to soothe her stomach. “You don’t go?”

  He peeled off the skin of a banana and bit into it. “Not today.” His blue eyes seemed fixed on her, taking in everything about her. If she could have moved, she would have fled the room, but all she could do was sit there and endure his stare as another round of cramps came and went.

  “What are you on? Valium? Anti-depressants?”

  She snapped her head up and waited for his blurred image came into focus. His face remained impassive, no judgment in his tone. It was simply a question.

  Claire sucked on her bottom lip and shrugged. “A bit of both.”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “When was your last drink?”

  “This is none of your business.” She pushed back her chair, anger rising. Who in the world did he think he was?

  Rick grabbed her arm, preventing her from going anywhere. His steely gaze pinned her to the chair and she stared, open-mouthed.

  “Mac and Jessie Kelly are two of the kindest souls you’re ever likely to meet on this earth. I owe them a lot. I’m not about to let them wind up with some dead girl in their newly renovated cabin, so yeah, it is my business.” His eyes flashed as he scowled, but then his expression softened. “Look, I don’t know the first thing about you, but I can write a book on addiction. You’re walking a thin line, Mrs. Ferguson. If you drove up here to kill yourself, may I kindly suggest you leave Tara’s Place and find another venue?”

  “Are you always this blunt?” Abrasive would be a more fitting adjective, but she didn’t dare insult him.