Forty-Five
Driving down main street, Charley followed the pull of her heart as it led her deeper into town. She’d taken the Jeep to a local mechanic that afternoon and gotten the battery swapped out. Then she stopped by the library. It took some searching before she found what she was looking for. But she had.
Her pulse kicked up a notch as she turned onto Union Street.
There it was. Chocoholic’s. Only, today, the store was dark inside. The CLOSED sign hung in the window, but, knowing Matt, he’d be here.
She parked the car, took a breath. If she had told him that Jeffrey took Hamadryads, that he planned to sell it because he was strapped for cash, would things have ended differently?
But she knew one thing without a doubt. She couldn’t tell Matt about Jeffrey’s affair with Lizzie. Not after last night. Sarah was right. It was best not to stir up old hurt.
Then again, she might be about to do exactly that.
A cloth bag rested on the passenger seat beside her. Charley drummed her fingers on the hot steering wheel.
Just go for it. There had to be some good in all of this.
She got out of the car and stepped into the blaze of afternoon sunshine. Moisture steamed off the pavement, still dark with rain. She slung the bag over her shoulder and the contents banged against her hip.
She peered around the sign. At the back of the store, a rectangle of sunlight glowed from a doorway. Matt’s workroom?
She knocked, knuckles against glass. Nothing. Nervous energy coursed through her. She paced the sidewalk.
Digging her cellphone out of her bag, she typed a text. Hopefully Matt had his phone turned on.
— I’m outside Chocoholic’s. Can we talk? —
She waited. Finally, there was movement inside.
Matt unlocked the door but kept his hand on the frame. “We’re closed.” Stubble shadowed his jaw and his eyes looked tired.
“I know. Can I come in?”
“I’m not —” He broke off, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not very good company right now.”
Pushing her away. She tried not to let it hurt. “Just for a minute.”
He hesitated. “Yeah, okay.” Matt stepped aside, to let her through. “Where’s Cocoa?”
“With Meghan.” The scent of dark chocolate, chili, and black cherries hung in the air, faint as a memory. The shop quiet and empty, without the murmur of voices, the laughter and crinkle of plastic wrappers. “How are you doing?”
“Been better.” A twist of humour caught at the corners of his mouth and fell short of his eyes. “Are you sorry you asked?” He threw the bolt, locking the door again.
As though the sign wasn’t enough to deter customers.
“Actually, that’s why I came. Could we sit?” She thought of the barstools at the counter.
“Better not.”
Her heart squeezed. Of course. Sitting would take more time.
She was already nodding when he added, “Not here, anyway. If someone sees me through the window, they’ll never leave. Come on, we’ll be safe in the back.”
This was it. Maybe she should have thought this through more. Planned out what she would say and how.
Two steps behind Matt, she pushed through the plastic curtain strips hanging over the door. And walked into a rich, heady aroma of cocoa and vanilla. Fresh as though scraped from the pod. The air almost cold here, after the heat outside.
She stopped short and dragged in a breath. “Wow.”
The shiny appliances, all that chrome, might have seemed sterile anywhere else, but the red floor tiles added warmth. Stacks of chocolate molds filled the metal shelves. A marble cutting board rested on the work surface. The counters, the sink, were spotless.
He hadn’t been working. Not this morning, anyway.
“Impressed?” The touch of humour in his voice had her smiling. That sounded more like him.
“Maybe.” She set the bag on the floor and couldn’t resist running her fingers over the scarred surface of the wooden table.
“I got that table secondhand,” he said. “It’s a little beat up, but serves the purpose.”
“I like it.”
One stool butted up against the table where a mug of coffee rested, almost empty now. Two more stools were pushed against the wall. The refrigerator gleamed, throwing back reflections.
The photographs on the wall caught her eye, drew her closer.
Matt shifted his feet. “Those are just some old pictures.” Was that a hint of panic in his voice? “Ancient history. You should see the tempering machine. Or the guitar cutter, for slicing ganache.”
Both were on the other side of the room. If she didn’t know any better, she might think he was trying to distract her.
The cobblestones in the first photograph had an unmistakable old-world charm. “Was this one taken in Paris?” Matt — younger there — sat at a round café table. He was laughing, the tone easy, comfortable. Legs kicked out on the terrasse.
In the next picture, he stood in an industrial kitchen, flour smeared and sporting a cocky grin.
Moving quickly, Matt slipped one of the frames off the wall and tucked it behind his back.
Smooth. Subtle. “Is it that embarrassing?” she asked.
“What?” He widened his eyes innocently.
“The picture you’re hiding.” She made a grab for it.
Matt dodged, lifting the frame up high. But not high enough.
The glimpse of bare skin had her biting back a grin. “Are you only wearing an apron in that picture?”
“No.” It sounded like he’d deny it to the day he died.
She shouldn’t laugh. A giggle rose inside her, threatening to spill over. “Are you standing outside?”
His lips curved in a sheepish smile. “Some of the guys in the pastry class thought it would be funny —” He paused, his ears flushing pink. “— to steal my clothes and only leave me with an apron.” He returned the frame to the wall. “It’s a complicated story involving a lot of French wine, and probably isn’t something I should tell you.”
“Nice friends.” She grinned. Looking at the photographs, she tapped the one that was unframed and pinned to the wall. “How old were you there?”
“Seven.” Matt’s smile died and his tone turned sober.
“That’s some cake.” Joy radiated from the image. A party. Balloons, cake, and a whole lot of love. “Is that your mom?”
“Yeah.” He looked at the picture. It was hard to read his expression.
So, she finally got to meet Lizzie. “She had a wonderful smile. But there aren’t any pictures of —” Your dad. The words caught in her throat. “— Nick.”
He laughed. “With good reason.”
It was now or never. She turned to him. “You should sit.”
Matt blinked, startled. “Why?”
“Do you ever do anything without asking a million questions first?”
That got a flicker of a smile. “Fine.” Watching her, he grabbed the stool, chair legs scuffing over the tiles.
Charley picked up the bag she brought with her. One by one, she laid the contents on the table, facing him.
He stared at them blankly. “Library books?”
A fizz of excitement built inside her. “Thrillers. In the hardboiled tradition.”
Matt scraped a hand over his jaw. Charley was beaming at him and he had no idea why. “What’s this got to do with —”
“Ever heard of Philip North?”
“Should I have?” The tattered paperbacks laid out on the table looked like they’d been around the block. A remnant of the ’90s. “I feel like I’m failing a test here.” She was waiting for a reaction, like the books should mean something to him. But he didn’t have a clue.
“There were seven books in the series, starting with The Demise of Lady Red.”
A sultry knockout with platinum hair, soulful eyes, and a hard smile. The image grey as the smoke from a charcoal barbeque.
Charley tapped the cover. “The paperback originals were printed by a small publisher, holding onto the pulp tradition. Print ’em cheap but go all out on the covers. Each design has that black panel of space, silver lettering, and monochromatic photography. The images are soft-focus and moody. Similar to the work of Edward Steichen, they’re almost Pictorialist —”
“Charley.” He appreciated her enthusiasm, but his head was pounding. “Believe it or not, I didn’t get much sleep last night. You’re going to have to spell it out for me, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He reached for the cup at his elbow. The ceramic was cold. The coffee, too. Cream floated on the surface. He debated drinking it anyway, then set the cup back down, pushed it further away.
More slowly, Charley said, “Pictorialists took the medium of photography and reinvented it as an art form, prioritizing beauty, tonality, and composition, trying to elevate it to the same level as painting.” She sighed at his expression. “Oh, never mind. The important thing is that the cover artist also designed the first edition of Hamadryads.”
That comment hit like a jolt of caffeine. He picked one of the books up, turned it over in his hands. But he still didn’t get why this was so important. “So, the guy worked for a few publishing houses. Look, if this is the big reveal —”
“Philip North is a pseudonym.”
He put the book down, his mouth dry. “Go on.”
“North is an anagram for Thorn. Nick Thorn.” A bright lift to her voice. Blue eyes practically shooting sparks. “He wrote Hamadryads under the pen name Sam West. Notice a theme?”
Cardinal directions. “So, my dad did publish more books.” The closed door, that muffled strike of keys, late into the night. Maybe there’d been a reason for it. A deadline. Not just an excuse to escape, to avoid him.
She flipped one of the books over and read the praise quote. “‘The unselfconscious eloquence of the prose is a nod to Raymond Chandler. A writer with vision —’”
“‘A visionary’,” he murmured. The critics seemed to agree about that. They’d said the same thing about Hamadryads.
“‘And a sentimental wised-up hero.’” She drew a breath. “It’s obvious Chandler influenced your dad’s writing.”
“How do you figure that?”
She put her finger on the byline. “Philip.”
He couldn’t stop the grin. “You mean Marlowe?”
“It’s a guess, but it would be a nice touch, if Chandler’s protagonist inspired his pen name. Most importantly.” She leaned forward, the smile lighting her face. “Philip North dedicated each and every one of these books to his son and wife.”
“What?” Matt froze. “Say that again.”
“Every one of these books is dedicated to you and your mom.”
“Let me see that.” He took the paperback from her, flipped through the pages. “Here it is.”
For Matthew and Elizabeth, with love. Always.
He swallowed hard and reached for the next book.
For Matt and Lizzie. You give my life meaning.
His dad’s secrets, finally exposed. And they were anything but dark. “How did you find this?” His voice rasped in his throat.
She shrugged. “Someone donated the series to the library the summer I worked there, and the covers caught my eye. I read all of these. They’re perfect cottage page-turners. When I saw the first edition of Hamadryads, the cover artist seemed familiar. Then that pen name had me wondering. It was just a guess. But, when I saw the dedication in The Demise of Lady Red, I knew. I looked the author up, to see what else he’d written. These books showed up in the search results. Luckily, the library hardly ever weeds their collection, so the books were still there.”
“You make a pretty good detective.”
“All I did was see past the cover.”
“You saw through Jeffrey.” If he’d looked closer, maybe he would have too.
She hesitated a beat, then closed her hand over his. “I’m sorry about —”
“Me too.”
She leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly to his. It wasn’t enough. He caught hold of her, drew her in. Deepened the kiss. But the spark of happiness it kindled inside him caught him off guard.
He eased back. “I have to decide what to do next.” He had a hell of a lot to deal with right now. It would be unfair to drag her down with him.
Her expression sobered. “So do I.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I should go. I still want to visit Thomas.”
“I hear he’s on the mend.”
“He is. I’ll leave the books with you.” She bit her lip. “Call me, if you need me.” Humour lit her eyes as she quoted his words back at him.
“I do need you.” But, because it was too soon to tell her exactly how much, he added, “To help me with something.”
“Sure, what?”
“A social media post.” He glanced at the books fanned out on the table. “Speaking of photography.”
“Tomorrow?”
Warmth, slow and steady, spread in his chest. “I’ll be here.”