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~*~
WHEN CLIFF’S MOTHER came the next day, I seated her in the same chair her son had used, all those times he’d tried to help me. We both had a couple hot cross buns, which were as mouth-watering as I’d remembered.
What I hadn’t remembered from her childhood visits with my mother was her strong personality. Claire Hogan didn’t mince words.
“It didn’t take much sifting through Cliff’s things to realize he’d been coming to visit you quite frequently. And then I saw you at the funeral—standing there bawling your eyes out, worse than his own sister.”
Claire set her coffee cup on the rickety fern table next to her and leaned forward. As she dropped her voice to a whisper, her broguish accent took over. “Ye know, Rose, I’ve helped me mother for years with birthin’ babies. I can tell right off if a girlie is carrying a wee babe, and dearie, ye are.”
Her clear green eyes, so earnest, and so like her son’s, spurred an unwanted torrent of sobs. She took this as a confirmation of her diagnosis.
“We’ll get through this together. I know Cliff was always attracted to ye, just like every other man in town. Your husband need never know.”
My plans started crumbling when she said that. But my mind rushed to construct a new plan, one which could include both Bartholomew and Claire Hogan. Maybe my mother had sent me an earthly angel to save me from my marriage.
~*~
NOW’S NOT THE TIME or place to cross-question the Grande Dame, who’s looking exhausted. I make one more round through the dining room, offering refills with the fresh coffee. Thomas grabs me around the waist and pulls me to his lap, whispering in my ear.
“Come sit with me. I feel like I haven’t seen you all day.”
Andrew shouts, “Hey, bro, keep it kosher!”
Petey comes to our rescue. “Aw, man, lay off.”
Andrew reaches over and rubs Petey’s red hair until it’s in total disarray. “What’s wrong, little bro? Looking out for your girl?”
“Aw, shut it!”
Thomas doesn’t budge, keeping me firmly planted in his lap. “Get him, Petey! He’s too big for his britches!”
In the boyish ruckus that ensues, Kelsey shoots me several desperate glances. I decide to rescue her.
“Want to play chess? I heard you like to play.”
“Sure, love to.” As she says love, I notice the tongue ring for the first time.
I kiss Thomas’ cheek to distract him, then slip from his grasp. “We’ll be in the den, babe.”
“Aw.” He turns to his fighting brothers, ready to rejoin the fray.
Kelsey and I are in the hall when Nikki Jo rushes out, her kitten heels long since exchanged for embroidered house slippers. “Tess, I think Miranda needs to get home. She’s a little short of breath, but she won’t stop working around the kitchen. I’m worried about her.”
“No problem, Mom. Sorry, Kelsey. I’d better get her home.”
“Sure.” Kelsey looks bewildered as to what to do next.
“I’m sure Petey would love to play some Xbox with you,” I add.
“Yeah, sounds good.” She saunters back to the dining room. I’m not sure if she was being serious or facetious about playing with Petey.
Nikki Jo speaks behind her hand. “I swan, I don’t know what to make of that one. She’s quiet as a mouse. I don’t know what Andrew sees in her.”
I try to be diplomatic. After all, I was once a girlfriend under Spencer scrutiny. “Maybe he needs someone quiet like that. I mean, you know Andrew.”
Nikki Jo nods thoughtfully before going to retrieve Miranda for me.
When Nikki Jo rolls her in, the Grande Dame is so pale, her perfectly-matched ivory makeup sits like a tan mask on her face. Why didn’t I get her out of here sooner? Why didn’t I notice?
“I know what you’re thinking, girlie. Don’t you worry one bit. Just bundle me back home and one of those little caregivers will make sure everything’s okay. Or maybe Doc Cole will be around.”
Every time Miranda says Doc Cole, my stomach clenches. Too many coincidences surround him. I wish I could move into Miranda’s suite, until we figure out who’s sending the notes. I remember I still haven’t showed her the second note. I don’t think I ever will.
Nikki Jo and I drape Miranda’s mink-trimmed black coat around her arms, wedging it against her chair. Thomas joins us, ready to carry the wheelchair down the front steps.
As he picks it up, his triceps flex in his fitted shirt, destroying my morbid train of thought. I can totally picture the light blond hairs on those tan arms. He catches my wandering eye and winks.
Jeepers. Sometimes I’m way too transparent.
Once we’re settled in the SUV, Miranda sighs.
I adjust my seat, since it’s pulled all the way back for Thomas. “Sorry if this tired you out today.”
“Oh, no, honey. It’s not that. It’s just memories.” She sighs again. Something’s weighing on her.
“You want to share?” I fight the urge to fire off twenty questions.
“Nikki Jo was talking about Pastor Cliff. He was a good man—died young, you know.”
Sometimes Miranda talks to me like I’m her age. I take this as a compliment.
She pulls a handkerchief from her beaded 1960s-era clutch and dabs her eyes. “So sorry, I still get emotional after all these years. I took Rose to his funeral. He was no older than we were. One of the sweetest souls God put upon this earth.”
“What happened?”
“Winter roads on the mountain, that’s what happened. He had an old truck—they said the tread was gone. Slid right over the bank, not far from Rose’s house.”
“That’s a pretty secluded road.”
She shoots me a sharp glance. “You don’t miss a thing, do you? You’re right—he’d been out visiting with Rose.”
Her blue gaze doesn’t waver from my face. She either suspects or knows there was something between the pastor and Rose. She’s just too much of a lady to come out and tell me.
For a housebound woman, Rose sure got around. The more I uncover about her, the more compassion I feel for Paul. How much did he know?
Reading my mind, Miranda speaks up. “Paul had no idea what was going on.”
So she thinks. But have they even discussed Rose’s love life? Seems to me, if I were a husband who found out, I’d be tempted to hurt my wife’s lovers. And Pastor Cliff died right near the Campbells’ house.
Miranda leans her head back into the seat and closes her eyes. I drive as fast as I can around the switchbacks. If she has an attack, I have no idea how to help her.
By the time we pull into The Haven, I’ve called ahead and a caregiver rushes out to help Miranda out of the SUV. I look closely at his build. He’s the gutter-cleaning stalker guy.
“Hey!” I jump down from my seat and run around the car. “Hey! Who are you?”
He steps back, wincing a bit. I guess he remembers me whapping the chair into his leg. Good. I like to give off a slightly terrifying vibe.
“Look, lady, I don’t know you.”
“I know you don’t. But I might just know something about you.” Miranda’s still fumbling with her seatbelt. “I think you were watching us for some reason. Are you working for someone?”
“Yeah, lady.” He points to the logo on his shirt, giving me a smug grin. “I work at The Haven. They’re my employers.”
Oh, no. You did not just get all snarky with the pregnant woman. I grab his shirt in my fist, judo moves from college replaying in my mind. I pull him inches from my face.
“Get this. IF you touch one hair on this woman’s head, I will hunt you down and kill you myself, in a very medieval, torturous way. So if you know something, now’s the time to come clean.” I feel my eyelids frozen in a wide-open position, no doubt adding to my deranged demeanor.
To my utter amazement, he answers, twisting back from my grip.
“Okay, okay! Listen, this chick wanted me to watch Mrs. Michaels. She wanted me to listen if she mentioned her old friend Rose. So when you two were outside talking, it was easy.”
“What did she look like?” I glance at the SUV. Miranda sits close to the window, her breath fogging it up. I can barely make out the quizzical look on her face.
“Maybe forties? Blondish hair. Hot.”
Men.
“Did you tell her anything?”
“Just that Mrs. Michaels has some pictures of Rose. That was all I caught.”
“Where did you meet?”
“Right here, lady. She works here on weekends. She’s a volunteer.”