Land's End (13 page)

Lord, this is a tough pill to swallow. If I needed a lesson in humility, You've certainly given it to me.

For some reason, that idea cheered her up. And the reckless freedom she'd felt yelling at Esther had wiped away the lingering remnants of nightmare. She felt as if she could tackle anything.

“Esther?”

The woman paused, lifting an eyebrow.

“Thanks.”

“For yelling or for calling you names?” Esther asked.

“Maybe both.” Her smile finally felt natural.

“Anytime.” Esther vanished into her office, and Sarah headed for the staff lounge to get ready for the day.

By the time a couple of busy hours had passed at the clinic, she was no longer sure about what she could handle. Her shoulder ached so badly that the whisper of a chart page being turned felt like a battering ram.

Dr. Sam, who'd been on her case from the moment he arrived, finally sent her into Esther's office with orders to call for her ride and rest until it arrived. Exhausted, she sank down at the desk and called Land's End, telling Geneva she was ready to come home.

When she hung up, she sat staring idly at the computer, an idea slowing forming in her fogged brain. Sooner or later, probably sooner, she'd leave the clinic again, on good terms, she hoped. Maybe she could find a way of showing them all how much they meant to her.

A few clicks of the keys brought up the clinic's annual report. If she couldn't do anything else, maybe she could get some foundation funding. Her mother was always working on committees for grants—she might have some suggestions.

Energized, she began paging through the report. She could get a copy from Esther, probably, to take with her.

A few minutes later she leaned back in the chair, frowning at the screen. By the looks of it, the clinic didn't need her aid. How on earth were they managing to make ends meet without funding?

She flipped through a few more screens and had the answer. They weren't. The clinic was already funded, generously, by a grant from Donner Enterprises.

She could hardly take it in. She vividly remembered all the battles she'd had with Trent over supporting the clinic. He'd declared he was only donating the building to shut her up. She'd have expected, after what happened, that he wouldn't want anything to remind him of Sarah and her husband.

She scrolled back through the records, looking for the initial gift. There it was. A month after Lynette Donner died, Trent had begun funding the clinic.

She didn't understand. She was grateful, but she didn't understand.

“Sarah?” Esther poked her head in. “Your ride's here.”

“Okay, thanks.” She stood, feeling as if she needed a crane to pull her out of the chair. “Coming.”

Esther put her arm around her and walked with her. “Quit trying to be a superwoman. Take it easy for a couple of days.”

“I'll try.” Impulsively she threw her good arm around Esther in a hug. “Thanks, Esther.”

“That's okay.” Those might have been tears brightening Esther's dark eyes. “Listen, Dr. Sam told me about Lizbet Jackson disappearing. I'll see if I can find her for you.”

“Thanks.” She managed a smile. “Better watch out. I might start leaning on you too much.”

“That'd be the day. Get on with you.”

She turned to look for her ride and discovered she didn't have to look far. Trent had come himself, instead of sending someone, and he held the door open for her.

“I'd have brought the sports car, but I thought this might be an easier ride if you've been overdoing it.”

She sank into the passenger seat of the comfortable sedan
and turned to watch him as he slid behind the wheel again. “How did you know I'd overdo it?”

“Because I know you, Miz Sarah. You always have to do everything the hard way. Must be that Puritan streak in you.”

“You'd better be careful. I threatened to throw a chair at Esther if she called me Lady Bountiful again. I could do worse if you keep using the P word.”

His face crinkled into a grin. “My, you're really loosening up, aren't you?”

“I guess so.” Relaxed, she watched him as he drove. They'd undoubtedly battle again, but for the moment she felt oddly at peace with Trent. “Will you tell me something?”

“If I can.” His answer was cautious.

“Why are you supporting the clinic?”

He frowned at the road ahead of them as if the curving sweep of sand and gravel fascinated him. “Who told you I was?”

“Nobody. I saw it in the annual report. So tell me.”

He shrugged. “No big deal. I needed a tax write-off.”

“I don't believe you.”

His brows lifted. “Did anyone ever suggest tact and diplomacy to you as a way of finding things out?”

She shrugged that off. “I don't understand. I fought you every step of the way to get you to donate the building. A month after I left, you started funding the whole clinic.”

“It's a worthwhile project. I can afford to do it.”

“Then why did you give me such a hard time?” She couldn't help the exasperation in her tone.

“Oh, that.” His smile had a faintly mocking edge. “Maybe because it was so much fun to fight with you. What's wrong? Can't you believe that a business-obsessed ogre like me could want to do some good with his money?”

“No—I mean yes, I believe you want to do good, I guess.”
Well, that hadn't come out very intelligently. “I never called you a business-obsessed ogre, if that's what you're implying.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I seem to recall something like that being said in the heat of battle.”

“You do not. I was always perfectly polite to you. After all, you were Miles's boss.”

The moment she said it, she wanted the words back. Now was not the time to remind him of Miles.

“Maybe you were just thinking it.” The bantering tone had gone out of his voice. “What difference does it make? The clinic is funded, you got what you want, everyone's happy.”

“Is everyone happy?”

His lips formed a thin, straight line. “As happy as we're going to be.” He turned toward the Land's End gate, clicked the remote and waited for the gate to slide open. “Or as happy as we deserve to be.”

T
rent frowned at the stack of mail on his desk. The morning sun streamed through the window, and outside the breeze ruffled the sea oats and called to him. But duty kept him here. Sarah probably wouldn't believe that he had a sense of duty to match her own, but he did.

Speaking of Sarah—he glanced toward the door. That was her voice, raised in battle. Joanna guarded that door like a lioness. For a moment he was tempted to let her turn Sarah away, hoping that with her would go the problems and doubts she'd brought into his life. But he couldn't.

He flicked the intercom. “Let Dr. Wainwright come in.”

“But you don't like to be disturbed in the morning.”

True enough, but Joanna seemed on the verge of arguing with him about his own schedule. “Send her in,” he said shortly.

The door opened, and one glance at Sarah's face had him out of his chair and around the desk to meet her.

“What is it? What's happened?” He closed the door in Joanna's annoyed face.

She blinked. “How do you know?”

“The fact that you're white as a sheet is a giveaway.” He led her to a chair and sat opposite her, relieved that his sharp
question had brought the color back to her face. When she'd walked in, he'd been afraid she was going to pass out.

“Sorry.” She cradled the sling she still wore. “It's nothing—I mean, I need to go to Beaufort today. I'm probably not safe on the road, and I hoped you'd have someone drive me.”

“I will.” He studied her face, noting that her shadowed eyes evaded his. “But only if you tell me why.”

She shot him an exasperated look. “I'm not sure that's any of your business.”

“I'm sure it is. You wouldn't be running off to Beaufort unless you'd learned something. What is it?”

“Fine.” She took a breath, and he realized that whatever it was, it was something that hurt her. “I finally went through the boxes of papers I'd brought back from the storage locker.”

Papers—things from the house she and Miles had shared on the island, she meant. His fists clenched involuntarily, and he forced them to relax. “You found something.”

“Yes.” She stared at the intricate pattern of the Kirman carpet beneath their feet. Its colors glowed like jewels against the pale pine floor. “I found something. A receipt from a hotel in Beaufort, last spring.”

He tried to remember a time he might have sent Miles to Beaufort on business. Atlanta, New York, yes—but not a sleepy tourist town up the coast. “You think it means something.”

Sarah rubbed her forehead. “Beaufort was one of the places we'd planned to visit. I wouldn't have forgotten if he'd told me he was going there.”

“Anyone can forget things, Sarah.” But his instinct told him she was right.

“Not that.” She seemed to force her eyes to meet his. “The receipt was for a double room.”

Lynette—that's what she was thinking. Miles had gone to Beaufort with Lynette. The image set his stomach burning.

He took a deep breath, trying to quench the anger. Stupid, to be angry with two people who'd been dead a year.

“Let it go, Sarah.” He reached out to clasp her hand in his. “Just let it go. It won't do any good to pursue it.”

“I can't.” She shot out of the chair, walked to the window and stood staring out. “I have to know.” Her shoulders tensed. “If it's true, I'll deal with it, but I have to know.”

“You propose to go to Beaufort and play private detective.”

She turned, outlined against the pristine seascape beyond the window. “I'm going,” she said. “I can at least ask at the inn where they stayed. Maybe someone will remember something.”

He stood, longing to stop her. He might prevent her from going to Beaufort today, but sooner or later she'd go. And find what? Evidence that Miles and Lynette had been lovers?

“A year later? Sarah, make sense.”

“I have to try.” She frowned at him. “Maybe you can ignore it. I can't.”

“Ignore it?” That almost made him laugh. “How can I possibly ignore it? I see reminders every day.” He shuffled through the stack of papers on his desk, found what he sought and tossed it at her. “Like that.”

Sarah's face whitened as she read the ugly anonymous letter, vilifying Lynette, that had come in the day's mail. He was suddenly ashamed that he had given in to the impulse. She didn't deserve that from him.

“I'm sorry.” He snatched the paper, ripped it in two, and threw it in the wastebasket. His fingers still felt dirty.

She took a step toward him, her eyes dark with concern. “Do you get those often?”

He shrugged. “They used to come in droves. Now once in a while, when something stirs up the anonymous letter writers.”

She winced. “Like my being here, you mean.”

“Don't blame yourself. I'm used to it.”

“Nobody gets used to that.” The passion was back in her voice. “You're just lying to yourself.”

He turned away from that passion. He didn't want to see it, didn't want it to touch him. “It's how I cope.”

“You're not coping at all.” She grasped his arm, tugging at him as if she'd force him to face her. “Melissa's not coping. I'm not coping. We're just going through the motions.”

“That's enough for me.” Why wouldn't she leave him alone?

“No. It's not.” The sorrow in her voice made him look at her. Her green eyes swam with tears. “The past isn't buried, Trent. It can't be, until we know the truth.”

He wanted to rail at her—wanted to deny her, ignore her, do anything but agree with her. But he couldn't. She was right.

He turned away, staring down at the desk, cluttered with the work he should be doing. It was yet another thing he used to armor himself against the past.

Why, Lord? Why can't Sarah leave it alone? Why can't I?

“All right,” he said heavily. “All right. Let's go.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I'll take you to Beaufort. If there's something to be found there, we'll find it together.”

 

It had taken an hour to get the car, drive across to the mainland and take the back roads to Beaufort. That was plenty of time to think twice about this expedition of Sarah's.

Still, no matter how much he might argue with himself, the bottom line was that Sarah was right. The past wouldn't stay buried, no matter how hard he tried.

Beaufort's quaint, narrow main street was choked with camera-laden tourists. Sunshine sparkled on the waters of the sound. But Sarah's face was drawn, her eyes shadowed with questions to which she probably dreaded hearing the answers.

“Horse-and-carriage tours,” he pointed. “The drivers have a line of patter about Beaufort's checkered past.”

She nodded, obviously not interested in the tourist attractions she'd once wanted to see.

He and Lynette had taken Melissa on a carriage ride, long ago. The charming old town had seen plenty of grief and tragedy and had come through it with grace intact. What was his and Sarah's tragedy but another drop of blood in its history?

He spotted the sign and turned onto a narrow street lined with live oaks and magnolias. Bayberry Inn was about halfway down the block, a typical Low Country building with its long, white-columned second-floor porch. Twin stairways curved up to it, black wrought-iron railings glistening.

He stopped in the shade of a live oak whose heavy branches, draped with gray-green moss, almost touched the ground. Romantic, he thought sourly. A lovely spot for a rendezvous.

“Why don't you let me go in and ask the questions?” He knew when he said it Sarah wouldn't agree, but he had to try.

“I'll be fine.” The tension in her face belied the words, but she opened the door. “Let's go.”

He walked beside her up the stairs. Ironic, that he was here with Sarah where, presumably, Miles and Lynette had been.

Maybe it wasn't true. Maybe Miles was here with someone else. Maybe—But none of that seemed to lead anywhere.

Sarah's hand trailed along the black railing, as if she dreaded this as much as he did. It was probably harder for her.
After all, he'd already known that Lynette had had an affair. He'd gotten through it.

Or had he? Did you ever get through that bone-deep betrayal?

He paused at the top of the stairs, facing the shiny black door. He touched her arm, stopping her. “You were right, you know. The past won't stay buried.”

Her gaze met his evenly. “So we have to do this.”

“Right.” He took a breath, trying to calm his churning stomach. “Let's do it.” He opened the door and stepped inside.

The entry hall was cool and quiet, with no one other than the desk clerk to hear their inquiries. Sarah marched forward like a soldier, shoulders stiff, but Trent knew only her indomitable will kept her moving.

She didn't wait for him to broach the subject, but plunged right in with the desk clerk, a sandy-haired kid who looked as if he should be sitting in an algebra class instead of manning the desk.

“I'd like to ask you about someone who stayed here last spring.” She planted the receipt on the counter.

The kid took a step back, skittish, staring at the receipt as if it were a snake. “I—I don't think I can do that.”

“Why not?” There was an edge to Sarah's voice that told Trent she couldn't take much more.

“We'll see the manager.” Trent slid his card across the counter. “Give him that.”

The boy snatched the card and fled through the office door.

“You scared him,” he said.

“Me?” She looked ready to argue, but a man emerged, his sandy, thinning hair an older version of the boy's.

“Mr. Donner.” He extended his hand eagerly, eyes alight at the thought of gaining Trent's business. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. What can we do for you at the Bayberry Inn?”

Sarah probably didn't care to be ignored, but being who he was would get answers. It would also open him to some nasty gossip, but that couldn't be helped.

“You have a charming place here, Mr.—?”

“Milton, sir. James Milton.”

“Well, Mr. Milton, you can help me with some inquiries. I'm looking for anything you can tell me about this.”

He slid the receipt to the man, watched him assess it, recall the year-old scandal and add up two and two to make sixteen, at least.

“Of course, of course.” Milton turned to the computer, keying in the information quickly. “Ah, here we are. Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright checked in at around eight that evening.”

Sarah jerked as if she'd been shot at the casual words. She yanked a photo from her bag. “Is this the man?”

He nodded. “Yes, I remember him. An associate of yours, I think, Mr. Donner.”

He nodded. It was true, then. But they'd already known there couldn't be another answer. “When did they leave?”

The man frowned at the screen. “That I can't tell you.” He sounded apologetic. “Guests can just leave their keys in the box on the desk. We had a group tour coming in that next day, and I'd have been run off my feet.”

“Do you remember the woman?” He had to ask.

Milton flushed, obviously torn between his deserve to help a wealthy potential client and his discretion. “I can't say I ever got a good look at her. She stayed just outside the door.” He obviously considered that suspicious now, if he hadn't then.

An anonymous woman—but it must have been Lynette.

“You remember anything else?” He slid the receipt back in his pocket.

He shook his head regretfully.

Sarah seemed to sag, as if she couldn't go on standing there much longer. He tightened his grasp.

“Thank you. I appreciate your help.” He turned Sarah toward the door, and she moved like a puppet in his grasp.

It wasn't that easy, of course. Milton walked them to the door, voluble in his eagerness. Trent cut him off with a vague suggestion that Donner Enterprises might be interested in holding a meeting at the Bayberry Inn and hurried Sarah out of the door.

By the time they reached the walk, he was practically supporting her. “Easy,” he muttered. “At least we know.”

She looked up at him, her eyes darkened with shock. “Maybe he was just telling you what he thought you wanted to hear.”

The control he thought he had snapped. “We know that Miles came here with another woman, don't we? What else do we need?”

She stared at him, face twisting with grief and pain. He had enough time to call himself a few names before her tears spilled over.

“It's okay. It's going to be all right,” he said. Stupid. Nothing was all right. “I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm sorry.”