The House on Hancock Hill (7 page)

“This winter is going to last a good while yet, don’t you think?” she said, not really expecting an answer, because as soon as I stood by the fire, she disappeared. Her house was much less flowery than the space above the garage, but it had that same soft coziness. It made me think of cups of tea or hot cocoa with homemade marshmallows.

On the mantel was a picture of a much younger Mrs. Mitchell with a smiling man by her side, a couple of frames with women of various ages, and another frame with a guy who seemed familiar. I didn’t have the chance to take a closer look because Mrs. Mitchell returned with a bottle of honey-colored liquid and two shot glasses. She filled both to the brim and handed one over. “Here, you knock that back.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I should. I’m on pain—”

She waved a dismissive hand at me. “It’ll warm you up. Doctor’s orders.” She tipped her shot back in one swallow, and I wasn’t going to be outdone by someone three times my age.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I coughed around the burn in my throat. It was so strong, I couldn’t taste anything past
argh
. I had my suspicions this wasn’t legally purchased brandy. “And for letting me stay above the garage. I can write you a check for the rent, or I can take out cash next time I’m in—”

“Don’t you worry about that now.” Mrs. Mitchell refilled my glass with a remarkably steady hand before I could stop her. “We’ll take care of all that another time.” She held up her glass, and I carefully clinked it, mentally bracing myself before tipping it back. “Now why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to all these years.” She sat in an overstuffed chair in front of the fire and waved me to the matching love seat.

“Well,” I croaked, putting my glass down and out of her reach before she could refill it again, “I own a bakery in Traverse City.”

“Oh, do you really? How lovely. Busy work, I bet.”

“It is,” I agreed. She asked me politely about the things we sold, and she told me what people tell me all the time: it’s a shame these real bakeries are disappearing, that bread from the grocery store just isn’t the same. When she lamented the cost of groceries even in a small town like this, I took the chance to turn the conversation around.

“So how have things been in Hancock?”

“Much the same as ever.” Mrs. Mitchell sprang to her feet with a grace that belied her age and refilled my glass before I had a chance to refuse. “I mean, some things change. A lot of young people have moved away for college and never come back. Susannah Franklin’s still here, and so is Henry, obviously.”

I laughed. “Susie? She used to follow us around when we’d hang out at the bridge.” On the most sweltering days, good for nothing but bemoaning the heat and casting stones at the canal, we’d sit in the shade of the trees waiting for the bridge to lift. It didn’t happen very often because boats up to thirty-five feet could pass under it freely. If a bigger one did come along, they’d have to call the bridge master (and wait an eternity for him to arrive), and all traffic would have to clear the bridge. The whole thing would lift up horizontally, the boat would pass, and the bridge would go down again. Quite the event for a bunch of ten-year-olds.

Susie Franklin was three years younger than we were, and she had towered over me until I turned thirteen. I spent a gratifying summer pointing out my extra two inches whenever I could that year.

“You were scared to death of her,” Mrs. Mitchell informed me with a cat-like grin.

“She punched me once.”

“I’m sure you deserved it.”

I made a face. Most likely I had. “What happened to Johnny Neville?” The smile melted like snow under the sun, and she put the bottle down, giving me a reprieve I was grateful for. My head was already swimming.

“Nothing good. Followed in his father’s footsteps and joined the army.” Pressing her lips together, Mrs. Mitchell sighed. “That boy always had a mean streak, and the army sure didn’t cure him of it. Anyway, I think he did one tour of duty in Iraq, and he didn’t return with a better temper, that’s for sure. They say—but no, that’s just gossip. He works a few jobs, landscaping or snow clearing, depending on the season.”

The atmosphere had noticeably chilled, and I searched for a topic to turn back to that homey warmth we’d shared before I’d brought up Johnny, but I came up empty. I didn’t remember Johnny having a mean streak. Loud and sometimes obnoxious, yes, but he’d always been just as concerned for the injured animals we brought to the clinic as Mac and I were.

M
RS
. M
ITCHELL
’
S
announcement that the food was ready saved me from trying to fill the awkward silence that had fallen, and I tucked in with gusto. The dinner was amazing. But then, by the time we’d sat down for our meal, I was tipsy enough I wouldn’t have noticed if it was made of tofu.

“I know you’re tired of hearing this,” Mrs. Mitchell said crisply, handing me a basket of freshly baked rolls and pouring me a glass of sparkling water, “but I was sorry to hear your dad passed away.”

“Thank you.” I didn’t like it when people sprang this on me unexpectedly, but the way she said it—matter-of-fact but kind—did me more good than harm. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the warm food, or maybe I was just willing to talk about it for once. “It was colon cancer. By the time they found it, it had metastasized. There was nothing they could do.” I didn’t like thinking about those last few months of his life. He wouldn’t let me quit college to look after him. As a professor, nothing had been more important to him than education. I’d spent all the money I’d earned from my two student jobs flying back and forth every weekend to see him.

Her wrinkled face sagged with sadness, and she shook her head. “You were so young still.” Did Mrs. Mitchell have any kids? Or a husband she had lost? The photograph on the mantel came to mind.

“I was.” Young and terrified to suddenly be all alone. That was when the anxiety had started. My therapist had suggested moving to Florida with Mom but that was a worse fate than being by myself, in my opinion. “I was in college by then. It gave structure to my life, I guess. Made it easier to keep going.”

“It’s what he would’ve wanted,” she agreed, and I wondered how well she could’ve known him when I didn’t remember her at all. “You have to have a goal in life. Even when you’re my age.”

“Yes?” I grinned, ready to change the subject. “What’s your goal this year, Mrs. Mitchell?”

“Call me Annie, dear. And I don’t think that brandy was quite strong enough, do you?”

I snorted in my glass of water. “I knew it.” I laughed, and Annie’s eyes twinkled.

“I hear you’ve been to see the sheriff today. Any news on the body?”

Surprised, I set my glass down, and she explained, “Deputy Ron is my nephew.”

“Oh, I see. Well, that explains a lot.”
That
was who the familiar guy in the picture was. I just hadn’t recognized Ron out of uniform. “No news, no. They don’t seem to have a clue who it is. I have to take a look at the body in case it’s someone I know.” My stomach lurched at the thought, and eating all that food seemed like a bad idea in retrospect.

Annie reached across the table and put her dry hand briefly over mine. “You’ll be fine. Henry will go with you.”

Swallowing hard, I nodded. “He’s being far too good to me.”

“When you get to my age, you realize there’s no such thing as being too good to someone. Usually it’s quite the opposite. So when you come across a man like Henry, you hang on for dear life.”

“Uh.” I had no idea what to do with that statement, but she didn’t expect a reply.

“It’s a good thing Henry found you when he did, from what Ron told me.”

I pulled my piece of bread apart and dragged it across my plate, but didn’t eat it. “It was.” I couldn’t recall much of the accident, just the relief and warmth I’d felt when Henry found me. “You know,” I said, looking up, “I had no idea who he was until he told me.”

Her face became grave as she considered me. “Henry has changed a lot.” The wrinkles around her blue eyes deepened; sadness made her look older. “He was always such a good boy. He deserves—” She shook her head and didn’t tell me what he deserved. “Mac’nJay they used to call you, remember that?”

“That’s right!” I laughed. “I’d forgotten about that!”

“Seems to me you’ve forgotten a lot about your time here.”

“What do you mean?” There was no reason to suddenly feel more sober than I had all night, but I did, and I began to feel uncomfortable under Annie’s scrutiny.

“You and your dad were always very happy here.”

“I’m happy where I am now,” I said. I didn’t know why I sounded so defensive. Her lifted eyebrow told me she’d heard it too. For a moment I feared she’d start to dig deeper, but instead she rose to her feet and gathered the plates. I collected the dishes and followed her into an old-fashioned but functional kitchen.

“I’d have brought something for dessert, but I didn’t have any ingredients.” This caught her attention, and she turned away from the sink where she was rinsing the plates.

“You do your own baking?”

I began to shrug but thought better of it. Until now, the alcohol had dulled the pain from my ribs, but I could feel it creeping up on me again. “Well, yes, that’s what I do in the bakery. I take care of the pastries and chocolates while my partner does the bread.”

“Really?” Why was this always so surprising to everyone? “I assumed you were just the owner. What do you make?”

“Oh, anything. I went to culinary school after I got my college degree, so I can probably whip up whatever you like, as long as you have the ingredients.”

Her eyes twinkled, and I knew I was about to be tested. “How about some lemon curd?”

“Do you have the lemons for it?”

Annie laughed with delight.

“You know,” I began carefully while she gathered what we’d need, “Henry said he and Johnny had some sort of falling out, but he didn’t go into detail. Do you know anything about that?”

The laughter stilled, and she pinned me with a sharp gaze—one that warned me not to be fooled by her genteel façade. “That,” she said, never looking away, “would be something you’ll have to ask him yourself.” I nodded guiltily, feeling like a reprimanded child.

I was whisking the egg yolks while she prepared the lemon rind when there was a knock on the door. A huge ginger cat I hadn’t seen before leaped from its hiding place under the kitchen table, and I jumped about a foot in the air.

“That’ll be Henry,” she said, the twinkle back in her eyes. “Just in time for dessert.”

“Oh,” I said, heart thumping hard against my ribcage. That cat must’ve startled me worse than I thought. “I didn’t know he was coming.”

“Yes, he said he’d try. Go on, get the door, my hands are all sticky.”

It was ridiculous, but I felt nervous making my way to the front door, as if something had changed in the hours since I’d last seen him.

“Hey,” I said, getting over myself and pulling open the door. Henry, to my chagrin, had brought a bottle of wine. I stepped aside to let him in so I could shut the cold out. “We’re making dessert in the kitchen.” And then, because being nervous made me lose my ability to control my mouth, I blurted, “You look great.”

“Ah,” Henry ducked his head, and the back of his neck flushed pink in the dim hallway light. “Thank you.”

He
did
look good. I had a nice view of, well, everything as he preceded me down the hall and into the kitchen. He’d changed his clothes since I’d last seen him. His cords hugged his thighs nicely, thick taut muscles flexing underneath with every step he took. When he walked into the kitchen, he handed Annie the bottle of wine and shrugged off his coat. Underneath, he wore a burgundy button-down and a gray V-neck sweater. He’d taken the time to change but not shave, and a faint five o’clock shadow dusted his chin and throat. I wanted to lick it so badly, my mouth went dry.

Had he been on a date? Dinner with a girlfriend?

“Jason?” Annie said like it wasn’t the first time. I blinked.

“Huh?”

Her smirk was all too knowing as she uncorked the wine bottle. “My dessert?” she said.

“Oh, right.”

“So you weren’t joking when you said you were a pastry chef.” Henry peered into the bowl while I added sugar to the yolks.

“No.” I was a bit miffed. “Why is everyone so surprised by this?” Henry held up his hands like I was pointing a gun at him. It brought a trace of his aftershave in my direction, something that reminded me of cardamom cookies.

“I think it’s great,” he said, taking a step back.

“Don’t annoy the chef, Henry.” She grinned, and I sniffed.

“Laugh it up. Just wait until you taste this piece of heaven. You have any shortbread, Annie?”

“Oh, I do believe so.” She began to rummage through a cabinet behind me.

“
Annie
?” Henry mouthed at me, eyes wide and eyebrows high.

“
She loves me
,” I mouthed back. Henry’s eyes lingered on me, and then he went in search of wine glasses.

“Any of that Stroganoff left, Mrs. Mitchell?” No dinner date, then. “Or did Jay eat it all?”

It was ridiculous how much it warmed me to hear him call me that. No one had since Dad died.

Handing me a packet of Walkers, Annie donned a pair of oven gloves. “Kept it warm for you,” she said, piling enough for a small army on a plate. Grabbing the bottle of wine, she added, “Let’s go sit in the dining room and leave the kitchen wizard to his magic.”

Under different circumstances, I’d have had a witty retort, but whisking lemon and eggs over a low heat took concentration. Or so I convinced myself as the kitchen began to fill with the scent of lemon and melting sugar.

T
EN
MINUTES
later, I covered the cooling lemon curd and walked quietly toward the dining room. I heard Henry say, “He just got here, I’m not going to—” when Annie saw me skulking.

“It just has to cool down for a bit,” I said. The huge cat appeared out of nowhere, meowing loudly.