The Seductive Impostor (3 page)

She had finally found the key, once she had stopped her frantic search long enough to think with the left side of her brain. The only thing her father had given her five years ago had been a barrette made up of silver charms. The charms were miniature architect tools.

All except for the small silver-plated key.

Rachel raised her gaze to the ceiling again, mostly to keep the tears from streaming down her face. Her daddy had tinkered with her design.

Moved walls.

Hidden a room.

And kept a terrible secret.

R
achel set the plate of overcooked
eggs in front of her sister, then carried her own breakfast around the table and took a seat across from Willow.

“Eat,” she told her, trying to get her sister's attention away from the newspaper. “Before your eggs get cold.”

Willow ignored the petition, instead lowering the paper and staring at her with shocked eyes. “They found him?” she asked in a disbelieving whisper. “After all this time?”

Rachel nodded.

“He's going to reopen the house, isn't he?”

She nodded again.

Willow gave one last look at the photograph accompanying the newspaper article, then picked up her fork and began pushing her eggs around on her plate.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” Rachel said into the silence, letting her own eggs grow cold. “A billion-dollar estate won't sit forever without someone stepping forward to claim it.”

Willow looked up at her with haunted eyes. Rachel wanted to hug her tightly and never let go, but she gave Willow a smile instead. “A billion dollars in assets and bank accounts, minus the five million Thadd left to each of us. Suppose Keenan Oakes will miss our share?”

“I'm never touching that money,” Willow said, her face darkening with anger. “I'm going to give it to the Make-A-Wish Foundation.”

“So you've said before.”

Willow dropped her fork, pushed back her chair, and stood up. She walked to the island and turned and faced the table. “I'm doing it today. And I'm selling my Lakeman Boatyard stock and giving that money to the College of the Atlantic.”

“Then do it. You're going to feel a hundred pounds lighter and five years younger,” Rachel promised, speaking from personal experience. She had given her anonymous gift from Thadd away two years ago, to Habitat for Humanity.

“Dammit, Rachel,” Willow said through gritted teeth, waving at the paper on the table. “We're just getting our lives together. I don't want him coming here. I don't want Sub Rosa being reopened.”

Rachel stood up, limped around the table, and hugged her sister. “Let it go,” she said, echoing Wendell's words from yesterday. “It doesn't matter anymore, Willy. You and I have moved on, and now it's Sub Rosa's turn.”

She pulled back and smiled at Willow's tear-washed face, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “You have a new apartment to hunt for in Augusta and an assistant state attorney general's desk to clutter up with important cases.”

“I can't just leave you here. Not now.” Willow suddenly reversed their positions, gripping Rachel's arms. “Come with me. Sell the house and move to Augusta.”

Rachel pulled away and went to the stove, taking the cooled frying pan to the sink and running it under the water. “No,” she said, concentrating on her chore. “I love this house and Puffin Harbor too much. I'd miss the ocean, kayaking, and walking to the town pier for lobster rolls.”

Willow came and stood beside her. Rachel saw that her sister had the newspaper in her hand again and was staring at the photo of Keenan Oakes.

“He's dangerous,” Willow said softly. “And he's going to cause trouble.”

Rachel arched a brow. “You've decided this from his photo?”

Willow snapped the paper in front of Rachel's face. “Look at him, Rae. I mean, really look at him. Keenan Oakes is part heathen, part demigod, and all man.” She shook the paper for emphasis. “There are two types of guys in this world,” she continued. “The safe, sweet guy who asks permission to kiss you good night, and the kind who simply pulls you into his arms and kisses the sense right out of you. And this man,” she said, pushing the paper mere inches from Rachel's nose, “is not sweet, and he most assuredly is not safe.”

Rachel batted the newspaper away, refusing to let Willow see how much her assessment of Keenan Oakes unnerved her. “It doesn't matter what he is,” she said, furiously scrubbing the frying pan. “Because I don't intend to even talk to him.”

Willow was staring at his photo again. “He'll be on our doorstep within two days of arriving here,” she softly speculated. She tossed the paper onto the counter, then stared out the window over the sink. “You have to stay away from him, Rae,” she whispered. “You've been so careful, so safe for these last three years.” She touched Rachel's arm, making Rachel look at her. “If Keenan Oakes decides to involve you in Sub Rosa's reopening, there's not enough granite in this state to wall yourself up in.”

Rachel began scrubbing the already spotless frying pan again. And again Willow stopped her. “How can you watch him reopen it?” she asked quietly.

Rachel smiled sadly. “It will be easier than having watched it sit silent all these years,” she said truthfully. She shut off the water and turned to Willow. “I know you probably can't understand that, but Sub Rosa is as much a part of me as you and Dad and Mom. And it hurts seeing it lifeless. Please don't condemn Sub Rosa for being one of the victims.”

“I grew up playing there, too,” Willow said, her hazel eyes tearing. “But if I see lights in the windows again, I'll be expecting Daddy to come walking down the path looking for supper.”

“But when he doesn't show up, it will still be okay,” Rachel told her gently. “It's his legacy to the world, Willow. For as long as Sub Rosa lives, so does he. Here,” she said, touching the center of her sister's chest. “Frank Foster will always live here, in both of us. And so will Mom, and so will Thadd.”

“Thaddeus Lakeman is rotting in hell.”

Rachel grabbed her sister's shoulders before she could turn away. “No, he's not. Thadd loved us like daughters.”

“He seduced our mother,” Willow countered, breaking free and taking a step back. She balled her hands into fists at her sides, her face red and her eyes hard. “He seduced his best friend's wife.”

“Yes. Thadd was wrong. But so was Mom. And so was Dad, for killing them and then killing himself.” Rachel took a step closer to Willow, trying to drive home her point, which had been an ongoing bone of contention between the two of them for the last three years. “They're all to blame, and not one of them deserved what happened. It was a tragedy, Willow.”

Willow covered her face with her hands and shook her head. Rachel reached up and tucked a strand of Willow's rich brown hair behind her ear—but stopped suddenly at the sight of the emerald earring.

“Ah…why are you wearing Mom's earrings today?” she asked, looking at Willow's throat for the necklace, but not seeing it. “They're supposed to be for special occasions.”

Willow wiped her face with the palms of her hands and took a deep breath. “I'm meeting my new staff this afternoon,” she said, grabbing a paper towel and dabbing at her eyes. “I want to look good. And the emeralds give me confidence.”

Rachel rubbed her suddenly sweating palms on her thighs. Damn. Now what? She had to get those emeralds away from her sister. She sure as heck couldn't let her take them to Augusta.

“They're a little dressy, don't you think?” she asked, shaking her head disapprovingly. “A bit pretentious, maybe, for a new assistant attorney general?”

Willow reached up and fingered one of the earrings. “You think so?”

Rachel nodded. “Definitely overkill. Why not wear your pearls?” she suggested instead. The pearls had also belonged to their mother, but had been safely passed down for three generations. “They'd be much more professional-looking. More sedate and established.”

Willow shot her a weak grin as she reached up to take off the earrings. “This from one who thinks barrettes are jewelry. But you're right. Thanks for saving me from looking like an idiot. Hey,” she said, her gaze going to Rachel's hand in search of the only piece of real jewelry Rachel wore. “Where's the ring Dad gave you?”

Rachel touched her thumb to her empty middle finger. Hell, this was getting more complicated than the maze of tunnels spidering through Sub Rosa. What was she supposed to say to Willow when half their cherished possessions suddenly turned up missing?

“I took it to the jeweler to have it cleaned and checked,” she quickly prevaricated.

“Oh. Then here,” Willow said, handing her the earrings. “Why don't you take these in when you pick up your ring. And take the necklace, too. The prongs should probably be looked at. I'd hate to lose one of the emeralds.”

Rachel inwardly cringed as she accepted the earrings. No, she wouldn't want that, either. Not at several hundred thousand dollars a stone.

Willow gave Rachel a quick kiss on the cheek. “I've got to get going if I want to be in Augusta by noon. You'll be okay here alone for a few days? I mean, with Keenan Oakes on the way and everything?”

Rachel stuffed the emerald earrings in her pocket and picked up her cane from the towel rack at the end of the counter. She headed for the door, leading her sister out of the house. “I'll be fine,” she said over her shoulder. “And the article said he won't arrive for several more days. You'll be back by then, if only to pack everything for your move.”

She didn't stop until she was standing on the porch. Willow, suitcase in hand as she followed her out, still looked worried.

“I'll be too busy to even think about Sub Rosa,” Rachel assured her. “I'm going through every room in this house and finding you some furnishings for that new apartment.”

“No lifting.”

“I promise,” she agreed, holding her hand up in a scout's salute. “I'll get a few of the local boys to move the furniture down to the porch.”

“Are you sure you're feeling okay, Rachel? Your leg is healing okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

Willow nodded toward the kitchen. “The house looked a bit messy to me when I got in last night. And you went to bed unusually early.”

Not that she'd slept, Rachel thought. She'd been awake almost all night pondering the letter, the hidden room somewhere upstairs, and her father's startling confession.

“I'm fine.” She stepped forward and hugged Willow, then gently pushed her on her way. “Now go. Have fun, call me the instant you sit at your new desk, and find a nice apartment with good neighbors. And make sure it has a spare bedroom,” she said more loudly as Willow set her suitcase in the backseat of her car. “I'm not sleeping on the couch when I come visit.”

Willow stopped and turned from opening the driver's door, shading her eyes from the morning sun as she looked back at the porch.

“I'm proud of you, Willow,” Rachel said, her voice husky with emotion. “You know what you want and you've gone after it like a whirlwind. And now you're going to be Maine's youngest, brightest, hardest-working assistant attorney general.”

“And do you know what you want?” Willow asked back, just as gruffly.

Rachel nodded. “Yes. And I'll go after it, too. Soon.”

Willow still hesitated, then suddenly her expression lifted and she shot Rachel a grin and pointed at her. “I want to put Puffy in the town square this weekend. The townspeople are going to go nuts this time, Rachel, trying to figure out where he came from.”

“It's good for what ails them,” Rachel said, returning the grin. “And every town square needs a statue.”

“But an eight-foot puffin?” Willow asked with a chuckle. “Replacing beat-up old mailboxes is one thing, but putting a big colorful bird in the middle of town is a bit more risky. What if we get caught?”

“We won't. I promise. Now get out of here, unless you want to get fired before you even see your new office.”

With a final wave, Willow climbed into her car and drove away. Rachel continued to wave back, waiting until her sister was out of sight before she dropped her hand and expelled a loud sigh of relief.

That was one problem out of the way for the next few days. She pulled the emerald earrings out of her pocket and stared at the expensive green stones. Now all she had to do was gather up all the other problems and get rid of them as well.

She looked up at Sub Rosa. “You might want to put on the tea kettle, Rosa,” she softly told the house. “Because it looks like I'll be paying you a visit tonight.”

 

Rachel took a deep breath through a count of four, held it through a count of six, then slowly released it through a count of eight. Determined not to give in to the overwhelming urge to flee to the safety her cozy kitchen, she repeated the process three more times.

It still wasn't working. Instead of calming her, the breathing exercise only made her dizzy. Her heart continued to race as memories flooded her senses: the smell of granite dust mingled with sea mist, the warm brush of stone touching her shoulders, the heaviness of Sub Rosa's brooding weight pushing her deeper into its cocoon.

Rachel leaned her cane against the granite wall of the tunnel and reached down and massaged the neoprene brace covering her right knee. Her entire leg was complaining about the trek up the overgrown path through the woods, complaining even more about her having carried nearly forty pounds of stolen art the entire way.