Always on My Mind (17 page)

He laughed. And yeah, somehow digging into the past had kept his mind from turning over his confrontation with Monte. Maybe, just for now, the mystery could help him focus on something else. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, see what I can dig up. And I’ll go through each box with a fine eye.”

Edith nodded, again with no judgment, although he deserved it. He flicked off the lights and closed the door behind them, locking it.

The chill had deepened, but it cleared the sky of any cloudy debris and turned on the sparkle, the canopy deep and velvety.

“Good night, Mrs. Draper.”

“Stay warm, young man.”

Casper got into his truck, waited until her car started and pulled away. Then he put his truck in drive.

He intended to take a left at the light, but the vehicle drove through, up to the next block, then turned left down the street.

Past Raina Beaumont’s house, where Monte Riggs’s truck sat outside. Light glowed from the front windows like a beacon, past
the porch, into the snowy front yard, and he called himself a stalker.

Enough. “Lord, please bless Raina and make her wise. And safe.”

The prayer loosened his chest, the tight grip of worry or maybe panic easing.

“And help her find peace from the pain of her past.”

He took a right at the next road and headed to Evergreen Resort, not looking back.

The phone rang just as Monte was telling Raina a story about finding a collection of stuffed cats in a woman’s attic, leaning in close to terrify her with a description of each feline. She let it go to voice mail.

He had eyes that could hold her, mesmerize her, toy with her, make her forget anything but right now
 
—Monte and the large pizza he’d brought her for dinner.

She’d lit a candle and called it romantic as they sat on the floor in front of the crackling fire. He had stretched his long legs out on the braided wool rug, leaning on one elbow as he reclined, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie discarded and draped over the end of her sofa.

She’d never dated a businessman before and imagined he had important meetings with county officials. Like a politician, maybe.

Raina liked how he looked at her as though he respected her. Or at least the woman who’d spent the past week helping his grandfather organize his shop. With the subzero temperatures, she couldn’t bear to work in Aggie’s unheated house. Besides, she’d cataloged much of the main collections, bagged up the clothing,
boxed the games and books, and bubble-wrapped the knickknacks. Now she just had to dive into the files in the kitchen office drawers, as well as the bedside tables upstairs, where she’d discovered yet more books and the family Bible.

A big Bible, too, with names written inside the cover. She thought about donating it, then decided that she should ask Penny, the granddaughter. It seemed like something the family might want yet had overlooked, so she’d brought it home, intending to mention it to Monte.

Her cell phone buzzed again.

“Go ahead and get that,” Monte said.

“Sorry.” She got up, retrieving it. Frowned at the unfamiliar number on the caller ID. She glanced at Monte, who was freeing another piece of pizza from the box, then answered. “Hello?”

Monte was folding his pizza slice in half like a sandwich. He looked at her and grinned. A boy in a man’s suit. She liked that, too.

“Raina? It’s Dori, from Open Hearts Adoption Agency.”

The voice doused any magic from the evening. Her voice fell, tight. “Is everything . . . uh, is everything okay?”

“Of course. But it’s been over a month, and we like to do a follow-up with the birth mother to check in and make sure we’re still on track for the formal adoption. Do you think you are ready to sign the final relinquishment papers?”

If she could, Raina would have signed the papers the first day. Just to have it all over, swift and final.

The longer she waited, the closer she came to turning back in a full-out run to snatch Layla into her arms.

To scream the words roaring in the back of her head.
No! I made a mistake! I want my daughter.

She wondered if Dori could hear her hesitation, the hiccup of her words, failing at the end. “Yes. Of . . . of course . . .” She glanced at Monte, who’d finished off the slice.

“And you? How are you?”

Monte was watching her now. She gave him a smile, something quick and hopefully easy.

But just for a second, she nearly locked herself into a closet and begged for news about Layla. Was she healthy? Happy? And
 
—yeah, okay, she probably just slept and ate, but suddenly the thought of little Layla bundled in a Plexiglas bassinet swept through Raina, singeing her throat.

She clenched her jaw against the swift urge to cry, but her voice still emerged tremulous and high-pitched. “I’m good, thank you.”

“Feeling all right?”

She swallowed, found her breath. “Yes. I’m . . . great.”

Or she would be in another month, once the final papers were signed. She wanted to tell Dori to send them now, but somehow the words lodged in her chest.

“Have you found a job?”

She glanced again at Monte. “Uh-huh.” He was getting up now as if to walk toward her. Oh no
 
—but he disappeared into the kitchen.

“You’ll let us know if anything changes or if you can’t make it to court
 
—”

She heard water running in the kitchen, cut her voice low. “Actually, about that. Can you just have the papers sent to the court up here?”

“Uh, sure. I think we can work that out. Don’t you want a final good-bye?”

“I had my good-bye. Thanks for calling, but please, don’t
bother me again.” She hung up just as Monte emerged from the kitchen.

He had untucked his shirt, his hair tousled, looking delightfully disheveled. “Everything okay?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, nodding.

“I thought you mentioned something about court?”

She lifted a shoulder. “A speeding ticket in Minneapolis. I . . . uh . . . contested it.”

“You gotta watch those cops. Especially around here. They’ll arrest you for going two miles over. I swear they have it in for me.” He took her hand, caught her phone, and set it on the sofa side table. “Now, where were we?”

He set his cup down, and she glanced to make sure it landed on a coaster. The last thing she needed was to mar Liza’s
 
—

Monte’s hand slipped behind her neck. Raina looked up to see his eyes in hers, focused, intense. His intentions written in them.

Oh
 
—

And just like that, he leaned down to kiss her. It took her by surprise
 
—his smooth grip on her neck, the other hand sliding around her waist. With her arms crumpled up against his chest, she didn’t quite know what to do. He was kneading her lips with his and it felt natural to yield, except nothing of desire or even warmth rushed through her.

In fact, she stood there, feeling awkward, as he made a little sound as if he might be enjoying the kiss more than she.

Suddenly he leaned back, looked at her, desire in his eyes. “You are so beautiful, Raina Beaumont.”

She was just . . . scared, maybe. Or even, well, traitorous. Because while this handsome man entwined her in his embrace, all she could think about was the taste of pizza and how the last
time she’d really been kissed, and kissed someone back, she’d been nestled in Casper’s arms.

For a split second, she heard the waves, smelled the summer sun on his skin, felt the rub of his whiskers on her neck as he trailed kisses
 
—

“Oh . . . uh . . .” She swallowed.

Monte leaned back again, cupping her face, his eyes gleaming, almost . . . victorious? “You’re trembling. Are you okay?”

She nodded, smiled, just wanting to untangle herself from his grip. But a gal couldn’t start over by running away, so . . .

She looped her arms around his neck, lifted her face.

He kissed her again, this time with more vigor, and she put real effort into kissing him back. Wanting to be here and calling her heart a turncoat for comparing him to Casper. Monte deserved better, so she even let him lower her to the sofa, press her into the cushions. Let him scoot his body close to hers as he ran his hand down her cheek, then lower.

It stopped at her shirt, the top button. That’s when she came to her senses. She shook her head, levered her hand against his chest, making to scramble out of his grip.

However, he didn’t quite catch up and lowered his mouth again, this time to her neck, his lips following a trail down her collarbone.

She pushed his shoulders. “Monte, I . . . uh . . . I’m not ready for . . .” She shook her head again, wishing for the right words. Love? A relationship?

A tawdry one-night stand?

All of the above.

He lifted his head and for a second appeared stricken as if he’d hurt her. He scrambled back and sat on the other end of the sofa,
a blush rising in his face. “Sorry. I guess I forgot myself there.” He gave her a sheepish look. “You have the ability to drive a man a little crazy, Raina.”

Probably he meant it as endearing, but she only heard her sins in his words. She straightened her shirt and got up. Smiled, trying to find a voice that could put the entire thing behind them. “It’s fine. I mean . . . of course, I like you and . . . but . . .” She exhaled, gathering her hair up, adjusting it into a clean ponytail. “Can we just take this slow?”

He stood, kicked the pizza box shut, and reached for his tie. “Of course.” As he looped it around his neck, she felt like a tease. She must send off some unknown vibe that told men she was easy.

Other words popped into her head, but she refused them, wrapping her arms around herself. “Thanks for the pizza. You don’t have to go. We could . . . watch a movie or something?”

He tucked his shirt into his pants, reached for his jacket. “Actually, I have an early meeting tomorrow, but I’ll call you, okay?”

Right. She had the urge to grab his hand, apologize, tell him
 
—what? That at the first opportunity she’d be glad to hand over her pride, herself, to him?

No. Not again.

She saw him to the door and tried to hold in the wail as he kissed her on the forehead, then hunched over and fled to his car.

Leaving her to stand in the family room, staring at the flickering firelight with a half-eaten pizza growing cold on the floor, as she tried not to call herself a fool.

C
ASPER BARELY RECOGNIZED
the sun when it appeared from behind the clouds, glorious and high in an azure sky, adding warmth to the crisp morning. He stood at the window, drinking a cup of coffee and staring at Evergreen Lake, watching a doe nudge her black nose out of the woods and tiptoe across the pristine stillness of the white expanse, her tawny body heavy with young.

Stillness fell in the lodge after the whir of guests, and he relished it, even to simply hear his own thoughts. To feel, for the first time, that he had broken free. Somehow, praying for Raina yesterday
 
—on the way home and when her image slid into his thoughts later
 
—had started to unlatch the terrible grip she’d claimed on his heart.

This morning he’d awoken with the sense that somehow Duncan Rothe and the mysterious wedding dress might be connected.

If so, maybe he had a real shot at finding the treasure of Duncan Rothe.

Now he dumped his coffee, rinsed his cup, and headed out to the truck. He’d stop on his way to Wild Harbor, see if Signe still had her day job in county records.

Turning on the radio on his way to town, Casper hummed along.
“It might seem crazy what I’m about to say. Sunshine, she’s here; you can take a break . . .”

In all his years of causing trouble in Deep Haven, never had it merited a trip to the courthouse. He pulled up to the three-story brick building, parked, and found the records office location on the directory in the lobby.

He rang the bell at the open window. Indeed, Signe, with her pretty long blonde hair and warm smile, came to the counter. “Casper Christiansen,” she said as if his name were a song, and he found a smile for the girl he’d run track with his junior year. “I told you I was glad to see you the other night, but I didn’t expect a visit so soon. I’m taken, you know.”

He laughed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“You and Ned never change. He still flirts with me every time I come into Wild Harbor to rent a kayak.”

“You can rent from me next time.”

“Really?”

“I’m a . . . manager there.” Almost. Except as the words fell from his mouth, they felt sedentary and pedestrian.

In his mind’s eye flashed the silky beaches of Roatán. How had he ended up back in the frozen wasteland of northern Minnesota?

“Cool,” she said. “So that means you’re sticking around? I heard you were in Mexico or something, digging for treasure.”

“Honduras, but yeah, I’m back. Actually, I’m working at the
historical society too. I have to dig up an old marriage certificate. I’m looking for someone who might have gotten married at Naniboujou back in the early days. Maybe with the initials C. A. F.”

“Hmm.” She went to the door, opened it. “Come in. This might take some sleuthing.”

She gestured for him to follow her to a computer workstation. He sat on a straight chair while she typed in the search request.

“I don’t see anything. You don’t have a name at all?”

“How about Duncan Rothe?”

She put that request in and got a hit. “Yeah, I got one here. The license was issued to Duncan Rothe and . . . a Clara Augusta Franklin in June 1930.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Duncan Thomas Rothe
 
—his full name. But it was never refiled, so it wasn’t registered. I have a record of the signatures in the ledger, but no official marriage certificate.”

“Can I see the ledger?”

“I have a picture of it, but the original is locked up in our off-site storage. Do you need it? Because I’d have to send in a special request to have a copy made.”

“Can you print the picture?”

She nodded, and he heard the laser printer humming. She got up and handed him the grainy photo.

C. A. Franklin
, in loopy handwriting. And tighter, in sharp, pointy strokes,
Duncan T. Rothe
.

He could taste his heartbeat. “Thanks, Signe. Come by for that kayak when the ice clears.”

He headed over to the Wild Harbor, unlocked it, and had coffee brewed by the time Ned arrived.

“I think we need a winter clearance sale,” Ned said as if Casper
had tossed the night away puzzling over the need for customers. “Maybe a March Madness event.”

“Sounds perfect.” If Duncan showed up with Clara, intending to marry her, what had happened to the marriage certificate?

“I’m going to put together some specials. You figure out when to advertise.”

And how did Aggie figure into the story?

“Casper?” Ned snapped his fingers in front of Casper’s nose.

“Sorry. I was thinking about something we found yesterday at the historical society. An old wedding dress.”

“Neat. But how about taking inventory of our current supply of winter wear so we know how much to mark them down.”

Casper spent the morning surrounded by fleeces, wool socks, mukluks, and Gore-Tex. After Ned took a break, he walked over to the co-op for lunch, grabbed a cup of cauliflower curry soup, and sat down at one of the complimentary computer workstations.

He set his soup to the side, dumped in a handful of oyster crackers, and opened Google.

He started with
C. A. Franklin, 1930
.

A listing of hits came up, including a biography of Augustus and Clara Franklin. He reached for his soup.

Augustus John Franklin (1860–1930), president of American Steel and Co, 1904–1930. One of the early steel barons, John Franklin took over American Steel as president in 1904 and tripled its holdings into a $3.2 billion company at the time of his death.

Casper skipped over the early life and career information, scrolling down to the Family Life section.

A longtime resident of New York City, John Franklin kept homes in Newport, Rhode Island, and Chicago. Married to Clara Alice Franklin (née Bowman, 1880–1918) at the age of thirty-eight (1898).

He did the math. She’d been eighteen, her husband twenty years older. No wonder she’d run away
 
—except, no. This was Clara Alice. Then who was Clara Augusta? He scrolled down, forgetting his soup as he read of Clara Alice’s death in the 1918 flu pandemic.

He heard patrons enter the co-op lunch area, glanced around and saw a couple familiar faces. Turned back to the computer.

Clara Alice Franklin bore a daughter to the union, Clara Augusta Franklin (1908–1930).

Which meant she left her daughter motherless at the tender age of ten.

He opened a grainy black-and-white family picture of the trio in a separate window, stared at it. A solemn family, the father large and balding; the wife small, dark, fragile. The daughter pudgy-faced, her hair in braids tucked around her head.

A chair squeaked behind him, and he instinctively turned to look.

The patron, her back to him, set her tray of food on the table next to a leather book.

He stilled, his awareness of her so keen it could flood his pores, stop his heart. Today, with her hair in two braids under a pink fleece headband, that powder-blue jacket, and a pair of slimming
yoga pants tucked into her boots, she looked like some version of a Norse princess.

He stopped his thoughts there. Closed his eyes.
Bless her lunch, Lord. Help her know that she’s forgiven and that she can be set free from the past.

Just like that, her power fled, and he breathed out the pressure in his chest. Returned to his reading.

John Franklin died May 3, 1930, in a fire in his Chicago Avenue apartment. Deceased in the fire included his daughter and two house attendants, a valet and a housekeeper.

There went any leads.

Or not. Because how, if Clara Augusta died in a fire, could she take out a marriage license a month later in northern Minnesota?

He printed the picture as well as the article, then went to retrieve them and dropped a quarter in the cup. Maybe if he headed up to Naniboujou, they’d still have the picture Edith had mentioned.

He turned, and his world stopped.

“Hey, Casper,” Raina said, standing in his way and smiling at him.

What would it hurt to talk to him, really? For ten minutes she’d snuck peeks over her shoulder at Casper, sitting on the high-top stool, scrolling the computer. For ten minutes she’d sifted through her emotions, testing them.

She might have been too hard on him at the historical society.

Her phone had vibrated and she’d smiled at the text message Monte had sent her. He wanted to see her tonight
 
—so she hadn’t destroyed their budding relationship with her hesitation.

She was moving on.

Which meant that maybe she could look back, see things without the pinch of heartbreak. See how she must have hurt Casper when she pushed him away
 
—even before last week. As if he were somehow to blame for the fact that her heart so easily fell into his arms.

Casper couldn’t help it that he could turn a girl to honey with his smile, the way his hair curled out from under his hat. He had an easy, let’s-be-friends aura that she dearly missed, a laugh that could chase away the darkness that always seemed to threaten her.

She’d cut him off from her the way she might knock the snow from her boots, fast and hard, and now she rose above her shadowed pain to see the scars she’d left on him.

He’d run to Central America to flee her, returned with his heart plucked from his chest, and the gesture, the intensity of it, terrified her.

She simply didn’t deserve that kind of devotion. But now that they were both moving on, maybe they could find a balance. Friendship. Something new and fresh. Safe.

So she’d closed Aggie’s diary and gotten up, intending to simply sidle next to him, to apologize for her coldness earlier. But he headed to the printer, grabbing something out of it, dropping a quarter into the cup.

Then he turned.

And for a second, Raina rued her own impulsiveness. Trapped. Right there, in the middle of the co-op deli, surrounded by patrons eating their lunches, she was about to open her mouth and
what
 
—apologize for dismantling his life? For hurting his family, even if they didn’t know it? Would never know it?

Casper stared at her, his eyes widening, the papers he’d printed held like a shield to protect him.

She came up with the only words she could muster. “Hey, Casper.”

“Hey,” he said. His flummoxed expression might have been cute
 
—except for the flash of hurt that rose for a split second, only to die behind a mask of nonchalance.

She didn’t want to consider that his hurt might still burn.

“What are you doing here?”

She gestured to her table. “I’m on lunch break from the shop, and . . . What are you researching? I saw the page open
 
—”

He showed her the picture he’d printed. “Actually, I’m following up on that story I told you about
 
—Duncan Rothe. We found a wedding dress in the boxes donated to the historical society, and it had the initials C. A. F. on it. So I went to the courthouse today and tried to track down the bride. I think I found her. Clara Augusta Franklin. But the article says she died in a fire in Chicago with her father, so I seemed to have run into a dead end . . .”

“Or not.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You have that funny tone to your voice. When you’re trying to convince yourself that something is true, but you know deep down it’s not. Like when you were trying to tell yourself that you should probably just quit the race last summer, when you knew perfectly well that we could win.”

He gave her a slow smile, letting it slide over his face as if he’d pulled up the memory, found it pleasing.

“Okay, yeah.” He gestured to the computer. “According to the
article, Clara Augusta Franklin died in the fire in Chicago. But what if she didn’t? What if she got out and ran away with Duncan Rothe? What if she and Duncan did get married at Naniboujou?”

“Did you say Naniboujou?”

“It’s a resort
 
—built in the 1920s, about fifteen miles northeast of here.”

“Stay right here.” She went back to her table and grabbed her tray, piling the book on it. Returned to the counter and slid onto a stool.