• three •

A half-civilized ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full of black fire.

—Wuthering Heights

After lunch, Luke dropped her off in front of Stony Beach Books, saying he’d do an errand of his own and come back for her. The storefronts to the left and right of the bookstore turned dark window faces to the gloomy street. Ben Johnson was one of the few shopkeepers in this seasonal tourist town who kept his store open year-round. Winter or summer made little difference to him, since his bookshop was as much a warehouse for the used books he sold online as a true retail outlet. When the bell over the door tinkled, he emerged from the back room to greet Emily, a wide smile illumining his ascetically handsome mocha-brown face. He stopped a few feet away from her so she could look him in the eye without craning her neck too badly.

“Emily! What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for anything on period decor. Mostly nineteenth century, with a little late-eighteenth and early-twentieth thrown in. Not modern interpretations of those periods, but the real thing.”

Ben ran a hand over his two-inch-long dreads. He’d started growing them since the summer. Emily suspected she knew why. “Wow, I don’t know if I have anything like that. But I’m sure I could find it for you if you can give me some time.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know, a week or two maybe? Of course, if you’re in a hurry, you could always look for yourself online.”

Emily grimaced. Online was a four-letter word to her. “Could you look for me? I’m clueless when it comes to online shopping. I would just run into Portland to Powell’s, but I hate to leave town while they’re working on the house.”

“No problem. Come on back.” Ben led the way into his office, where a tiny computer desk was wedged between a packing table and stacks of boxes. “Do you have anything specific in mind, or shall we just browse?”

“If there are books about where Jane Austen and Charles Dickens actually lived, that would be great.” For the Montgomery and Dostoevsky rooms she could pull descriptions from the novels. “And then anything general about Victorian-era furnishings. In England, that is, not here.”

Ben sat down and pecked at the keyboard while mysterious pictures came and went on the screen. Within minutes he’d found everything she was looking for and placed orders for them. “Should be here within a week. They always say up to two, but usually it’s a lot quicker.”

“Thanks, Ben. Just give me a call when they come in.” The reluctant, traitorous thought snuck into her head that online seemed to be a pretty convenient way to buy books when one was outside the sphere of influence of Powell’s. But why should she bother getting a computer and learning how to do it herself when she could always have Ben order for her, and give him a needed commission in the process?

Luke had not yet reappeared—this had been a remarkably brief bookstore visit, after all—so Emily left word with Ben where she’d be, ducked her head to the wind, and dashed down the street to Lacey Luxuries, the antique accessories shop owned by her friend and kindred Victorian spirit, Veronica Lacey. Veronica’s shop was rarely open in the winter, which she spent mostly on buying trips to restock. But today Emily got lucky and found her in.

“Veronica, I need your help. It’s time to start planning how to redecorate the author rooms, and I don’t even know where to begin.”

They had a nice long powwow about rugs and wallpapers, curtains and bed linens. Veronica’s stock contained little in the way of heavy furniture, however. “You’re going to have to consult Devon and Hilary down at Remembrance of Things Past. They’re into serious furniture there, and they really know their stuff. If they don’t have what you need, they can find it.”

Emily had met Devon Penhallow and Hilary Carmichael back in August when they rented the one empty space in her storefront properties. They’d remodeled the shop to look as if it belonged on the Portobello Road in London rather than on Highway 101 in Stony Beach, which thrilled Emily no end. But the shop had yet to open formally.

“Are they in town? I figured they’d be off on a buying trip now the remodeling’s done.”

“Hilary’s in England, but Devon’s here. They like a break from each other now and then. Being life partners as well as business partners can get a little suffocating, I imagine.”

“I suppose so.” Emily wondered if she would ever find it possible to have too much of Luke. Their adventure in solving Beatrice’s murder together had only made them love each other more. Even if she did make her move to Stony Beach permanent, it was hardly probable she and Luke would ever find themselves in each other’s company 24/7. No, getting an overdose of Luke wasn’t likely to be a problem.

*   *   *

After he dropped Emily at the bookstore, Luke couldn’t get his mind off what she’d said about Jake Newhouse. The thought of that bastard anywhere near Katie made Luke’s chowder churn in his stomach.

Katie was the kind of girl whose sweet wholesomeness brought out one of two things in a man: either the desire to protect it or the impulse to destroy it. She could be a threshing fork to separate the wheat from the chaff in the male population. Whether Jake had made a play for Katie in the past or not, he was as chaff as chaff could get, and he was sure to go after her the first chance he got. If only Luke could get hold of something solid against him.

Jake had worked for the other local contractor, Charlie Cartwright, back in the summer on the remodeling at the new antique shop—and was notably not working for him now. Maybe Charlie could dish some dirt on Jake. Luke made a quick U-turn and stopped his SUV in front of the new clinic location, where Charlie was working now.

Charlie was sitting on the floor in one of the back rooms, finishing his thermos of coffee. “Hey, Luke, what’s up?”

Luke shook Charlie’s hand—one of the few hands he knew to match his own for size and strength. They had a squeezing contest every time they met. This time Luke let Charlie win—he wanted him in a good mood.

He pulled his hand away and rubbed it. “Man, that grip of yours gets stronger every day. Comes of swinging a hammer while I’m stuck at my desk pounding a keyboard, I guess.”

Charlie smirked. “Soft job you got there, Sheriff. Gonna put you in your grave at sixty. I’ll be hammering till I turn a hundred, just like my old man.”

“I bet you will.” Luke eased himself down on the floor next to Charlie, waved away his offer of the thermos. “They don’t make ’em like you anymore, Charlie. These young guys—”

That was all it took. Charlie snorted out a snootful of coffee. “Those young guys don’t know one end of a hammer from the other. And work? Hell, they go for an hour if you’re lucky, then they’re whipping out their phones to see what their twitterpated friends are up to. I wouldn’t hire anybody under forty if I could find guys that age. But most of ’em have moved on to soft desk jobs. Like you.” He elbowed Luke in the ribs.

“I noticed you didn’t keep on the youngsters who were working for you last summer.”

“That bunch? No way. You know what that Jake Newhouse did to me?” Charlie leaned forward and banged his thermos on the bare cement floor. “He cost me an arm and a leg, that’s what. You know I had him on that antique shop job?”

Luke nodded.

“Damn young idiot practically ruined a whole truckload of fancy furniture moving it in. Scratches, dings, knocked a foot off some bureau thing. I had to pay for the whole kit ’n’ caboodle.”

Luke’s pulse sped up. Negligence like that should’ve kept Jake from getting another job in the industry. “Why didn’t you take it out of his wages?”

Charlie made a disgusted puh. “He didn’t make that much. Besides, I couldn’t prove it was him. He claimed one of the other guys, Zach Campbell, was responsible—they moved the stuff in together. Zach swore up and down it was Jake. I wouldn’t trust Jake as far as I could throw him; I’d trust Zach at least to Seaside and back. But it was just one of them’s word against the other. In the end I let the insurance take care of it. Shot my premiums through the roof, though.”

“You didn’t have anything else on Jake? Other than general laziness?”

“That and an attitude you could cut with a knife and spread on toast. But no, nothing I could pin on him. All I could do was make sure never to hire him again.”

“You didn’t spread the word to the other contractors? Edwards, for instance? I understand he’s working for Edwards now.”

Charlie upended the thermos over his cup. Nothing. He set the mug down with a snort. “Edwards and me, we don’t see eye to eye these days. Not since what he said about my boy.”

“About Eli? What could he say against Eli?” Charlie’s son Eli was about twenty, unusually polite and hardworking for his age, with a steady girlfriend since high school. Luke couldn’t picture him in any kind of trouble.

“Claimed Eli had made ‘improper advances’ to his girl, Rachel. Seems Rachel came home from some party in tears, wouldn’t tell Edwards what happened. Eli’d been at the party, and for some reason Edwards fastened on him as the troublemaker.”

“Why would he do that?”

Charlie shrugged. “Probably ’cause Eli quit going to that so-called church of his. In Edwards’s book, anybody who leaves his flock is headed straight for the devil. But hell, it’s not like Eli became an atheist or a Muslim or something. He just got tired of Edwards being so damn legalistic and went over to Jenny’s Baptist church instead.”

Charlie stood up and dusted his hands on his jeans. “Better get back to work. Good to see you, Luke.”

“Take care, Charlie.” Luke frowned his way back to his car. He still had nothing he could use to get Jake off Emily’s job without risking a lawsuit. And nothing worth bothering Emily about. But he certainly had some food for thought.

*   *   *

When Luke dropped Emily off after her errands were done, Katie waved to her from the window above the carriage house and gestured to her to come up. She dashed up the stairs and shook herself off under the sheltered entry before stepping inside onto the drop cloth that covered the living room carpet.

“Almost finished,” Katie said with a proud smile. She had a right to be proud: she’d created a marblelike effect on the three window walls in a soft beige with peach undertones and veins of dark brown, while a solid, rich reddish brown framed the windows and accented the fourth, unbroken wall.

“It’s gorgeous,” Emily said. “I can’t wait to see what you’ll do with our author rooms. Where did you learn to do this?”

Katie shrugged. “Oh, I just picked it up. Watched some YouTube videos, helped a couple friends with their rooms. It’s not that hard.”

“Not hard if you have talent dripping out your fingertips with energy to match. I couldn’t do this in a million years.”

Katie blushed prettily. A faint cry sounded from the baby monitor on the adjoining kitchen counter. “Oh, shoot, I was hoping she’d take a good nap so I could get this done.”

“No worries, I’ll get her.” Emily had proven herself adept at soothing Lizzie back to sleep when she woke prematurely.

Emily hurried down the stairs, across the gravel drive to her front door, and into Katie’s bedroom. Lizzie was sitting up in her cradle, grasping the sides and rocking the cradle gently back and forth.

“You are an independent spirit, aren’t you? Rocking yourself back to sleep.” Emily picked Lizzie up. “A real modern woman. But don’t get too independent, okay? Your mommy and I enjoy taking care of you.”

Lizzie cooed and made a grab at a stray strand of Emily’s hair. Emily gave her the stuffed lamb from the cradle instead. “It’s a good thing you two are moving into that apartment. You need a real crib before you tip yourself right out of this cradle.”

Lizzie was clearly not interested in going back to sleep, so Emily took her into the library and played with her for an hour until she started to make hungry noises. They went to the kitchen in search of arrowroot biscuits, which Lizzie loved to mouth to death, although Emily was convinced she never swallowed a morsel of them. Strapping Lizzie into her high chair, Emily glanced out the window and saw Katie in her polka-dot rain boots slogging across the swampy lawn from the carriage house. The dark, intense new worker, Roman, was heading from the front door toward Jeremiah’s truck.

Roman turned, spotted Katie, and stopped in midstride. He hesitated, then pivoted and went to meet her. Katie paused with a pleasant smile, which soon turned to a look of confusion and then discomfort as the conversation progressed. Just when Emily was thinking she might need to intervene, Roman abruptly turned and strode back toward the truck.

Katie came in the kitchen door, her brow puckered, chewing her bottom lip.

“Are you all right?” Emily asked. “I saw Roman stop you. He’s not making a nuisance of himself, is he?”

She slowly shook her head. “Not exactly. He says we know each other. Apparently he went to school here in seventh grade. He says I was the only one in the whole school who was nice to him. He’s never forgotten me. But I don’t remember him at all.” Mechanically she wet a washcloth and wiped Lizzie’s face and hands, already thoroughly sticky with biscuit. “I feel bad I don’t remember him. But the way he looked at me—like he wanted to absorb me or something. Kind of creepy.” She gave herself a shake.

Emily touched her arm. “Katie—I don’t like this situation. Both these new guys are making you uncomfortable. I think I should ask Jeremiah to replace them.”

“No, no, I can deal with it. Honestly. I don’t want to cause trouble and hang up the work.”

“Well, if you’re sure. But if things get out of hand, you just say the word and they’re gone.”

Katie nodded. She lifted Lizzie out of the high chair, not meeting Emily’s eyes. “I’d better get to cleaning. The dust is getting all the way down from the attic.”

*   *   *

Oh my stars. As if it weren’t enough having him on the property, now this Roman guy is getting on my case. Well, not getting on my case exactly, but he says he knows me. From seventh grade, of all things. And the way he looks at me—like he wants to devour me. Like there’s something he wants from me that there’s no way I can give.

Okay, so I was nice to him when he was the new kid and everybody else was mean. So what? I’m nice to everybody. Or try to be. And nobody else has come back after seven years trying to eat me up.

Now there are two guys I have to try to avoid. Right in my own home. What is it with me and guys? I’m just an ordinary girl from the wrong side of town. Nothing special. Why can’t they leave me alone?

*   *   *

Emily returned to the library, steeling herself for an afternoon of construction noise. The wind and rain, as if feeling the need to compete for her attention, were making plenty of noise of their own. Emily, again reminded of the Brontës, pulled Wuthering Heights off the library shelf. She felt an obscure loyalty to the book, even though it wasn’t fully to her taste, simply because she’d been named for its author. The opening chapters were slow going—she always found the story within a story confusing with its Gordian knot of family relationships. The reading required all her concentration, and she actually managed to filter out the cacophony for a while.

When the workday was over, she caught Jeremiah on his way out. “Come into the library for a minute, would you? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Jeremiah followed her, stooping to get through the doorway. “Any problem with the work, ma’am?”

“No, no, the work seems to be going fine. I haven’t been upstairs yet, but the carriage house looks great. It’s about those two new guys, Jake and Roman. They both seem a little too interested in Katie.”

Jeremiah’s bristly brows drew together and his lantern jaw set. “The Lord abhors a lustful man. I’ll get rid of them right away.”

Emily drew back a step. “I don’t think we need go that far—they haven’t actually done anything. I just wanted to ask you to keep a close eye on them. See they’re not downstairs on their own, that kind of thing. Maybe have a word, tell them to keep out of her way.”

His frown deepened. “Words aren’t much use with that kind. A fool only listens to his own counsel.”

Emily was afraid he might be right. “Is their work satisfactory? Of course, if they weren’t good workers, we could dismiss them on that ground.”

“No big beef there. Roman’s a hard worker, knows his stuff. Jake’s a fool, but no worse than most his age. Tough to find young guys who know how to work these days.”

“All right. Well, like I say, keep an eye and we’ll see how it goes.”

He gave a nod that was almost a bow and left.

In the blessed silence that descended when the workers were gone, Emily went up to the second floor and began the long-delayed task of sorting through Beatrice’s belongings. Beatrice had been a sensible dresser; her clothes were of the highest quality, but classic and few. They wouldn’t fit Emily’s figure or her personal style, so she folded them carefully into boxes to take to the charity thrift store in Garibaldi. But she paused when she came to the mink coat encased in a cotton bag with cedar chips at the back of the closet. She’d never be comfortable wearing such a coat herself, yet giving it to a thrift store didn’t seem right. She couldn’t leave it here indefinitely, though.

She draped the garment bag over her arm and trudged up the stairs to the third-floor storage room. There she found space for the coat in an old cedar wardrobe, smiling to herself at the thought that one day, six or eight years from now, Lizzie might find it there and pretend she’d discovered the gateway to Narnia. This house was ideal for a child’s fanciful explorations—it even had a secret staircase that led from Beatrice’s room down to the library.

Heading back toward the stairs, Emily paused to survey the scene of lath-and-plaster carnage the front attic had become. Two poky storage rooms were being combined to make her new sitting room; the remains of the wall between them now littered the floor. Plumes of dust rose around her feet as she picked her way across the rubble to the large south-facing window that looked out over the front porch. No ocean view from here, but the row of poplars that lined the drive would make a nice view in themselves. Barely visible now by porch light in the stormy darkness, they put on a fine show of burnished orange foliage on a sunny day. This room would be cozy and light when it was finished. She approved her own decision.

She peeked into her tower bedroom just to assure herself that all was well and that the builders hadn’t disturbed anything there. This room would not be altered—it was sacred to the adolescent dreams of Luke that had visited her as she slept in the canopied bed or mused on the ocean-facing window seat. In a peculiar way those dreams had been even sweeter than the actual time they spent together.

Perhaps that was what she feared about a future with Luke—that the mature, mundane reality of their love ultimately would not measure up to those poignant adolescent dreams. Dreams she’d carried with her all through her marriage to Philip, whose love had been more companionable than passionate. Dreams that had sustained her whenever she felt she’d drown in the tedium of her professorial days.

You’re a grown-up now, Emily, she told herself sternly. Time to put away childish dreams. She turned from the tower and went downstairs. Only sensible dreams could ever come to her sleeping in Beatrice’s bed.