Copper Lake Secrets (6 page)

Leaning back in the chair, he rested his ankle on the other knee. “Those months you stayed here…this must have been a great place to run wild. All the woods, the creek, the river…you and Mark must have had some fun times.”

“Not particularly.”

“You didn’t get along?”

A jerky shrug. “He was a fourteen-year-old boy. I was his thirteen-year-old girl cousin. I think we were genetically predisposed to not get along.”

“So what did a thirteen-year-old girl do for fun out here alone?”

Her expression shifted, darkness seeping into her eyes, caution into her voice. “I read a lot. Spent as much time away from the house as I could.”

The reading part was true; she’d been lying in a patch of sunlight near the creek reading the first time he and Glen had seen her, and she’d always brought books along every other time.

“Didn’t you have someone to play with? A neighbor’s kids?”

The caution intensified before she answered on a soft exhalation. “No.”

Realizing he was holding his own breath, Jones forced it out and did his best to ignore the disappointment inside him. Okay. So she was a liar. It wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t even a real disappointment. She was a Howard, and Howards were part of that segment of rich, powerful people who felt money raised them above everyone else. They weren’t bound by the rules that applied to everyone else. They were, as Miss Willa made clear at every turn,
better.

Truthfully, though…he
was
disappointed.

Chapter 3

“S
o…did you and Miss Willa have that talk?”

Reece studied the contented expression on Mick’s furry face, feeling homesick not for her apartment, but for her dogs. It sounded trite, but they loved her in ways no human ever had, besides her dad, and he’d left her.

“We did. It was all warm and fuzzy.” She grimaced to let him know she was grossly exaggerating, then quickly changed the subject. “Where do you start on this project?”

“Studying the history. Walking the property. Making sketches. Figuring a budget.” He paused before asking, “Do you think it’s a waste?”

“The place could only look better with gardens.” The beauty of the gardens would offset the ugly creepiness of the house…maybe. Or the creepiness of the house might turn the gardens brown and lifeless, like itself.

“I mean the money.”

Reece gave a little snort, a habit she’d picked up from her dad that neither Valerie nor Grandmother had been able to chastise out of her. “It’s her money. Why should I care?”

“Because when she passes, presumably it becomes your money. At least, part of it.”

The concept of family meant a lot to Grandmother, but she drew the line at rewarding the weak, the flawed or the obstinate. Reece had never given it any thought because she’d just assumed Mark and his mother—the good Howards—would inherit the bulk of the estate. She doubted there was any heirloom indestructible or worthless enough for Grandmother to entrust it to her.

“She took care of us after my father died, and she paid for my college.” Two years at Ole Miss before Reece had gone to New Orleans for a weekend and never left. “She’s done her duty to us.”

“Do you think your cousin will feel the same?”

The muscles in her neck tightened. “I don’t have any idea how Mark will feel. I don’t know him.”

“But you said he was here the summer you were.”

“And I avoided him as much as possible.”

“You haven’t seen him since? Talked to him?”

She shook her head, though, of course, that would soon change. No doubt, he would be here before too long, for both his daily visit and to scope out the reason for
her
visit.

“Not real close to your family, are you?” Jones asked wryly.

“I see my mother two or three times a year. I talk to her once a month. That’s close enough.” Again, she turned the conversation to him. “I suppose you come from one big, happy family. Every Sunday when you’re home in Louisville, you all get together after church for dinner, mint juleps and a game of touch football in the backyard, and you talk to your mama every day like a good Southern boy.”

She expected acknowledgment, or a chuckle. Instead, shadows passed over his face, and his mouth thinned. “It would have been South Carolina, after Mass for barbecue and beer, then watching a game on TV. But no, we’re not close. I haven’t seen them in a long time.”

Discomfort flushed her face. She wouldn’t have said anything if she’d known that their two replies together would cast uneasiness and regret over the room as surely as a thunderhead blanketed the sun. At the moment, this room felt no more secure than the big house.

Except for Mick, snoring beside her. Abruptly he came awake, ears pricking, a ruff of skin rising at the base of his neck. He jumped to the floor and padded to the screen door, where a low growl rumbled in his throat.

At the sound of a vehicle approaching, Reece’s gut tightened. Moving with much less grace, she joined the dog at the door, grateful for the deep overhang of the porch roof that granted some measure of camouflage.

The car coming slowly up the drive—no need to let speed throw up a chunk of gravel to ding the spotless metal—looked expensive, though if it weren’t for the sleek cat captured in midpounce as a hood ornament, she couldn’t have identified it. But Howards—all of them except her and her dad—liked luxury in their vehicles. Valerie switched between a Mercedes and a Cadillac every two years. She wouldn’t even ride in Reece’s hard-used SUV.

Without making a sound, Jones came to stand behind her, not touching but close enough that the heat radiating from his body warmed her back and the scent of his cologne replaced the mustiness of the cottage in her nostrils.

Together they watched, Mick trembling with alertness beside them, as the Jag parked next to her truck. Reece’s breath caught on the lump in her throat when the door opened and the driver appeared in the bright sunshine.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Meow.

She might not have seen him in fifteen years, but she had no doubt it was Mark. He’d gotten taller, carried too much weight in his midsection and his hair was thinning, but he still possessed the ability to make her hair stand on end, to raise goose bumps down her arms and to make her stomach hurt.

“Want to go say hello?” Jones murmured.

Both she and Mick looked back at him only briefly before focusing on Mark again. The dog growled, a quiet, bristly sound, and she felt like doing the same thing.

But she had no choice. She would have to face him sooner or later. Besides, he was a grown man now. He’d probably changed. And he well might have some of the answers she was looking for.

Drawing a deep breath, she laid one hand on the screen door.

“Want company?”

Going out there with Jones at her side—better yet, in front of her—sounded so lovely and
safe.
But he would probably have to face his own run-in with Mark once her cousin found out about the garden project.

“Thanks, but…I’d better…”

It took another deep breath to get her out the door and down the steps. She’d reached the drive before something made Mark turn in her direction. He stopped near the fountain, just looking at her as she approached, then slowly a smile spread across his face and he extended his hand, moving the last few feet to meet her. “Clarice! God, it’s been a long time.”

The instant his fingers closed around hers, he pulled her into a close embrace. Panic rose in her chest, but she controlled it, holding herself stiff. After just a moment, he released her, stepped back and gave her a thousand-watt smile. “You’re no longer that skinny little kid I used to torment. Of course, I’m no longer that snotty little brat who liked to torment. Grandmother must be ecstatic about having you here.”

Not so you’d notice.

Nor did he notice that she didn’t answer. “Grandmother’s kept me up on you. Living in New Orleans, still enjoying the single life. I’m married, you know. We were sorry you couldn’t come to the wedding, but Valerie told us how busy you were. We have one kid, Clara, and another on the way.” He pulled out his cell phone in a practiced manner and called up a photo of a brown-haired chubby-cheeked girl. She was about eighteen months, sweet and looked far too innocent to carry her father’s blood.

“She’s a doll.” Reece’s voice was husky, her tone stiff.

“Yeah, she’s my sweetheart. Next one’s going to be a boy, though. Just think of the fun I’m going to have with him.” He returned the phone to his pocket, then settled his gaze on her again, his features settling into seriousness in an instant. “I made life pretty awful for you, didn’t I? I’m sorry about that. I was a dumb kid, and I was so jealous of you being here. It was
my
summer visit, too, and I wanted Grandfather and Grandmother all to myself. I behaved with all the maturity of…well, a dumb kid. It’s a wonder you didn’t beat the crap out of me back then.”

Something passed through his blue eyes with the words. Chagrin? Regret? Or something a little more…hostile?

Reece was sorry she couldn’t be unbiased enough to tell.

Then he shrugged, a careless gesture she remembered well. As a kid, he had literally shrugged off everything—her pleas, Grandmother’s requests, Valerie’s infrequent attempts to admonish him. The only person he’d never tried it with was Grandfather. They’d been two of a kind, the old man had laughed.

“Let’s go in and find Grandmother,” Mark suggested, taking her arm. “I try to check on her every day. She’s not as young as she thinks she is. Macy and I have asked her to consider moving into town—we have a guest cottage at our place that we built just for her—but you know how stubborn she is. She’s convinced that she can do everything she did thirty years ago, but we worry about her out here alone.”

Half wishing she could pull away and make a wild dash for her truck, Reece let herself be drawn across the patio to the door. Everything inside was just as it had been when she’d left a half hour ago: cool, dim, quiet, oppressive. Maybe a little more so than before…or was that her imagination?

Grandmother was at her desk in the salon, spine straight, fountain pen in hand. Reece hadn’t seen a computer in the house, and no doubt Grandmother would disapprove of any correspondence that didn’t include Mont Blanc and her favorite ecru shade of engraved Crane & Co. stationery. She’d been raised in a different era, and with the kind of money both her family and the Howards had, she could get away with remaining firmly rooted in the customs of that era.

When they entered the room, she finished her note, put the pen down and lifted her cheek for Mark’s kiss. The affection between them—as far as any affection with Grandmother went—was easy, almost natural.

Mark claimed he’d been jealous of Reece. For a moment, she was jealous of him. She would have liked having a normal relationship with a normal grandmother who didn’t constantly find her lacking.

“So you two have got your greetings over with,” Grandmother stated as she moved from the desk to the settee with Mark’s gentlemanly assistance. “And did you meet Mr. Jones while you were out there?”

“Mr. Jones?” Looking puzzled, Mark settled in beside her while Reece chose a spindly-legged chair opposite. “Is he traveling with you, Clarice?”

“I guess she didn’t tell you she answers to Reece now.” Grandmother’s quiet little huff was all she needed to say on that subject. “No, Mr. Jones is a landscape architect whose specialty is restoring old gardens.”

Mark stopped short of rolling his eyes. “That again, Grandmother? I’ve never seen anyone so fascinated by gardens she never laid eyes on. They’re gone. Dug up. Grown over. You can’t bring them back.”

“
I
can’t, obviously, but Mr. Jones can. He has quite an admirable reputation in this field.”

Mark’s eyes started another roll but stopped again. “Grandfather had those gardens removed for a reason, Grandmother. It was important to him. Have you forgotten that? Are you actually considering disregarding his very clear feelings on the matter?”

Grandmother gazed out the window for a moment as if lost in time, then replied with every bit of the stubbornness Mark had mentioned earlier. “Yes, I believe I am. Not just considering it, in fact, but doing it. Mr. Jones started work today.”

Reece watched Mark closely: the faint fading of color from his cheeks, the thinning of his lips, the distress that settled over his face. “You’ve signed a contract with him? You’ve committed to this—this insanity? Grandmother—”

Her arch look silenced him. “Of course I haven’t signed a contract with him.” But just as relief sagged Mark’s shoulders, Grandmother went on. “Robbie hasn’t had time to draw it up yet. First Mr. Jones has to present me with plans and costs, and that will take some time. It’s an enormous job, putting back everything Arthur undid. It will take a great deal of time and, yes—” her sharp, accusing gaze moved from Mark to Reece, then back again “—a great deal of money. But it’s my money, at least until I die, and I’ll spend it as I please.”

Reece resisted the urge to raise both hands to ward off the warning. She didn’t want the old woman’s money. Sure, a windfall would be nice. Having the cash to get a place of her own where the dogs could run free—and where she could take in more homeless dogs—would be fantastic. But she earned enough to live on and to support a few luxuries—Bubba, Louie and Eddie—and she’d never expected anything more.

Mark, clearly, expected more.

“Grandmother, you can’t be serious. Do you have any idea how big those gardens were? How much they cost?”

“Yes, I do. As someone who’s been
fascinated
by them since I came to live here, I know quite a lot about them, and so does Mr. Jones. Restoring Fair Winds will be a major coup for him. He’ll have more business than he can handle after this.”

Reece suspected he already had plenty of business. A man didn’t get…how had Grandmother put it?
Quite an admirable reputation
without some major clients. No matter whose gardens he’d worked on, Grandmother would, of course, consider hers the most important.