That Night on Thistle Lane (14 page)

Let us both pretend that night never happened.

As matter-of-factly as she could, Phoebe nodded to the clean, reasonably dry basil. “If you can chop the basil, I’ll roast the pine nuts and mince the garlic.”

“Then they all get pounded into a paste with the mortar and pestle.” Nothing in his smile suggested he knew that she could hardly get a decent breath. “I’m guessing, because I’ve had pesto.”

“We pound the basil and garlic first. Then add the nuts. Then the parmesan and olive oil.”

“And what do we do with all this pesto?”

“Freeze it in ice-cube trays. Olivia and Maggie will use it all winter. They might use it at Olivia’s wedding in December.” Phoebe managed a smile. “It’ll remind everyone of summer.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“Will you be back for the wedding?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Phoebe looked at the parmesan, basil, garlic and pine nuts and thought about the work ahead to turn them into pesto. How would she be able to stand it, knowing what she did? She gathered up the damp paper towels from the basil and tossed them in the trash. She tried to appear casual as she turned back to Noah. “You know, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be—”

“There isn’t. I’m exactly where I want to be.” He opened a drawer and removed a knife. “I’ll chop. You mince and roast.”

*

Once the pesto was in the freezer, Noah saw there was no keeping Phoebe at Carriage Hill. She was out of there, tucking her empty canvas bag under one arm and all but racing out the door. Although he wasn’t by nature a patient man, years of martial arts practice and running a successful company had taught him that sometimes the best course of action was just to bide his time.

He followed her to her car. The afternoon sunlight caught the streaks of gold in her dark strawberry hair as she yanked open her car door. She turned to him with a quick smile. “Thank you for your help with the pesto. Enjoy your stay.”

“Anytime.”

She climbed behind the wheel, and he shut the door for her. With another quick smile, she had the car started and was on her way.

She’d recognized him as her swashbuckler, obviously, but she still believed—or was telling herself she believed—that he hadn’t recognized her.

Well, he had.

It was the fashion show flyer on the bulletin board that had finally done the trick. He’d started to suspect when he’d found her in the kitchen. The way she’d licked her lips, smiled, moved. The line of her jaw, the deep turquoise of her eyes, the sound of her voice. The shape of her hips, the curve of her breasts. They’d all come together when he saw the flyer, and he’d known.

Phoebe O’Dunn was his princess.

Noah walked back through the house and liberated Buster from the mudroom. They went out to the quiet terrace, but the big dog looked as restless as he was. “If you run off,” Noah told him, “I’ll find you and I won’t be happy about it. So spare both of us and stay put.”

Buster sat, panting, his dark eyes focused on Noah as if he’d gone crazy.

Noah laughed. “I just might have, my friend.”

The pesto was in the freezer and the kitchen cleaned up, but even out on the terrace, he could smell the mix of basil, garlic, roasted pine nuts and pure virgin olive oil.

Virgin olive oil. A Freudian slip, there. Dancing with his princess, he’d imagined her a virgin, as bold and as daring as she was when he’d swept her into his arms.

Was Phoebe O’Dunn a virgin?

Noah grimaced. Dylan would kill him dead for even letting such a question cross his mind. Dylan still had to tread carefully in Knights Bridge. Phoebe O’Dunn, her sister Maggie—these were Olivia’s people.

Telling Phoebe that he knew she was his princess was out of the question until he’d had a chance to think. He could act quickly, decisively, but not when he didn’t have a clue what in blazes to do. As he’d watched her pound the basil and garlic into a thick paste, he didn’t know why he hadn’t recognized her sooner. He hadn’t been thrown off by her dark strawberry hair and freckles as much as the fact that she was from Knights Bridge and Olivia Frost’s friend.

The note about his mystery man further complicated the situation.

Buster stirred, and Noah noticed a thickset man hopping over the low stone wall from the field behind the house. “Brandon Sloan,” the man said, stepping over knee-high herbs onto a path. “You must be Noah Kendrick. Dylan mentioned you’d be here for a few days. I’m working on his place up the road.”

“You’re one of the carpenters?”

“Sloan & Sons. I’m one of the sons. There’s a sister, too, but she showed up after the company was named. Sore subject.” He polished off an energy bar and dusted his hands as he stepped onto the terrace. “What do I smell?”

“Pesto.” Noah pointed to the patch of trimmed basil. “Phoebe O’Dunn was here.”

“Maggie, too?”

“Not Maggie, no. You two are…”

“Married.” Brandon pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. “I saw you the other night in Boston. You’d just come from hiking in the White Mountains. One of my favorite things to do.”

“It was an experience,” Noah said. “You were at the masquerade ball?”

Brandon grimaced. “I decided to go at the last minute. I’d told Dylan I’d rather have burning bamboo shoots shoved up my fingernails than go to a masquerade ball.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I found out Maggie was turning up—I have my sources.”

The other Sloans of Sloan & Sons, Noah suspected. He wondered if Brandon’s presence at the ball explained why Maggie had been so upset. Noah decided his and Dylan’s lives in San Diego, running NAK, were simple compared to the lives of the people he’d met so far in Knights Bridge.

“Is Maggie aware you’re working on Dylan’s place?” Noah asked.

“Not yet, no. Olivia doesn’t know, either. I asked Dylan to let me tell Maggie first.” Brandon stretched out his thick legs. “I’m camping up there. We start demolition on the house soon. I figure I can use the facilities here if need be. Olivia won’t mind.”

He seemed confident, even matter-of-fact, not at all presumptuous. He’d probably known Olivia—and Maggie, his wife—most if not all his life. Noah’s one near-lifelong friend was Dylan.

“When did you arrive?” he asked.

“This morning. I pitched my tent out of sight of the road. I’m glad Phoebe didn’t see me. She’s protective of her sisters. They stick together, those four.” Brandon settled back in his chair, obviously not concerned about the O’Dunn sisters or anyone else. “How do you like Carriage Hill?”

“It’s not as quiet as I thought it would be.”

Brandon grinned, then glanced around at the lawn and gardens, the fields, the hills in the distance. “I want to get my two boys out here to help with the work on Dylan’s place.”

“How old are they?”

“Five and six. Tyler’s almost seven, though. Don’t worry, I’m not talking about real work on the site. Just get them started on learning how to use a hammer and screwdriver. Maggie’s got them baking tarts and peeling artichokes. I don’t object, but they need this, too.”

Noah would guess that Brandon had learned to say he didn’t object to his sons learning to bake tarts and peel artichokes. What he meant instead was that he was afraid his young sons were missing the influence of their rough-and-tumble father. Noah didn’t have the particulars on Brandon Sloan’s troubled relationship with his wife but could see that he loved his sons.

Brandon stood abruptly, as if he wanted to escape wherever his thoughts had just taken him. “Dylan offered me a ticket to this masquerade ball but I didn’t take it. I wanted to pay my own way. I went as a pirate. Maggie made me faster than I thought she would. Maybe I should have gone as a banker instead.” He paused, then added wryly, “She’d never have recognized me as a banker.”

Noah made no comment but he thought that Brandon had a point.

Brandon turned, his expression serious as he narrowed his dark eyes. “Don’t tell her that I’m camping out up at Dylan’s. Leave that to me.”

“No problem.”

“I don’t mind camping. I’m back on my feet financially but I want Maggie to take me as I am. With or without money.”

“For better or worse,” Noah said.

“That’s right.”

“Why are you sleeping in a tent?”

“It beats staying with my folks or one of my siblings.” Brandon gave a mock shudder. “Trust me.”

“Then you don’t have your own place?”

“I gave up my apartment in Boston the first of the month. I’m saving every dime I can. I was in and out of work for a while, but I’ve been working nonstop for the past six months. It’s good. No complaints.” He paused, looked at Noah. “I won’t drag this thing out. I just have to do this in my own time. Understood?”

“Of course,” Noah said. “I’ll respect your wishes.”

He thought that Maggie O’Dunn Sloan—or any woman in her position—would appreciate knowing that her estranged husband was sleeping in a tent a few miles from her, but he wasn’t one to offer advice on relationships.

“I can help out with anything you might run into here,” Brandon said.

“I just made pesto with the town librarian. What could I run into?”

Brandon grinned. “Snakes in the stone walls. ’Course, where you’re from, you have poisonous snakes. A little old garter snake probably won’t bother you, right?”

“Probably not,” Noah said.

“Bats?”

He hadn’t considered bats. He smiled. “The hazards of country life.”

Brandon tilted his head back, eyeing Noah with an intensity that other people might find intimidating. “You’re not up to anything here, are you? Why didn’t you go to San Diego with Dylan and Olivia?”

“I’m dog sitting.”

At first Brandon didn’t respond. Then he laughed. “Right. Dog sitting. Enjoy your pesto, or did Phoebe take it all back with her?”

“It’s in Olivia’s freezer.”

“I’d never had pesto until I met Maggie. I’ve known Phoebe since nursery school. We’re the same age. She’s a special person in Knights Bridge. She looks after all of us.” He settled his gaze again on Noah. “And we all look after her.”

“Good to know,” Noah said mildly.

It was as clear a warning between two men as one could get without Brandon Sloan coming right out and saying that he’d be watching and Noah had best behave himself with Phoebe O’Dunn.

And why would Brandon think that Noah might not behave himself?

Because he knew that his sister-in-law had dressed up as an Edwardian princess the other night and had seen her dancing with her swashbuckler, who was now dog sitting in Knights Bridge.

Noah assumed that Olivia and Maggie, who also had to know about Phoebe, didn’t realize that Brandon was in on the secret, too.

Complicated, complicated.

Brandon headed off, back over the stone wall and through the field up to the house—or what was left of it—that Dylan had inherited from his father.

Noah went inside. It was five o’clock in the afternoon. Now what was he supposed to do?

He’d take Buster for another walk, then see what Olivia had in terms of movies.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow was supposed to be another hot day.

Perfect for a trip to the Knights Bridge Free Public Library.

Nine

Loretta Wrentham parked in the driveway at Dylan’s stucco house on Coronado. He’d left her three messages while she was sweating through a horrid exercise dance class. She’d finally texted him that she’d be right over, then showered, reapplied her makeup, put on slim jeans, a white shirt and red heels and, feeling energized if not any happier about exercise, headed across the San Diego–Coronado Bay Bridge to the upscale island town where Dylan lived.

He’d told her that Coronado wasn’t home for him like Knights Bridge was home for Olivia.

Loretta believed him.

Her cell phone trilled and she assumed it was Dylan again but saw Noah’s name on her screen. This couldn’t be good. Something clearly was up. She debated answering, but Noah was even worse about pestering her if he wanted a response. “Isn’t it the middle of the night on the East Coast?” she asked him, knowing perfectly well what time it was in New England.

“It’s midnight. I’m listening to my owl. I have all the windows in the house open. The stars are out. It’s nice.”

“I like stars. I heard an owl once on vacation in the mountains.” Of course, she realized he hadn’t called to talk about stars and owls. “What can I do for you, Noah?”

“Julius Hartley, Loretta. Who is he?”

She was silent. Hartley. No wonder she had so many messages from Dylan and now Noah was on the phone with her.

“Loretta?”

“He’s your mystery man,” she said.

“Is that a question or do you know?”

“I know now that you’ve said his name. How did it pop up?”

“Dylan checked the guest list at the masquerade ball. He couldn’t resist. The name Julius Hartley stood out. He bought a ticket at the last minute, he came alone and he’s from Los Angeles. He left his street address blank. Dylan doesn’t know him.”

Loretta swore under her breath. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Who is he, Loretta?” Noah asked mildly.

She decided to tell him. “Julius Hartley is a scumbag private investigator who won’t return my calls.”

“How do you know him?”

“I don’t. He showed up in my office a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think about him as a possibility for our mystery man until you told me you’d spotted your stalker in Boston. Something about your description this time finally clicked. I tried reaching Hartley. I only have his cell phone number and he didn’t answer.” She needed air and got out of her car. A cool evening breeze was blowing onshore off the Pacific. Damn. Had she screwed up this time? “Where is Hartley now?”

“I have no idea,” Noah said, no hint of impatience or exasperation.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do and call you when I know more.”

“What did he want when he came to your office?”

“He asked me about Duncan McCaffrey.”

“Dylan’s father? Why?”

Loretta had told Noah as well as Dylan about her brief affair with Duncan shortly before his death. At least she wouldn’t have to rehash that indiscretion—which was what it was, even if she didn’t regret it.

Finally she said, “Hartley told me he was fascinated with treasure hunts and was curious about what would happen to Duncan’s unfinished projects. Duncan’s been gone for two years, so I figured it was a lame cover story for worming information out of me about Dylan, about you and your work together at NAK, what’s next now that it’s gone public.”