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~*~
ONCE BABY CHARLOTTE was born, Miranda pulled away from me. Some days, I’d go down to the creek and swirl my feet in the icy water, just to feel alive. I’d sit on the rocks in our woods, watching the clouds sift between the bare branches. I wondered if I had any real friends at all.
My lover had disappointed me. He didn’t want me to follow through with my plan. He had another plan, he said. A better one. But I’d have to do something for him first—something I refused to do. I began to see him through different eyes. He was merely another self-serving man, like Paul. He’d never had my best interests at heart.
I decided that love was fickle, and nothing but pain. I would continue to make my own happiness, and I would use my lover to do it. I would promise the world and give him nothing in the end. Why should I? Nothing was free in life, not even love. My own father never loved me. My husband probably hated me. My lover only thought he loved me. I didn’t even have a God who loved me anymore.
All the Bible verses I learned in Sunday school felt empty. Songs like “Jesus Loves Me, This I Know.” I didn’t know that. Perhaps I needed to read my Bible; try to understand more. But I couldn’t even go to church, couldn’t ask the questions burning in my heart.
Still, I needed to talk to someone. Someone not associated with Paul in any way. A name jumped to mind, the name of a classmate and friend I’d had in grade school.
Cliff Hogan. Now he was pastor of the small independent church in town. And Cliff knew how I grew up, in that big house with no father to speak of.
I called him and explained I couldn’t leave the house. He agreed to come over during the day, so Paul wouldn’t know we were talking. This was very unwise, but he was a young, single pastor and didn’t know any better. Neither of us could have foreseen the consequences we’d bring upon ourselves.
~*~
AS SOON AS I RECOGNIZE Axel, I do the first thing that comes to mind—I bury my face in Thomas’ shirt.
His crisp Eternity cologne combines with the Niagara starch and the faint masculine smell of sweat. He pats my head, doubtless unsure of what upset me so much. “Tess?” he whispers. “You okay?”
I raise my head inch by inch, careful to keep it turned away from my German stalker. Thomas’ stubble is rough as I cup my hand under his chin. “Just worried, that’s all. But it’s getting dark. Let’s talk on our way to the restaurant.”
Thomas joins me as I stand, veering to the right—the opposite direction from Axel.
“Um, aren’t we going away from the bistro?” Thomas stops mid-stride.
I offer him a very alluring smile. “Just gives us more time to talk. We’ll circle around.”
Works like a charm. As we walk, I tell him all about Miranda’s note and the unnerving meal with Paul. When I mention the woman’s face in our window and my begonia of doom, Thomas groans and mutters ominously about protecting his woman. I finally bring up my conversation with the Good Doctor and share what he said about Miranda’s inheritance from Rose.
Thomas nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I’ve heard Royston mention the Darby account. That’s Rose’s surname—her father was French—and a big-time steamboat owner, back in the day. There was definitely some money to be had there. Rose was their only child.”
His arm covers mine, and I squeeze it tighter to my body. The minute the sun set, the cool breeze off the water picked up. The dark wetness seems to bite into my suit jacket and thin blouse. But the chill isn’t just outside.
“Thomas, when I put the pieces together, they don’t fit. Rose was a recluse. She couldn’t have children. But would that be enough to make her do herself in?”
“People do it all the time, for punier reasons than that.” Thomas speaks like a world-weary cynic.
“And the letter? Why would it have her handwriting?”
“Who told you it’s her handwriting?” Thomas’ eyebrows quirk up, and I laugh at his intense look before I answer.
“Well, Miranda, of course. Her best friend. And Paul didn’t even recognize it! Imagine not recognizing my handwriting...”
“Maybe by the time I get to be an old geezer, I’ll forget too!” Thomas laughs.
We finally step up onto the main town sidewalk, heading left toward the bistro. Thomas might be hungry and tired, but he’s getting a little too slap-happy for me. This is a serious investigation.
He grins. “I see that dubious look, missy.”
“I’m telling you this stuff so I can get your informed opinion on things, Thomas!” My stomach gives a loud growl for extra emphasis. Seductive, I’m sure.
I try to focus straight ahead, determined not to glance at the creepy Mothman statue in the center of town. Those metal claws and glowing red eyes freak me out. Just because Point Pleasant got famous for some alleged alien sightings doesn’t mean I have to embrace the insanity. Thomas knows this, and he valiantly steps between me and the statue as we pass it.
A few steps farther, to my left, a gold curlicued name stenciled on a lit bay window pulls me up short. Fabled Flowers—the shop where Axel works. Potted ferns form a soft border inside, showcasing the display itself, which channels Beatrix Potter. A worn, stuffed family of rabbits seems to hop around a white picket fence. Red and white roses are juxtaposed with green cabbages and bright-orange carrots. Rosemary sprigs are shaped into a hedgehog—Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle!
I give a short whistle. “Can you believe this? I’ve never seen such edgy flowers!”
Thomas stretches his arms. “Edgy, for sure. Look, I’m hungry, and you know this town always seems to shut down early. I can’t talk until I get fortification.”
I peer beyond the ferns and the fence, trying to see if someone’s inside. Wonder if Axel runs the shop or just works—
“AGH!” I jump backward as Axel’s face emerges, right behind the glass. He’s staring at me, pale eyes fixated.
Thomas grabs my arm. “What the—?”
I start walking, fast as I can. We can beat him, we can beat him, I’m hungry...
An old cowbell clangs into the glass door as Axel swings it open wide. This is a nightmare. Right here with my husband, he’s going to accost me. Video images of the stolen kiss race through my mind.
“Tess. You like the begonia?” His German accent seems more pronounced than our last meeting.
Thomas stops following me and turns, pointing loosely at Axel. “Begonia?” His tone is quizzical, light. But I know flaming hot lava simmers underneath it.
I step in quickly.
“Thomas, meet Axel. He delivered that yellow begonia, you know, from someone anonymous...” I step right next to Thomas, ready to catch his arm, should he choose to hit the big German with it.
Thomas turns to me. “You and the florist are on a first-name basis?”
Axel doesn’t pick up on Thomas’ negative vibe. At all. He strides right up next to me. “We went to college together.” He pats my arm and looks at me. Oh, good mercy, no. It’s the possessive stalker look.
Thomas’ perfect white smile is so incongruous, it’s downright terrifying. His long fingers bend, tightening into fists. I wanted him to be protective, but he’s about to go loco on a German who bears more than a passing resemblance to Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV.
I hug Thomas tightly, getting up in his face before I turn. “Axel, this is my husband, Thomas Spencer. He’s a lawyer. We’ve got to get going, though.”
Axel nods, looking from Thomas to me. No doubt he’s used up his quota of words for the day. He smiles and lumbers back toward Fabled Flowers. I wait for the cowbell clang before I finally let go of Thomas. My arms are shaking.
Thomas’ set jaw and the way he power-walks past me lets me know I’d better zip my mouth and let him cool off. By the time I catch up with him, we’re at the bistro. Once the hostess seats us, I decide to break the ice. After all, this is a date.
“So...how was your day?”
Thomas slaps the menu on the table. “Well, Tess, it was just great, till some whopping guy I’ve never met came up and leered at my wife like she’s a piece of German chocolate cake.”
“Come on. He just knew me in college and happens to be the florist.”
“And was he the anonymous donor of aforementioned flowers?”
He’s veering toward lawyer-talk. Not good. Where’s our waitress, anyway? Maybe breadsticks would help. I wave frantically toward the kitchen. Finally, a woman walks our way.
The waitress says, “Today’s special is—” She stops as Thomas turns his smoldering eyes on her. His anger gives him a masculine edge he’s completely oblivious to.
The waitress blushes, then continues. She has lovely fair skin with peachy undertones. Even her hair looks peach—some kind of strawberry blonde. She turns full-on toward me to finish her spiel, and I gasp.
Those wide-set eyes. That hair. The pale skin. She’s the face I saw in my window. The watcher in my woods.