Hidden in the Heart (13 page)

She followed the directions they emailed her, hoping she was going the right way. Her car didn’t have a GPS and she’d forgotten to pick one up before leaving. James always drove wherever they went. He was a much better navigator.

Her SUV bumped along the unpaved road, rocks flying every which way. Thick forest lined the road on either side, the trees almost touching overhead in some areas. Claire slowed and let the car idle for a moment. She stared at the long road in front of her, watching the sun shoot golden rays through the green leaves above. The tranquil scene looked like something straight out of National Geographic. The stillness overwhelmed her.

She leaned back against the seat and allowed the cool air from the vents to hit her face. Slow tears trickled down her cheeks. The whole idea was ridiculous. Going up to total strangers and asking them if they knew anything about a child given up for adoption twenty-seven years ago…

The temptation to back up, turn around and head home crept over her with the stealth of a tiger on the prowl. Claire shifted, placed her hands on the wheel again and strengthened
her resolve. Her father was barely speaking to her. Her marriage was all but over. She had nothing left.

But she wasn’t a quitter. She’d come here on a mission, and she’d complete it. No matter the cost.

She gunned the engine and flew down the rest of the road, eager to catch a glimpse of Tara’s Place. It had to be perfect. She knew it. Something had led her here. There must be something special about this place—something besides the name Kelly—some reason why the urge to come had been so strong.

Claire sucked in a breath as she drove through open wooden gates and onto the property of the main house.

A rambling mix of white clapboard and natural stone stretched out before her. The two-story house with green shutters sat pristine and proud. The sun’s rays bounced off long glass windows along the first floor. A wrap-around porch invited visitors; wicker rockers with chintz-covered cushions were positioned here and there across the length of it. Rose vines mingled with new ivy and wound their way around the thick front stone posts and clambered up the side of the house. A few pink buds poked through waxy green leaves. Daffodils and crocuses dotted the lush green grass around her. Beyond the house, the blue lake glimmered under the afternoon sun.

Claire had visited many places with her parents. She’d seen most of Europe, the Caribbean, South Africa and Australia. But nowhere she’d been evoked such a strong, certain connection within her the way this place did.

There
was
something special about Tara’s Place.

She pressed down on the gas again and moved forward, peering out the side window of the car, searching for any movement inside the house.

The car jerked to a sudden stop and a horrible scraping sound reached her ears. Claire
let out a yelp. She’d hit something.

She parked and got out of the car, her nerves shot. She almost couldn’t look. Could barely breathe. Not a deer, please. She’d never hit an animal and didn’t intend to start now.

A loud yell reached her ears and she turned to see a man charging down the front steps of the house, followed by an elderly couple.

“What did you do?” He ran across the lawn, wild eyes fixed on her. Claire swallowed down fear and squinted at him through her sunglasses.

“Um, I don’t know. I…might have…hit something.” Fear slammed her at the roar he gave as he bent over and looked under her car. Maybe she’d hit a kid…his kid…oh Lord, no… “What is it?” she squeaked, slowly making her way toward him.

He straightened, ripped a hand through dark straggly hair and glowered. “Back up.”

Claire did.

He raised his ink-blue eyes skyward and shook his head. “Not you. Your
cah
, sweetheart. Back it up. Slowly.”

Claire looked across the lawn. The couple hadn’t come any closer. Smart people. She looked back at the man who towered over her and met his angry glare. “First of all, I’m not your sweetheart. Second of all, I’d like to know what I hit before I move my
cah
. And third, you could say please.”

A sound very close to a growl stuck in his throat. He brushed past her and before Claire knew what was happening, he’d hopped in the driver’s seat and reversed her car, revealing a large, tangled pile of metal. He unfolded himself from the inside of the vehicle, slammed the door shut and strode to the front of it.

Claire clapped a hand over her mouth and stared at the wreckage. “Was that your bicycle?”

“No.” He crouched before the metallic mess and poked at it. He lifted a piece, gray
tinged with green, let out a long groan and let it drop from his hand. Claire winced as it clanged onto the top of the pile on the grass. “Tha-at…” He pushed himself to full height, brushed dirt off the white button-down shirt he wore over a pair of dark jeans and sighed. “…was a Rick Matthews original sculpture.
Swans by Morning
. It cah-an’t be replaced.” His thick Maine accent almost rivaled that of the gas-station attendant’s she’d tried to get directions from about an hour ago. She’d kept asking him to repeat himself. He hadn’t been too friendly either.

Claire gulped. She’d ruined an original sculpture. Great. But at least it wasn’t an animal. Or a kid. “I’m sorry.” Her feeble apology didn’t appear to touch him. The groove between his eyes deepened.

The two observers approached and she heard the elderly man chuckle. “I told you to put that thing closah to the house, son. You okay, Miss? You weren’t hurt?” Blue eyes twinkled at her and a friendly smile warmed her through and put her at ease.

Finally, somebody with manners.

Claire smiled, taking in the wrinkled face and almost white hair. She had few memories of her own grandfather, an austere, thin man with nothing good to say about anyone. The man in front of her resembled the grandfather she’d always wished she had.

“I’m all right, thanks.” She laughed with relief and turned toward the other man. He looked to be in his forties, definitely not much older than fifty. Maybe he was an art dealer. “Look, I’m really sorry about the sculpture. Just tell me what I owe you. I’ll write you a check.”

He stared like she’d spoken in some tribal tongue. He tipped his head to one side and studied her. His bearded jaw twitched and his mouth formed a thin line. “Are you deaf as well as blind? I said it cannot be replaced.”

“Now, Rick.” The silver-haired man stepped forward and gave him a thump on the
back. “It was just an accident. She didn’t mean to…”

Claire took off her sunglasses, her mind beginning to work. “Rick? Let me guess.
You’re
Rick Matthews? You made this…thing. Correct?”

“Ayuh,” he answered gruffly, folding his arms across a thick chest. His long hair played around a chiseled face, the breeze coming up from the lake tossing it this way and that.

Claire smiled triumphantly. “Then it
can
be replaced. Do another one. I’ll pay for it.” She turned her smile on the older of the two men and searched his face for any resemblance, but saw none. “I’m Claire Ferguson. I have a reservation. I think.” Perhaps she’d made a mistake coming here.

Rick Matthews turned on the heel of his cowboy boots and began to gather up his ruined sculpture. The warmth of the sun began to make her feel dizzy. Her stomach churned and her hands trembled. Sweat dripped down her neck. “This is Tara’s Place, right?”

“Yes, yes.” The woman, a petite figure with a kind smile, hurried forward. She looked like the kind of grandmother any kid would want. A flowery apron sat over her ankle-length denim skirt. She wore a blue blouse under a thick red cable-knit sweater that she probably made herself. Her face didn’t bear many lines, but Claire put her around the same age as the older man, late sixties, early seventies maybe.

“We’ve been expecting you. Why don’t you come in, sit a spell.” She moved closer and Claire practically fainted from exhaustion, tension and nerves.

She tried to get a handle on her feelings and put her sunglasses back on. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“No trouble.” The woman’s brown eyes sparkled under the sun. Brown eyes. The same shade her own. Claire tried to focus on them but the task proved impossible.

The woman spoke again. “I’m Jessie Kelly. This here’s my husband Mac, and that’s
Rick. Who I guess you already met.” Her friendly laugh made Claire smile in spite of herself. “Come on in and let me get you some tea.”

“Tea would be nice.” She hadn’t enjoyed a cup of tea for a long while. Her mother-in-law Margaret loved the stuff and swore by it. In her Irish blood, she said. They’d spent many a long afternoon sipping tea and swapping stories. Hit by unexpected sorrow, Claire shifted, reached inside the car for her purse, made sure she took the key out of the ignition, and made some effort to put herself together.

The two men were loading the pieces of the unfortunate sculpture into the back of a black pickup. She eyed them a little cautiously. “Should I leave my car here?”

“Eh?” Mac looked back over his shoulder and she repeated the question. He gave a snort and shook his head, laughter wheezing out of him. “I reckon you’re fine there. I’ll make sure Rambo here don’t hit it on his way out.”

“Okay.” Claire ignored the way ‘Rambo’ still glared at her, and followed Jessie Kelly into the house. A ruined sculpture—replaceable—two new friends who might know something about her birth mother, and one enemy. Not bad for the first day of her adventures.

Chapter Eleven

The minute Jessie unlocked the door to the cabin, the smell of fresh paint and wood paneling reached her nose. Claire was pleasantly surprised with her new accommodations. The one-bedroom cottage was not overly large, but definitely looked comfortable.

Dark green granite countertops sparkled under small glass lights that hung from the ceiling. It would be a shame to actually use the counters for anything. The kitchen was fitted with all new stainless steel appliances and, much to her relief, a microwave. Claire couldn’t cook to save her life, but any idiot could throw a frozen dinner into a microwave. She’d survive quite nicely on Lean Cuisine, when and if she remembered to eat.

The bathroom was just as nice, tiled in travertine, with new faucets and one of those wonderful rain showerheads that Claire so enjoyed. James had installed one for her in their bathroom at home…but she wouldn’t think about that.

The bedroom and small living area of the cabin were paneled in pine. The smell was rustic, soothing and invited her to stay awhile. There was even a fireplace. She almost regretted the approach of summer. But, this was Maine after all. It might get cold at night.

Two days later, Claire opened her eyes to familiar cloying darkness.

Their anniversary. And they were both spending it alone.

Failure pounced and dug in its claws. Told her things would never get better. She’d made sure of that already.

She popped a couple of pills to calm her nerves and wandered the cabin in aimless
circles, waiting for the sun to rise. She clutched a small silver frame to her chest, not wanting to see James’ smiling face. She missed him more than she could say, but didn’t have the courage to call and tell him that.

Claire bit her lip and sank onto the sofa, tears blurring her vision.

She went back to bed for a while. Got up, made some toast then ventured outside.

Wrapped in a shroud of grief thicker than she’d imagined, Claire walked the property, not really enjoying the peace and quiet the way she hoped she would. Her thoughts were on James and how he might be spending the day. Maybe she should call. But the possibility of awkward silence or another argument quickly changed her mind. She wasn’t up for that today. The family would surround him. He’d be okay.

She on the other hand…well…she only knew one way to get rid of the pain.

That afternoon Claire sprawled on a lawn chair by the crystalline lake, drinking her father’s Château Rothschild Cabernet Sauvignon. She’d lugged a case of the expensive French wine up from the cellar and hauled it into the back of the car before she left. He’d scream blue murder when he found it missing.

She soaked up the sun, vaguely aware of the goings-on around her. Warm rays trickled through the tree branches and kissed her cheeks. Pine needles gave off scents of Christmas and reminded her of her mother. Memories assaulted her, rendered her powerless to fight against them. She closed her eyes and turned up the volume of her iPod.

When she woke sometime later, Claire realized she was not alone. Rick Matthews moved in and out of her line of vision, eyeing her suspiciously while he applied a fresh coat of paint to the Adirondack chairs. When he went to work hammering new planks onto the dock, Claire gathered up her things and retreated to her cabin.

~

She forced herself out of bed the next day and vowed to get on with things. Enough
was enough. She made a trip to the grocery store and picked up a few necessities. Coffee, bagels, a few frozen dinners and cheese and crackers. On the way through Bethel she’d spotted the Town Clerk’s office. Claire figured that would be a good enough place to start. If her birth mother was from around here, there had to be some record of it. And as soon as she found enough courage, she’d confide in Jessie Kelly.

With only a dial-up connection, doing any research online would be a chore. Her cell phone didn’t work either, though apparently a new tower in the area was imminent. Jessie told her she could use the house phone whenever she needed it, but so far she’d resisted the urge to call home, too fearful of what her father or James might say to her. And she didn’t really want Dad knowing where she was. Not yet.

When it started to rain in the afternoon, Claire wandered up to the main house. She poked through the various rooms. Nobody seemed to be around. She’d seen few visitors since her arrival.

She ran a finger along the old bookshelves in the long living room. Books and magazines were stuffed into every available space. Another shelf was packed with board games. On the far side of the room, a writing desk sat in front of a window. Claire walked over to it and sank into the chair. Her head pounded and her stomach rolled. She hoped it wasn’t the flu. Now would not be a good time to get sick.